WE GATHER TOGETHER by Edward L. Woodyard

We Gather Together Chapter Eighty-One

Scott McCulloch was still somewhat dazed from his sleep on the front passenger seat. He saw that Maya was alert and comfortable behind the steering wheel. She pointed through the windshield to an exit sign for Moline, Illinois when he heard a ping on his cell phone. He looked at a news alert posted on its screen.

"How about that? Finally. The airline strike is over, Maya. You can probably get a flight out of Chicago for New York now if you want."

"Or not," she countered. "How many thousands and thousands of people stranded at O'Hare and elsewhere will now want to get on flights and to make trains?"

"I'm not thinking right. I guess I'm still sleepy."

"If it's okay with you, we could still drive to New York."

"Sure. Got nothing else better to do for right now except help you how best I can."

"It's all appreciated, Scott. Believe me."

"We can have Thanksgiving in a truck stop. How's that idea?"

"That's something to decide tomorrow. Right now, I want to get farther east and stop somewhere tonight. I really need to wash my hair."

"What are you thinking?"

"Shampoo and cream rinse."

Scott laughed, "No, about where you want to stop."

"Maybe in Pennsylvania?"

"We should get there around dinner time. Maybe we'll even sit down and have a meal together. Maybe that'll be an early Thanksgiving dinner for us."

"We can consider that idea. Let's get to Pennsylvania first and take it from there," said Maya. "Why don't you put your head back down again and get some more sleep. I'm good for another couple hundred miles."

"And so is the bonsai," said Scott.

Scott put the pillow against the passenger side window. The glass was cool. He was thankful the skies of northern Illinois were overcast so that the sun wouldn't interrupt his efforts to get more shut-eye. Such a gray day offered little to do except be a part of a gathering morass of motor vehicles on the highway, most headed for Thanksgiving somewhere with family.

Scott remembered his Thanksgiving last year when Wendy's parents flew to San Francisco from Pittsburgh and it was just the four of them in their apartment on Filmore Street. It had been a nice time, except for her mother's dogged questions on when Scott and Wendy would be married. To which Wendy would answer, "When it's the right time and we want to. There's nothing wanting us to do that right now."

Wendy's father Patrick Flanagan had liked Scott before he met him; his demands were fairly simple. When Wendy called to tell him that she'd met the man she wanted to marry, he asked her two questions: can he dance and can he ski? When his daughter answered yes to both, Patrick gave his tacit approval of Scott by telling her, "I'm sure he'll be fine. I look forward to meeting him." What Patrick didn't tell his daughter was that he later did a credit check on Scott and learned that Scott had started a high-end, specialized printing operation that was netting in the mid seven figures.

Scott then recalled Kathleen Flanagan's question about what his own family in New York was doing for the holiday, to which he responded, "I'm not real sure. They're probably doing the same thing they do every year. Sing 'We Gather Together,' hear my father's toast 'To absent family and friends,' and tell family stories around the table." He decided not to tell them about Sarah Harris McCulloch or the year the turkey fell on the kitchen floor.

When Kathleen said that it all sounded so wonderful, Scott let discretion intercede and merely said, "I suppose."

"I'm sure you miss being there," said Kathleen Flanagan.

"Not really" was Scott's immediate comment to her.

That response intrigued Wendy's mother who then wanted to know more about Scott's family. When she asked how many people were in Scott's immediate family and who they were, his answer was succinct. "I don't know. We're estranged."

At that point, Wendy's father Patrick lifted his champagne flute to wish everyone at the table a happy and bountiful Thanksgiving and proceeded into a monologue on the Steelers chances for the Super Bowl. Scott and Wendy had joined in the toast, pretending that sparkling water was champagne.

Scott had liked Wendy's parents. He and Wendy had showed the Flanagans a good time while they were in San Francisco, hitting all of its notable tourist sites. Witnessing how likable her parents were and sensing how grounded her upbringing had been, Scott could never figure out why Wendy did what she did.

Maya swerved around a Ford Taurus pulling a U-Haul trailer as Scott looked at a digital map of Illinois and Indiana on the Bimmer's dashboard.

"Let me know when you want me to drive, Maya. I can get us to Pennsylvania," he said.

"We may need to stop in Indiana for a pit stop," she said. He firmed his pillow against his neck and got comfortable, closing his eyes.

Maya adjusted her ear buds and switched her playlist as she drove the Bimmer farther east into Illinois. She saw soon Scott lean his head back into the pillow, his mouth agape and dropping into a deep sleep.

She looked at him again – and watched a lone tear fall along the left side of his nose and detour at whiskers around his mouth before lodging itself in the auburn stubble on his chin.