Green Beans and Turkey

It was Tuesday night, my favourite night out of all of them. We had green beans and turkey for dinner every Tuesday, which was my favourite. Gran always made it just right: the turkey not too dry, the green beans steamed for just the right amount of time. She always cut the turkey for me first, and sometimes I would remind her that I could do it myself, but she would just sigh a little and keep on cutting.

That night the turkey was especially good. Gran had spent a long time on it, making everything just right; cooking had become a sort of hobby of hers recently. I hadn’t noticed till a couple of nights before, when she started making several courses for each meal. Tuesday was always the same though, since as long as I could remember: turkey and green beans, just how I liked them.

I stabbed a piece of my precut meat and swirled it around a little in its own juices before popping it in my mouth. It was especially good that night, all soft and juicy, and so I took the time to tell her so, because I knew she always liked to hear that, even if she didn’t always acknowledge it.

“’S good,” I said through a mouthful of poultry.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” she warned, pointing her fork at me.

I nodded, and when she looked down at her dinner, I sent a quick smirk across the table. My father smiled back at me.

“It’s good, Gran,” I said slowly, my mouth now empty after a swallow. “Better than usual.”

Gran nodded and even smiled a little. “Thank you dear,” she said, her voice a little warmer. “I made it special tonight. With a new sort of sauce I got out of a book.”

“The one you got from the...um...the...,” I paused, my tongue stuck on my words. I used to have to speak slowly and deliberately, or else sometimes I would stumble over what I was saying. “I mean, the book, the one you...you got at the, um...” I stopped again, my lips trying silently to form the words I wanted to say. I could feel my face reddening. Gran could be impatient sometimes, and I hated it when she got angry with me.

“From the library, Neville,” she said. She didn’t sound angry, but she no longer had the gentle tone that she had used when I was complimenting her cooking.

I nodded vigorously. “Right, the library,” I said, my mouth suddenly functioning properly again.

Gran didn’t look up, or even acknowledge that I had spoken. Sometimes that made me feel worse than when I couldn’t even say what I wanted: when she ignored me when I succeeded.

“It’s alright, Neville, dear,” said a soft voice from the chair on the other side of me. I looked up, and my mother was smiling gently at me. “We know you can do it. It’s just tricky sometimes. That’s okay.”

She put a hand on my hand, and I felt a warm sensation run through my body. I smiled back at her, and at my father too, who had his arm around my mother and was smiling warmly as well.

We sat in silence for a while, eating our dinners quietly and listening to the soft sound of chewing and forks sliding across plates. It was Gran who broke the silence.

“Would you like some more green beans, Neville?” she asked, holding the bowl out to me.

“No thanks,” I said, pushing my turkey around on my plate.

“I would, Mum,” said my father from across the table.

“Alright then,” Gran said to me, and she put the bowl back down on the table. “Tell me if you want any later and I’ll help you to some.”

I glanced across at my father, who was leaning forward in his seat a little, his lips closed but not pursed. He looked at me too, and flashed me a grin. He was always in good spirits with me; that’s why I loved him. He never got angry with anyone, even when I couldn’t get my words out, or when Gran ignored him.

“I think Dad would like some green beans, Gran,” I said softly and very slowly, pronouncing each word with extreme care.

Gran looked up at me very quickly from her dinner, then looked back down at her plate and cut herself another piece of turkey. Her eyes were glistening a little. She didn’t seem like she was about to pass the green beans, so I picked them up carefully and passed them to my father myself. He smiled a little at me and helped himself to the vegetables and didn’t say anything, but I knew he was thanking me in the way he smiled.

I waited several minutes in silence while Gran chewed a particularly tough piece of meat. She seemed to have recovered from whatever had overcome her before, so I took this opportunity to get the conversation going again.

“I got a good mark on my math test today,” I said.

“Good for you,” she said, her eyes still slightly puffy but her lipstickless lips forming a small smile.

Seeing her smile made me feel good, and hearing her pride in me made me feel even better. This one little confidence-booster encouraged me to go on.

“And I wasn’t picked last today for sports,” I added, sitting up straighter in my seat, a grin crossing my face.

“Wonderful,” said Gran gently. “That must make you feel nice.”

“Oh, it does!” I cried, energy coursing through me. I was enthralled by her interest in my achievements. It was addictive, hearing her tell me I had done a good job. I wanted to tell her everything I had ever done right in my whole life, just to see her proud again.

“Yes, and that’s not all. My teacher told me my new shoes look very charming. And Peter, from down the street, he wants me to come over and play tomorrow after school. And remember last week, when we had to recite our poems? Well I know I did mine the best, because everyone clapped the loudest for me, and I didn’t get my words mixed up or anything!”

Gran was beaming. I hadn’t ever seen her so happy in a long time. Her eyes were glistening again, but this time they were tears of joy. She touched my hand, and she was grinning just as wide as I was. I had to go on. I couldn’t let her stop being happy. I had to keep going with my stories, had to keep her smiling, had to make her proud.

“Yes, and only last night Mum told me that --”

Suddenly Gran’s smile flickered. Her face became very pale, and she wiped her eyes and looked away from me.

“G-Gran?” I stammered after a pause. She didn’t answer.

I didn’t understand. Only moments ago she had been so happy, so proud of me, and then there she was, unable to even look at me. What had I done? Hadn’t I done well?

I wanted to say something, but the words were caught on my tongue again. I felt frustrated, even angry that I couldn’t get it out, at this critical moment when it was so important that I say something.

I looked over at my mother and father for something, anything, that would clue me in on the many mysteries that I was faced with: ‘Why is Gran so upset? Isn’t she proud? Why can’t I just speak to her? Is there something wrong with her? Is there something wrong with me?’

But they said nothing.

Finally Gran looked up. Her face was tear-streaked. I hated to see her like that. But instead of getting up from the table and walking away, she leaned over with her arms outstretched and reached for me. She wiggled her fingers towards me, and I stood up and went over to her. There she wrapped her arms around me and put my face in her chest and rocked me more gently than I have ever known.

We stayed like that for a long time. I didn’t want for it to end, but eventually she let go, and when she did she was smiling. It was a gentle smile. I still loved it.

“You’re such a good boy,” she said, holding me out at arm’s length so she could look me in the face. “And I’m so proud of you. I’ll be proud of you forever, even if you don’t get great marks, or if you are picked last for sports. Because that’s not what matters. You’re such a strong boy, such a good boy, and that’s what makes me proud.”

I stared at her numbly for a moment. I couldn’t believe what she was saying. I felt more proud of myself and of her at that moment than ever before in my entire life. Suddenly I felt like I could say anything I wanted without tripping over my words at all.