Page 82 of Devil in Disguise
* * *
Owen had eatena lot of pretty haphazard Thanksgiving meals. In the NFL, Thanksgiving was just another work day, followed by three more work days. He’d eaten turkey in hotel banquet rooms, and he’d eaten it in teammates’ houses. There’d been dinners put on by sponsors after college Thanksgiving games, when you alternated between pumped up and exhausted, not yet able to regulate your emotions around winning or losing. Two years with Ashley, too, times when she’d brought her parents out, her mom cooking up a big meal that Ashley barely picked at, her dad watching the game in his recliner after dinner and going to sleep as Owen and the women did the dishes. Those had been some pretty awkward dinners. And last year, the weirdest one yet, at a Chinese restaurant with Harlan. Owen had been newly divorced and unable to handle being the bachelor add-on again like a rookie with no wife and no girlfriend, and Harlan had kept him company, because Harlan wasalwaysthe bachelor add-on and didn’t seem to mind either way.
He hadn’t eaten Thanksgiving dinner with his family since he was seventeen. He still wasn’t doing it, he guessed, but it felt oddly like it. Tomorrow, he and Harlan were headed to Denver to play the Broncos, but today, they were here.
Practice ended at one, and he showered and changed and headed straight to Harlan’s, where he kissed Dyma hello and then kissed her again, because it had been four weeks and he’d missed her like crazy, then shook hands with her great-grandfather and asked him if the ice fishing had started yet. Not something most men would be doing at eighty-five, but Oscar was tough as old boot leather. Oscar would fit right in down in Wyoming.
“Nah,” the old guy said. “Barely cold enough for anything to freeze yet. They don’t make winters like they used to. Probably a good thing, because nobody’d be able to handle it.”
“Been too long since I’ve seen you, sir,” Owen said with a grin. “Kinda makes me miss my own grandpa. Wait until you hear him talk about the blizzards they used to have, back when Wyoming was actually a tough place to ranch and people weren’t so soft. Been too long since I’ve seen him, too. He doesn’t come to my games much. Says he can’t see getting on a plane and going through all that security nonsense just for a day. Says he’d rather watch me from his recliner, ‘where I can at least see your face, and I can get a beer from the fridge instead of paying ten bucks for a bucket of piss I wouldn’t feed the hogs.’ He’s got opinions.”
“Old men don’t like to travel,” Oscar said. “We like our own houses. You want to see me, you come on up once the season’s over. Come up and bring Dyma.”
Owen didn’t see Jennifer, who must be taking care of the baby, or hopefully taking a nap, because this was a whole lot of activity, so he headed out to the barbecue to check on his turkey.
“Hi,” Annabelle said, looking flushed and a little uncertain. “I followed all your instructions. I hope it’s OK.”
“Looks great,” Owen said, once he’d checked it. “Another hour or so, and then we’ll take it out and let it rest while I make the gravy.”
Dyma came out on her usual burst of energy, wrapped up against the cold and wind in the coat he’d bought her—and also against the rain, which had been blowing almost horizontal all day and was making itself felt even under the covered patio—and asked, “Did you tell him what happened?”
Annabelle said, “Uh … I thought we weren’t going tosaywhat happened.”
Dyma said, “Owen. It was amazing.” Her bright blue eyes lit up, her dimples flashing. “It was, like, a comedy sketch. So Annabelle and I rinse off the brineverycarefully and dry the turkey, exactly the way you put on yourextremelyextensive notes—and clean up extra-thoroughly, because food-borne illness and football game on Sunday and nursing mother—after,of course, preheating the grill. We rub the skin with a huge amount of peanut oil, which I help with even though turkey skin is disgusting, like … I can’t even think what it’s like. Like the clammy, dead skin of a deadanimal,is what.But I do it anyway, because it’s Thanksgiving, and I’m not exactly going to make Mom do it, and I love you, right?”
“Right, Owen said, his mouth twitching with the attempt not to smile.
“We stuff it with chopped apples and onions and herbs,” Dyma said, “which, again—disgusting?”
“You didn’t even reach inside,” Annabelle pointed out. “That was me.”
“I watched, though,” Dyma said. “And then I carry it out to the smoker, because Annabelle’s checking the temperature and the wood chips and all. I’m holding it on its cutting board,extremelycarefully, because having dead-animal fluids on myself does not lead to the Thanksgiving spirit. It starts leaking on me anyway, so I sort of push it farther out from my body, and …”
Annabelle was giggling. Owen had never seen her giggle. “And it slides right off the cutting board!” she announced with glee. “Because it’sgreased.Oh, man. Dymascreamed.”They were both laughing hard now. “And it … itbounces.Dyma’s yelling, ‘Wait! Wait! Come back!’ like the turkey can fly up onto the board again, and it’s justslidingacross the patio—because of the oil—and onto the lawn. Which iswet.”
“And muddy!” Dyma said. “So we’re both screaming by now, and Annabelle’s picking it up and tucking it under her arm and running back to the kitchen with it like speed matters, or like she’s going to spike it after she makes the touchdown, and the apples and onions are falling out and bouncing along behind her. So if it’s extra-flavorful …” She grinned at him and took a bite of a carrot stick. “Sorry! That’s just mud.”
Owen said, “I knew I should’ve spatchcocked it.” But he couldn’t stop grinning.
“On the plus side,” Dyma said, “Annabelle made pies and stuffing, and Harlan’s making his special mashed sweet potatoes, which are amazing.And …this is my big finish—Pavani and I have been taking Indian cooking lessons the past few Saturdays from Mrs. Banerjee. She’s definitely dreaming that you’re going to make an honest woman of me someday and shower me with the white-girl equivalent of wedding saris and gold jewelry—by the way, I would totally love to get a sari, except cultural appropriation—so my abysmal cooking skills must be remedied, seeing as you loved her food and will want to eat it, and she doesn’t want you to divorce me for insufficient wifeliness after the magical day occurs.So—”She took a breath. “I made saag paneer, because you love creamed spinach and this is way better, and lentil dal, and I’m going to make aloo tiki, those potato fritters that were your favorites. Those took all three lessons for me to get right. Which makes up for my turkey escapade, don’t you think?”
“Tell Mrs. Banerjee,” Owen said, “that I appreciate it. And that I’m good for the gold jewelry.” Which was a wholly reckless thing to say when he knew she’d been joking, but he didn’t care.
She’d learned tocookfor him. She was making those fritters. His heart was doing some crazy thing, like he wasn’t in control at all, but all he could do was stand there, big and mute and dumb, so he wouldn’t say too much.
Grandpa Oscar stepped out onto the patio and said, “Did those girls tell you yet how they threw your perfectly good turkey in the mud? All I could do was stand there and watch it happen. Laughing like a couple of crazy women, too. You should’ve spatchcocked it instead. Nothing like a spatchcocked turkey, and it would’ve cooked faster and stayed on the plate, too.”
“Yep,” Owen said. “Never mind. Nobody ever said everything has to be perfect for us to be thankful.”
“That’s right,” Dyma said. “Everybody just has to be here. And we are.”
It wasn’t a Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t a locker room. It wasn’t even a teammate’s house, not quite. It was almost …
Home.
35
In the Fuzzy Socks
