Marshall and Jacob faced off like two prize fighters in the ring. Marshall stood in the kitchen corner wearing an apron and holding a sauce spoon for stirring the soup. Jacob stood across the apartment at the dining room table, setting china and silverware on the placemats and cloth napkins.
The Wedgewood made for a festive appearance on Thanksgiving Day, Jacob thought. Granny and Grandfather Whitley had set their table in just the same way every year when they’d made the long trek from Main Line Philadelphia to Shaker Heights in Cleveland.
He’s going to ruin my recipe, Marshall thought. Every time he tried to get something right with the food, Jacob would interject something about flowers and china. Well, phooey on him – let him worry about that stuff. He cared about all that stupid china and silver he’d inherited from those damned dead relatives. He cared more about those dead people than he did about him.
Jacob felt a dull pressure build from behind his eyes. He began to snap the forks and knives down on the table. Marshall could be so insensitive. He had no understanding of what real family traditions meant, or at least what they meant to Jacob – but of course, he’d grown up in a family that’d gone all sorts of separate ways. Why, none of them even had the same last name anymore. And Marshall had changed his.
Marshall began to stir the pot a little too quickly, banging the spoon against the sides. Screw Jacob, he didn’t even care if the guests noticed the strain between them. What did Jacob know of real life? He’d grown up with every privilege in the world that Marshall had never had. Marshall looked over at Jacob, busy with the forks and knives. He spit into the sauce pan. That’d teach him.
Jacob looked over at Marshall, busy with his sauce. He spit into Marshall’s water glass.
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