Five
Having Thanksgiving at a rich white family’s house is so interesting.
You see, I’m used to paper plates you have to double-stack because your cousin didn’t want to spend the extra money on the good Chinet ones so she got those cheap shits from the 99 cents store; the ones that you have to hold a certain way or the juice from the collard greens will also seep into the cornbread.
I’m used to my plate to look like I hadn’t eaten all damn year because it was piled on with candied yams, baked macaroni and cheese, black eyed peas, a little jambalaya, and oxtails in addition to the turkey and ham I put on there.
I’m used to sitting around living rooms, family rooms, and sometimes even outside in the backyard that were converted into makeshift dining areas with the folding chairs and plastic table coverings.
I’m used to getting our sodas and ice from the same coolers, not worrying about germs or cooties because we’re all kinfolk and that’s how we do.
I’m used to grabbing a slice of sweet potato pie and saving it for later right next to my plate because I know if I were go back for it later, it would be gone and I was going to be hella pissed at myself for not being quick enough and my family for being so damn greedy.
I’m used to kiki-ing with my cousins about the latest happenings on various black gossip blogs, discussing social matters, and hearing my uncles talk about whatever is going as they play a game of bones in the garage.
I’m used to getting my fill of Thanksgiving and then walking down the street on Crenshaw with my cousins as we watch a mild-mannered gentleman politely turn up his car volume as he blasts “Fuck Tha Police” right next to a squad car.
That’s what I’m used to.
Now these fancy white people in their fancy Caucasian home are serving Thanksgiving (okay, do Brits even celebrate this holiday?) on the good plates with the good glasses, they’re discussing the latest gossip from People magazine and I’m sitting here wondering what in the hell just happened?
Everyone has taken their places and a small part of me is looking around to see where are the coolers full of soda that represents every color in the rainbow (let’s not act like you never had grape soda at Thanksgiving now), some Ohio Players in the background in one room, while the other room has either a basketball or football game on.
Instead, I see extra polite manners, people dressed in what I would consider their Sunday best, and is that Beethoven I hear?
Oh Domi…we’re not in Baldwin Hills anymore. We’re beyond the Sunken Place.
We’re knee-deep in a Pumpkin Spice Latte convention.
“Isn’t this so lovely?” Adrienne pulls up a chair beside me and smiles. Amazing how my sister has just about completed the transformation into Stepford Wife without missing a beat. “Oh, just look at this china!” She gently picks up the plate and examines it. “I wonder if it’s bone or porcelain? Hmmm…I think it’s bone.”
“And what the hell?” I mutter under my breath as I turn towards her.
“What?” Adrienne slightly shrugs. “You don’t think it’s bone?”
“What are you doing?” I ask her. “A bitch gets a little money and she suddenly forgets she’s black?”
“No, this bitch gets a little money and realizes she doesn’t want to scare these white ladies at the table who can’t tell the difference between Beyoncé and Rihanna because they think all black people look alike and they don’t understand what Black Lives Matter mean because they feel All Lives Matter but they are the most comfortable with an incompetent white man being the president of the United States even if he votes against their interests while they gladly and unashamedly cultural appropriate by saying yassss and Bye, Felicia! even though they probably couldn’t tell you why Craig got fired on his day off.” Adrienne blinks and smiles at me.
I take her lead and examine the plate. “Yeah, you’re right I do think it’s bone.”
“Yeah, I think so as well.” Adrienne nods.
I look around and I don’t see the Ferguson men anymore. They probably escaped in Ian’s Jaguar and left me and Adrienne to fend for ourselves. “Where are the men?”
“Oh, they’re going to bring the dishes out,” Emma chimes in with a slight wobble. She’s not drunk yet but she’s almost there. I have a feeling she can’t stand the atmosphere, neither. “Usually all of the women do it but it’s a big deal since this is Ian’s first Thanksgiving with the family in several years.”
A pang of guilt washes over me. I know how close Ian is with his family, yet he preferred to spend Thanksgiving with mine, despite all of the dysfunction. He’s always made it a point to spend the Christmas holiday with the Fergusons, no matter what.
“Well, maybe now he’s here the food might be better,” their cousin, Oscar Ferguson, replied, as he sipped his cognac. He was a bit older with dark hair and green eyes, and rather tall. He had a pretentious air about him, though I feel that’s more of how he appears to be than what he actually is. Fake Spice. “Because last year’s Thanksgiving was a bit of a disaster.”
Last year at Thanksgiving, I introduced Ian to the Soul Train line. We went down the line to “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough.” I have a feeling that’s not going to happen tonight. “What happened last year?”
“Oh, dinner started at nine, because somebody didn’t know what the hell she was doing in the kitchen.” Emma casually rolled her head (or did it roll on its own due to the liquor?) towards the stepmother, Elise, who sat near the head of the table.
She was a peroxide-blonde perfection with the best plastic surgery Anthony’s money could buy. I’m almost positive if she were on a sinking ship and there were no life vests left, she would be okay because those two big-ass flotation devices she calls tits will keep her afloat.
I carefully studied Elise’s face and could count the number of plastic surgeries she’s had, beginning with her too-inflated lips. All that money spent on looking like a black woman and still can’t get anywhere close to God’s creation. Beautiful.
What’s even more disturbing is Elise is only a few months older than me. “Oh?”
“Dry-ass turkey with dry-ass stuffing to the dry-ass pumpkin pie…how in the hayle do you make dry-ass pumpkin pie?” Emma’s face scrunched up. “Yo, Domi…you know that song by Destiny’s Child? Bills, Bills, Bills? The shit last year was dry, dry, dry.” She channels her inner-Beyoncé. “I can’t believe it’s dry, ohmygod it’s so dry, why is this so fucking dry?”
“She’s triflin’, good-for-nothing type of mother,” the gay male cousin, Dalton, chimed in. He was Oscar’s rather flamboyant son. He had trimmed brown hair and light green eyes, and an air that whispered whatever act of pretentious his father had, Dalton truly lived it. He was Posh Spice. “Silly Tony, why hadn’t he found another?”
“Someone his own age, why can’t he get a woman his age? Why must she act like she barely passed the third grade?” Emma continued.
I covered my mouth to keep the laughter in. The extended Ferguson clan is a riot. “Oh dear,” was the only nice comment I could make.
“Em,” Dalton blinked at her, “I hear Step Mommy Dearest is trying to get pregnant.”
Emma whipped her head towards Elise and back at Dalton. “If that shit happens, I’m telling Gerald we’re redoing the prenup STAT!”
“Little does Step Mommy Dearest know, Anthony had that taken care of years ago,” another cousin, Hannah, chimes in. She’s a natural blonde with stunning blue eyes and a quiet demeanor. She’s the type of girl who probably has a bag full of weed, listens to nothing but trap music, and could tell you why Missy Elliott is the greatest rapper alive. She strangely smells like a combination of incense, weed, and Chanel. She’s Hipster Spice. “I overheard him talking to my mom about it.”
“Assuming Elise doesn’t know,” Dalton twirled a cocktail straw in his mouth, “she is the true boo-boo the fool.”
Suddenly the men came out carrying dishes upon dishes of delicious food. Not only did the turkey look like golden perfection, but the other dishes – cream cheese mashed potatoes, stuffing made with beef broth, and candied yams – were made to perfection.
My heart did small pitter-patters when I saw some Domi favorites such as collard greens, jambalaya, baked macaroni and cheese, and gasp! Are those oxtails I see?
Be still my heart! Ian definitely is getting a blow job tonight.
“All of this looks so amazing and interesting,” a cousin, Bianca, commented. She had an average build and average face, but there was nothing average about her. I later found out Bianca is a private sponsor of a BLM-type of group called Sisters United, led by Briana Gooding. She’s Woke Spice. “I can definitely tell this is Ian’s doing.”
“Don’t be a racist dick, BeeBee.” Dalton tsked.
“Fuck you, homo,” Bianca shot back and I gasped before they both turned to me. “We joke like that. He knows I’m far from racist and homophobic. We play with each other like that.”
“My sense of humor is twisted, Domi,” Dalton nodded, “I love everyone but I’ll make fun of a bitch, too. Any of them. All of them.”
I think that’s a slick reminder to always stay on Dalton’s good side. “Good to know.”
“Dalton’s bite is friendlier than his bark,” Ian chimes in as he sets down the side dishes, “The only bitches he’s making fun of are the queens he follows on IG.”
“They are horrendous!” Dalton shakes his head. “Pitiful, the lot of them. Who in the hell says green eye shadow is fierce? Who does that?”
“I thought red was in this year?” Emma folded a napkin in her lap. “What’s the color of the year now?”
“Hell, if I care,” Dalton feigned yawning, “I just like to go on IG and be messy.”
“What a surprise,” Gerald puts a couple of dishes down, “a rich gay male with nothing else better to do than to start drama. Someone alert Perez Hilton.”
Anthony finally comes through the kitchen carrying one of the biggest turkeys I’ve seen my entire life and sets it on a chopping block nearby. “Shall we begin?” He booms.
Ian and Gerald take their places next to Anthony, who proudly holds the carving knife. Other family member quickly snap photos as it’s the perfect photo op. Someone’s Instagram is about to be lit. “Thank you all for coming today. It’s been a while since all of us have gathered here for Thanksgiving. I want to thank my son, Gerald, for arranging everyone to visit. I also want to thank my other son, Ian, for preparing what looks like a wonderful meal for all of us to enjoy.”
“I can’t wait to try all of this delicious food!” Elise beams. “I never had ethnic food so I’m totes excited!”
“Bitch, what?” Adrienne murmurs under her breath before I kicked her chair and reminded her she briefly dropped her Caucasian voice. “Oh yes, it all looks great.” She eyeballs me and I gave a polite shrug.
“I’m totes excited as well,” I reply.
After the Ferguson men carve the turkey, everyone begins to pass the sides like an automated assembly line. I hear the curious gasps and quiet wonders about some of the more…ahem…ethnic dishes that Ian made. I don’t have to wonder if anyone other than me and Adrienne (and Blake as an extension) have ever had soul food. Their faces say it all.
“Ah, yes!” An uncle, Steven, beams. He’s tall and blond, with an unmistakable asshole charm that tells me he just might be racist but because he has a black wife, he won’t be considered as one. Nazi Spice. “Fish pie!”
“Fish pie?” I question. “What’s that?”
“Fish pie is what lesbians like to eat,” Dalton begins before Emma elbows him, “I mean, it’s an English dish.”
“You’ve never had it, Dominique?” Steven asks.
“Well, Ian hasn’t made it yet so no,” I reply, “I’m curious about it.”
“Oh, you should try it. I think you’ll love it,” Steven pauses, “I’m sure it’ll spice up your palate in addition to the other colorful recipes you’re used to.”
Colorful recipes? He just needs to come out and just say black. It’s on the tip of his tongue. “Okay.”
“Domi has had a wide range of food,” Ian finally sits beside me and begins to fix his plate, “I’ve introduced to her a lot of different cuisine from all over. It’s just not the sadness and couscous in addition to the white bread and dry-ass grits you’re used to.”
I fold my lips as Emma and Dalton break out into laughter. Even Gerald had to look away and smile. There’s no shade like English shade.
Elise takes a bite of the jambalaya and sighs in contentment. “Oh Em Gee. This is like, so good! This is so good, Ian! What is this called? Jum-lie-uh?”
“Did she just Miley Cyrus the word jambalaya?” Adrienne whispers and I hold my tongue.
“It’s jambalaya,” Ian slowly speaks, pronouncing every syllable carefully. Something tells me this isn’t the first time he’s had to do this with Elise. “It’s a Southern dish from Louisiana.”
“Hey Elise,” Dalton leans over, “can you say va-sect-to…” Emma elbows him before he could finish. “Bitch, don’t ruin the cashmere.” He rubs his stomach.
“This is really good, Ian. Fantastic as always!” Anthony beams. “Are you going to be putting these dishes in any of your restaurants?”
“I hope to debut it at Sentiment,” Ian answers. His tone is different when he addresses his father. There’s a strong sense of pride, love, and respect between the men and the feeling is very mutual. “I wanted to test it here first before I do.”
The news is a surprise to me. Ian often changes the menus at his restaurants so he’s not serving the same thing all of the time. I’m not too sure how I feel about Ian wanting to incorporate soul food at a high-flauting restaurant where the guest list generally lacks melanin.
I don’t want to outright say my fiancée is cultural appropriating but I can’t help but to wonder would he still be trying to introduce soul food if we hadn’t met?
Before I could pursue any more thought, the doorbell rings, and Anthony leaps out of his chair to answer it. He came back a short time later with a stunning, older blonde woman. She wore a classic lavender cashmere sweater with daring white slacks and kitten heels.
Her platinum blonde hair was coiffed into a perfect bob cut. Her jewelry was understated but expensive. She emanated royalty and grace, and I felt the need to bow all of a sudden.
It seemed just about everyone knew who she was, especially Ian and Gerald. “Oh really?” Gerald looked over and met eyes with Ian.
Ian paused mid-drink and looked over to their father and his new friend. I could tell Ian was trying to hold his smile back but it still escaped his lips. “Well, this should get interesting.”
“Shit, why didn’t she come last year with the dry-ass food?” Emma sipped her cocktail. “I would’ve enjoyed it more.”
“Who is she?” I quietly ask.
“She is Cheryl Geoff,” Oscar chimes in, “she’s Anthony’s longtime girlfriend.”
Adrienne choked on her water as my mouth hung open. “Wait wait wait wait wait wait wait…” I close my eyes.
“Have you ever heard of the love triangle between Prince Charles, Princess Diana and I guess, Princess Camilla?” Bianca asks me.
“Camilla ain’t no goddamn princess,” Dalton mutters before he takes a drink.
“Anyway,” Bianca rolls her eyes and continues, “Prince Charles was married to Princess Diana, but he married her out of obligation and not love. The entire time he was married, he was having an affair with Camilla, the woman he wanted to be with. After he and Diana divorced, he just went public with her and got married a few years later after Diana’s death.”
“Okay,” I’m trying to connect the dots, “so how does this apply to what just happened here?”
“Cheryl is Camilla,” Hannah looks over to Anthony and Cheryl as they giggle like naughty school kids, “and Elise is…”
“Bitch, you better not even say that on the princess’s grave,” Dalton shook his head, “no Princess Diana slander in this house.”
“So, that’s what’s going on here,” I’m stunned and I’m trying hard not to stare at Anthony and Cheryl but they’re so obvious with each other and Elise…Elise is either blissfully unaware or she just didn’t care as long as she could go shopping. “So, will Anthony and Cheryl ever get married?”
“Oh, that’s in the works,” Emma replies, “believe that.”
I look over to Ian and he just blinks at me. “And now you know why I’ve been going to your family for Thanksgiving all these years.”
“I hope this is it because Dad’s weddings are fucking expensive,” Gerald snares.
“He’s had three additional weddings?” I ask. I’m well-aware Elise is wife number four.
“And each time they become grander than the last one,” Bianca chimes in. “Elise’s was cute. Nothing but pink everywhere.”
“A Pepto Bismol disaster,” Oscar replied.
“Elise has lasted a lot longer than I thought she would,” Dalton dryly says, “a blistering three years. Good for her. Good for her.” He says it like he was giving a puppy a treat.
“They started dating when she was 20?” I have yet taken a bite of food.
“Whirlwind. She came in applying for an internship and they just, well…” Hannah trails off.
“No, you can be honest, H.,” Ian replies, “she wanted me, I paid her dust, so she started fucking my father as a come up to get closer to me and I’m still paying her dust.”
Now it’s time for Blake to choke on his food while Adrienne slaps the table and scoots her chair back. “I am drowning in a water tanker full of Earl Grey.”
“Meanwhile Anthony married her so he could keep an eye on her so she didn’t get too close to Ian,” Oscar replies, “that’s why he was always sent away on holiday.”
“She stopped trying when you came into the picture, Dominique,” Bianca adds, “I think she was intimidated by you. They recently installed a pole in their bedroom.”
I just dropped my fork while Ian and Gerald chew their food like I just didn’t hear biggest mind-blowing thing ever.
“So when this happens,” I nod over to the obvious to everyone but one person love triangle, “then what?”
“Cheryl moves in, Elise moves out, she’ll get a nice check for her time, and she’ll keep all of the gifts and jewelry Anthony has purchased for her.” Bianca adds. “Same story as with the others.”
Anthony has a definite pattern. “What happened to the others?” I cautiously ask.
“Who cares?” Gerald comments.
“Last I heard esposa tres was trying to get another sponsor,” Dalton chimes in, “she’s getting up there in age so I don’t know what man wants a plaything in her 40’s when he get younger and more fertile.”
“I think dos is a feminist activist,” Hannah replies, “she went completely opposite of what she did.”
“Well, when you’re broke-ass and your sponsor cuts you off, what else are you going to do?” Dalton rolls his eyes.
I didn’t bother to ask if either woman was well-compensated after the divorces. It seems they got everything they wanted in terms of jewelry and gifts but the biggest thing – real estate – was something they didn’t get.
Diversify your assets, Domi.
I have a designer wardrobe that would make anyone jealous and all of the jewelry that’s worth a pretty penny. It’s time for me to look above and beyond the Bentley and Manolos; I need to think bigger.
I needed to have my own place.
Ian took a bite of his oxtails and smiled at me. “Are you scared yet?”
I am; in more ways than one. “Not yet.”