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Desiree Slate had a lot to be thankful for this year, she thought as Thanksgiving morning dawned cool and bright. The autumnal air was at its chilliest in the early morning hours; though temperatures in the mid 60s would seem positively balmy to anyone lined up for the Macy's Day Parade, which Desiree swore she was only thinking about because it was playing out on every TV in town, if her informal survey of the houses she had been in already was anything to go by.
Desiree hadn't realized that she'd zoned out, staring at a marching band until Opal asked, “Do you miss it?”
“The parade? I've never been, haven't even watched it since...” Desiree thought about it. “A lifetime ago.”
“No,” Opal insisted with that beyond-her-years disbelieving look. “New York.”
“Not in the way you think,” Desiree hurried to assure her. “I get thinking that in a bigger sea you’ll find your fish, Little One.”
“Well, yeah, didn't you?”
She had. She found the woman inside herself she’d needed to be. She found community that her heart had known existed but that her brain hadn't had the words for. She found unconditional acceptance and a career she loved. But the end of her time in New York had also meant lonely days and bad choices and failure that had driven her back to Mobile. A different, better Alabama than the one she fled years ago. Neither city was perfect and both mattered.
“I found a lot of things about myself in New York, but there were other things I’d left here too.” Desiree glanced toward Mack and Harry, who stood across the room hopefully discussing something not The Wash related. “I wouldn't want you to go twenty-three years without talking to Mack. Your dad’s pretty great.”
“I know that, but do you?” Opal asked, surprising Desiree again.
Desiree opened and shut her mouth once, then twice, without knowing how to defend herself, so Opal kept talking. “He didn't tell me anything other than he was going for it, again, and clearly you didn't say yes.”
Desiree had said so much worse than no. She’d been a rude snob. And for what? All because she was afraid of any kind, decent, fine man who seemed serious about her after the disaster that was Gavin. She’d screwed up badly, yes, but she was not sorting herself, or the situation, out with that man’s 11-year-old daughter. “It's complicated, Little One,” Desiree answered finally.
“I wanted to be mad at you, you know. He said not to.”
Before Desiree could find a good response to that either, Ella came over brandishing a spoon at the pair of them. “If you're not chopping, peeling, shelling, or stirring something, out. Out of my house. The idle hands are not welcome near my meal.”
Opal grinned at Ella. “Reporting for either of the ‘s-word’ duties, Mrs. Dunbar. I recommend sticking Dad on peeling, he’s had a lot of practice.”
“That's a punishment in the army, not jail,” Mack corrected, smiling until he noticed Desiree standing there. His face shuttered. “But I'm happy to help out wherever I can. Point me to the spuds.” He held a hand out palm up for the peeler and Ella passed it over.
Desiree made a hasty retreat, back to Harry's range to check on her stewed greens simmering on the stove and stuffed squash browning nicely in the oven. Because neither one was done yet, she spared a minute to take out her phone and reread the same three text messages that were there the last time she’d looked. She shoved her phone in her pocket, and wandered back outside to see where she might be able to source some breakfast for the growing ranks of cooks.
Desiree must be turning into a true Alabama girl because she was grateful for the warmth of the hand-knit, medium-weight, harvest gold, cotton sweater she had on as she bustled between homes. Or perhaps she was running cold for reasons that had nothing to do with the weather. Not wanting to think about that too hard, she thought back instead to when Ella measured her for it, and how touched she’d been when Ella hand-delivered it a couple of days back. Ella promised up and down that it was a joint effort by the rest of the Girlfriends of Grace, but whoever had knitted it was reminding her that she was loved here.
The afternoon passed in a pleasant blur of cooking and chatting. By the time the main event was nearing completion and the tiding-over nibbles had been set out, Thanksgiving dinner had become a joint venture hosted by the Slates and the Dunbars. Most of the church choir had joined them, a couple of the Dialysis Divas, other assorted neighbors with other guests and foil wrapped trays in tow. There were also many faces Desiree couldn't recognize. It quickly became clear that Ella could not possibly fit all of the food and people into just one house.
At one point, Desiree pulled Louis aside to ask about it. “Do you know who all of these people are?”
“Most of them are probably a friend or a cousin of somebody, but if they’re within 100 miles of Momma’s, hungry on Thanksgiving, and don't mind the occasional—” Louis was interrupted by a timely exhalation.
“Praise, Jesus!”
“Amen, Sister.”
“—enthusiastic reference to God, then they're welcome here at this table,” he finished.
“Strangers are just the side characters you haven't met yet, child,” Mrs. Phipps put in as she shuffled by.
“I suggest you find yourself something to feast on, you know you get more frazzled when you're hangry, girl,” Louis suggested, hugging both Desiree and Mrs. Phipps before walking off.
Deciding he was probably right, Desiree fixed herself a plate of appetizers that was well-loaded between the fruit, veggie, cheese and crackers trays, plus a sampler of dips and spreads. She all but inhaled everything as she jumped back into hellos, funneling traffic, and setting out more food, including her own greens and squash.
“I have done so much running around today, I’ve forgotten what's been put where,” Desiree said, staring out at the bountiful sea of food set out for dinner.
“Lucky for you, I’ve been keeping a chart.” Opal walked up, clipboard in hand, and started pointing with a pen. “The cornbread dressing without drippings is in the smaller pan that’s next to your stuffed squash, the good mac-minus-the-k-and-cheese is this way next to the candied yams, but if you're marshmallow-free, there are some herbed hasselback ones down that way, parked by the chorus of breads and rolls. There are two trays of mashed potatoes back that way which mark the vegetable sector, just pass on the brussels.”
“I heard that slight against my namesake food, baby girl,” Mack said, as he came up behind the two of them. “There’s also my contribution, a green bean casserole with fresh-made mushroom sauce and topped with locally-sourced onion rings.”
“You brought Dew Drop to Thanksgiving?” Desiree smiled.
“They're miles better than those dusty things in the can. Now either decide on some food or move. No one likes a host who holds up the chow line,” he said, before bumping her out of the way with his hip to get to the chunky cranberry sauce.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Mack,” Desiree said, “and thank you, Opal.” She set to serving herself in earnest.
Opal sighed. “An organizer’s work is never done.”
Desiree nearly ran straight into Harry on her way looking for a seat. “Hi, Dad. I’ve barely seen you all day.”
“That's why I saved you a seat near me,” Harry said with pride. “Wait, you didn't get any of the fake-ass turkey?”
“Tofurkey.”
“What now?”
“It's called tofurkey. It's a portmanteau o—”
“I don't care what it's made of, it's got Ella’s famous sweet tea glaze on it. You want some or not? I'm fixin’ to try a piece even.”
“In that case, lead on to the fake-ass turkey!” Desiree cheered, pointing with her fork.
Tofurkey safely secured, they wound their back to a table where sure enough she’d been saved a seat between Harry and Ella.
She slid into it, and set her plate down just in time for saying grace. Quiet reigned even after as everyone tucked into their meal. Eventually conversation snuck back in, a pleasant background buzz that never quite rose to cacophany.
Over the hubbub, Mack drummed a spare fork against the table. “If I could have y’all's attention for just a quick minute. I'm especially interested in what you might have to be thankful for, in the hopes that something might inspire my kid not to jump on the first bus out of town. I know I’m most thankful for her and I getting to spend a Thanksgiving together, but I know she already knows she's perfect. Anybody else like to volunteer?”
“I’ll go!” Harry stood up. “I'm most grateful for my health and to reconnect with my daughter, Desiree. Ain’t she a fancy lady, everybody?”
Murmurs rose up, and Desiree squirmed in her seat.
“I’ll go next,” Ella offered, patting Desiree on the hand. “I'm glad that we’ve become a town who loves and celebrates people for living their truths, whatever that truth may be.” She shot Louis a pointed glare, which softened. “And for my talented son, without whom there would be no polished hymns to brighten my Sundays.”
Several of the other girlfriends chimed in with their own grateful sentiments about community and family and food.
Miguel followed, sharing that he was glad his rivalry with Harry could continue, and adding, “the surprise of new friendships,” with a smile in Mack’s direction.
Before Harry could start something, Desiree shot to her feet.
“My turn,” she said brightly. “I'm grateful for reunions, with family and friends, and new connections. But most of all for the pleasant discovery that home can be more than one place. And for second chances, even when I haven't always earned them.”
Her phone began to buzz again, but she reached in her pocket and shut it off without looking. The messages would still be there tomorrow, and with them the mixture of regret and doubt that came with leaving people and a place behind. Desiree had a lot to be thankful for. Right now she didn't want to waste a minute wanting to be anywhere but here.