She opens the door to the darkened dining room, switches on the light, and shudders at a hodgepodge of color. Her mother must have had quite a flicking, dribbling frenzy to achieve this random mess. But when it suggests Jackson Pollock’s work that she’s seen in Life magazine, she decides to view it as merely an oddly whimsical mess and tries to forget that it was probably executed during a deranged episode. She opens a china closet drawer to select a suitable tablecloth.
In the afternoon, Saffee mashes potatoes, both white and sweet, drawing only a minimum of correction. But April, Saffee notes, comes under repeated fire.
“April,” Joann says, “if that cream is ever going to whip before the cows come home, you’ll have to turn the beater like you mean it.”
The sisters have long coveted some guise of normalcy within the household, but a clear understanding of what normal is eludes them. So, in spite of a few caustic exchanges, and the usual idiosyncrasies notwithstanding, to their eyes Thanksgiving Day progresses without serious incident. The only noticeable change is Joann’s heightened criticism of April, her child who could, at least in the past, do little wrong.
At four o’clock, they sit around a table laden with heaping bowls of holiday fare. Four lime Jell-O trees, topped with stiff peaks of whipped cream, jiggle on salad plates. The feast distracts attention from what they all know: Saffee has covered a white sheet with an ecru lace tablecloth, hoping to hide from sight, if not mind, the splattered paint beneath.
“God is good. God is great. We thank Him for our food. Amen.”
It is the same brief prayer that Joann has intoned over every meal since Saffee can remember. Now, as in childhood, she cracks her eyes to watch her mother’s face, the uplifted eyebrows above closed lids, as beatific as a Hollywood nun. Saffee does not doubt her mother’s sincerity, but its mix with affectation has always been a curiosity.
They all consume large quantities of food. Surely a “normal” American Thanksgiving requires a measure of gluttony. But the eating is only done as ritual. In the absence of conviviality, their eyes do not shine with delight. Instead, intentional carefulness prevails. To be sure, there are no spills of gravy or cranberry sauce on the lace cloth. No one mentions that the rose pleated draperies are pulled at an earlier hour than necessary, covering windows darkened by issues of the Gazette. Who knows if lighting by chandelier on a holiday while the sun still shines may also be normal?
Three of them pretend not to notice that Joann holds each forkful slightly aloft for inspection before it enters her mouth. Morsels that do not meet approval are discarded onto a salad plate that overflows by meal’s end.
There is no mention of the holiday’s origin. Kvaale life mostly senses the present. But no mention either that now there is a college girl in the family. Important matters, such as the food before them and Tuesday’s ice storm that caused havoc in the orchard, eclipse other topics. By the time they indulge in slices of pumpkin and pecan pie, Joann has angled her body away from the window and her arms are around her plate.
The next day Joann is reclusive. In the late morning, Saffee catches a glimpse of her in the master bedroom. Wrapped in an old pink chenille robe, she bends over her small desk, intently writing. Not an uncommon posture. Later she hurriedly hobbles by crutch through the living room, abruptly shutting the double dining room doors behind her.
Back to school tomorrow; again Saffee counts the hours. She tries to read assignments for her world history class. Coming upon an unfamiliar word, she takes Joann’s new dictionary from its place on a bookshelf. Thumbing through, she is disheartened to see handwritten commentary on page after page. Under V, words referring to truth are highlighted: verify, verisimilitude, veritable. In the margins are tightly scribbled words. Among them, “truth will liberate you” and “truth without fear.” But also “deceiver,” “conniver,” “hoax,” “impostor,” “defraud,” “sucker.” Together, they seem to spell confusion.
Earlier in the day, when she saw Joann writing in a book, it did not appear to be this dictionary. Had it been her Bible? Hadn’t April mentioned that in a letter? She remembers how her mother had clobbered her with Sapphira’s story. Reinterpreting the dictionary seems foolish enough.
In the late afternoon, Saffee looks out the living room windows toward the orchard. She guesses that her mother has spent considerable time this fall standing here, watching leaves drop from the apple trees, each gust of wind exposing more of the Petersons’ blue house, invading more of her privacy.
The weather has reversed itself, turning warm for a Minnesota November. Saffee notices Nels stacking dead branches beneath the apple trees and sees both opportunity and excuse to leave the house. She slips on a windbreaker and knitted gloves with leather palms and goes outside. April soon follows.