Thanksgiving at Weezer's, Pt1

My aunt Louise, or Weezer as we call her, loves my dad I

suppose. So much so she managed tag along on my parents’

honeymoon. I don't think my mother has ever forgiven Weezer

for that. Weezer was 55 when she first married. I had met her

husband Bill on two prior occasions. He always came off as uncomfortable around kids

and a bit of a bully.

Now, as he opened his door to my mother, father and me, the sight of his pasty white face, roundish body and thin, oily, combed-over hair brought back my dislike for him. We stood in the foyer, suitcases in hand, exchanging uncomfortable greetings when we began to hear a strange muffled organ tune emitting from somewhere deep in the house. I gave my dad a puzzled look, which he returned.

“Is the phantom living beneath your home?” My father asked, smiling.

Bill rolled his eyes. “I guess you’d better go down to the basement and see her new organ.” He led us down the stairs where Weezer labored away at her big Wurlitzer. Two keyboard decks and lots of multi-colored switches seemed like too much instrument for her meager ability. The tune she was butchering was a morphine-slow version of Oklahoma presumable played as a welcome march and a reference to our recent move from the great plains to the east coast. I had to look over her shoulder at the sheet music to be sure of the song.

Weezer finished with a flourish and whirled around on her stool and threw hew arms in the air as if to say “Ta da!” We were slow on the uptake and missed a beat before clapping and complimenting her on her fine rendition.

As Weezer stood to greet us, Bill walked briskly to the back of the room and lifted the lid on the stereo console, which doubled as a bar. In seconds, a big-band record hit the turntable with a splat, followed by the scritch of the needle. Having pre-empted any further organ music, Bill moved on to the drink situation. He poured himself a scotch and one for my father. “Jeanne? What would you like?” he asked my mother.

Before she could answer, Weezer stepped in. “Oh, we don’t have time for drinks, we have things to do in the kitchen. Come on, Jeanne!” My mother slumped a little and headed up the stairs behind Weezer. She cast a longing look back at the bar as she went.

I plopped down in an modern avocado side chair a few feet in front of the stereo/bar and propped my feet on the ottoman. Bill turned to me and bent at the waist, literally looking down on me. “What’ll you have, young man? A Shirley Temple?” At sixteen, I was a bit old for a Shirley Temple, but still quite sensitive about my youth. He was baiting me, hoping to get a rise.

“Dad lets me drink beer, actually. I’ll have whatever you’ve got.” I took a risk. Dad let me share a beer sometimes, but I was hardly on help-myself privileges. But, my father didn’t like Bill much more than I did, so I hoped he would help me to stick that Shirley Temple remark up Bill’s ass. Bill looked at my father with raised eyebrows. Dad looked at me. I saw a little twinkle in his eye.

“Sure, give him a beer, Bill,” Dad said.

Bill pulled a Schmidt’s out of a small refrigerator and handed it to me. I saw beer glasses on the bar, but he didn’t offer. Bill gathered his drink and he and dad sat on the orange crushed-velvet sofa opposite from me. No one spoke for a moment.

“This some good, toe-tapping stuff, huh Paul?” Bill asked, as King Porter Stomp began to play. There was a hint of bluff in his voice.

“Yeah, it’s great,” I said. “I love Benny Goodman.”

“You actually like this?” He seemed disappointed. “How did you know it was Benny Goodman?”

“By the clarinet. No one sounds like him.”

Bill looked at me, dubiously. I sipped my beer and smiled to myself.

The doorbell rang, and I could hear Weezer’s sturdy shoes clomping along the hardwood foyer and greetings being exchanged.

“Oh, yeah. Louise invited a few guests,” Bill said.

“Guests?” Dad asked, approximating the tone in Bill’s voice.

“Yeah. Guests. Strays. People who don’t have anywhere else to go for Thanksgiving.”

“Well that’s nice of her,” I said.

“Nice of her, but it’s my food, isn’t it?” Bill shot me a look.

With that, my father and I went upstairs to see who had arrived. Weezer introduced us to Helen and Harriet, identical twin sisters. Despite being in their sixties, they were dressed in matching outfits - yellow turtleneck sweaters and calf-length red and orange fringed tartan skirts. They both wore short haircuts parted on the side and red plastic-framed glasses.

Weezer introduced us and I stuck my hand out to shake theirs.

“Ooh, isn’t he so polite?” one sister cooed to the other.

“And so cute! Don’t you love his hair?” answered the other.

“I’ll bet he’s smart, too,” Harriet, or perhaps Helen said. “Do you think he’s clever enough to get us a couple of glasses of white wine?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” answered Helen, or perhaps Harriet.

They both looked at me, expectantly.

“Um…no problem. I’ll bring it right out.” As I headed for the kitchen, I made a mental note to avoid the twins as much as possible. Mom was only too happy to pull the cork on one of the bottles of Blue Nun chilling for the meal. She poured two glasses for the twins and one for herself.

“Careful, Jeanne, we have a long night ahead of us!” Weezer said cheerfully as she took a tray of hors d’oeuvres out to the living room.

A rueful look from my mother followed her out the door. “I swear I’m going to kill her before the day is over.”

As I took the wine out to the twins, the doorbell rang again. Weezer opened the door to a shortish, plump woman her late sixties. Weezer introduced her as Catherine. She had a dyed blonde wash-n-set and a blue flowered knee-length dress. The pudginess of her face pushed in the outside edges of her lips, forcing them outward in a permanent fish-kiss pucker. She resembled Marion Lorne, the actress who played Aunt Clara on Bewitched, and her apparent befuddlement added to the similarity.

Bill asked if she would like a glass of wine, but she requested scotch instead. Catherine sat on the couch next to the twins. The three of them sat and looked at me sitting across from them in a stuffed lounge chair.

“That’s Paul, Louise’s nephew. Isn’t he adorable?” One of the twins asked. I lost all concept of which sister was which.

“Why, yes. I suppose so. What’s his name?” Catherine asked.

“Paul. That’s Louise’s nephew,” the other twin said.

“Oh…Is he related to you?” Catherine asked.

“No, he’s Louise’s nephew.” The other twin answered with no hint of irritation in her voice. The sisters seemed like they would be perfectly happy to continue this conversation until they all dropped from exhaustion. I picked up a magazine and pretended to read while really using it to block the line of sight between the three women and me. It wasn’t long before I was spotted behind my home-made camouflage and made to respond.

“Paul…Paul…PAUL!” First one twin called me before the other joined her in unison. The room went silent at the sound of the sisters saying my name in harmony. I had to put the magazine down and acknowledge them.

“Paul, would you be a dear and get us another glass of wine?” one of the twins asked.

“A glass of wine sounds wonderful!” Catherine said. “Peter, would you get me one, too?”

She was looking directly at me, so I assumed that I was Peter. Bill and I both glanced down at

the scotch and soda that he had so recently brought for Catherine and noticed that is was

already empty.

I came back with three glasses of wine and kept on heading out to the door. I announced that I was going to take a walk and took my jacket off the coat rack. I closed the door behind me, relieved of the pressure of adult scrutiny.

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