Alice had been relieved when Tish called the meeting into order. She had been seconds away from snapping: If the purpose of my life is to pump milk for a crying poop-machine, then shoot me now.
ASC meetings were always monotonous. Except that day, things got heated. All because of a Thanksgiving message.
Each year, a new message was printed on stickers that were featured on shop windows. That year, they’d narrowed it down to two options: We’re Thankful for our Troops and We’re Thankful for our Children. Supporters of each side were asked to defend their choice. Patty Davis and Jane Knowles volunteered.
They spoke for about half an hour—each. As with most things in Alma, the matter turned into a personal dispute. Patty had just lost her nephew in Afghanistan. Jane’s sister had just given birth to a baby with Down’s syndrome. Both used these private troubles to rally support for their choice. When Tish called the matter to a vote, it became clear that they were in a deadlock. Until someone pointed out that Alice hadn’t voted.
Suddenly, all eyes were on her.
Alice had no opinion about who the message should thank—military, children who cared? She had no particular fondness for either group. In fact, all she wanted to do was sleep, preferably for twelve consecutive hours, without having to wake up because it was time to breastfeed, after which Alice would cry because Allegra wouldn’t latch on. She had thought that giving birth meant that she’d have her body back, but her saggy boobs, cracked nipples, leaky urinary tract, and mandatory sobriety were proof that she’d been wrong. It seemed absurd to her that these women were wasting precious time on ludicrous matters of no consequence.
“Alice, you just had a baby,” Jane had said. “Don’t you think children should be our focus this year?”
“Nonsense,” Patty had interjected, before Alice could reply. “Your daughter will grow up to enjoy the same freedoms you do because of our troops.”
An odd sort of contained chaos ensued after Patty’s statement, with several women talking at once, each a limitless source of nerve-grating asininity. The more the women yapped, the more exhausted and aggravated Alice felt. She needed to get out of there.
Looking back, Alice wonders why she didn’t simply pick a theme. Any theme. It’s possible she had been too tired to realize she had the power to end the madness. Or perhaps her refusal to vote had been an early act of defiance against Tish and her medieval insistence that Alice and Nick live in Alma. Or maybe it was something else. Alice doesn’t remember. Her mind had been too muddled, too drained.
What she does remember was turning to both Jane and Patty and saying, “Who cares? None of it matters.”
Jane had looked confused. “But this is the most important holiday of the year. What message would we be sending the rest of the country—”
“The country?” Alice had scoffed. “The country has no idea this lame tradition exists. This town isn’t even big enough to be on a map. No one outside of this place will ever see the message. I don’t know where this collective inflated sense of self-importance comes from, but snap out of it. No one cares about a stupid, small-town matter.”
A stunned silence descended on the room.
For a moment, Alice had experienced pure relief. She had made the noise stop—and the stillness felt wondrous. It made her forget about her pudgy stomach and bloated face. That her skin looked like a cracked bar of soap. That she was incapable of comforting her daughter. Alice couldn’t go back in time, couldn’t refuse to move to Alma. Couldn’t reconsider motherhood. But she could take a stand against regressive housewifely bullshit activities like voting on senseless Thanksgiving messages.
Tish had been the first one to break the silence.
“You’re right, Alice,” Tish had said. “This is a small-town matter. And I, for one, enjoy our way of life. I enjoy our rituals and traditions. I enjoy our sense of community. I’m proud of being an Almanac. I’m thankful to live here.”
Boisterous applause followed, with cheers and chants of “hear, hear.” One person even whistled. The meeting resumed, and Alice was collectively ignored. The issue of the Thanksgiving message was postponed until the next meeting. By then, the vote was unanimous. Neither Jane, nor Patty won. Instead, a third option was selected—We’re thankful to live here. A slight against Alice. A town-wide fuck you. Before the incident, Tish and Alice had gotten along. They hadn’t been friends, but they were friendly. After that, Tish began to look down on her, as though Alice weren’t good enough for Alma, and not the other way around. Everyone followed Tish’s lead. Alice became an outsider.
And Almanacs do not like outsiders.
Looking back, Alice understands how her comment probably—OK, definitely—rubbed members the wrong way. But she still thinks they could’ve reacted with a little more compassion, a little more understanding. The people in this town like to think of themselves as close-knit, hospitable people. Kind people. But kindness was never extended to Alice. Instead, she was judged.
“Alice?” the voice comes from her left, interrupting her memory.
She turns to see her father-in-law.
“I thought that was you.” Charles flashes her a smile. He leans in to give her a peck on the cheek. “What brings you here?”
“I brought a friend to visit the factory,” she explains. And then, because she’s sure he’ll report this back to Tish, she adds, “A new neighbor, Antoinette Saison. She moved into the Farrell house on our street.”
“Good, good.” Charles nods approvingly. “There should always be a Dewar on the factory floor, that’s what my father used to say.”
Alice studies Charles for a moment. He has that appealing eye crinkle reserved for very handsome, older men—like Eric Rutherford or George Clooney. Except Charles is older than either of them, not that anyone would know it. How old is Charles, anyway—sixty? He can’t possibly be seventy.
“And you?” she asks. Charles is supposed to be retired, though
