Bird of a Different Feather
Cal didn't believe Foster when she said she was going to her friend Julie's tomorrow for Thanksgiving. True, she had put enough enthusiasm in her inflection; had added a little bounce to her step. And the smile she favored him with put a few crinkles around her eyes. It was one of her better efforts, Cal thought, and he decided to reward her with a "Good on you, Foster. Enjoy yourselves, yeah? See ya Monday?" as he walked with purpose out of his office and down the hall of the Lightman Group at precisely 5 pm on Wednesday, November 25th. He didn't stick around to hear Foster ask, "Cal, what are you…?" nor did he look back to see the forced smile slide from her face and land with a dispirited plunk on the paperwork she'd been doodling on for the past hour. He didn't notice her propping her head in her hand, closing her eyes and wishing that this Thanksgiving was already one for the books.
Gillian Foster could not remember when she'd had a good Thanksgiving. Oh, there were times as a child, she guessed, when her parents weren't arguing over how much her dad was drinking on that (or any) particular day, though she couldn't remember them. There were years when her college friends invited her to their houses, out of friendship and sympathy for the girl who hated to go home. And there was the brief stretch of time when she and Alec were first married, and they'd joined other Washington couples in their 'I can't be bothered to cook' dance to the fanciest Washington restaurants. At least then the company was diverting, if a little boring, and the liquor flowed. But Gillian couldn't remember feeling at home on any Thanksgiving, and she knew this one wouldn't be any different. If anything, the prospect of spending this Thanksgiving alone – for the first time ever? – filled her with such dread that she decided to stop by the liquor store on her way home, to buy a bottle of the scotch that Cal had given her a taste for. And maybe visit the video store, to find something romantic and gooey that she could cry over and drink to. She brightened momentarily at the sound of a small, but somehow comforting, plan.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Gillian!" "See ya, boss lady!" Ria and Loker were leaving the office together to go their separate ways. Gillian summoned a smile and waved from her desk, wishing them "Happy Thanksgiving" in return. Come Monday, this travesty of a holiday would be over, and for that, she would give thanks.
Cal was striding up and down the aisles of Giant Food on Northeast Brentwood, pushing his cart like a battering ram through the clumps of last-minute holiday shoppers. He had already ordered a stuffed, pre-cooked turkey (he'd have to be daft to attempt to fix one of those himself; might as well just shoot the bird and eat it raw), which could be picked up tomorrow at noon. He had in his hand a list of items that Emily had culled from remembered Thanksgivings, ones where Zoe had attempted a home-cooked meal. Cal headed into the produce aisle to grab a bag of cranberries ("much better than the canned ones, Dad, and all you do is cook 'em 'till they pop"), a three pound bag of red potatoes ("they make the best mashed potatoes, and you only have to cut 'em in half before you boil 'em"), before cutting over to the bakery aisle for a sack of fresh-baked dinner rolls (he had decided to go with Parker rolls, which were his particular favorite) and a "guaranteed fresh" apple pie. He wheeled by the deli to pick up a pound of oriental coleslaw, then beat it to the floral section to grab a bouquet of pink roses, from which he would fashion some sort of centerpiece. He then stood on line for an ungodly amount of time before springing free into the parking lot, and setting a course for home, where an adventure of a culinary sort awaited.
Gillian trudged up the steps to her condo, her arms laden with survival gear. In addition to the booze and the movies, she carried a few bags of Chinese take out, reasoning that she could add an Asian twist to her personal Thanksgiving extravaganza tomorrow. She also sported a sack from Macy's containing a feathery soft pink angora sweater and an ass-enhancing pencil skirt of light gray wool. When depressed, shop, was Gillian's motto; also, when delighted, anxious, peaceful, stressed, angry, lonely, insecure and powerful. Gillian Foster was a woman of many feelings and moods, and she had a closet-full to prove it. As she crested the steps and shuffled the bags to fit her key in the lock, the November night's wind whipped her coat open and threw sleet into her face, and the warm feeling she'd gotten from shopping was soon extinguished by raw chill. Fitting weather for a no-thanks holiday, she thought, as she quickly let herself in.
By eleven, Cal was on his third bottle of lager as he watched the explosion of cranberries that was coating his stove with a fine red mist. The directions said to boil one cup water, one cup sugar and the bag of cranberries (washed) for ten minutes, uncovered, and Cal was following the recipe like gospel. "Bloody mess" he thought as he stirred the frothing red fruit and took a swig of his beer. Overall, however, he was feeling quite pleased with himself. Ever a man to 'get on with it', Cal had cleaned house like a man possessed when he'd arrived home. Bathroom fixtures shone, loose papers formed one tall stack on the side of his desk, books were arranged in neat piles, and the floors got a long-overdue suck-up with the vacuum. Emily had called from her mum's early in the evening to see how things were going, and to make sure Cal had gotten everything on his list, and he was happy to report that things seemed very much in control. "Luv ya, Em," he said fondly before disconnecting. He half- wished Emily would be there tomorrow to have dinner with him, but the thought that he wouldn't be alone even without her company compensated for the loss. The timer reverberated into his musing, and Cal flipped the burner off and looked for a dish to pour the berries into. Tomorrow he would cook the potatoes, set the table, pick up the turkey and retrieve his dinner guest in time for a 2 pm feast. He couldn't remember a Thanksgiving that he looked forward to as much.
Shortly after eleven, the credits were rolling, and Gillian had learned for the umpteenth time 'How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.' She'd poked her way through one of the cartons of take-out and had poured more than a few glasses of red wine down her throat. Sighing, she stabbed at a button on the remote, then tossed the rectangle onto the couch, where it would be handy for tomorrow's viewing marathon. She dragged herself to her feet and padded toward the bathroom, where she did her wash-floss-brush routine in desultory slow-mo. She then headed into the bedroom, hoping to sleep away as much of tomorrow as possible.