The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted by Elizabeth Berg

been bothering you? You think no one needs you?”
    She drops her hand and stares accusingly at him. “No.”
    It sounds like a question, the way she says it.
    “So . . .” He is floundering. He loves her.
    “It’s . . .” Her mouth goes dry. “You know, Earl, it’s like you live your life opening doors. One after the other. You open a door onto a hallway, which leads to another door, which leads to another hallway. But then one day you open a door and it’s to a closet. It doesn’t go anywhere. And it’s dark in there.”
     
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    “Boo,” Earl says.
    “. . . What?”
    “I say, ‘Boo!’ I’m right in that closet with you.”
    “No you’re not, Earl. In that closet, everyone is alone.”
    Her eyes fill with tears.
    “Oh, sweetheart.” Earl bends to kiss her forehead, careful not to spill the gravy. “You’re just a human being. Now, taste. Tell me if it needs more salt.”
    She tastes the gravy and nods. “Good. It’s really good, Earl. Just right.”
    He turns off the flame with a flourish. “Okay, then.
    Let’s eat!”
    She starts to stand but then sinks back into the chair.
    Earl comes over and takes her face in his hands. They smell good, his hands. Like turkey and gravy and bread.
    And Lifebuoy. “Helen,” he says. “What do you want? Do you want me to send them all home?”
    She sniffs. “Yes.”
    A moment and then, “Really?” Earl asks.
    “Yes. Well, not you. I’ll do it. I’ll tell them I don’t feel well. I don’t feel well, Earl.”
    He straightens his too-tight top, removes the dish towel from around his waist. “All right. If that’s what you want.
    I’ll go with you.”
    “Let me say it, though.” She reaches for his hand, and together they go into the dining room.
    Helen clears her throat and taps a fork against the side of a water glass. “May I have your attention?”
    They all turn to face her. She hesitates, then says, “You know, Earl worked very hard on this lovely dinner. He won’t talk about how hard he worked. But he did. All his life. I wonder if any of you know how—”
    “ Hel en,” Earl says.
     
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    “No!” she says. “I think they should know!” She looks around the table. All of them silent and staring.
    “Okay, then,” she says. “So, thank you, Earl, and let’s eat.”
    “Mom?” Clayton says. “Before we do? In our family, we used to do the alphabet of thanks as a way of saying grace.
    You go really fast, just say anything when it comes to your turn.”
    “I don’t want to,” Helen says, and Clayton says, “Well, see? That’s okay. That’s the thing. You can say ‘pass,’ if you can’t think of something.”
    “I don’t want to say ‘pass.’ I don’t want to say anything.”
    “And that’s okay, too,” Clayton says. “So! I am grateful for apples in the fall.” He looks at his son. “Rolfie? Can you say something you’re grateful for that starts with a ‘B’?
    Buh-buh-buh . . . What starts with a ‘B’ that you’re grateful for, sweetheart?”
    Rolf stares at him.
    “ ‘I am grateful for . . . buh . . . buh . . . ’ ” Clayton says, and Helen wonders if she can possibly keep herself from leaping over the table to pummel him.
    “Butterflies?” whispers Rolf.
    “Good!” says Clayton. “Good job!” He looks expec-tantly at Melissa, seated next to him.
    “I’m grateful for climbing stock prices,” Melissa says, and everyone but Helen laughs. Melissa looks over at Enya and says, “What are you happy about that starts with a ‘D’?
    Duh . . . Duh . . . ”
    I am going to scream, Helen thinks, but then Enya says,
    “Dogs!” with such innocent triumph and joy that Helen can only stare into her lap, ashamed, and wait for it to be over. On and on it goes. And each time it is her turn she is silent. Until they get to “S.” Then she starts thinking, Well, 50
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