The Buffet
Joyce Carol Oates Dared Me to Write a Raymond Carver Story with This Photo and I Did
The cabinet drawer got stuck shut a long time ago. It’s been stuck since Lois threw Thanksgiving— pre-Gulf II or whatever— and Dale Junior walked out in the middle of the meal. Stubbed one out in his mash and left.
He left before the pie, which was rude, sure, but everyone was relieved. Aunts uncles, cousins combined. No one stuck up for ole’ Dale Junior. Exactamente, he woulda said.
The drawer was the one protest vote.
We tried to get the thing open that night. Uncle Bill Giddie tried to unhinge it with his screwdriver, but the edge slipped and cut his hand open.
Joyce Carol Oates posted the above photo on Twitter and wrote: “Ray Carver could have spun a heartbreaking story out of this ravaged cabinet abandoned by a roadside.”
I took her up on it!
Thank you for enjoying a good writer’s dare, and for considering a subscription to my blog. It makes all the difference.
“The most dangerous tool in the toolbox is the flat driver!” Dale Sr. used to say. We heard it a million times, but after someone is gone, you hear their hoary mottos like a squeaky floor.
Uncle Bill, Bunkie, started crying from his failed attempt to open the drawer. He’d drunk gin instead of wine for Thanksgiving and once he started bleeding, only more gin would quiet him down.
Both Dales, Junior and Senior, always bitched that Bunk was a cry-baby from Day One. But you know, he was kinder than either of them. A kind juicer.
My cousin June-Ellen kept her distance from Dale, all the male relatives. She was the one washing dishes that night, and she put the dry silverware back in the other buffet drawers. There were six drawers, plenty of room. Lois liked the quiet way she did it.
After dinner, Lois said, “I don’t think I’ll do Thanksgiving next year.” I wondered if June-Ellen coached her. Never complain, never explain.
Years went by, no more Dale, no more dinners. Bunkie Uncle Bill passed away. By the time the pandemic came, it was like, who can remember having 20 people over for supper?
Last fall, Lois sent out a family letter, inviting everyone, everyone still standing. Come for turkey and pie.
There are maybe ten of the Giddie and Monroe boomers still alive: one in a wheelchair, one with a walker, and the rest should have their drivers’ licenses taken away. But Lois knows how to work her corners.
A couple of the cousins my age were worried. “Is Lois dying? A last Thanksgiving bash?”
Kathy, the oldest, said she’d seen Lois go to church on Ash Wednesday, grinning even, not looking much older than she ever did. Maybe ashes on her sweet face suited her.
June-Ellen and I promised we’d come help Lois set up the house, the day before. She’s not far from us; we drove together. There’s nothing like driving down a highway with someone you’ve known your entire life.
Right on Lo’s sidewalk, blocking the driveway, was the buffet cabinet. Rained on, from the looks of it. Waiting for Crime Scene Cleaners? How had she even gotten it out of the house?
“Little dirtbag down the street,” Lois said, coming out and wiping her hands on her muumuu. She nodded at some kids down the block on their skateboards. “Easy money for them.”
“But Lois, isn’t this like, Grandma’s heirloom?”
Lo’s pin curls unraveled when she shook her head. She thought that was funny. “Grandma and heirloom don’t go together,” she said. “My mother lived with cardboard boxes and stacks of newspapers.”
Well, how would we know? Our family is huge but honestly I don’t know a thing about what any of them were up to before 1970. Two generations of unreliable witnesses.
“No,” Lois said, “Let’s get some cold juice.” She walked back to the house and we followed, the little ducks.
“I got this ‘antique’ cabinet,” she said, “Out of the old commune I lived in, on Fruitvale. Remember that? By BART. The landlady evicted us, but she liked me, and she said if I could lift it, get it out the door; it was mine.”
“No way you could ever lift this!” Junie said. Auntie Lois is tiny. Wears heels and puts her hair in curls to give herself inches.
“That’s true,” she said. “I had a boyfriend then, he worked at Rycoff, you know, they went out of business years ago. He was so handsome. Danny.”
Junie and I looked at each other. Danny? Rycoff?
“He took me up to the Hollywood sign on a dare,” she went on, “and we took all our clothes off and made it, on one of the O’s. The first O, actually.”
“What?”
June Ellen recovered first; she pulled out a smoke. “So okay, Auntie Lo, you broke your boyfriend’s back— before Dad— and got this cabinet when you were all that, but why are you getting rid of it, now?”
Lois gave Junie a look, like, “Daughters bore me.” She sideyeed me, to see if I was going to force it, too.
“I’m doing ‘Swedish Death Cleaning,’” she pronounced. She handed June a Betty Boop cup for an ashtray, and a ginger ale.
Oh, I wasn’t going to sleep on this one.
“So . . .” I said. “Auntie Lo-Lo is doing Mexican-Irish Death Cleaning. Um hmm. Cut the crap, Lois. What’s going on? Did you hear from Dale?”
Both stopped, mid-puff.
“Why’d you say that?” Junie stubbed her Camel out. “What did you say about Dale?”
I couldn’t see what Lois was doing behind her.
“Because the third drawer is open, Junie. Look at it, cuz. It’s wide open.”
Fantastic. Now I have to go read some Raymond Carver.
Good one. Carver is my favorite author, not just because he grew up in my hometown of Yakima WA. But I gotta admit I do love the Gordon Lish edited stories. Fell in love with minimalism when I discovered Carver in the 80s. But also love that he wrote about working class people and he wrote female protagonists. Male writers didnt do that then. Lish and others remade him into some kind of he-man type. Wrong.