Page 5 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
Back in January, during theblurry-in-my-head times, I started coming over here for dinner on Sundays. Mom and Dad were happy to have me, and it felt like old times at first, like when I was just out of college and would breeze in to do my laundry and eat vegetables. Soon, though, Sundays became SundaysandSaturdays, then Fridays, too, because I’ve found that weekends are the worst time to be alone. They set a place for me at the table, and we watched TV together, and they told me how great it was to spend so much time with me. I sensed their patience running thin over the summer, though, especially when I started showing up for Taco Tuesdays.
“You know, with your dad’s blood pressure, he really shouldn’t even be eating tacos,” my mom finally told me in September. Was she just trying to get rid of me? Maybe. I doubled down, though, by suggesting Grilled Chicken Tuesdays. Not as good alliteratively speaking, but it beats eating dinner by myself.
I’m at the kitchen island now chopping vegetables with my mom for a salad. My dad is in the basement doing some cleaning. The Ravens are on the little flat-screen by the toaster.
“Your brother’s deep-frying another turkey this year,” my mom says.
I’m holding a cucumber stick in my mouth like a cigarette. “My god. How is it almost Thanksgiving again?”
“You need to stop asking that,” she says. “It’s just how time works.”
She’s right. I eye the Norman Rockwell calendar hanging nearby, the page flipped to the painting of the huge family at Thanksgiving dinner. It’s not that I don’t like the holidays. Sweaters are great, red-and-green candy, too. I just wish I could skiptheseholidays.
Through the window above the sink, I catch a glimpse of an airplane passing. As I track its progress from one end of the glass to the other, I’m acutely aware that my mom is watching me watch it. I spent decades barely noticing airplanes. Now I notice them all because there are real people up there hurtling through time and space.
My dad ambles up the stairs and enters the kitchen carrying a dusty plastic crate. “Hey, look what I found, bub. Some of your old art stuff.” He sets the crate on the kitchen table, and the three of us gather around. The contents—sketches, drawings, and random paintings—are arranged chronologically, starting with hand turkeys from kindergarten and going all the way to work from my time at the Maryland Institute College of Art, or, as locals call it, MICA. We flip for a while, removing things at random.
“Oh wow,” my mom says. “I remember those. Your final project.”
My dad lays four framed, ten-by-twelve-inch pieces carefully on the table. They make up a collection of graphic renderings inspired by Baltimore. There’s Camden Yards where the Orioles play, the iconic Domino Sugars sign, the downtown skyline at night, and a graffiti-covered park bench. I called it theCity Series. Along with the artwork, I wrote a business plan detailing how the project could expand nationally. The formula was simple: four locales for each city, created in my style.
“I kept telling you,” my dad says, “you could’ve made copies and sold these all over town. Who wouldn’t want them hanging in their house?”
“It was just a school project, Dad,” I say.
“Well, I like them,” he says.
Art schools are made up of two types of students: ones whose parents support them and ones whose parents think art school is bullshit. Mine showed up to my class’s graduation show wearing T-shirts with myCity Seriesscreen-printed across their chests. My classmates thought they were making a statement about art and commerce. But no, they were just proud of me.
“You know, you should hang these up over at your apartment,” my mom says.
“That’s a good idea,” says my dad. He picks up his favorite piece,Camden Yards.
“Might make it feel a little homier in there,” my mom says. “Like a place you’d want to spend more time.”
“Right,” I say, because I’m onto them now. I love my parents, but they’re terrible actors, and they’ve obviously planned this. I imagine them whispering in the basement, conspiring as I playedMario Kart.“You know, if you guys want me hanging out here less, you can just say so.”
“What?” my dad says. “No. It’s not that. It’s just…”
My dad has never been good at bad cop. He shuffles now, waiting for my mom to step in. I head back to the island for another cucumber cigarette.
“It’s not that wewantyou here less, Henry,” my mom says. “It’s that we think youshouldbe here less. It’s about your well-being.”
I’ll admit, this hurts. “Am I still invited to Thanksgiving,” I say, “or should I maybe see if Applebee’s is open?”
“Very funny,” my mom says.
“Cal’s doing another deep-fried turkey, you know,” my dad says.
“Oh, that reminds me.” My mom is back at the island now, too, chopping again. Her glasses have slid to the edge of her nose, which always makes her look drunk. “You know Maryellen Denison, right? From my book club? Over on Dewhurst Lane?”
“Um,” I say. The turn here is jarring because my feelings are still hurt. Also, I have no idea who in the hell she’s talking about.
“Well, she’s having some trouble with her Wi-Fi. It’s all glitchy. I said maybe you’d swing over today before dinner and give it a look for her.”
“You want me to go check out a complete stranger’s Wi-Fi?”
“She’s not a stranger. She’s in my book club. Sharp lady. Big Anne Tyler fan.”
