I was at Lee’s Launderette on a
Saturday night, watching my red panties swirl around in the dryer. My plans
that night had fizzled. I was struck dumb by the glow of the Launderette’s florescent
lighting and past issues of Mademoiselle and Good Housekeeping. The featured
article in Good Housekeeping was an account of how to maintain that story book
romance as well as prepare a delicious Thanksgiving meal. I salivated over the
delectables pictured. Mashed potatoes glistened with melted butter. Sliced honey-glazed-spiral
ham jumped off the page, and oven-baked sweet potatoes were garnished with a
few miniature marshmallows (watch the calories ladies). The pièce de résistance
was the turkey. It was a headless mound of golden meat. It rested its weary
legs on a silver platter in the middle the dining table spread. It was waiting
to be sliced, served and dished to starving cousins, nephews, nieces and aunts.
With bright delight the turkey gets gobbled up, smothered with mom’s grand
gravy. The Waldorf salad slides merrily down everyone’s gullet, with intent and
gluttony. Aunt Flo helps clean up the dishes afterwards and stores away
leftovers for turkey sandwiches. The men folk gather around the big screen and
watch the game, and before long, grandpa Ted snores graciously, tummy bulging
beyond capacity, in his favorite easy chair. That’s the way Good Housekeeping
told it anyway. I remember Thanksgiving different.
Last year’s Thanksgiving at my
house was like this . . . .
I left the crumpled post-it on the dining room table
with Ollie’s home number on it. He wasn’t the only one in town who still used a
landline, yet he was never home! I kept trying the number over and over, but
Ollie wasn’t going to answer, because Ollie was dead. Ollie had wrestled with
that turkey for five hours before the turkey finally got the better of him.
Heart attack and just like that, Ollie was gone.
It was only noon, but I had already
had it with this damn Thanksgiving. I needed to get out of the house. “I’ll be
back in a couple hours to fix the green bean casserole and finish the laundry!”
I yelled after to the kin around the TV set. As I entered the carport, I soon
realized I was standing in a pool of water. The washer had busted a hose. I hurried to the launderette to get the good table clothe clean and dried for dinner.
“Shit shit shit!” I declared as I rushed away in my Corolla.
Mom and dad were going to beat me
back to the house. I could picture Dad in the recliner, with an opened can of Milwaukee ’s Best in hand, just minutes after walking in my house. And mom will be there, bringing her
famous rolls, quickly taking to scouring the inserts on the stove with steel
wool. I can hear her now, “I taught Arlene how to clean better than this.” Oh
my my. Why the hell do I want to go back there? And why the hell does every
Thanksgiving end up with someone dead?
