ORIGIN STORIES: FAMILY DINNER

November 29, 1917

October 4, 1917

Dear Mrs Martha, and Messrs. Thomas and Bruce,

This is Hell.
Workers are killing each other for the interests of their bosses, and our arrival here has not hastened the end of the war, it has only increased the souls lost to it.

This place should be idyllic and verdant, but all around us are the hard, grim, pitiless signs of battle: hedges are trampled and torn, grass is trodden into mud, and great holes have been torn through the earth where shells have exploded.

We are in trenches all of the time, and even here we are being sniped at. Or worse, enfiladed like a terrific drum roll that shakes all of us to the marrow.

I have been promoted at blinding speed since my arrival, and today I learned that I’ve been loaned to the British Armed Forces for a covert operation.

I have, on more than one occasion, considered deserting. The dueling tensions of boredom and horror are enough to fray the wits, and though I have managed to remain sane, I’m not confident that the men I am leading can say the same.

This will almost certainly be my last letter until I arrive home, the nature of my next assignment will preclude my ability to access post. I love you

God damn the SPD.

I pray that this isn’t further prolonged, and I look forward to an expedient return to my family. 

Solidarity Forever,
Alfred Pennyworth, 0696560
SFC,  U.S. Army

P.S. Ask Miss Margaret to make you a dish called “mushy peas,” for Thanksgiving. It’s a tiny bliss, and I’m told it’s a staple food of the working class of England. I’m certain it will remind her of home.

October 4, 1917 

Dear Mrs Martha, and Messrs. Thomas and Bruce,

This is Hell.

Workers are killing each other for the interests of their bosses, and our arrival here has not hastened the end of the war, it has only increased the souls lost to it.

This place should be idyllic and verdant, but all around us are the hard, grim, pitiless signs of battle: hedges are trampled and torn, grass is trodden into mud, and great holes have been torn through the earth where shells have exploded.

We are in trenches all of the time, and even here we are being sniped at. Or worse, enfiladed like a terrific drum roll that shakes all of us to the marrow.

I have been promoted at blinding speed since my arrival, and today I learned that I’ve been loaned to the British Armed Forces for a covert operation.

I have, on more than one occasion, considered deserting. The dueling tensions of boredom and horror are enough to fray the wits, and though I have managed to remain sane, I’m not confident that the men I am leading can say the same.

This will almost certainly be my last letter until I arrive home, the nature of my next assignment will preclude my ability to access post. I love you

God damn the SPD.

I pray that this isn’t further prolonged, and I look forward to an expedient return to my family. 

Solidarity Forever,
Alfred Pennyworth, 0696560
SFC,  U.S. Army

P.S. Ask Miss Margaret to make you a dish called “mushy peas,” for Thanksgiving. It’s a tiny bliss, and I’m told it’s a staple food of the working class of England. I’m certain it will remind her of home.

Bruce Wayne folded the letter. There was nothing to be thankful for today, but he headed downstairs to help in the kitchen. Maybe that would take his mind off of the unending war that took away his best friend and mentor and older brother. He enjoyed shelling peas alongside Miss Margaret. She rarely spoke except to instruct kitchen staff, but she could be counted on to offer a kind smile, a loving hug, or a glass of lemonade. Smelling of figs and sandalwood didn’t hurt either.

With a third colander of fresh peas in hand, Bruce was intercepted by James, one of the groundskeepers, a man who had served thirty years in prison for the revenge killing of a man who’d taken his daughter’s life. James was an enormity of a man with hands the size of Bruce’s head. But he was gentle and soft-spoken, with grey-lavender eyes like Bruce had never seen before.

“Missus Martha wants to see you Mister Bruce,” said James. “She’ll be in the dining room.” 

A child zoomed by them, and Bruce was reminded of the staff who brought their families with them for Thanksgiving, to dine alongside their employers. It was one of his favorite days, but without Alfred, it was gloomier.

“Thank you Mr. James,” Bruce said with a smile, and trotted down the hall.

“Bruce, dear,” his mother was wearing an apron, not altogether rare for her, but uncommon, to be sure. “Please set an extra place at the table. We’re welcoming a special gues – one moment Rita!” Bruce’s mother smiled and hurried from the room. 

Nineteen place settings.

Bruce’s heart started to pound. Was it even possible that Alfred could be coming to dinner? He shook his head, took a deep breath, and dismissed the hope. Unless the letter had been part of some elaborate ruse, he’d know if Alfred was coming.

Three dragging hours later, Bruce was dressed for Thanksgiving Dinner, and, descending the stairs, heard his father speaking on the other side of the front door to someone with the timbre and vibrato of a revivalist.

Bruce rushed to the door, opening it to greet his father and their special guest.

“Ahh, Bruce, my boy,” his father’s eyes twinkled and he beamed, indicating his scion with pride. “Eugene, I want you to meet Bruce, my son. And Bruce, this is Mr. Eugene Debs. He’s the man who unionized Wayne Enterprises.”

The bald, wrinkled man had large ears and liver spots on his face. He was thin, ghastly thin, and seemed to have a short, straight lain for a mouth. He bent low, and the line curved just slightly, and extended his hand to Bruce, who took it in bewilderment. 

“Quite charming to meet you, Bruce. Thomas has so much to say about you as an emerging intellectual.”

“Thank you, Mr. Debs. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Dinner should be coming right along, Eugene,” said Thomas. “Would you join me for an aperitif?”

-♞-

November 28, 1918

It was 5:00 in the morning, and the War to End All Wars had itself ended.

Bruce Wayne had only had three hours of sleep, which suited him just fine. The Scion of the Wayne family was in the kitchen staring into the chest cavity of a damp turkey, only recently removed from its brine bath.

“Now,” began Miss Margaret, “hold your hand up to mine.” Bruce did, and the woman, who was not notably tall or large, had a hand that was only slightly bigger than Bruce’s. “See, smaller hands can do the delicate work of rubbing the spices into the turkey. That bowl has the spices. Take a small handful in each hand.”

Bruce followed Miss Margaret’s instructions, ready to cover the bird in the damp mash of oils and herbs. Miss Margaret stopped him at the stool.

“The secret to a good, moist turkey are in the brine and the baste. But the secret to a flavorful turkey, is in the rub.” She lifted the turkey’s skin on either side of the chest. “Push your hands under the skin, and massage the flesh with the spice rub with vigor. You’ll feel it pull away from the fatty skin – that’s alright, that’s how we get the flavor inside the meat.”

The rub was already cold and clammy, but the underside of the skin was unpleasantly cold, and, well, fleshy. Bruce massaged with all the vigor he could muster, and there was something hypnotic about the task.

“Now let’s wash up, and get this bird to roasting.”

Bruce scrubbed his hands under the rush of hot water, then wiped them dry on his nightshirt, then sniffed them, frowned, and went back to scrubbing. Miss Margaret handed him a steel ladle.

“If you rub this on your hands while you wash, it’ll remove the onion and garlic smell, but you’ll need the brush to get under your…” Miss Margaret looked at the boy’s nails, bitten almost to the quick. “Oh no, just the ladle should do.”

“This has to be perfect for Alfred,” Bruce said, not with hope or excitement, but with nervous tension and concern. “What else do you need help with?”

“Go back to bed Bruce,” Miss Margaret stroked his hair, and it had a pacifying rhythm. “No other work can be done until 7:00.”

The kitchen was decidedly not bustling with workers, and it would’ve been if more work needed to be done. Bruce sniffed his hands again, noting that they didn’t smell of onions and garlic, and gave Miss Margaret a long, teary hug.

“I’ll be back at 7:00 sharp, I need to stay busy.”

“We all miss him, Bruce.”

After an hour and a half of rolling over in his bed, Bruce brushed his teeth for a second time. He made his bed and straightened his night stand. He returned Hound of the Baskervilles to his bookshelf, and put on his house shoes, once again descending the steps, and journeying into the kitchen.

A stepstool was set beside Miss Margaret, with a giant pot of unshelled peas. Without a word, Bruce started to crack them into the colander.

None of the work took long enough. Bruce would complete one task, and move on to another. He would try to help with things he’d never done before. 

“Would you like me to mow the lawn?” He asked James, hopefully.

James just returned a puzzled look.

“Grass ain’t growin’ Mister Bruce. It’s nearly December.”

The boy was all nerves and impatience and obsession and details and details and DETAILS.

“Bruce, do you want to go to the garage?” It was one of the children, Isaac, who Bruce normally enjoyed playing with very much.

“I can’t right now,” he answered in tones like one of their parents. “There’s much work to be done.”

“Bruce,” a sharp shout from his mother, that immediately turned gentle, “take Isaac and Jill to the garage. Climbing on the cars and trucks will help you to pass the time.”

Bruce sighed, conceded a “come on,” and led his friends to the manor grounds.

It did seem to help passing the time, but it didn’t relieve him in the way that chores had. Nevertheless, the call of his mother’s voice carried across the yard, and Bruce bolted back toward the grand estate of his family.

“Please set the table,” she instructed, and Bruce knew it meant that neither dinner nor Alfred were far away.

Staffers and his mother began placing dishes at the table, which became a village of cloches of varying sizes. The largest, of course cloaking the turkeys, which were brought to the table last.

After doing everything that he could, Bruce toiled in great room by the doors, alternately sitting on the stairs, opening the door, or pacing around the perimeter. He saw his father’s blurred form, but his father was distinctly alone.

Bruce couldn’t hold the tears back, and he didn’t want to. His father hugged him tightly.

“He must’ve been on the second ship,” said his father. “He’ll arrive later this evening, and we can eat with him again, if you’d like. I’m sorry Bruce. But you can come with me to pick him up this time.”

Bruce nodded and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“Go wash your face, and let’s have some dinner.”

Bruce dragged himself upstairs to change into his dinner clothes, washing his face, and coming back down to the dining hall.

There were three open seats at the adults’ table – Alfred’s, Miss Margaret’s, and his own. He sat down in his seat, next to his father and directly across from Alfred’s empty place setting.

“Bruce, would you like to lead us with what you’re thankful for?” his mother called from the other end of the giant dining table.

But Bruce didn’t feel thankful. He felt disappointed. And he worried that Al’s ship wouldn’t come in. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, and stood.

“This year, I’m thankful that the war is over. I’m thankful that so many of you are healthy, and that for the most part, we’ve avoided the ravages of this pandemic. I’m thankful that Miss Jennifer and Mrs. Hazel, and Mr. Owings seems to be recovering well, and that they are receiving the care that they need. And mostly, I’m thankful for all of you. For keeping this household together and being a part of this large and often unwieldy family. Your grace through the fires of war and illness and the absence of Alfred has been commendable. Thank you all.”

Bruce sat down, and raised the glass flute of white grape juice along with the others at the table en salud, took a drink, and then left his plate unfilled.

“May I be excused?” the boy asked his father quietly with tears in his eyes.

“Of course, Bruce,” his father answered, understanding. Bruce walked slowly from the dining room, and ran toward the kitchen to cry.

Bruce was blind with tears, almost knocking over Miss Margaret who was on her way to join the rest of the family at the table. He embraced her tightly.

“It’s okay, Bruce,” she said, soothing him with rhythmic strokes of his hair. “It won’t be long now.”

Miss Margaret held him for another ten minutes before he finally let go. 

“I’m sorry for making you late for dinner,” he said through softening sobs.

“It’s alright,” she smiled at him, and her eyes were moist, too. “Do you want to come to dinner now?”

Bruce shook his head.

“If you’d like, I’ll sit with you in the kitchen, or on the back terrace.”

“No thank you. I’ll *sniff* manage.”

The two hugged again, and Bruce walked to the kitchen, his shoulders raising and lowering in great heaving breaths.

When he crossed the threshold to the kitchen, his tears came flooding back.

A ghost in the khaki fatigues of a British enlisted man was eating mushy peas, turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce, standing at one of the washing sinks.

“I just missed your father, and it was forever before I found a cab, and I –“

Bruce rushed to the man, hugging him with every bit of his strength, and wept full on.

Sergeant First Class of the U.S. Army, and Captain of the Royal Armed Forces, and Best Friend of Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth hugged him in kind.

“I missed you too, Mister Bruce,” Alfred said, wiping a tear from his own face, and squeezing Bruce even more tightly.

Bruce Wayne finally felt truly thankful.