Page 4 of Holiday Hopefuls
Next to Imogene, Prescott rubs his forehead. “You’re all idiots,” he sighs.
Imogene cuts angry eyes toward her brother. “Rude.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying, some of us work in fields that directly impact people’s lives. And, I’ll point out, I have a doctorate, too. But I don’t feel the need to bring it up in every conversation. Even if I am thirty-three and already a senior partner at a law firm.”
Chris scoffs. “And how sad for you that people don’t call attorneys ‘Dr.’”
At one end of the table, my father salivates as the rest of his children argue over who’s the most successful, while my mother just looks tired.
“Calloway,” Connie’s soft voice echoes above the rest of our siblings' fervent discussion, “How is the preparation for the holiday program going?”
All other conversation ceases, heads turning my way. As if they all forgot I was there.
They probably did.
“Oh, um, good. Thanks.” Smiling at my sister, tension courses through my chest as I wait for what’s coming.
“Are your kids excited?” she continues. Since Connie also holds an MBA in Finance, I guess she can ignore the other conversation with greater ease.
“Yeah, they are,” I nod. “They’re going to dress up as reindeer. It’s going to be so cute. They're still a little young to do too much, but I know the parents are going to love it.” Taking a chance, I turn to the rest of our family. “You’re all more than welcome to come, of course. It’ll be Thursday, December 17th, at the school. 7pm.”
“Not getting enough credit as a babysitter there, Calloway?” Chris asks as the salads are replaced with some kind of Beef Wellington. “Need us all to watch you do it now?”
Connie must reach under the table and pinch him because he yelps.
I don’t bother hiding my snicker.
Neither does Goldie, but Prescott puts a quick end to that.
“That’s enough, Christopher,” my father says with false sternness. “Some of us never reach our full potential, and that’s okay.”
Pressing my lips together, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only Imogene and Connie can get away with that one.
“Just because your sister chose a much softer career doesn’t mean cruelty is necessary,” Dad continues.
Taking bites of food that I don’t taste, I mentally tally how much longer this dinner could possibly last. “You know,” I say, swallowing, “I don’t think that sounded as nice as you think it did.”
Ira Rutherford sits back in his chair. Still in his work clothes, he looks the part of an attorney about to win a case. “What would you like me to say, Calloway?”
“Gee, Dad, I dunno.” Unceremoniously dropping my fork, the clattering screams in the resounding silence.
“Calloway Leora,” my mother warns.
“I’m just saying. I went to school, too.” Raising my hands in surrender, I look between my parents. “I have a great job that I love and that pays my bills. And I get to try and make an impact in these kids’ lives. What else could I want?”
“To have a job that earns you some respect and where you don’t change diapers?” Chris suggests a little too casually.
Rubbing my temples, I count to five. “Look, I need to go. Paintings to grade and such. You people with your big important jobs wouldn’t understand.” Pushing back my chair, the feet scrape against the hardwood.
“Calloway,” Mom calls as I’m halfway out of the dining room. Congenial, as if she’s somehow managed to miss the last several minutes of conversation.
Maybe it’s just years of practice being a corporate wife.
My feet come to a halt. “Yes, Mom?” I ask as politely as possible.
“Don’t forget Thanksgiving is coming up.”
Sighing, I turn to my mother. “Believe me, I couldn’t if I tried.”
