Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,58

like this wrong. Quickly I kick off my shoes but it’s too late. They’ve seen me and are staring. And the dress socks I’m wearing have holes in the heels.

At least someone around here looks nice! says Mrs. Cohen, swooping into the living room with a plate of cheese and meat. She kisses me on the cheek as she goes by, as if I have just arrived.

Toward the end of the meal Mrs. Cohen says You know what we used to do when I was a kid? and no one hears her, so she clinks her glass with her knife and then drops it with a great clatter and suddenly I realize she is very drunk. I’m fascinated.

Excuse me, excuse me! says Mrs. Cohen.

Mom, Trevor says.

No, Trevor, listen, I’m serious, says Mrs. Cohen. This is what we used to do when I was a kid.

The table quiets.

We used to say what we were thankful for, says Mrs. Cohen. Is what we used to do.

For a moment she looks sad, or like she has forgotten where she is and what she’s doing. Then she says, I’ll go first. I’m thankful for my beautiful family—she looks around at each person at the table meaningfully, and because there are fifteen of us this takes a while—and for this house, and for Kel, who’s—who’s going through a hard time right now, and so we should all be very thankful for what we have. To Kel’s mother, she says, and raises her glass.

I freeze.

Everyone freezes. Half of them raise their glasses an inch from the table and half of them do nothing.

Trevor props his head up on his fists.

April says, Um, I’ll go. I’m thankful for—my friends, and I’m thankful for the food that we’re eating. And for Grandma for cooking it.

You’re welcome, April, sweetie, says the Grandma, almost as if she might cry.

Mr. Cohen says he’s thankful for Barack Obama and everyone laughs and I can’t tell why.

One after another they go around. When it is my turn I tell them I’m thankful for their hospitality and Mrs. Cohen says vehemently that I shouldn’t be silly and that they love having me.

When it’s Trevor’s turn he says he’s thankful this is over, and he stuffs a piece of turkey into his mouth, and the edge of it hangs out.

•

It’s quiet after dinner. Everyone leaves. Trevor and April go to their rooms. Mr. Cohen goes into the basement which is where his huge impressive television is. The house becomes larger than ever, and every noise amplifies: the dripping of the sink, a car driving down the street faster than it should be. I offer to do the remaining dishes and Mrs. Cohen tells me not to be silly, but she’s still drunk so after a minute she gets distracted and sits down at the island in the kitchen and I gently take over. The water feels nice. I run it as hot as I can stand it and the window before me steams up until my reflection disappears.

Mrs. Cohen pours herself another glass of wine but this time she offers me one too. I look at her. I can’t tell what the right answer is.

No thank you, I say, and she looks disappointed. She reaches up and puts her brown straight hair into a pile on her head and holds it there, then lets it drop around her shoulders.

I turn back to the sink and the dishes.

You’re a good kid, she says. Trevor’s lucky to have a good friend like you.

Thank you, I say.

April’s a good kid too. I worry— says Mrs. Cohen, but then changes her mind and stops.

She hums to herself and I can’t tell what she’s humming. I close my eyes for a moment because she can’t see my face and imagine that she is my mother. That my mother is drinking behind me, yes she’s drinking but she can take it—she can be loving and kind and she can do normal things from day to day. She can handle it. I miss her. I never even tried to help her.

When I’m done I go to leave and Mrs. Cohen says to me Handsome boy. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking into her glass.

A moment passes. Then another. I walk to the refrigerator and open and shut it.

Well, I say. I guess I.

And then, right then, my phone buzzes. I take it out of my pocket gratefully. It’s a text from Dee Marshall. Party at jims, it says. Come.

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