Thanksgiving

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On the eve of Thanksgiving a woman phoned her sister-in-law to ask what she might contribute to their annual meal together.

“You’re coming then, Amy?” asked the in-law.

“I always come, Molly. We talked about it last week.”

“Okay,” Molly said.

“You don’t remember?”

A pause ensued, then: “You come right along, Amy.  Absolutely.”

“How about if I bring a pie?” Amy asked.

“Bring it, Dear,” Molly said.  “Pies divide more democratically than any other dessert.”

Pleased, Amy added that she’d just put a mincemeat pie in her oven.

“If that’s what it is, Dear, then bake it,” Molly said.

“I bring mincemeat every year, Molly,” Amy reminded her.

“Why even consider spending Thanksgiving alone, Amy?”

“Looking forward to seeing you again,” Amy said.

“We’ll have a nice time.  Did I tell you that Uncle Harold will be here, Dear?” Molly asked. “He’s bringing his companion.”

“Spencer?” Amy gasped.

“Uh-huh.  And they’re bringing that little girl Bo Peep who escapes from the orphanage on holidays.”

Amy groaned. “Does she still bite, Molly, because I’ve still got the scar from last year.”

“Her eyesight’s not good, Amy. Forgive her. You sat too close to the turkey last year, and it’s hard for her eyes to distinguish things,” Molly said. “Don’t be misled by first impressions — give her another chance, Dear.  Bo Peep.”

Amy reminded Molly that she wasn’t on good terms with Uncle Harold, either.

“There’s enough blame to go around, Dear,” Molly said. “It’s not all you.”

“They were both trying to tinker with my husband!” Amy snapped. “What would you do?”

“So many hurt feelings,” Molly replied. “Let’s let bygones be what they are.”

“Why, for goodness sake, didn’t they just stay with their wives?”

“The wives are coming, too, you know…”

A pause.

“Did I hear that right, the wives, too?” Amy asked.

“They’ve paired also, and they’re bringing that little boy who’s always running away,” Molly said. “He runs backward.”

“They’ve paired?! Good God. And the boy’s a fugitive? Molly, please level with me. Are they massing at your house for war, the six of them? Because if they are —”

“No, no. Each couple just tries to show off the hungriest child available. It’s perfectly understandable in their circumstances.”

Amy ignored the non-sequitur. Her voice softened. “How many of us will there be, Molly? Have you tallied?”

Molly rattled off the names of the guests she expected. “Fourteen,” she answered eventually.

“And me and Brad — sixteen.”

“Then you’ve made up your mind? Good,” Molly said. “Now where’ll I put you? Let me see — away from the turkey — is Brad coming, Dear?”

“Yes, he’s planning to,” Amy said.

“Then come along, Dear. We’ll sort things out when you get here.”

Amy wondered that things might get uncomfortably crowded.

“Amy, Dear,” Molly asked, “could you bring a blueberry pie instead?”

“I’ve already started the mincemeat,” Amy replied.

“Okay. Now, you said Brad’s coming, too?”

“Yes. Yes, he is,” Amy said.

“Then come along,” Molly said. “I’ll just pray we can seat everybody. “That’s how my nerves start.”

“We’ll figure things out, Molly. Don’t worry.”

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