Thanksgiving

By Cecil Armstrong

If you had watched me in the kitchen, you would have thought me ordinary, just another wife preparing dinner.

I made everything the way Bob liked it. I roasted the turkey for three hours at 325 degrees, then took it out of the oven and let it rest for fifteen minutes before carving. I mashed the potatoes with milk and butter and topped them with green onions. I took the drippings from the roasting dish, added some corn starch, stock, and a little cream, and made a nice gravy, not too thick. Bob hated his gravy thick.

I made cranberry sauce with fresh berries from the market. And I took my time on the stuffing. Onions, celery, pepper, garlic, and bacon. Bob loved his stuffing.

And for dessert, I baked pumpkin pie.

A feast, just for Bob.

Bob was sitting in his plush armchair in the living room, watching football on an enormous screen. The Giants were playing the Cowboys, and I guessed the Giants weren’t doing so good from the tone of Bob’s shouting.

If you had wanted to know what Bob looked like, he was a tall, muscular man, just shy of his fiftieth birthday, with short blonde hair and intense blue eyes. Had you come across Bob, I’m sure you would have found him a good-looking, charming man when you first met. I know I did.

I poked my head into the living room. “Honey?”

The Giants were behind by three points with five minutes left in the final quarter. The television was up loud, and I had to repeat myself.

“Honey, dinner’s about ready.”

“Can’t you see the game’s still on?”

“Sorry, Bob,” I said. “I’ll pop everything in the warmer until you’re ready.”

“You do that.” Bob’s eyes never left the screen.

Empty beer cans were scattered everywhere. I tiptoed behind Bob’s chair and began collecting them.

“For Christ’s sake, Janet, leave them,” Bob said. “I just told you I’m trying to watch the game.”

“Sorry.”

What was I doing? I was so nervous I’d started tidying without thinking. I crept out of the living room before I upset Bob and spoiled everything. My heart was racing and jumping; I felt dizzy and thought I might be sick.

I took a deep breath, went back inside the kitchen, and put the food in the oven warmer drawer.

Even though it was Thanksgiving, no one else was coming for dinner. No friends. No family. Only Bob and me. That’s the way Bob liked it.

We didn’t have any children. But I didn’t like to talk about that. So, if you had asked, I most likely would have said I was pregnant once, and then I wasn’t, and I wouldn’t ever be again.

Bob stomped through and sat at the dining room table. The game was over, and I could tell the Giants had lost. Bob’s eyes were a little bloodshot. I busied myself, setting the table.

I brought the food from the oven warmer and placed it on the table in serving bowls. I took a nice bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and poured Bob a glass.

“For God’s sake,” Bob said, grabbing my wrist. “How many times do I have to tell you? I like Pinot Noir with turkey.”

“I’m sorry, Bob,” I said. “I forgot. I’ll go and get a bottle right now.”

I hurried downstairs and found a bottle of Pinot Noir.

I’d just made it back to the top of the stairs when my stomach clenched, and I tasted acid rising in my throat. I rushed into the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. Afterward, I stood in front of the mirror and splashed water on my face.

Calm down, I reminded myself. It’ll all be over soon. I glanced at the mirror but turned away. You would have seen a wide-eyed, frightened woman; you might have thought her still young until you looked more closely. You would have seen she was wearing a scarf, and you probably wouldn’t have noticed the bruises on her neck.

Bob had started dinner without me and was chewing on a slice of turkey breast. He had piled his plate high with turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn. On one side of his plate was a huge helping of stuffing, but he hadn’t touched it yet.

“Turkey breast’s dry. Did you take them out and let the legs cook a bit longer, the way I told you to?”

“Sorry,” I said. “I forgot.”

I opened the bottle of red wine and poured him a glass. I sat down, scooped some potatoes, beans, and corn on my plate, and poured myself a small glass of wine. Did I mention I was a vegetarian?

Bob looked up. “What? You’re drinking tonight?”

“It’s a special occasion.”

Bob had bits of turkey in his teeth, gravy over his mustache, and some cranberry sauce on his shirt. He poured more gravy on his potatoes and picked up a turkey leg.

“Gravy’s not bad.”

I looked at him and smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said. But my heart was pounding.

Bob started on the stuffing. He forked a big helping into his mouth.

“Wow,” he said. “This stuffing tastes great. What’s in it?”

“Everything,” I said. “Onions, celery, pepper, garlic, bacon…”

Bob tried to say something, but all that came out was a harsh whisper. His handsome face was swelling, turning red, puffing. He scratched at raised wheals on his arms and neck. Bob was breathing through a straw.

“…and peanuts.” I raised my glass. “Cheers, Bob.”

Bob’s face slumped forward, down toward his chest, plunged into his plate of turkey and mashed potatoes.

“Sorry, Bob,” I said. “I forgot.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cecil Armstrong was born in Huntly, New Zealand, and studied at Matamata College and the University of Auckland. His short story Lost Sheep placed second in the 2021 Odyssey House Victoria Short Story Competition. He lives in Auckland with his wife and their cat.