Thanksgiving Confession

“Hi, Brigid, come in,” Maureen said pulling the door open. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“The same to you,” I said. I stepped into the house, tucked a stray blonde strand behind my ear, smoothed out my new suit, and handed Maureen the flowers I’d picked up. I’d driven into Des Moines the day before and spent my meager McDonald’s paycheck on the red suit.

I’d expected the house to be drafty and cold but it was warm and inviting. One side of the large entryway was consumed by an oak staircase, the other side yielded a spacious sitting room. Several overstuffed sofas surrounded a large hearth.

She led me into the expansive parlor, indicated a sofa for me, and headed for the kitchen. David sat in a chocolate leather wing chair reading Alliance Magazine, a publication for funeral home directors.

“Hello Brigid,” David said from behind his magazine.

“Hello Mr. Conlin. How are you?”

“Fine.” He turned the page and was absorbed again.

I could hear Maureen riffling through drawers in the kitchen and two outbursts of profanity as something bounced to the floor.

“Hi,” Jonah said with a start as he walked into the parlor. “Why didn’t you come to find me?”

“She’s okay,” David said. “We’ve been chatting.”

Jonah raised an eyebrow at me and motioned for me to follow him. I trailed him into the study. Jonah’s suit was an identical to David’s dark funereal blue double-breasted number. All we needed was a few bottles of Jamison Whiskey and a dead body and we’d have an old fashion Irish wake.

“You look great,” he said.

“Thank you, so do you. How are you?”

“I’m nervous,” Jonah said, he held up a shaking hand to illustrate his apprehension. “I’m really fucking nervous.”

“Jonah, Brigid, dinner’s ready,” Maureen called.

Jonah escorted me into the dining room. The table must have seated twelve. It was large enough to have an ice skating party on. A huge Martha Stewart worthy turkey sat center stage surrounded by the lesser players of stuffing, potatoes, and green bean casserole.

David said grace and we sat.

“Brigid, do you like light or dark meat?” Maureen asked.

“I can’t eat turkey,” I said.

“Are you allergic?” David asked.

“In a way, I’m overly sensitive to tryptophan.”

“What does that mean?” Maureen asked.

“If I eat turkey, I’ll sleep for about two days.”

“You’d better be careful with this one, Jonah,” David said. “She sounds fragile.”

“She’s not the fragile one,” Jonah said shoving a heaping fork of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

I looked at him; his eyes were brimming with tears. Oh shit here it comes.

“What do you mean?” Maureen asked.

“I have AIDS,” Jonah said.

Maureen spit her Merlot all over her plate like a volcano of bad vintage. “Excuse me?”
David hung his head. Jonah sobbed.

“Did you know about this, Brigid?” Maureen asked.

I looked to Jonah for the answer. He nodded through anguished mutterings.

“Yes, I did.”

David slammed his fist into the table causing the flowers to jump and fall over. David pointed at me. “How long have you known?”

“About a week.”

David stood, snatched the toppled vase, and threw it against the wall shattering the vase and destroying a Kandinsky print. “You tell this fucking bitch and not us.”

“Don’t call her that!”

“Isn’t she the one who did this?”

“No!” Jonah screamed.

Maureen hooked her hand under my arm and dragged me into the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, her grip did not relinquish. She cornered me against the pantry door

“Is it true?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said to the sounds of more breaking glass.

Maureen let me go. “Is he going to be okay?”

“If David doesn’t kill him first.”

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