Chương 2 - A Feast on a Formica Table
The drive across Fort Wayne took twenty-five minutes, but to me, it felt like shedding twenty pounds of wet wool.
My father’s house was a modest, yellow-sided bungalow built in 1958. The white trim around the porch was peeling in a few spots, and the gravel driveway had weeds poking through the edges, but the porch light was on. In the garage window, I could see his green tool chest, standing like a faithful soldier under the fluorescent tube.
I parked my truck, stepped out into the crisp November chill, and hauled the first box of food up the wooden steps. I didn't knock. I just turned the brass knob and pushed the door open.
"Pop?"
Jack Dalton was sitting in his worn brown recliner. The television was on, blaring the Detroit Lions game on mute. He had an unopened Swanson Salisbury steak frozen dinner sitting on his tiny kitchen counter, thawing in its cardboard box, and a half-empty glass of iced tea beside him. He was wearing his gray corduroy trousers and the blue flannel shirt he’d spent thirty minutes ironing that morning.
He blinked at me, startled, struggling to push himself up on his arthritic knees.
"Ricky? What’re you doing here? Did... did you forget something?"
"Yeah," I said, setting the steaming box down on his Formica kitchen table with a heavy thud. "I forgot my host. Give me two minutes; I’ve got the rest in the truck."
Before he could answer, I jogged back out to the truck and brought in the second box, along with the pies. By the time I set them down, the small, quiet house was suddenly flooded with the rich aromas of sage, roasting fowl, caramelized pecans, and melted butter.
Dad stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, his brow furrowed, his jaw slightly open.
"Rick... what is all this?"
"This is Thanksgiving, Pop."
"Where’s Karen? Where’s Richard and Eleanor?"
"Back at our house," I said, pulling out a couple of ordinary dining chairs from under the Formica table. "Staring at twenty-four pieces of bone china and a completely empty tablecloth."
Dad’s face collapsed into worry. That was Jack Dalton—he never thought of his own slighted feelings first; his instinct was always to protect peace, even when it cost him his dignity.
"Son, no," he groaned, taking an unsteady step forward and placing a heavy, scarred hand on my shoulder. "You shouldn't have done that. You’re going to cause a terrible rift with your wife. Eleanor is a proud woman. You can't just leave them with no dinner on a holiday."
"Pop, listen to me," I said, grabbing his hand and looking him dead in the eye. "Karen looked me in the eye and said you smelled like motor oil. She told me you weren't good enough to sit across from her father because he wears three-thousand-dollar suits and you spent your life fixing rusted exhaust pipes."
Dad swallowed. He looked down at his own shoes, his shoulders slumping slightly. It was the only time in my entire life I had ever seen my father look small.
"I tried to clean up real good, Ricky," he murmured softly. "I bought a fresh bottle of that cedar aftershave from the pharmacy yesterday. I washed my coat twice."
A knot the size of a fist formed in my throat. I pulled the seventy-four-year-old man into a fierce hug. He felt fragile under his flannel, smaller than the giant who used to hoist engine blocks with a chain hoist and carry me on his shoulders through the county fair.
"You smell like the man who fed me, Pop," I whispered into his hair. "You smell like the man who sat up all night with me when I had pneumonia, who worked second shifts so I could play Little League, and who taught me how to look a man in the eye and shake his hand. You smell like home. And if someone thinks that’s not good enough for their table, then their table isn't good enough for my food."
Jack sniffled once, pulled back, and cleared his throat roughly, pretending he had dust in his eye.
"Well," he muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. "It’d be an awful sin to let all this good turkey get cold."
"Damn right," I said.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It didn't just buzz; it felt like a trapped hornet.
I pulled it out.
*Karen: 14 Missed Calls. 8 Text Messages.*
I opened the texts.
*KAREN: Pick up the phone right now Rick!*
*KAREN: My parents are here! They walked in and there is NO FOOD.*
*KAREN: What did you tell them?! Eleanor is crying in the foyer!*
*KAREN: Richard is furious. He wants to know where you went.*
*KAREN: Bring the turkey back THIS INSTANT or we are done. Do you hear me? DONE.*
I read the texts in three seconds, flipped the phone onto silent mode, and tossed it face-down onto Jack's worn kitchen counter.
"Problem?" Dad asked, watching me carefully.
"No problem at all," I said, peeling the foil off the turkey pan. "Do you have any paper plates, or do we need to break out the wedding china you’ve got stashed in the cupboard?"
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Dad gave a dry, raspy chuckle—the first genuine smile I’d seen on his face all day. "Paper plates work just fine for me, son. Let me get the carving fork."
***
