“Why is that bad news?” he’d wanted to know.
“Because I’m spending it with the Dombruso clan, and that means you are, too.”
As we pulled up in front of Mrs. Dombruso’s palatial Pacific Heights mansion on Thanksgiving day, Christopher was wide-eyed and clearly nervous. He was wearing his best outfit, a black button down shirt and black dress pants, and it made him look thinner and even more fragile than usual. I put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed him reassuringly as I said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m scared shitless.”
“I don’t belong here,” he said, his voice small. “I agreed to come because it totally sucks to be alone on Thanksgiving. But this is worse. I’m an outsider. They won’t want me here.”
Dante said, “I want you here, and Nana wants you here. We’re the only two who actually get a vote, by the way. But besides that, everyone’s going to love you. My family…well, a couple of them are assholes. But every family’s like that. The rest of them are good people, and they’ll welcome both of you with open arms. Just wait and see.”
“Charlie belongs here, I don’t,” Christopher insisted softly.
“You’re my family, Christopher Robin,” I told him. “So of course you belong here. Family belongs together on Thanksgiving.”
He took a deep breath and looked at me for a long moment. And then he said, “Well…shit. Ok.”
I beamed at him. “Let’s do this thing.”
Dante led the way into the grand Queen Anne Victorian. Inside was total and complete chaos. Kids ran around chasing each other and screaming. A Golden Retriever ran by with a mangled doll between its teeth. Two women were having an argument in the living room, and a group of men were talking and laughing loudly in the parlor to our right.
One of the men noticed us and exclaimed, “Hey, there they are!” He strode into the foyer and kissed Dante on both cheeks.
“This is my brother Mikey,” Dante said to us. “Mikey, this is my boyfriend Charlie and our friend Christopher.”
His brother rolled his eyes. “To the rest of the world I’m Mike. To my family, I’m forever Mikey.” He shook my hand and then Christopher’s as he said, “Pleasure to meet you both. Nana’s been asking for you, Charlie. She’s in the kitchen terrorizing the cooks, maybe you can go and placate her. Just watch out for flying chef’s knives.”
I hoped he was kidding. Dante put his arm around my waist and I took Christopher’s hand. We wound through the crowd, Dante calling greetings along the way and promising to come right back after we saw Mrs. Dombruso.
The huge kitchen was even more chaotic than the rest of the house. At least a dozen uniformed cooks and wait staff where bustling around, preparing what looked like enough food for the entire city of San Francisco. Not only was every traditional Thanksgiving food being prepared, but so were a bunch of Italian dishes and maybe two dozen desserts.
Mrs. Dombruso was rolling around in what looked like an electric office chair, barking orders and tasting dishes. Her white hair was piled in a giant up-do that would have done Marie Antoinette proud, and she was wearing a dark orange velvet gown and loads of jewelry, her glasses on her lap. When she caught sight of us she exclaimed, “Finally! Fashionably late doesn’t apply to family functions, boys.”
Dante kissed both her cheeks and said, “Sorry, Nana.” We were maybe five minutes past the designated start time, but everyone else had apparently known to get here early.
When he straightened up and stepped back, Mrs. Dombruso stared at Christopher and me and demanded, “Well?”
It took me a moment to realize what she wanted, and then I too stepped forward and kissed her, followed by Christopher. She smiled happily at that. “Such good boys. All three of you. You know how to treat your old Nana.” Then she said, “So, Charlie, I don’t know what traditions your family had as Irish Americans. I told the cooks to be prepared to make you anything you normally have for Thanksgiving once you arrived.”
“I don’t need anything special, Mrs. Dombruso. This all looks wonderful.” Thanksgiving had always meant my parents and me and Uncle Al and his family, gathered around a dry turkey and jellied cranberry sauce in the shape of a can. I felt a pang of sadness at the thought of my family, and wondered what my father was doing today. I hoped he’d gone to his brother Al’s house, and wasn’t spending the day alone.
She sighed and knit her brows. “I thought I told you to call me Nana.” She shot Christopher a look. “You too, kiddo. I don’t want any of that Mrs. Dombruso crap around here. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am,” we both said in unison.
“And as for you, Christopher Robin,” she’d latched on to his full name when I’d called him that in front of her once, and now went out of her way to use it, “I don’t know what your heritage is, what traditions you’re used to.”