Rough Weather

42

Hawk joined us for Thanksgiving dinner at my place.

“Have we had Thanksgiving together before?” Susan said.

“Can’t recall it,” Hawk said.

“Why on earth not,” Susan said.

“Most holidays nobody trying to shoot him,” Hawk said. “Which seem kinda strange to me, too.”

“Does that mean that you are often alone on Thanksgiving?” Susan said.

Hawk smiled.

“No, Missy,” he said. “It don’t.”

Hawk and Susan were drinking vintage Krug champagne, which Hawk had contributed, at the kitchen counter. Pearl was deeply into the couch in front of the fire. There was a football game on the tube, with the sound off, in deference to Susan, and I was cooking.

“What’s for dinner?” Hawk said.

“I thought I’d experiment with roast turkey this year,” I said.

“Nice choice,” Susan said.

“Stuffing?” Hawk said.

“Yep, and cranberry sauce.”

“Clever additions,” Susan said.

“Paul with his girlfriend?” Susan asked.

“Yes, in Chicago. They said they were going to stay home and cook for each other.”

“Eek!” Susan said.

“He living out there now?” Hawk said.

“Yes. They’re both with a theater company.”

I opened the oven and pulled out the oven rack with the turkey on it. I basted the turkey with a mixture of applejack and orange juice.

“How will you know when it’s done,” Susan said.

“Cook’s intuition,” I said, and shoved the turkey back into the oven and closed the door.

“Plus the little red plastic thing in the turkey,” Hawk said, “that pops up when it’s ready.”

“Big mouth,” I said to Hawk.

“It’s all right,” Susan said. “I love you anyway.”

“How come?” Hawk said.

“Damned if I know,” Susan said.

Thanksgiving at Spenser’s: Hawk and Susan sipping champagne, Pearl asleep in front of the fire, the rich scent of the roasting bird filling the room, the dining room table set and beautified by Susan, Hawk’s shotgun leaning on the corner of my bookcase.

When I got the food to the table my duties were over. Hawk carved surgically. Susan served meticulously. I ate. Pearl watched each mouthful closely. Susan had ruled that it was absolutely forbidden to feed her from the table. All three of us ignored the rule.

“Wonder what Rugar doing for Thanksgiving,” Hawk said.

“And Adelaide,” I said.

“No,” Susan said. “Not on Thanksgiving. On Thanksgiving we worry about whether we’ll be hungry enough before bedtime to have a turkey-and-stuffing sandwich with cranberry sauce and mayo.”

“No business?” I said.

“None,” Susan said.

“No concern for the less fortunate?” I said.

“Fuck ’em,” Susan said.

“That be my other Thanksgivings,” Hawk said.

“Works for me,” I said. “Pleasant and not fattening.”

“I was using a metaphor,” Susan said.

“Fact it probably burn calories,” Hawk said.

“Today is a day to enjoy the fact that we love each other,” Susan said. “That’s enough.”

“All three of us?” Hawk said.

“And Pearl,” Susan said.

“’Scuse me,” Hawk said. “All four of us?”

“You know we love you, Hawk,” Susan said. “ Pearl included. And you damned well know that in your own singular way, you love us.”

Hawk grinned widely.

“Singular,” I said.

“Sho ’nuff, Missy,” Hawk said to Susan.

He bent over and gave Pearl a bite of turkey. He watched her chew it, still bending over, and when she was finished she looked up at him hopefully.

“Sho ’nuff,” he said to her.