Page 121 of Five Brothers
I pull back, laughing. Told her to pack the necessities, and all she probably heard was “we’re going to a house that has a pool.” She hates ours because there’s no deep end and she likes to cannonball.
I check the turkey, really just to get another whiff, and start to make coffee. I pass by the second kitchen window, spotting Macon in the garage—as usual—but then I see my brother and stop. He’s sitting in one of their trucks as Macon leans in the driver’s side window, telling him something I can’t hear.
My twelve-year-old brother scoots up in the seat, fists the steering wheel in both hands, and I straighten, realizing he’s about to drive. “What?”
He shifts, the car lurches, and I hurry over to the screen door, looking down into the garage and watching him pull out.
No.I dart my gaze to Macon, but before I can shout for Marsto brake, he turns the truck, slams on the gas, and parks along the fence.
He climbs out, headphones around his neck, and looks up just enough to catch the keys Macon tosses him. Without a word, he climbs in our mom’s Rover and slowly backs it into the garage, only stopping once to pull forward again to correct himself.
I realize my mouth is hanging open, and I close it. How long have they all been up?
Macon starts to turn back toward me, and I dive back into the house before he sees me.
No one died, I guess. And Mars is doing something that’s not on his phone for a change.
I back away, leaving them to it, only sporadically checking over the next few hours to see that they’re both still in there. Mars moved on to touching up my paint, in a mask with a spray gun, with Macon watching him. Once in a while, he grabs his mug, and I see the soup container I left him in the fridge during my shift last night on the table behind him. He refills the mug with soup, and I just barely contain my smile when I see him chew. He’s eating. That’s good.
I make up some cheesy potatoes, while Clay comes down and sticks her seafood stuffing in the oven. It smells awful.
The boys come in and out, one of them sticking something on the grill outside, and Paisleigh puts on dry clothes, staying in the living room with Dex and dancing to music.
I pull on a pair of tight jean shorts and roll them up just above my knee, and then borrow a cropped white blouse from Liv, buttoning it up to my neck. I brush out my hair, put on a little makeup, but can’t stop smiling at how I could never show up to my grandmother’s looking like this on a holiday.
I walk downstairs in my bare feet, turning off all the lights before I start lighting any candle I can find. Wind blows through the windows, making the flames flicker, and everything smells likeflowers and food. I almost feel like my head is floating. Or like heaven is hanging low today, and I can smell it.
“What’s this?” Army asks, looking around at the firelight as he enters the living room.
Dallas and Trace set food on the table.
“Kind of a tradition in my family,” I say. “We keep the lights off and light candles all day.” I pause, searching their faces. “Do you observe Thanksgiving?”
I saw turkey and assumed, but they’re part Seminole. I should’ve asked.
“Don’t worry,” Army says over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen. “We cook. It’s a good family day. And we are a little English.”
“And German,” Trace adds.
Followed by Dallas, “And French.”
“Definitely Spanish,” Liv chimes in, she and Clay walking past me.
There are piles of food on the table, and I look around as I set down my dish. “You guys eat pizza on Thanksgiving?” I ask, noticing one that’s half cheese and half old-world pepperoni.
“Everyone is allowed to make their favorites,” Trace tells me. “Like a giant potluck.”
“Cheese fries,” Liv holds up a plate, plucking one from the pile under melted cheddar.
There are burgers and hot dogs, black beans and rice, tamales, some kind of roast pork that I think Mariette made for them, and I know there are plantains somewhere on the table, because I can smell them. There’s also street corn, shrimp, and crab cakes. Army carries the turkey to the table.
I look toward the window, knowing Macon and Mars are still in the garage. Going to the freezer, I pull out some ice cream, grab a few toppings, and put it out for him.
The kids’ music channel that Paisleigh and Dex are listening toplays a rendition of “Shout,” and I start singing along as everyone sits and loads up their plates.
The kids laugh, Mars enters the kitchen and washes his hands, and I can’t hold back the smiles as I make Paisleigh’s plate.
“Oh,” she coos when I serve her an actual hot dog on Thanksgiving.