Free The Ice Storm by Rick Moody Page B

again.
    Elena spooned the peas onto the plates Wendy provided and then went to help her daughter fold the napkins and arrange the cutlery, turning a knife here so that the sharp side faced in, adjusting the glasses so that each was at the right-hand corner of the plastic place mats. The dog trotted in from the den, decelerating as he rounded the sink, spinning in circles before settling under the center of the table. And behind him came his master, whose beverage—its tinkling melody—announced his entrance.
    They each stood around the remains of the turkey, spooning carbohydrates onto their plates beside the peas. The order of it was impeccable. First Wendy, then Benjamin, then Elena carried her plate to the table and returned to the refrigerator in search of a beverage. After a long, fruitless investigation, Wendy settled on pasteurized, homogenized, vitamin D–enriched milk. As Wendy held out the milk carton for her father, who accepted it and poured himself a glass—it would sit next to the scotch-on-the-rocks—Elena concluded that her daughter and husband each looked into the refrigerator in the same way. Hopefully. While she and Paul recognized what limited offerings were concealed there.
    The sleet or slush or whatever it was against the kitchen windows. Elena couldn’t see beyond the driveway, where a light on the house threw a dim glow against the sheets of precipitation. No one in New Canaan would really want to stay home on a Friday night in heavy snow. No one would want to stay home with their children. The party would go on.
    And the turkey was no longer moist. This conclusion was unavoidable. Above all, she and Benjamin agreed on the necessity of moist turkey. This was an area where progress had certainly delivered miracles. And yet this moist quality seemed to last through the first serving only. One had to guard against dryness in leftovers. One had to reheat gravy. And Elena had failed here. She knew that if she ever suffered a real and debilitating mental illness, its onset would not be the result of a failed marriage or because of twentieth-century spiritual impoverishment; it would be caused instead by these details, by a pen mark on the designer pantsuit she’d bought for the holidays, by the slight warp in her Paul Simon album, or by the acrid taste of old ice cubes. These small things led to a bottomless pit of loneliness beside which even Cambodia paled.
    She rose again from the table and flung her napkin on the chair. The dog struggled up immediately after her, betting on plate-clearing. She patted the flat spot on his head, where he might have had a brain, before locating the leftover cranberry sauce in the Frigidaire. Wendy and Benjamin greeted the bowl of jelly with smiles, with mouths full.
    The dog trotted back to his spot.
    Elena circulated the jelly, but it was too late. Wendy was almost done with her turkey. Benjamin was concentrating mostly on his scotch. So there it was. There were automatic appliances of every kind now—washers and dryers, dishwashers and ice-makers, juicers and electric grills. There were moon shots. But still there was the conundrum of day-old turkey.
    Twenty minutes now without a syllable of conversation. It stunned Elena as she was corralling a half-dozen peas against a mound of stuffing. She had felt the obligation to create conversation for years, perhaps for a lifetime. That is, she had felt the obligation when she had not felt the contrary one, to refuse all conversation. It was her duty to take charge. Words that soothed and were inoffensive. Words that bore up wounded hearts. Maternal language. But she had seen how these bons mots were ineffective. She had seen Benjamin, as she had seen the men in her family, bristle at some mild word of kindness.
    On the paddle-tennis court, recently:
    â€”Benjamin, she said to a doubles partner, has a serve like a howitzer.
    At once, he called to her across the court.
    â€”Don’t be a dip