By Francesc Borrull · November 28, 2024

To AC, with gratitude.

The gray Toyota Camry rumbled along the desolate two-lane road, flanked by endless rows of bare corn stalks, their skeletons rattling in the cold November wind. Inside the car, the tension was as thick as the overcast sky. Martin gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles tight on the leather, while the hum of tires on asphalt offered the only sound beyond the muted static of an old FM station. Beside him, Clara stared out the window, her phone resting idly in her lap.

“How much longer?” Martin’s voice cut through the quiet, low and clipped. His stomach rumbled, a sharp reminder of their rushed departure.

Clara glanced at the GPS on her phone. “About twenty more minutes,” she said flatly.

Martin exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. “Wonderful. Three hours on the road, and we’re not even there yet.”

Clara shifted in her seat, turning toward him with a look that was equal parts tired and annoyed. “It’s not like I forced you to skip breakfast, Martin.”

“Skip what breakfast, Clara? There wasn’t anything to eat. The fridge was practically empty.”

“You could’ve grabbed something when we stopped for gas.” Her tone sharpened, a defensive edge creeping in.

“Stopped where? At that dingy little place with prepackaged muffins and coffee that tastes like battery acid?” Martin’s knuckles whitened further as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Clara snapped, “it’s always something with you. Can we just not fight for one trip?”

Martin fell silent, staring ahead at the monotonous gray horizon. The car’s heater hummed as a faint mist gathered on the windshield, smearing the view of endless farmland.

“Why don’t we ever get invited to Thanksgiving somewhere fun?” he muttered under his breath.

Clara’s gaze shifted back out the window. “It’s family, Martin. It’s what you do.”

He didn’t respond, but his lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

The fields gave way to a few sparse houses, scattered like afterthoughts across the landscape, before they finally reached the gravel driveway. Nancy’s home came into view—a small, single-story clapboard house, weathered and gray, crouching in the middle of the flat, empty fields. A battered wind chime dangled from the porch, clinking faintly in the wind.

Martin cut the engine and stared ahead for a moment, the weight of the day settling heavily in his shoulders. “Here we go,” he said under his breath, pushing open the door.

Clara stepped out and pulled her jacket tighter against the biting wind. “Don’t start,” she said as she moved toward the front steps. Martin followed, his boots crunching against the gravel.

Nancy greeted them at the door, her expression brightening as she hugged Clara. She wore a thick cardigan and sensible loafers, her hair pinned neatly in place. “You made it,” she said warmly, stepping aside to let them in.

Inside, the house was as Martin remembered—dim and slightly musty, with furniture that had seen better decades. A ceramic turkey sat atop the mantel in a weak nod to the holiday, its glossy surface reflecting the dull light from the single lamp in the corner.

“So, what time’s dinner?” Martin asked, forcing a smile as he shrugged off his coat. His stomach growled again, loud enough to make Clara give him a sharp look.

Nancy hesitated, smoothing her cardigan as she avoided his gaze. “Well,” she began, “I didn’t exactly cook anything…”

The words landed heavily in the room. Martin blinked, his forced smile fading. “What do you mean, you didn’t cook anything?”

“I thought we’d just go out somewhere,” Nancy said, her tone matter-of-fact. She busied herself adjusting a throw pillow on the sagging couch, as if that might deflect the weight of the conversation.

Clara stared at her mother, her face a mixture of surprise and frustration. “Go out? Mom, it’s Thanksgiving. Did you even try to make a reservation anywhere?”

Nancy straightened, her expression suddenly defensive. “I thought it’d be easier this way. Less work for everyone. And besides, it’s just us—why make a big fuss?”

Martin let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head as he leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Nancy said sharply. “I thought you’d appreciate not having to cook or clean.”

Clara stepped between them, her voice strained but measured. “Okay, let’s not turn this into a thing. Let’s just figure out where we can go. It’s fine.”

Martin said nothing, but the muscle in his jaw twitched as he crossed his arms. Thanksgiving, he thought bitterly, and not even a decent meal to show for it.

---

They drove into town, a small grid of streets dominated by a water tower and a handful of aging storefronts. Most places were dark, their “Closed” signs swinging gently in the breeze. Martin’s stomach churned with hunger and anger as they passed shuttered diners, their parking lots empty.

“There’s got to be something,” Clara murmured, scanning the streets.

Nancy leaned forward from the back seat. “What about The Castle? That’s always busy this time of year.”

“The Castle?” Martin frowned. “What’s that?”

Nancy smiled faintly. “It’s… a local institution. They do banquets and weddings. Looks like a castle, but it’s more of a hotel. They’ll have food.”

Martin glanced at Clara, who gave a noncommittal shrug. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s try it.”

---

The Castle loomed ahead, a grotesque imitation of medieval architecture. Its gray stone facade was dotted with fake turrets, and its neon “Open” sign flickered unevenly. The parking lot was packed with cars, their bumpers coated in dust from the gravel drive.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of gravy and perfume. Families milled about, their laughter and chatter clashing with the shrill notes of a saxophone playing over the speakers. Martin’s stomach twisted as they approached the hostess stand, where a young woman with a tight bun and an even tighter smile greeted them.

“Do you have a reservation?” she asked, her pen poised over a clipboard.

“No, but—” Martin began.

“We’re fully booked,” she said briskly, her smile faltering just enough to betray her disdain. Her eyes swept over their windblown appearances, lingering on Martin’s scuffed shoes.

“Right,” Martin said, his voice cold. “Of course.”

They turned and walked out, the hostess’s polite but pointed stare burning into Martin’s back.

---

Back in the car, the silence was deafening. Even Nancy had nothing to say as they drove aimlessly, their frustration palpable. Martin gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles ached.

“Steak ’n Shake,” Clara said suddenly, pointing to a glowing sign in the distance.

Martin’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, meeting Nancy’s reluctant nod. “Fine,” he muttered, pulling into the nearly empty lot.

The diner was brightly lit but eerily quiet, its vinyl booths cracked and its linoleum floor scuffed. A lone teenager manned the counter, his paper hat askew as he shuffled toward them with a menu.

“What can I get you?” he asked, his voice flat.

“Three burgers, fries, and shakes,” Martin said without consulting the others. His voice was curt, and Clara glared at him but said nothing.

As they waited, Martin stared at the tabletop, its surface scratched and sticky. He could feel Clara’s eyes on him, her unspoken anger radiating across the small space between them. Nancy tapped her nails against her glass of water, her lips pursed in disapproval.

When the food arrived, they ate in silence. The burgers were greasy, the fries limp, but Martin devoured his meal with a single-minded intensity.

“This is… festive,” Nancy said dryly, sipping her strawberry shake. Clara shot her a look, and Nancy shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

Martin set his burger down, his appetite suddenly gone. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back, staring at the flickering fluorescent light above their booth. “You know,” he said quietly, “I just wanted one thing today. One thing.”

Clara sighed, pushing her plate away. “I told you, I didn’t have time to plan anything. It’s not my fault.”

“No,” Martin said, his voice bitter. “Of course not.”

Nancy dabbed at her lips delicately. “If you’re going to sulk all day, Martin, maybe you should’ve stayed home.”

Martin’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood abruptly, tossing a few crumpled bills onto the table. “I’ll be in the car.”

As he walked out into the cold night, the door jingling behind him, Clara stared after him, her expression a mix of guilt and exasperation. Nancy sighed, shaking her head. “He’s always so dramatic.”

Clara didn’t reply. She looked down at her half-eaten burger, her appetite gone, and thought about how much easier it would be if they never had to make this trip again.

© Francesc Borrull, 2024