Chapter 38

November 1972

George Cornelius, full of beef and bluster, in charge of practical work with Pierre, was overheard boasting. He was pulling strings to get salmon flown in from Alaska to be served on crackers as hors d’oeuvres with fruit punch. Crab meat salad, mashed potatoes, two kinds of stuffing, giblet gravy, and two thirty-pound turkeys were on the menu as well as pumpkin, apple and minced meat pies.

An undercurrent of excitement and expectation was stirring the house like bees intuiting a change. For two days now the focus of everyone’s efforts was preparing for the feast. Only American moms were allowed to cook; only American guys were to serve the meal. Hard to tell if Mr. B was teasing the Americans—encouraging us to “go the whole hog, including the postage,” as Gurdjieff would say.

Standing in the dining room, I scanned our PM Service handiwork. The large dining tables were set end to end in long rows, mimicking the traditional American image of the first Thanksgiving feast. Nuts and fruits laid out on pine boughs decorated the tables. Taking in a long breath, I tasted pine trees and summers in New Hampshire, “Penny Store” candy and maple sugar.

The big room was still dark with paneling and had the familiar chill of the house, but the red berries, spiked cones, and yellow and orange fruits made it less austere. Excitement rippled through me at the prospect of a festive evening.

Later, Jack was hanging with the guys in his dorm when I arrived. He looked good in his turtleneck and doeskin-colored overshirt.

“Hey Van, can you take a picture?”

“Sure.”

I gave him my Kodak.

I was wearing my birthday finery—the almost spongy synthetic ankle-length skirt and matching vest mom had made me, the hot pink turtleneck that matched the pink in the skirt pattern, the purple knee-high boots that I’d bought with birthday money.

If Mr. B was trying to make a point, then yes, I saw myself in all my Americanness. I pictured my dad watching football, my mom cooking in the kitchen, my high-school-age brother puttering around the house, my sister and her boyfriend visiting from New York.

The halls echoed with chatter as students made their way down the corridors, everyone dressed up: long wool skirts rustling, fringed shawls and bright scarves; button down shirts tucked into regular pants instead of blue jeans. Even a jacket here and there (mostly the Brits).

Oohs and aaahs drifted on the air as we entered, slam-dunked by the bounty of food, the reflection of candlelight dancing off silver and paneling. Logs popped and hissed in the hearth. Chairs clunked and scraped as bodies settled shoulder to shoulder at the long tables. A warm camaraderie filled the room.

Were we students becoming a family?

I’d always had a hard time remembering other people’s names, but I’d never let that bother me much. Now I was beginning to know people from their observations at theme meetings, their questions and Mr. B’s responses. I could feel them, not things about them, but them. I wanted to remember these names. For the first time in my life, it mattered.