Howard, Barb

English

eGrove (Univ. of Mississippi)

Yalobusha Review Volume 5 Article 5 8-1-1999 Stanley's Turkey Dinner Barb Howard Follow this and additional works at: https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr Recommended Citation Howard, Barb (1999) "Stanley's Turkey Dinner," Yalobusha Review: Vol. 5 , Article 5. Available at: https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5 This Fiction is brought to you for free and open access by the English at eGrove. It has been accepted for inclusion in Yalobusha Review by an authorized editor of eGrove. For more information, please contact egrove@olemiss.edu. Stanley's Turkey DinnerBarb HowardFrom my chair on the porch I can see the  bottom half of Bob Stead. He drops a neat bundle of  twigs to the ground. Bob's tidying his fir  trees.  Barclay, my German shepherd, pants at the base of  Bob's ladder. Bob begins to descend. Barclay  crouches, bares his mottled gums, raises a diamond­shaped patch of hair across his shoulders. Bob glances at Barclay, snaps off a  branch, moves his  work boot down another rung. He shakes the  branch at Barclay. Barcaly bites one leg of the  ladder, drags it a few inches. Bob  lunges at the tree  for balance.I'm down my porch stairs by then, yelling at  Barclay. Bob shakes the branch at me. I  grab a  handful of skin and bristling hair from the back of  Barclay's neck. He's on his hind legs, wriggling,  barking, snarling."Throw the  branch," I  shout. "Throw  it."  Bob tosses the branch  towards his deer  feeder.  Barclay jumps out of my hands, dives on the  branch.  Tail wagging, stick held high, Barclay prances past  the deer feeder, up the hill. I  steady  the ladder. Bob hurries down."Control your dog," he says, flapping his  work glove in my face.76 1Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999In town later  that  afternoon, at  the A&G  grocery, I spot Bob's wife Cheryl in the root vegetable section."Hello Stanley," she says, smiling a bit, folding her hands on her pregnant  belly. "All ready  for Thanksgiving?""I suppose. You doing a big  bird?""Oh yes, we always do. If s in the oven. You  off to friends?""No."Cheryl picks up a potato, rolls it in her hand,  "Well, of course  you're  welcome at our place, I don't  think Bob would mind really. I could reset the table,  put you beside my mother, across from Jonathan.""What time?" I ask as she untwists her plastic  bag, drops the extra potato on top of four already there, and pushes her  cart  towards the  pumpkins.When my mother was alive she always made me put on a button-front shirt  for turkey dinners.  For her sake, I wear one of the green shirts I used to  wear when I drove to work  in the city. The collar  cinches around my neck, the  buttons at my  chest  strain. That's one good thing about being laid off from the water treatment plant. No more  uncomfortable clothes.Bob and Cheryl's dining room smells of warm turkey, pine walls. At  one end there's a sliding door  that opens onto their new cedar deck and groomed  lawn. The table is big, harvest style. Four baby 77 2Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5The Yalobusha Reviewpumpkins surround a large red candle centerpiece. Every place has a turkey napkin and a turkey plate.I sit beside the grandmother. She's on a weekend pass. Her  balding head shakes no, non ­stop. The other three seats are  empty. Bob stands at  the pine sideboards, working the cork out of a bottle  of wine. Bob is a surgeon in the city. He's the  kind  of guy  who wears pleated pants on the weekend.  The kind of guy who vacuums his garage and  volunteers every year for the community water co­op. I hear Cheryl running the tap in  the kitchen.  Bleeps and snippets of electronic sounds arise from downstairs. Jonathan must be playing computer  games. He's a good kid. Only been caught shoplifting once (or so I heard at  the A&G), nothing  serious, just  licorice. Cheryl claims that  Jonathan's  mathematically gifted. He plays one of those hand ­held computer games while he walks home from the  school bus stop. I watch from my  porch, expect him  to stumble, but he never does. Maybe he is gifted.Cheryl rushes into the room and sets a bowl of cranberry sauce on the table. She's wearing  pressed pants and a leaf-print  maternity blouse. Her  belly protrudes like a gourd from her thin body. On her way to the kitchen she stops at  the sliding door."Bob," she taps the toe of her penny-loafer at a  spot on the floor in front of her."I'll speak to him again," Bob says."He's got to learn. Just look at the dirt he's  tracked in."Bob leaves the room, thumps downstairs, stops the electronic sounds, the grandmother puts  her shaky hand on  my arm and asks for a taste of78 3Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999The Yalobusha Review wine. Noticing that she doesn't have a wine glass at her place, I fill my own and offer it to her."Might help my memory." The grandmother shakes."Mine too," I say, pouring wine into my water  glass.Jonathan sulks into the dining room. The bottom of his pants drag across the hardwood. His  sweatshirt is huge, big enough to fit me. If s the same outfit his skateboard buddies wear at the A&G  parking lot. Nice for him to have so many friends. I nod hello. He scowls, slouches into the seat across  from me. I like Jonathan."A touch more, if you don't mind," the  grandmother says. I steady her glass on the table, pour. Jonathan brightens."Mom," he yells into the kitchen, "Stanley's giving her wine."Cheryl appears at the door to the dining  room, pauses, inhales, "It's Mr. Davis to you," she says to Jonathan while she scoops the wine glass out  of her mother's hand.When Bob sets the huge, caramel-colored turkey in front of him the table looks like a picture  from a magazine. Bob twists the first drumstick from the turkey. Juice drips from the jo nt. I  take in  the deep, hot smell."Dad," Jonathan asks as we begin passing  vegetables, "can I eat in front  of the TV?"Bob rips open the breast skin  with the tip of  the carving knife."Daaaad," Jonathan pleads.79 4Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5The Yalobusha Review"This is Thanksgiving," says Bob. "You'll appreciate the memories when you're older.""Mom?"Cheryl shoves a casserole dish at him. "It's tradition. Would you like some cauliflower in low- fat cottage cheese sauce?"Jonathan picks up the serving spoon, mutters,  "Who cares."I slide the mashed potatoes towards the  grandmother. She waves them off, saying, "Just  fiddleheads for me.""There are no fiddleheads," Cheryl snaps her  turkey napkin and drapes it over her belly. "You're in Alberta.""Don't we usually have turnips at  Thanksgiving?" Bob asks."No, potatoes. We always have potatoes," Cheryl says, briskly."I'm sure we had turnips last year." Bob  picks  up his knife and fork. "We should write these things  down in a note book.""I don't need to write it down," Cheryl slowly mouths to Bob, as though the rest  of us can't  tell  what she's saying. Bob says he'll have some potatoes. Cheryl turns to me, smiling, "Now Stanley, I'm sure this won't stand up at  all  to  your  mother's Thanksgiving dinners.""Well Cheryl," I'm glad to be a part of the conversation, "My mother's turkey was always drier  than a pretzel fart. Stuffing like wet  sewage."Cheryl looks across the table at Bob."And mother's gravy always made me think of diarrhea," I admit, "or vomit"805Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999The Yalobusha Review"Cool," Jonathan says."I know you're not supposed to say that  sort  of thing about your mother, especially if she's dead,  but I call  'em as I see  'em."Cheryl looks at her plate. Bob wipes his mouth."It's Harvard beets and black licorice that gives me the runs," the grandmother says. I like the grandmother.Through the sliding glass door, past the deck,  smack in the middle of Bob's smooth lawn, a loosely woven hammock hangs inside a small wooden shelter."Much luck with the deer feeder?" I ask  Bob,  while I reach across Cheryl for carrots. Bob's dream  is to have deer browsing in his backyard. He'd  especially like them there when his city friends come  out for dinner."Not one," Jonathan interjects, "zippo.""They're all over my place," I say. "Barclay's got more deer than he  knows how to chase. "Funny  that the deer don't go for Bob's putting-green lawn. This spring he spent an  entire  weekend in  his mask  and gloves pumping clover kill on his lawn. He's  always aerating or fertilizing or watering. At my place the deer eat  the quack grass, the clover, even  the thistles that grow on the gravel pile. Like I keep  telling Bob when he asks, I'm going to spread that gravel someday and make a pen for Barclay.It's dusk by the time I  scrape  up my second  helping. Everyone else is still picking at  their first. I  usually don't notice vegetables, always ate my mother's chilled Brussels sprouts and marshmallow  6Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5turnips without complaint, but Cheryl's vegetables are different. The carrots are sweet and seasoned with green flecks, the potatoes soak up buckets of the smooth gravy. I even take more low-fat cauliflower. There's lots of food, maybe because the grandmother  only eats cranberry sauce. Red rivulets form in the lines under her lips. I take a breather, lean back from the table and look out the sliding door. Three mule deer file down the hill and eye the feeder."Got some deer," I wave my fork towards the  sliding door.Bob runs for his camera. Aware of Bob's motion, the deer stop, ears wide, tails tucked under, and stare through the window at us. Cheryl crouches beside the grandmother, points, repeats, "Deer, Mom. Outside. Deer." She pate the grandmother's hand and goes to the window to stand beside Jonathan, presses her palms into the small off her back, pushes her belly towards the glass. The grandmother nudges me. I fill her water glass with wine. "Too bad about the fiddleheads," I say.Bob returns with his camera, slowly opens the sliding door, pushes the big lens outside. A black- tipped tail quivers, rises. A galloping sound arises from the side off the house, louder and louder until Barclay careens around the corner. The deer spring  up the hill. Barclay charges after them, a frayed meter of rope dragging from his neck."Look at 'em go!" Jonathan cries. "Yeesss!"  Bob slides the door closed, flips the lock."Barclay never did like being tied up," I say as Bob sits heavily in his seat. "Maybe I should get that7Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999The Yalobusha Review pen built." Cheryl takes the gravy boat and potatoes  into the kitchen."Did you see that Dad? Did  you?" Jonathan  pokes his fork into the pool of liquid wax  surrounding the red candle."Stop that," Bob says sharply."My mother made the best  chow-chow relish  in Moncton," says the grandmother.I pour her some more  wine. She  wipes under  her eyes with  her turkey  napkin. Jonathan stabs a  baby pumpkin with his fork."Mom," he yells into the kitchen, "she's crying." Cheryl hurries into the dining room."Pie everyone?" she asks, discretely laying a stack of tissue on the grandmother's lap.Mom and I  bought  our house twenty  years  ago, when she retired. We got a good deal because the original owners divorced and sold before the house was finished. Mom and I finished the dry ­walling and put on  the porch. We used that porch  almost every day. This time of year there'd be ruffed  grouse in the wood pile, squirrels in the empty bird feeder, chickadees and siskins in the firs, and deer.  Right up to her last  day mom could identify any  critter or plant within a half-mile of the house. She  thought it took  me a long time to learn all the names  in nature. But  I pretended not to know  things just  so  we could keep talking.Jonathan's chair scrapes when  he  pushes away from the table. As he turns to look at the damage he's done to the hardwood floor, something outside8Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5catches his eye. He stands, presses his face against  the glass door."Dad, I think Barclay's out there again."Bob gets up, joins Jonathan at the sliding door,  and squints through the glass into the dark. "Maybe  a porcupine or raccoon.""Why don't you go outside and get a good  look?" I suggest from my chair."Dad, I think it's Barclay."Bob reaches for the switch beside the door and  flicks on the outside lights. Barclay, caught in  the  fluorescence on the lawn, perks his ears. His tail, stiff and curved like a hockey stick, jerks up and down while he pumps a dump onto the grass. He  stops, peeks behind him, kicks back a little dirt, and trots onto the deck."He wants in," Jonathan grabs the handle of  the sliding door.Bob takes a deep breath and holds it before he  says, "I don't think Barclay's an indoor dog.""Sure he is," I say."Dad?" Bob goes to the sideboard, pours a  tumbler of scotch. I empty the last  of the second  bottle of wine into my glass."I don't care," Bob says to the ceiling. "Take him to the basement." Before Jonathan scuffs out of  the dining room with Barclay, Bob adds, "And get some pants that fit."Cheryl brings in a special pot of tea for the grandmother, pours coffee for me and Bob."What are you hoping for?" I ask, pointing at  her belly.849Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999The Yalobusha Review"Oh, a girl would be nice. You know, one  boy, one girl. That would be perfect."The grandmother farts. A real long pu-pu-pu-  pu-pup. Cheryl wipes vigorously at  the glass on the sliding door, complaining about fingerprints.While Bob and Cheryl move dishes to the kitchen I pour myself a little Grand Mariner from the  side board and think of how, when  I was a kid, mom  and I would throw the football around after  Thanksgiving dinner. She was a big woman and  could catch and pass as good as anyone. She'd  have  me running patterns right through dusk and sometimes, depending on the brightness of the sky,  into the night. Mom played in a dress, a house dress she called it, with a pair of my sweat pants pulled up underneath. She always licked her fingertips before placing them across the laces on the ball."Say, Bob," I call into the kitchen, "you play football?""No," Bob yells back, as though he  was  scolding a dog."Bob!" Cheryl calls. The kitchen tap is turned  on.The grandmother rattles her tea cup in the saucer. I top her up with Grand Mariner. The  outside lights are still on. I watch the de r, the same  three females as before, approach the feeder, tentatively pull some hay from the hammock. Dishes clatter in the kitchen. Bob enters the dining room, flicks off the outside light, grabs the Grand  Mariner from in front of me and puts it on the  sideboard."Got some deer out there again," I tell  him.10Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5The Yalobusha Review"I'll take that coffee mug for you." Bob clears  my place.My mother played football with me right up to her final  Thanksgiving. She could still throw a  spiral over the gravel pile but by then I didn't very  often return her throws. I  ran it back. She kept  our  football pumped up tighter than a rock and I was  afraid I'd break her hands if  I  fired the ball into her.  Not that her hands were fragile, or even small.Cheryl helps the grandmother up from the table."Maples," the grandmother says to me, still holding a tissue to her eyes, "you can't  imagine the  Moncton maples this time of year.""Mom's off to bed," Cheryl steers the  grandmother towards the door."Goodnight," I say."Goodnight, sweet prince," the grandmother  calls happily over her shoulder.Bob shrugs, pours only himself a drink, even though I push my glass towards him, and tells me,  like he always does, that he's so sorry, really sorry,  about how close he built  to my house. I  never reply  because, as my mother used to say whenever I  goofed up, saying "sorry" doesn't  make things rightBob built last year. He's got a full six acres,  but dug in right  beside me, he claims, to get a flat  septic field. (I know about  septic, and I know about  septic fields, and I  know he's pushing my property  line, another inch and he'd be offside, so that he can subdivide someday and sell to more Bob and Cheryl's.) After losing mother and my job and all, I11Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999had been keeping myself  in the house a lot. But once  I heard the backhoe digging Bob's foundation I  brushed off my old porch chair. I watched their six bedroom house being built and I watched them  move in. Cheryl and Bob, in their crisp sweatshirts,  directing movers all morning and spending an entire  afternoon arranging their bent-willow patio furniture. And all the while, thank goodness, Jonathan was at the side of the house lighting his cigarettes with a torched-up lighter. Later, Bob came  up to my porch and asked me over for a drink. A  welcome drink, he called it. As though I was the newcomer.Cheryl returns from putting the grandmother to bed."Went down easy," she says to Bob. They both look at me."Better round up that dog before you go," Bob  pushes back his chair.I fold my napkin  into a tiny square, wipe  crumbs from my place, smooth the table cloth. In the end I follow Cheryl and Bob to the basement  where Jonathan and Barclay are laying on the couch  watching television. Barclay sits up, scratches  vigorously behind his ear, misting the area about  him, including Jonathan, with coarse, black-tipped hairs."Gotta go," I say.At home, I undo my shirt and flick on  the  kitchen light. Barclay whines at  the dog food cupboard so I get his dish (my mother's old porridge12Yalobusha Review, Vol. 5 [1999], Art. 5https://egrove.olemiss.edu/yr/vol5/iss1/5The Yalobusha Reviewpot) and fill it up with dry pellets. When I set it  on  the floor, Barclay's tail drops between his hind legs.  He looks up at me."Nothing special on that  tonight, old buddy,"  I say, "even if it is Thanksgiving. But tomorrow,  tomorrow we celebrate with all the fixings, just like always, including giblets and gravy for you." He cocks his head and, to make him understand, I open  the refrigerator and let him sniff our butter-basted  twelve pound turkey that I bought  at the A&G  grocery earlier in the day. Barclay howls in triumph. So do I.8813Howard: Stanley's Turkey DinnerPublished by eGrove, 1999

Stanley\u27s Turkey Dinner

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Stanley\u27s Turkey Dinner

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