Chapter 6 - The Bitter Taste of Pretense
The scene inside Karen’s dining room was miserable.
Spread out over the polished mahogany table were lukewarm styrofoam containers stamped with the greasy red logo of the interstate truck stop diner. Inside were thin, gelatinous slices of processed turkey loaf swimming in pale, watery brown gravy, clumps of grayish instant stuffing that smelled intensely of dried bouillon cubes, and canned green beans that had been boiled into an unrecognizable mush.
Richard poked at a slice of pressed turkey meat with his antique sterling silver fork, his mouth twisted in disgust.
"This is unpalatable," Richard declared, dropping the fork onto the plate with a loud clatter that made Karen flinch. "It tastes like salted cardboard. I am seventy-two years old, and I have never in my entire life been subjected to eating truck stop scrapings on Thanksgiving Day."
"I can't even stomach the smell," Evelyn moaned, pushing her plate away. She pulled out a tube of antacids from her handbag and popped two into her mouth. "Karen, your marriage is clearly in shambles. A man who behaves with this level of childish vindictiveness is completely unstable. You should have married that young attorney from our club, Arthur Davis. He would never have subjected our family to this kind of public humiliation."
Uncle Greg, who had reluctantly eaten half of his container out of sheer hunger, wiped his mouth with an embossed linen napkin and sighed. "Look, Evelyn, let’s be entirely fair here. Rick didn't just snap out of nowhere. Karen, what did you actually say to Jack Dalton?"
Karen froze, her wine glass halfway to her lips. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying all the way to the diner and back. "I told you, Greg. I just said the table was crowded."
"Karen," Greg pressed, his voice dropping into a stern tone. "Jack Dalton is one of the gentlest old guys I've ever met. When my central air unit died during that heatwave two summers ago, Rick was out of state on a commercial contract. I called Jack just to ask for a recommendation for a repairman. You know what that seventy-four-year-old man did? He drove thirty miles in ninety-five-degree heat with his personal toolbox, spent four hours troubleshooting my condenser fan, replaced the capacitor with a spare from his own garage, and refused to take a single dollar from me."
Richard frowned, waving his hand dismissively. "That was just common neighborliness, Greg. Don't make him out to be a saint."
"Common neighborliness?" Greg scoffed, looking at his brother-in-law with sudden disdain. "Richard, you wouldn't lend your own brother a lawnmower without asking for a signed deposit slip! Jack Dalton spent half his retirement helping anyone who asked, and Rick learned everything about being a decent, reliable man from him." Greg turned back to Karen, his eyes drilling into her. "So I’ll ask you again, Karen. What did you say to that man to make Rick pack up a twenty-two-pound turkey and walk out of his own house?"
Karen burst into fresh tears, burying her face in her hands. The pristine facade she had spent years building around her family was cracking wide open under the weight of her own guilt.
"I told him... I told him my parents shouldn't have to sit across from a mechanic who smells like an engine bay," she sobbed into her palms.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended over the room.
Even Evelyn looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting her gaze toward the window. Greg shook his head slowly, standing up from his chair and tossing his napkin onto the table.
May you like
"My god, Karen," Greg said quietly, disgust plain on his face. "If Martha ever treated my father that way, I wouldn't have just packed the turkey. I would have packed my bags and never looked back."
He picked up his coat from the entryway bench, turned to the rest of the room, and walked straight out the front door, leaving the three of them sitting alone with their cold styrofoam containers.
