Chapter 8
T his still wasn’t his worst Thanksgiving ever. That award went to the year he was in kindergarten. All he’d understood then was that he had a long break from school and he was hungry.
Mom had just met Russ and was wildly happy, or just wild. So was Russ. The man was nice enough to Caleb. Nicer than any of her previous boyfriends. That wasn’t why Caleb called him Dad.
No, he did that to blend in. Nearly all the other kids at school had a mom and a dad, divorced or not. It only took explaining once that he didn’t know who his dad was to teach him never to admit that again.
That year, Mom tossed a frozen turkey into the oven, trying to impress Russ with cooking skills she didn’t possess.
If it weren’t for beef stew dumped out of a can and Kraft mac and cheese, Caleb would’ve starved before the first hot lunch at school.
And he wouldn’t have eaten at school if Grandma hadn’t kept that account current.
The turkey took hours to cook and by then, his parents had consumed every drop of alcohol in the house and passed out. Caleb knew enough to turn the oven off before going to bed with stomach cramps so severe he hadn’t slept all night.
The entire day had sucked. No cable. No phone available to him. Too cold to play outside. He’d sat inside all day and driven his little Matchbox car through every room. He’d used wadded-up socks as cattle and played rancher. And he’d rushed around with an imaginary hose, putting out fires.
Quietly, of course. Bothering Mom when she was drinking and cuddling Russ never ended well.
The rest of the weekend he’d spent at Grandma’s, where he’d stuffed himself until he puked.
The crinkle of the gas station sandwich wrapper was the only sound in the motel room. He inspected the limp bun and the meat patty that maybe had some actual beef in it. It was covered in manufactured cheese product, but Caleb doubted actual milk had made it onto the ingredient list.
The motel room could’ve been worse. There was a lot of room for improvement, but guests didn’t stay at the Moore-tel for comfort.
It was little more than a stopping point for hunters.
A fish-cleaning station was parked at the end of the building and there was a sign posted in probably every bathroom exhorting guests not to clean fowl in the shower.
Too many hunters thought it was a great idea to just clean their birds in the shitter.
He took a bite of his burger and grimaced. Between the gas station where he’d heated it and the two-minute ride back—and the few minutes he’d allowed himself a little pity party—his food had cooled. He couldn’t stomach cold pseudomeat.
Funny, at one point in his life, he would’ve hoovered anything edible and attempted a few things that weren’t. He’d gotten soft.
Tossing the burger in the bag, he grabbed an apple from the cooler he’d packed from Justin’s. Clearing out before Rick and Joan arrived had been a priority.
He’d tried switching shifts, but the guys on duty didn’t want to lose the holiday pay.
Couldn’t blame them. He was scheduled to work Christmas and he’d gladly pick up another holiday for the money.
His good pickup was in the shop, and while it didn’t have great gas mileage, his current forty-year-old truck ate gas like it was a starving five-year-old left to his own devices on Thanksgiving.
Look at that. He was back at the pity party again.
The apple wasn’t nearly as satisfying but the kick of sweetness brightened the five minutes it took to eat it. If the grocery store were open, he’d buy something more substantial—that didn’t need heating or refrigeration, of course. This wasn’t one of those kinds of rooms.
With a sigh, he tossed the core in the garbage on top of his uneaten burger. Ain’t that a picture for the Christmas card.
A dot of sweat popped on his forehead. He’d turned the heat down after check-in but it was like he had his own in-room bonfire churning.
The sweater he’d worn here was already draped over the back of the rickety chair by the coatrack.
He shrugged out of his shirt. Guess he wouldn’t need to go out and get his winter coat after all.
After he’d dumped his duffel in the room and felt how thin the comforter was, he’d considered gathering every spare scrap of material he had to use as blankets.
But at this rate, he was going to have to sleep with the windows open.
Flipping on the TV, he scanned through the channels.
“Fuck me.” Three channels and only one came in decently. And here he was without his Matchbox car.
He sprawled across the top of the bed, spreading out his body to keep from trapping heat in.
What would the Walkers be doing? He’d subtly asked Jesse what their plans were. His sister had invited Jesse, Farah, and her parents over. If it’d been the other way around, he would’ve casually invited himself over, but he wasn’t low enough to invite himself over to another Walker’s.
So he’d played casual with Justin, said it was no problem, that he’d get a room and give Justin’s family space. They were good enough friends that Justin didn’t push it and dent his pride.
But, man, this sucked.
The meal was over. Brigit stacked dishes in the dishwasher, her patience balancing on a razor’s edge. She should be stuffed, but Mom had thought one pie for just the four of them was enough. Not only that, half the damn pumpkin pie was left.
She slammed a plate into the slot.
Someone entered the kitchen behind her. Was she lucky enough that it was Justin?
“I definitely think brining is the way to go next time,” Mom said. “Then the turkey won’t get so dry.”
The turkey had been only a little dry. “That’s what gravy’s for.”
“Better to eat turkey, not liquid fat.”
Gravy was broth and flour and bullion—and a little grease for flavor. But whatever.
Mom positioned herself at the sink behind Brigit to rinse off plates before they went into the dishwasher. Which Brigit never did. Because they had a dishwasher.
“This was a cozy holiday between us.” Mom sighed wistfully. “I miss Travis and the kids.”
Brigit lifted a brow. “And Kami.”
Travis’s wife had once been on the same level as Caleb in Mom’s opinion. Mom liked her well enough now, but it was still “Travis and the kids.” Like she couldn’t help her fiercely protective streak around her kids.
“Oh, of course.” Mom slid in an as-good-as-clean plate toward her.
“Funny how we used to have these gigantic gatherings and now we’re all divided up.
Cash and Abbi went to her family’s. Dillon and Elle had her dad out.
” She chuckled. “Aaron said he was getting a decoy turkey to keep his brothers away from all the dark meat, and Brock had his in-laws over—all of them, I guess. Never thought I’d see the day he’d entertain so many people in his home. ”
Brigit was nodding, mildly interested. Her cousins all had their own families and she didn’t see them much outside of planting, harvesting, and working cattle. But Mom’s last words dawned on her. All Brock’s in-laws.
“Farah’s parents went to Brock’s too?” She’d assumed Caleb would head over to the Jameses for the day.
“I guess.” Mom slid another cleaned, dripping plate over.
“I wonder what Caleb did today.” She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Maybe she had. To make a point.
“I’m sure he found something to do.”
Brigit stopped loading. With who? Had one of his fireman buddies invited him over? Or was he alone?
Mom was too busy rinsing dishes to notice her reaction. “It’s a good thing, really, that he chose to go to a motel. I don’t get much time with just you and Justin.”
“He’s been friends with Justin for, like, twenty years. Most families would welcome him at their table.”
Mom tapped the lever down, shutting the water off. “Caleb has impressed me with how well he’s done for himself.” Brigit tensed as Mom caught her gaze and held it. “But considering your past, and what you’re getting over, it’s best if he keeps his distance.”
“Even if his distance means he spends Thanksgiving by himself, alone in a motel room because his home was trashed?”
“How do you know he’s alone?”
Brigit drew back. Anger curled inside of her, faintly at first, like a cow lowing in a far-off pasture, then swelling larger, like a full-on stampede.
Was it just her mother’s casual reaction that was fueling the feeling, or was it the idea that Caleb might have sought out companionship when he felt like everyone had forgotten him?
“I didn’t mean it like that, Brigit. His life is in Moore. Justin isn’t his only friend.”
No, but Caleb had no family around today. Brigit broke eye contact when she stooped to grab the dishwasher detergent. Without a word, she dropped the tab of dried soap into its slot and used her toe to flip the lid closed.
“I guess I’ll find out when I bring him a plate of food.” She didn’t wait for Mom’s reaction as she collected a plate and silverware. Mom didn’t move as she dug out the leftovers that had been neatly packed away.
“What if he’s already had a big meal?” Mom hadn’t moved, but she clocked Brigit’s every movement.
No doubt she was racking her brain, trying to come up with a good reason to keep her own daughter from showing a guy with no family some compassion on a holiday.
Even if that guy was the biggest threat to said daughter’s nonexistent career.
“There was nothing open today. Even the bars are closed.” Brigit heaped potatoes onto a plate with turkey and stuffing.
Topped by gravy. She had no idea if Caleb liked white meat or dark meat, gravy on top or on the side or not at all, or if he cared that there wasn’t a single vegetable in sight. She didn’t know his preferences at all.
A spike of irritation was taken out on the spoon as she splattered gravy on the counter.
Ignoring the mess, she covered the food with plastic wrap and hefted the plate. It had to weigh a few pounds. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”