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NEW YORK STORIES

"Halloween at Thanksgiving" by Erinne Dobson



“Promise me you wont mess this up,” I whispered as my mother hugged me hello.

“Relax,” she said, “Daddy and I would never embarrass you.”

I wanted to believe her. She radiated the trustworthy attractiveness of a mature Julie Andrews.

But as a copywriter who was pushing 30 and still living in a tiny West Village studio, I couldn’t even nap without an Ambien, let alone relax while my parents met my boyfriend for the first time.

“This must be Christian,” said my father, shaking my boyfriend’s hand. I was pleased to see he’d complied with my request and replaced his duct-taped Rockports and transition lenses for oxfords and contacts.

In the living room, I watched Christian take in the view of Washington Square Park and knew I’d done my utmost to make the introduction painless. There was no long, drawn-out weekend, just a quick Thanksgiving dinner at my aunt’s apartment. My parents had driven down from Cape Cod and were spending the night in a hotel. We could all leave at any time.

But no amount of precautions could erase history. The previous Thanksgiving, my then-boyfriend had barely gotten his coat off before Dad asked him what he’d given me for my birthday. When I held up my new Ferragamo purse, Dad snatched it from my hand, opened the gold, circular latch, and thrust it on my ring finger. “Oh look,” he said, “it almost fits.”

When I told Dad his comment had induced our relationship-ending fight, he only lifted his newspaper disinterestedly. “You have no sense of humor,” he said.

Mom agreed. “It’s better this way. He was too old for you. He’s just an old man that leads girls on.”
But as we sat down to eat, I watched Mom thoughtfully move the saltshaker out of Dad’s reach, and I felt deeply ashamed. Here were two harmless retirees who only wanted the best for me: I’d blown my fear of holiday embarrassment completely out of proportion.

Then I saw the extra seat at the table.

“Who’s that for?” I asked.

My mother carefully spooned a dollop of stuffing on the empty plate. “This is for Nick.”

“I don’t understand.” Nick was my 7-year-old nephew, my parents’ first grandchild, who lived with my sister and her husband in California.

Mom took a hamper-sized FedEx box from under the table. Opening it, she removed what appeared to be a pile of paper with some staples sticking out. When placed on the empty chair, it took on a vaguely familiar, almost human shape.

She looked right at Christian. “Nick made this in school. He said he couldn’t be here at Thanksgiving, so he made a doll of himself.”

I tried to clear my throat.

“Don’t think of it as a doll,” she said, “it’s more of a representative of someone I love.”

Dad placed a dry turkey wing on Nick’s plate. “You can talk to it and give it food. Just like a real child.”

“Mother, I’d like you to put the doll away. Christian is here, and he’s from a foreign country—”

“I’m only from Sweden,” he said. “Besides, it’s funny.”

“My daughter has no sense of humor, I’m afraid,” said Dad.

“It’s true,” said Christian, laughing.

Nick had drawn a wavering red marker smile of a mouth, sweet and innocent looking, like the well-meaning Satanists in Rosemary’s Baby. Like my parents.

“Take. It. Away.” I said gravely.

“Oh—but it’s Nick …” Mom protested.

“No, leave it there,” said Christian. “It’s funny.”

I was afraid I would cry. “I just met this guy, and already you’re pressuring—”

Mom patted my hand. “There’s no pressure. I just thought Nick’s gift would be nice to include at dinner.”

“Oh, just eat your dinner and pretend it’s not there,” said Dad.

Mom looked thoughtfully at our plates. “Are we out of gravy already? I’ll go get some more.”

“I’ll help.” I said.

In the tiny kitchen, all that separated us was the enormous turkey carcass. “Tell me,” I whispered, as she transferred the gravy, “Do you and Dad spend all year on Cape Cod planning these sick things?’

“Peanut, don’t make such a stink,” she said, rinsing her hands, “you’ll only embarrass yourself.” When she turned off the faucet, I realized the conversation outside had lulled. I had left Christian alone out there—with my dad and the doll.

I rushed back, glued my eyes to my plate and somehow choked down my dinner. When we cleared the table, my mother began to fold up the replica of her grandchild.

“Wait,” said Christian, “before we leave, let’s take a picture with it.”

“That’s a lovely idea,” said Mom, “then we can e-mail it to Nick.”

I stood behind the doll with my arm around Christian and smiled, like we were its parents. Afterward, they followed us into the hallway to say goodbye. While Christian summoned the elevator, Dad pointed his thumb at his back. “We like him,” he said.

We were doomed.


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