Cranberries

Cranberries

A Thanksgiving tale, LW style

Here's a short one for those of you who'd rather have your toenails removed with pliers than endure a table full of seldom-seen relatives. It came to me while in Trader Joe's looking for fresh cranberries, so I pounded the keyboard in hopes of getting it to you in time for the holiday.

Thanks to Strikesandballs for the quick turnaround editing job.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

[Copyright 2024, all rights reserved, including section 107 of international copyright law]

We were on our way to our annual ritual - comfort food with all the trappings, football, libations, and strong family opinions, festering since this very day last year.

Thankfully, after my brother Bill's last year, the festivities were back to being held at my folks' house this year. Bill's wife, Stacy, was so nervous trying to coordinate the feast she burned the turkey in some fancy electric roaster they'd purchased. Luckily, we scavenged the bird for edible meat and fired up some Stove Top Stuffing.

Of course, part of that was not asking for help, even though the other women and a few men offered. It's the kind of intimidation that regularly surrounds the Jensen family.

I'm Calvin Jensen, Cal for short. Claire is my wife of twenty-one years and our two kids, Cal Jr. or C2 as we nicknamed him, and our daughter Rachael. C2 was a senior in high school and already had a foot out the door. Rachael was a junior but the smartest person in the family, in my humble opinion.

My grandfather and grandmother were the source of the Jensen legacy. James Jensen, or Jim as they called him in the State Senate in the 1940s, was a Michigan household name back then.

My Dad, Alvin, was sixty-five this year. Mom, Betty, was a peach of a woman with a wicked sixth sense around people who were down or depressed. It was like she could smell it in you. Dad started with one Cadillac dealership and had four in and around the Detroit suburbs by the time I graduated college.

Then there were my brothers. I didn't see them so much as that because I literally hated them. Bill, in particular, was a bully and always had been. His trouble was that I was the oldest and his bullshit wouldn't fly around me. So, he tried to undermine me where my parents were concerned, always accusing or blaming me for things he broke around the house. Sometimes, he'd steal from Mom's purse and say he saw me do it.

Mom and that damned sixth sense, always got to the bottom of things, eventually.

Bill was a finish carpenter by trade. My sister Cheryl's husband, Lincoln, Linc for short, was a master builder with a very successful construction company. We constantly made fun of Bill and his work habits when we were together at one of these family functions that was held at his home. That's because one side of Bill's garage looked like a front loader dumped the sum total of all his tools on the floor in a heap. By contrast, Linc and I could find every single tool we owned in pitch blackness.

Tom was a pampered, spoiled, youngest, and worthless son. He was a painter. I don't mean as in houses or hotels. He painted pictures in a beat-up old shed in his backyard but never in the hot summer months or the extended freezing Michigan winters. His wife, Merideth, was the breadwinner, working as a legal PA for a top Grosse Pointe firm. Mer, as I called her, was my favorite in-law. She was sharp as a tack, feisty, and no-nonsense, and she had a sense of humor on top of that. To me, she was the whole package.

I'd tried to get out of holidays often enough. One year I hurt my back at work. I had a desk job with a master's degree in biochemical engineering and was the only sibling in the family to complete college. Another time, the kids were throwing up. One year, I called Mom telling her I'd developed Perone's disease. I could hear her, phone away from her ear, explaining to my father. The next thing I know, he's on the phone, "Very funny. Ha, ha. When you wake up tomorrow go to BentCarrot.com and then get your ass over here, you twisted little shit."

I guess I should have known those commercials aired on the Lifetime Channel, too.

None of us followed in Dad's footsteps. When he was gone, so was his legacy of being "Detroit's low-price leader" in the car business. The inheritance would be nice, though.

Claire was remarkably quiet on the drive. The thing was, it wasn't that surprising or remarkable. Claire had been distracted since early September. I'd tried several weeks of "What's wrong, Dear?" but she blew me off. Something was wrong and she wasn't going to give it up. I'm not one to sit on my hands so I decided to come up with a few things to help me find out on my own. Of course, there was the glaringly obvious but I hoped against hope that wasn't it. Just this past Monday, though, I installed a tracker app on her phone.

"Earth to Claire," I announced loudly. The kids in the back seat had headphones on.

"What?" startled, she came around.

"Just checking to see if you're alright," I answered. "You've been out of it all morning."

"Well, you know how much I wish it was just our family for today," she told me. "I don't know, I think I'm also missing my parents."

Claire was an only child and her parents had retired recently. The problem for her was that they retired to Japan. She was also the love of my life. I've met plenty of men over the years who talk about their wives as a thing or possession and often I've wondered how those relationships last. An odd thing starts to happen though, when two people begin to drift apart, as had been the case with Claire and me of late. Our strong connection was fading and it worried me. The fact that my repeated requests for a conversation about what was bothering her fell on deaf ears was perhaps more disappointing, so I felt I had to do something. I never thought I'd have to resort to tracking her because up until recently, I trusted her implicitly. I expected to grow old with her.

Still, I had to find out for sure. Our life clocks were ticking and there wouldn't be any point in staying together if one or both of us weren't into it. I planned to start monitoring her over the weekend. I just wanted to get through the holiday itself.

The house was loud and lively as usual. My brothers' sets of kids came out to greet mine and they were off in a shot. We'd brought our contributions to the feast and made a couple of trips to the car to get everything.

Mom wrapped me in a warm hug, telling me she'd missed me. I'd been over three weeks earlier but that was mom for you. I found Dad in the living room with all the other men and Cheryl. My sister always thought of herself as the 'queen bee' of the clan, which meant menial kitchen tasks were below her. She wanted to watch football with the guys.

Bill was on the phone, arguing with a friend of his about the game. It was halftime and the Lions were down by one point. The 'Bear' fan was hopefully optimistic about their chances but his rose-colored glasses precluded him from understanding that his team was going to finish in last place while the Lions were finally going to the Super Bowl. Hell, the only guy in the room who had been alive the last time Detroit won a championship was my Grandad.

Since it was halftime, Dad and Grandpa were vigorously discussing the recent election. After hugging my father, I looked at Gramps and said, "No more of that shit. I want to watch the second half in peace. You two can do that after dinner or on a phone call."

"I live here, asshole!" Grandad labored with a shaky voice. His days as a Senator made him feel he had the market cornered on politics or the leading authority. What made it worse was that he'd been a staunch JFK kind of guy and never changed with the times.

"Yeah, Gramps," I chuckled, "that was my whole point. Not another word about the election or I'll lock you in your room."

"Hey!" Dad said. "Show some damned respect."

"Yeah," Cheryl mimicked. "don't be disrespectin' in here!"

My Sister, at thirty-eight, was a junior high school teacher. I often wondered who was teaching who with her use of teenage gang slang.

"Hey, sis," I gave her a sideways laugh. "How's it hanging? Why don't you go get that first round of dishes washed? We'll call you when the game starts." She flipped me off.

I went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer, and said hello to the rest of the family. Stacy was still making excuses about last Thanksgiving's debacle. Meri came up to me with a big genuine hug which caused Claire to stare daggers at me. Her radar was always up around Merideth due to her warm openness. She always blamed it on her upbringing.

"What can I say," she'd always... uh, say. "My family kissed and hugged a lot. To me, it's as normal as the sun and the moon."

Michigan is an interesting place if you haven't been. I'm sure other places have their uniqueness as well but there are so many darn things about the mitten. We had more than our fair share of bizarre sayings. We had our own language, too. For instance, how do you spell "I have to go to..." in Michigan? Well, nice try, but it's "I godda godda." Long 'O' on the last one.

"Hey, don't squeeze me so hard, Meri," I fake admonished. "Now I godda godda the bathroom." That was to keep my wife from losing her shit. Did I mention college?

The Bears had deferred which meant they received to start the third, but that didn't matter because, on their second play, Detroit intercepted and ran it almost all the way back. The room erupted like someone was on fire.

If there was a good thing about these holiday get-togethers for me, it was watching my kin. I'd always been a 'people-watcher' and often did it with Claire in our younger years, while out just about anywhere. I guess that made it 'family watching.'

Claire brought me out of my reverie near the end of the third quarter.

"Cal!" For a sec, I thought someone was hurt.

"What!" I matched her veracity.

"Do you have your damned earbuds in or something?" she snootily asked. "I need the car keys, please."

"For what?"

"I forgot the cranberry sauce." She said with annoyance. Every year, Claire went to great lengths to find fresh cranberries or at least whole frozen ones. Then, she'd spend an inordinate amount of time preparing her great-grandmother's recipe, with a bunch of spices I couldn't pronounce and cinnamon, I think.

"You're not planning to drive all the way home, surely?" I made it into a question but it was more a harsh suggestion.

"No," she sighed. "Mom has all the ingredients I need to remake it here. I just have to go find cranberries and I'm good. We'll have a ton of cranberry sauce at home." For me, that was more of a warning than a proclamation, since I never liked cranberries.

"Do you want me to come with?" her response was so immediate she almost cut me off.

"No, no. You enjoy the game, Honey," she said. "I'll be back before you know it."

That was odd. I handed her the keys and turned my attention back to the TV.

The Bears had stopped the Lions from scoring a touchdown on that interception, but with eight minutes left in the fourth, my team was now up by twenty-one. By the end of the game, they'd clinch a playoff spot, and we were only in week thirteen.

I looked at my watch. Claire had been gone for 25-30 minutes. Being an engineer with a master's, I did the smartest thing I could think to do and Google'd 'cranberries near me.'

There were three supermarkets within five minutes and two were open. I was beginning to worry. Then something else struck me - the find a phone app.

The best part about the technology I'd put on her phone was that I not only could tell where she was, but where she'd been.

At first, I breathed a sigh of relief. She'd stopped at a Starbucks halfway between our house and my parents. That was for three point two minutes. Now she was in our neighborhood. She'd decided to go home and get the batch she'd already made. But that was a fifteen-minute drive, unless you took the I-75 freeway, like we did on the way here. Thanksgiving equals no traffic. We'd made it in just over ten.

Then for reasons I can't explain, I zoomed in on our street. That's when my world, well, my marriage, anyway, ended.

Bart Hennessey was one of two additions to our neighborhood last year and the only one that I knew of that was single. Let's be clear, we didn't live in Bloomfield Hills, although close enough. Just five minutes to the west, it's consistently one of the top five richest towns in America. I've got a good job, good enough that the house is paid for and the kids' college is close to being funded, but I'm no snob. Our little couple streets on the cul-de-sac were what you might consider to be, upper-middle class families.

But not Bart. I disliked him from the very first block party BBQ because he looked at all the women like a prime-aged ribeye. He also drove a flashy little Porshe Carrera - bright red.

Unless I got swindled on the tech, my wife was at that very moment, standing, or possibly lying, in his house.

"Bill, toss me your car keys," my tone told him I wasn't asking.

"What," he harrumphed. "No. Take your own car. Shouldn't Claire be back by now?" His look told me he answered his own question. His eyes got wide and he immediately threw me the keys. No one else noticed because the Lions had just scored another touchdown.

Down in the basement, I stepped into the TV room that my Dad had built a few years back. He liked the fact that my basement was sectioned and finished, and even more that the northwest corner had a full L-shaped bar next to a fireplace. Dad would have probably liked an area to entertain but then he thought about the grandkids and creating an excuse to keep them coming to visit.

"C2," I announced. "I need you to come with me... now." My son knew my idiosyncrasies by then. He excused himself from his sister and cousins and followed me up the stairs.

When we got into Uncle Bill's car, he asked without looking at me, "What's going on, Dad?"

I just needed someone who knows how to drive with me," I half-lied. "I'm not feeling too good."

"Where are we going?"

"To get cranberries," I sadly replied.

The first store was closed but only one minute down the same street was a grocery store Mom had suggested. She even told me where to find the berries. The produce section was out but the deli had the chunky sauce already made and it didn't look any different than the stuff Claire always slaved over.

I bought some chips and soda for the kids because I knew it might be a long night and that they might end up staying with my folks. The sadness and finality of things were already overtaking me. Cal Jr. kept looking at me worriedly until we got back in the car.

"Dad, what is it?" his concern palpable. "Where's Mom?"

"I'm not going to talk about it, son," I declared. "She'll have to account for herself. We're going to stuff ourselves with Tryptophan and pumpkin pie and have a good time."

C2 looked even more worried then. I think he was wondering if I'd lost my mind or needed a doctor. To his credit, though, he left it alone.

Five minutes later, we were walking into my parents' house and the wives were starting to get food on the table. Mom gave me a quizzical look when I handed her the cranberry sauce. That wonderment didn't last long. My mother would never look at one of her kids with pity, only concern and that's what I saw in her eyes.

The men were being led into the dining room by their noses. A smell can be such an underrated sense. The smells emanating from that kitchen took me all the way back to a small boy, with far less to worry about.

I went to use the restroom and splashed a little water on my face. My thoughts went to how long my wife had been absent. She was pushing forty-five minutes then. The Starbucks stop was a clever ruse to keep family members from doing the math. I'd have bet everything I owned that she had preplanned to fuck that prick and high-tail it back in under an hour.

I thought about Bart and that first neighborhood cookout. I'd noticed him almost as soon as he'd arrived because he looked so out of place. Eventually, he made his way over to where I was helping on the grill to introduce himself. It almost made me sick that his hand was so clammy. I'm sure he saw it in my expression.

I kept my eye on him the rest of the afternoon and evening. He was certainly full of himself. After the party, I talked to Claire about him.

"Who's this Bart character?" I snidely asked her.

"Oh," she emphasized, "He's the new guy in town and he's really something!" I should have been disturbed then but I trusted her.

"Oh yeah," I bellowed. What's so something about him?"

"Oh, I don't know," she backed off a bit. Another warning had I been smart enough to connect the dots. "He's an international banker and a man of the world. Do you know there are only eleven countries he hasn't been to?"

"Hmm," was my reply. Claire knew me well enough to shut her mouth just then or risk drawing some attention to herself and possible early attraction. That was in July.

In late August, we had another get-together. Even more of our neighbors attended that one since many had been out of town for the Fourth of July. Again, I carefully watched Bart. He must have become more comfortable. I wasn't sure whether it was self-confidence or maybe more comfortable with the wives. I caught him several times looking at the better-looking ones like a well-aged ribeye steak, including my wife, Claire.

At one point, and it was bound to happen, he caught me catching him looking. Slimily, he bided some time before slithering over to where I was again working the grill.

"Hey, Cal... is it, right?" he tentatively asked. I just gave him a look.

"Do you have your own seasoning mix that you use?" What a piece of shit. "I'm always on the lookout for a really good dry rub. Or do you have a premade preference?"

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Well, the one I'm using here is my all-time favorite..." I drew it out, "for pork ribs. It won't work on, say... human female ass." I raised my eyebrows, daring him to retort.

He looked away but only momentarily. He was so used to playing this game, I could see it. A real influencer of sorts. And who knows, maybe he was with the men he did business with and the woman he seduced. I wasn't going to waste the opportunity.

"Say, listen Barty," I smirked at him, but he smirked back. "This is a family-friendly neighborhood in case you haven't noticed. If I see you perving on any of my friends' wives, or especially mine," I didn't point her out, "I'm going to burn your fucking house to the ground, do you understand me?"

I could tell by his sideways smile that he liked the game and had played it many times.

"Are you threatening me, Cal?" he said so calmly.

"Oh, did that sound like a threat?" I mocked. "Listen to me Mr. World Banker, I'm predicting your future. I've been watching you and I don't like what I see, mostly because I have a seventeen-year-old daughter along with a wife. Your salivating hasn't gone unnoticed by the other men either. You might have more money than me, probably do, but you've put yourself in my world, this town, this county. Get it through your oversized skull. Go home and watch porn or whatever, but the next time you're invited to one of these, if that ever happens, bring a date, and keep your eyes and your tongue in your head."

The smile remained, maybe even grew, as he turned without a word and walked away.

Had I caused him to target my wife?

My thoughts betrayed me like she was at that moment. A slight knock on the bathroom door brought me back. It was Mother.

"Are you alright, darling?" she asked with caution. "Dinner's ready."