Chapter 8 - The Audit at Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving day in Kasson smelled like woodsmoke, sage, and four different kinds of pie cooling on Uncle Stew’s screened-in porch.
The house was chaotic, loud, and gloriously unpolished. Two golden retrievers were wrestling under the dining room table while Cousin Zoe’s toddlers chased each other around the living room with plastic turkey basters.
There was no empty chair at the head of the table. Stew had replaced the old mahogany set with two mismatched folding tables pushed together and covered in a cheerful, paper-backed autumn tablecloth with turkeys printed on it in orange and brown.
Noah sat right in the middle, between Aunt Wilma and me.
He had a brand-new brown leather wallet sitting beside his water glass—a birthday gift from Seth that had a heavy brass chain clipping it securely to the belt loop of his jeans. Every time he moved, it gave a satisfying, metallic clink.
Great-Grandma Zelda sat at the opposite end, wearing a bright red sweater and eating her mashed potatoes with absolute, unbothered concentration.
Across the room, my phone buzzed on the sideboard.
I glanced over. A text message from Stacy.
“Mom is sitting at her kitchen table alone with a frozen turkey TV dinner. Are you happy now?”
I stared at the screen for three seconds. Then I tapped out a short, clean reply.
“We have plenty of turkey here, Stacy. She’s welcome to drive down.”
I hit send, locked the phone, and tossed it back onto the sideboard face down.
“Sonia!” Great-Grandma Zelda called down the length of the table, her voice surprisingly sharp for ninety-one. “Pass the cranberries before Wilma eats them all with a spoon!”
“They’re for the turkey, Grandma!” Wilma protested, laughing as she reached for the glass bowl.
Noah leaned over toward me, his brass wallet chain catching the afternoon light as he moved.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Are we going to Grandma’s for Christmas?”
I looked down at him. I thought about the Hills Bros. coffee can sitting on top of the Westinghouse in Byron. I thought about the red birthday book, the closed doors, and the forty years of silent bookkeeping that had finally come to an end.
Then I reached out, brushed a stray curl out of his forehead, and smiled.
“No, Noah,” I said, my voice steady and completely clear. “We’re staying right here.”
He nodded, satisfied, and picked up his fork.
May you like
Across the room, the golden retrievers knocked over a plastic pumpkin, sending a clatter of plastic candy wrappers across the hardwood floor. Everyone laughed, the noise rising up toward the ceiling in a warm, unbroken wave of sound.
For the first time in my life, I didn't count a single thing. I didn't have to. The numbers finally balanced themselves.
