WE GATHER TOGETHER by Edward L. Woodyard

We Gather Together Chapter Nineteen

Ben McCulloch reached the bottom steps of Low Library and walked south toward College Walk. He was hungry. He didn't know if he'd head back to his room in Wallach Hall or go over to Broadway to find something to eat there. A brisk wind was sweeping across the quad, so he buttoned up the plaque of his blue Patagonia fleece and pulled down the flaps of his red-and-black checked trapper hat, the material being similar to his father's wool jacket that hung in the front hall on the brass coat tree. His mother had initially given the hat to his father last Christmas to match the jacket, but when Ben coveted it, Sam cheerfully gave it to him. As Ben walked toward Broadway, he examined his cell phone for texts and e-mails.

"Ben!"

Ben lifted his head and saw Alison Donnelly waving to him; she was pushing her fat tire bicycle west on College Walk. Alison lived in Hartley Hall which adjoined Ben's dorm and was a junior, in the grade below him.

"How'd your test go?" she asked. She zipped up her gray nylon jacket but caught the braided strap of her white crocheted hat in its teeth.

"Well, Alison, I could've aced it. Or could've. . ." He didn't finish his thought. He motioned the crash of a falling bomb. He then put his cell phone away. There was nothing urgent. He wasn't going to be rude to Alison by texting while she was talking to him.

"Where are you headed? You here for Thanksgiving?" she then asked. She untangled her crocheted hat from her jacket zipper and put it back on her head. They smiled about her dilemma.

"First, I'm thinking about heading over to Broadway to get a slice or something," Ben told her, answering her first question. "To answer your second question," he replied, "I never miss Thanksgiving with my family. You?"

"I told my father I have a paper due. And I've never seen the parade."

"That's too bad."

"About not seeing the parade?"

"About the paper," Ben said. He realized something and smiled to himself, "I've never seen the parade either. It's always on television. Funny, huh? I live only thirty-five miles away and have never been in the city to see it. I guess it's because I like being together with my family that day and just chillin' at home."

"And avoiding all that traffic," she said, with Ben nodding in agreement.

Ben started walking west on College Walk. Alison pushed her bike next to him.

"So, what you doing after?"

"After what?"

"The parade. You have to go somewhere for Turkey Day."

"Because . . .?"

"Because Thanksgiving is the best time to be with family."

"Not mine."

Alison stopped and turned away from Ben. She didn't know if she should tell him what she wanted to tell him, but then decided that she had nothing to lose. She trusted Ben with her thoughts and feelings. They had been friends since her first year on campus and had even shared a couple of lecture classes together.

Alison was from suburban St. Louis and had briefly dated one of Ben's roommates during Ben's sophomore year. Ben knew then that she had rejected an invitation to be a debutante at an annual gala ball that dated back to antebellum St. Louis. She had never told anyone why. It wasn't that she didn't want to participate or couldn't get to St. Louis from New York or wouldn't find an escort in time since her brother and a cousin would have willingly done that. Her father was at his sickest at that point. She was afraid of what he would do at the moment she was introduced to the Assembly and did her curtsy before the Robed Grace.

Alison had grown up on Warson Road, west of downtown St. Louis, toward the county, and attended Sentinel Hall, a girls' school in Newport, Rhode Island converted from one of the Ocean Drive mansions. She loved the energy of New York and the intellectual overload on the Columbia campus. To be accepted socially on campus, she downplayed her striking looks and privileged upbringing. Having wanted a politically liberal university that was the exact opposite of from where she had come, she discovered that Columbia's environment gave her that opportunity. While she wasn't spewing socialist doctrines in every discussion, Alison was thankful that Columbia had cracked the wall she had built around herself and emancipated her feelings. She was doing what every college student did, no matter the campus: she was finding herself. And the person she was finding was someone she liked: herself. She was also finding another someone she liked: Ben McCulloch.

However, Alison wasn't sure if the feelings were reciprocal. Ben was being guarded since he swore he wouldn't get hurt again, after having fallen so hard for Lauren Abrams. Alison was someone he felt comfortable with because there was no effort involved; when she dated his roommate sophomore year, it was just easy being around her. She felt the same way about being around Ben. What was going on between them had been in a holding pattern for more than a year. They were both not naïve. They had hooked up late one night last month after Homecoming. but both had been too drunk to make anything meaningful happen. The question they both knew was: something was there, but who was going to make the first move to find it?

Alison held onto the handlebars of her bicycle as she walked next to Ben. "So, why don't I want to go home for Thanksgiving? How is the best way to put it, Ben?" She continued pushing her bicycle toward the street, but Ben didn't move. He wanted to listen to what she had to say. She looked back and then stopped. "There are families and then there are disasters. We Donnellys could qualify for federal relief funds."

Ben wanted to smile at her comment, but he could only say, "I'm sorry."

Alison quickly rebounded, "It's not your fault. It's my father's. Every Thanksgiving, he gets into an argument at the dinner table about something and he storms off. Two years ago, the napkins weren't folded right. Last year, it was the mashed potatoes. My counselor. . ."

Ben instinctively burst out laughing. He almost couldn't control himself. Alison was suddenly repulsed and indignant about Ben's insensitivity. "It's not funny, Ben."

She continued toward the street. Ben chased after her.

"Alison, I'm not laughing about that. It's just that every year at Thanksgiving, we complain about the mashed potatoes."

Alison had no idea what he was talking about. Ben had to stop laughing long enough so that he could explain his comment to her. She detected a tone of an apology in his voice. "It's practically a tradition. It's been part of the family for something like a hundred years."

Ben looked at Alison and then went on. "My father tells a story about his grandfather's mother. My great, great grandmother. I know that sounds confusing, but it's about her cooking her first Thanksgiving dinner in America for her husband, Old Jake McCulloch. 'Sarah, the potatoes could use a wee bit more pepper.'"

Alison relaxed as Ben ambled toward her. "I apologize, Ben."

"It's okay, Alison. I know this has to be tough for you."

Once he got next to her, they strolled toward Broadway. She matter-of-factly said, "I hope old Jake McCulloch didn't do what my father did. Throw the mashed potatoes against the wall in a drunken rage."

Ben stopped and watched Alison continue pushing her bicycle. She motioned to him to come on as she waited on the sidewalk for the pedestrian walk lights to allow her to go across Broadway. Ben caught up with her and they crossed the thoroughfare together at the light. They headed toward a pizzeria on the corner of West 115th Street.