Ebony Morman

Fourth Thursday

November 23, 1995

“Not like that,” Nic says, hitting my hand. “Like this.”

My oldest aunt slices through the cheese block with her dull knife, but since she’s bigger and stronger than me, she makes it look easy.

I watch close, tryna copy. My hands are smaller, still twelve-year-old hands, not grown ones like hers.

“You gotta slow down, Lo,” she says, barely even looking at the board. “That is, if you wanna be half as good as me.” She winks. “What? You think I just came out Mama’s womb knowing how to cook?”

Duh. That’s exactly what I think. What I know, too. Otherwise, why would Auntie Nic be the one running point on the most important meal of the year?

My grandmother (everybody calls her Mama, not to be confused with my actual mother, Cheyenne) put Nic in charge when I was still little. Real little. The story gets dragged out every year. Seven Thanksgivings ago, Mama was a mess over something I’m still “too young” to know about. Whatever it was, she was distracted, which don’t happen often, because everybody knows Lois Sutton throws down in the kitchen. But that year she slipped up. Left the mac and cheese in too long, forgot the evaporated milk. It came out so dry we had to cut it with a knife. Same with the turkey. Just dry. Way drier than the mac and cheese, tough to chew and hard to swallow. It was a production all on its own, everybody coming up with new ways to wash it down. Mama’s been salty about it ever since. Nic’s had the honor ever since then, and trust, she don’t play about it either.

“Patience,” Nic says, sweeping her perfect cheese cubes into a huge blue bowl. “That’s all it takes. You got it in you, niece. I see it.”

Do I, though? She says it like it’s a gift passed down through blood. Maybe it is. But if it is, I don’t even know if I want it. Cooking’s cool and all, but being chained to a kitchen and having all these greedy, and ungrateful, mouths to feed? Nah. Just look at how they treated Mama when she fell off for just one day.

But I do like being the best. Just something I can’t shake. And I don’t want to either. So I push the knife straight through the sharp cheddar, and my cubes come out clean, almost better than my aunt’s.

She nods. Proud.

I smile. Satisfied.

But there’s no time to stay there because every five minutes, a different somebody creeps in the kitchen and starts going on and on about starving, asking how much longer till we eat.

Nic ignores them, leaves me in charge of mixing. Elbow pasta. Chopped butter. Evaporated milk. Salt. Pepper. Secret ingredients she ain’t ever telling me, no matter how good I get.

I reach for a big spoon, but Nic snatches it right outta my hand. “Nope. Use your hands. There are some things a spoon just can’t do.”

So here I am, elbows deep in noodles and cheese, while she buzzes around the kitchen like a seasoned chef. Checking off each menu item before moving on to the next.

She peeks over my shoulder, nods again. Still proud.

And that’s when Mama walks in. Her good earrings swinging, emerald sweater shining, lipstick lined all perfect. She scans everything: the counter, the stove, the timer on the oven. Reaches for a yellow dish towel that don’t even need folding.

“You need anything?” she asks.

“We good, Mama,” Nic says, nodding at me. “Lo got it under control.”

“Does she now?” Mama nods all slow, then turns to me. “I’ll be the judge.” She closes the distance, half-smiling. Then leans down to kiss my forehead.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby.”

I pause, hands still stuck in gooey cheese and noodles. “I was just . . . thinking.”

She tilts her head, curious. “Bout what?”

“About that one Thanksgiving,” I say. “The one where everything was dry.”

“Oh Lord.” Nic tilts her head back like, For real? “Here we go.”

But Mama just raises a brow.

“I always wondered,” I say, looking anywhere but at her, “what happened that year?”

Mama presses her lips tight. Her nails start tap-tap-tapping the counter. Finally, she blows air out her nose like she’s tryna keep it light. “Child, I can barely remember. How long ago was that anyway, Nic?”

Nic’s back stays to us. Mouth stays shut too. Either she caught the same type of amnesia Mama did or she’s just tryna stay out of it, playing it safe. She picks up one of the shot glasses that lives on the shelves above the sink, starts examining it like it’s the first time she’s seen the Las Vegas sign that’s etched into the side of it.

“Something or the other,” Mama shrugs, smoothing the dish towel. That’s all she gives me before she starts easing out the room.

But I’m older now. Been watching. Listening.

“Must’ve really been some kinda something.”

She freezes, just for a beat. Then she looks at me. Like really looks at me.

“Must have,” she says, eyes far away. Then shakes her head. “Don’t matter now though. What does matter is the tradition got passed on.”

She looks at Nic, then the bowl, then at me.

“And we all know I passed it to the right one,” she says, voice grinning.

And with that, she leaves. Not fast, not slow. Just . . . like she’d already stayed a lil’ longer than she meant to.

Nic finally turns, watches her go, then looks at me and says, “Phew,  that could’ve went left.” She wipes sweat off her forehead.

Dang. It is burning up in here. Guess this is what people mean when they say, “If you can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen.”

“We all know how she gets when anybody gets all up in her business,” Nic says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “But she’s different with you.” Then she goes back to babysitting the turkey.

“Now,” Nic says, voice lifting a bit, “when does the most infamous Sutton plan on gracing us with her presence? Or will she grace us? That’s a better question.”

My mother. That’s who’s infamous, who she’s talking about.

I bite my lip. She ain’t wrong about Cheyenne. But I hate being dragged into the crossfire—between her and Mama, between her and her two sisters. Did that at Jada’s birthday and look where that got me. One minute we were all at Home Run Inn, s’posed to be celebrating my Aunt Jada turning eighteen—the baby sister, the youngest of Mama’s girls. Next thing I knew, voices were flying across the table: Cheyenne coming at Nic all sideways, Nic with the comebacks, Nic’s husband, Uncle Lance, tryna referee. And me? I opened my mouth. Figured I could slide in what I’d been feeling about Cheyenne, like maybe she’d actually hear me. All I did was add even more fuel to the fire. The whole day went left real quick.

They’re always reminding me to stay outta grown folks’ business, except when it comes to Cheyenne. Then all of a sudden I’m front and center.

“Your mother, now that’s who can stand learning a thing or two in the kitchen,” Nic says, taking the turkey out the oven.

The smell hits first (seasoning, heat, a lil’ too much grease)  and for a second I forget she’s throwing shade. Never misses a chance to get one in.

“There’s the most beautiful wife in the world,” Lance says, peeking in. He’s checking the temperature, Nic’s temperature. He plants a kiss on Nic’s cheek and she lets him. Lance looks good rockin’ the sweater I got him for his birthday. It’s got three different shades of brown on it, two burgundy patches right at the elbows. There’s just one thing . . . it’s too damn small. But he squeezed into it anyway. And that makes me smile.

“Oh, now I’m beautiful,” Nic says, rinsing dishes. “We’re just waiting on the mac and cheese.”

Lance scans every corner of the kitchen, tryna see what he can get his hands on. Face lights up when he spots a small piece of turkey, the leftover part that Nic sliced to make sure the bird was up to par . He looks over his shoulder and jams the turkey and a tablespoon of dressing in his mouth. Then he disappears without Nic noticing, her back still turned at the sink.

An hour later, we’re all seated around a long table, one that Nic had to clear out most of the front room to fit. Each year gets a lil’ tighter because we all get bigger, and it ain’t just the kids neither. Every Thanksgiving Nic and Lance swear up and down about getting a bigger house, one that can better fit us all before the next Thanksgiving. But here we are at “the next Thanksgiving” . . . same house, same table. Guess we all just gotta stay the same size forever. Otherwise, this whole room’s gonna bust wide open.

We each say what we’re thankful for that happened between last Thanksgiving and this one. Then, Mama blesses the food, which means it’s game on.

It’s quiet at first, except for the sound of everybody eating. That’s tradition too. Nobody messes with the silence till after that first bite hits. Collard greens. Yams. Turkey. Dressing. Chitterlings. Auntie’s famous mac and cheese. And plain ol’ dinner rolls, straight from the store. Same with the cranberry sauce, straight out the can, ridges and all.

“Thanks, Nic,” Mama says around a mouthful of food. “For everything, but mostly for this mac and cheese. You put your foot in it this time. Almost better than mine.”

Almost? Please. It’s ten times better. Everybody at this table knows it too. My grandmother included.

Nic points at me with her fork. “That one, she’s who you should be thanking. Practically made it herself.”

My cheeks get hot quick and I rush to get them to stop. Stuff a dinner roll in my mouth, hoping that’ll do it. It’s burnt around the edges. And I like it.

Okay, show’s over. Y’all can go back to stuffin’ y’all faces now. 

They don’t. Not Aren anyway.

He’s grinning like he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. “Okaaaay, cousin.” He puts his fork down and claps. “I knew you could do it. Looks like that Easy Bake Oven you still play with came in handy after all.”

I glare at him. He knows it’s been years since I played with that thing. But that don’t stop his joke from landing. It throws almost everybody into their own version of a laughing fit, even Cheyenne, who strolled in just in time for grace.

I roll my eyes. It’s not even that funny.

Nic don’t think so either.

“Oh, you think that’s funny.” She points her fork at her sister, like Cheyenne’s the only one laughing her head off. “Let me get this right, is it funny that your twelve-year-old daughter knows how to cook better than you? Or it’s funny my son cracked on your daughter? Which one amuses you?”

Cheyenne doesn’t even look up. Just goes to work with her fork: mashing greens, yams, mac and cheese, turning her plate into baby food like she’s been doing since forever. Mama always got something to say about it too, but nothing’s changed. Cheyenne scoops a forkful of the mess into her mouth, chewing all slow.

Jada raises her Sprite. “To Nic. We’re thankful for you, big sis.”

“To Nic,” everybody says, copying Jada’s raised arm.

Well, almost everybody.

“You look tired,” Cheyenne says. “Real tired, Nic.”

Cheyenne crams another bite in her mouth, still chewing in slow motion. “I get it,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. “It gotta be exhausting knowing everything, doing everything, being everything to everybody, all the damn time.” Cheyenne takes her empty fork for a spin, making sure it spends a few seconds on each one of us to make her point. “Making sure we all got what we need, right when we need it.”

Cheyenne raises a can of pop, bows her head. “To you, big sis. What ever would we do without you?”

Nic jerks her chin up a bit. “Hmmm.”

Mama’s done. She stands up, tries to walk back and forth. But since there’s not enough room, she’s just walking in a small circle. Aren tries to sneak out but I yank him down. His butt hits the chair, hard. We ain’t moving till they say so.

I need to stay put, no matter how hard it is to watch and not say nothing. Same as Jada’s birthday. My insides wanna scream: stop acting like I’m the problem. I didn’t ask to be born. Cheyenne made me, not the other way around. She was fourteen, still a kid herself, when I showed up. A teenager having to raise a baby while still half-raised. But if I say all of that out loud, I’m gonna be the one crossing that line they love reminding all us kids about.

“Yes!” Nic breaks the silence with a clang. Her fork hits the plate like a bell. She’s shaking an imaginary one now, ringing it loud in the air. “Ding ding ding! To me, to Mama, to Jada, to Lance. Shoot, to Aren even.” Nic’s eyes flick to her oldest son. “Raise a glass to all of us for doin’ what you sometimes only think about doin’.”

Cheyenne leans back in her seat. “You putting a lot on it, Nic. You’re no better than none of us, no matter what you say to yourself before you lay that pretty lil’ head of yours down at night.” A smile tugs at her lips. “Besides, it’s much easier to look all high and mighty when the rest of us are screw ups, right?”

Cheyenne smacks her lips. The mush on her plate is now stuck between her front teeth, plain as day. “Shoot, you should be thanking us. Ain’t that right, Jada?”

Mama puts her hand on Cheyenne’s shoulder, says something that’s hard to make out. Then my grandmother walks right outta Nic’s front room.

Jada’s eyes cut to Cheyenne. Then she looks at Nic. “So we doing this, huh? On today of all days. Okay.” She looks between her sisters again. “I get you’re just runnin’ down the facts, Nic. And I’m with you.” She rubs the sides of her head. “Well, kinda. You’re the one who’s always talking about family this and family that. So we do what family do, right?

Nic looks at me for the first time since we left the kitchen. Her eyes say Sorry.

Jada says, “And Cheyenne, she—I mean, we shouldn’t be throwing it in your face every chance we get.”

“Exactly!” Cheyenne claps, smiling wide. “I knew you’d agree with me, Lil’ Sis.”

Jada puts her hand up, pressing pause on Cheyenne. “If you agree that you need to take some accountability . . . then yeah, we agree.”

“Well, look who turned eighteen and got a opinion while she was at it,” Cheyenne says.

“You don’t have to be eighteen to have an opinion,” I say before I even think. “I’m twelve and I got one.” I glance at Aren, who’s already looking at me. “Aren’s younger than me and he got one too.”

Before Jada’s birthday blew up like it did, Aren just listened. Let me run my mouth about Cheyenne, about not having a real place to call home, about how I don’t belong nowhere and how I’m just wherever I’m at till I’m somewhere else. But after Jada’s party, he switched it up, gave some grown-up advice too. “You know we love you,” he told me. “I love you more than a cousin, like a sister. Your home’s with us. But you gotta stop expecting your mother to be anything other than what she is. She ain’t even made a home for herself yet. How you expect her to make one for you?”

And he was right. He is right. How can I expect her to make a home for me? Answer is, I shouldn’t. So why does that expectation still get at me?

I look at Cheyenne. “You make one decision, to have me. To have me at fourteen, at that. And now everybody’s stuck dealing with it.”

“That’s not what I meant, Lo,” Nic says quick, pulling me into a side hug. “Nobody’s stuck with you. We’re stuck with your triflin’ mother.”

“Triflin’?” Cheyenne’s up out of her chair. “That’s rich, Nic. Don’t make me start waking up all the skeletons in your closet. Then we can vote on who is triflin’ for real.”

Cheyenne’s eyes go from Lance to Aren, Aren to Lance. Then back to Nic. “Next Thanksgiving work for everybody?”

Mama walks in just in time to catch Cheyenne letting out a short laugh that ain’t really a laugh.

“Loren is my daughter. Mine.” Cheyenne stabs her chest with her pointer finger. “I don’t care whose roof she’s under or for how long she’s under it, don’t ever get that confused.”

“Well, act like it!”

“Act like it then.”

Me and Nic almost speak at the same time. Her words come out louder though. Mine barely make it out.

Act. Like. It. Act like you’re my mother. I’ve been here long enough. What’s taking so long?

“Stop it!” My grandmother slams her fists into the table. “It is Thanksgiving.”

Everybody freezes.

Those last three words come out in an even tone, the one she uses to let all of us know she ain’t playing. Firm, but loving. A roaring whisper.

Three words: It is Thanksgiving. Outside this house, outside of our family, maybe it don’t mean much. But to the Suttons, those three words are sacred. Not because of no pilgrims. Not because of no turkeys neither. Sacred because Mama and her sisters declared it so a long time ago. Thanksgiving is “protected.” You don’t touch it. You don’t ruin it. Not unless you wanna answer to her.

Protected means we all show up no matter what, no matter where life takes us, no matter who we become.

Protected means we all show up no matter what, no matter the fights we manage to get into between Thanksgivings.

Protected means we all show up no matter what, fully prepared to play nice for a few hours once a year.

It’s something we all understand—from Mama to Aren.

Aren’s knee nudges mine underneath the table.

Yeah, cousin. This is wild.

Mama tells us how sick she is. That is, how tired she is of everybody having the same argument over and over again.

That’s right, Mama. Because I’m sick of it too. All we do is say stuff without really saying nothing. Nobody says how they really feel, nobody says what really matters. And nobody asks me what I want. Or how it feels to keep getting dragged from place to place, latching on to whatever somebody else got going on. Family or not, I’m always tagging along.

I cross my arms, sit back in my chair, stare at the plate of food. It’s just like it was when somebody put it in front of me. Even the perfect mac and cheese is untouched.

She hasn’t made a home for herself, so how can you expect her to make a home for you?

Aren’s words jump around my head. For the first time, I let them sink in, for real. Does Cheyenne even know what home is? Not that Mama ain’t create one for us all, a place we can always come back to. Not that Nic ain’t take after Mama in that way, creating another safe haven that’s home base.

Thing is, Cheyenne don’t sit still long enough to notice. She runs. Always runs. If it were me, I’d be tired of running. Worn out. Outta breath. And if I ever had to run, it’d be towards my family, not away from them.

“Who’s ready for dessert?” Lance says, popping back in the room with two deep dish sweet potato pies. My grin shows up before I can stop it. Head goes back and forth between them. The crust on both is almost burnt.

That’s how I know he made them just for me.

He slides a fat slice on my plate and winks. Right away, the noise in my head quiets down. The world can be falling apart, but Lance’s pies, especially when he makes them like this. . . .

Burnt edges. Sweet middle. A lil’ chill.

Mmm-hmmm.

Now this? This is something I can always count on.

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