Authors: K. J. Janssen
Siblings (3 page)
The alarm in the bedside radio went off, blasting a Beatles song into the silence of his studio apartment. He slapped the off switch and rolled over on the pillow and went back to sleep. Twenty minutes later he was awakened by the neighbor’s dog barking in the hall. He looked at the clock and decided it was time to get up. He straightened the sheets and picked up the bar at the end of the sofa-bed and returned it to its dual purpose position as a three cushion couch. His living quarters were small, but functional.
Wilson Arnold Symington was named after his great grandfather, Wilson Charles Symington, a military hero in the European Theater of Operations during WWII. Not many leaves from that branch of the family tree fell down on them, except they did find some papers that showed that the thrice decorated army captain had earned the Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, and a Purple Heart. No other member of the Symington clan ever served in the military and Wilson intended to continue that tradition in spite of his heroic namesake.
He made a cup of instant coffee and ate two half stale powdered donuts. This was what he called his preliminary breakfast. Usually for his real breakfast he relied on coffee cake and scones fresh from the oven and fresh brewed gourmet coffee in the break room at work, provided by the kitchen at the Wallington House. It was one of the perks he appreciated.
It was nice having a holiday off, even if it meant he would have to go over to his parents’ house to endure four or five hours of scrutiny. This was the first family get-together since his release.
I guess I deserve whatever happens. I was the one that screwed up. I’m the bad boy in the family. I’m sure I’m an embarrassment for them, especially in a town this small. Well, that’s water under the bridge now. I just hope Richard doesn’t start in with me. I swear, if he does, I’ll tell the family a few things I know about him, including his own drug use.
For a short time he supplied Richard with some high-grade hash.
We’ll see what Mom, Dad and his fiancée think about him then.
Wilson realized that he was getting himself worked up over something that might not even happen. That was a bad habit he had and it kept him in a constant state of angst. He played and replayed scenarios in his head; carrying on conversations that seldom took place in reality. This form of play acting, however, was a small part of the troubled psyche that was Wilson Symington. Even more troubling was a game he played at the neighborhood pub whenever he was bored. The rules were simple. All that was required was to consume as many drinks or beers as he could before someone, a bartender, or a friend, commented that maybe he had had enough. The record was twenty-three cans in a period of three hours, after which he passed out.
That was then. Right now, Wilson had a more serious problem; what to wear. He was supposed to pick up laundry from the cleaners on the way home yesterday, but he had to work late and they were closed by the time he got there. He considered stopping at the neighborhood Target store to buy some slacks, but he didn’t have enough cash and his credit card was maxed-out. So now he stood looking into the wardrobe trying to decide between a faded pair of khaki slacks and a pair of cargo pants that were fresh from the cleaners. Wilson knew his parents weren’t sticklers for dress and he didn’t give a damn about what anyone else would think. He opted for the cargo pants and found a tan two pocket shirt that looked presentable. Standing in front of the closet mirror, he eyed his six-foot, one hundred seventy pound stature and decided that what he had on would have to suffice.
The ride to his parents’ house would take about an hour, so he had three hours to kill. He picked up the remote and started flicking channels, finally settling for the History channel and a documentary about WWI.
At eleven sharp he left his apartment; his big adventure about to begin.
Richard Walter Symington rolled over in bed and smiled as he spied the beautiful face of his fiancée
on the pillow next to him
. I’m a lucky man,
he thought. It was six months, now since they met at a party at the hospital where they both worked. One year out of residency, Richard was a staff OB/GYN; Theresa, a supervisor of the records office.
Theresa was a redhead, in appearance and by temperament. She could be a real spitfire when provoked. Richard had only experienced that once and that was enough for him. As he watched her sleeping, he found it hard to believe this angelic looking creature could erupt into a spewing volcano.
She was of average height and weight with pale white skin populated with about a dozen strawberry seed-sized freckles, expressive sapphire eyes, and shoulder length, fiery red hair. Most men would define her as pretty, but Richard considered her the most beautiful woman in the world and didn’t spare any opportunity he had to tell her so.
I’m a lucky man to have bagged this one. I can’t wait to see what our children look like. I sure hope she likes my family.
He rolled over to look at the clock and as he did, Theresa began to stir. As she opened her eyes, she blinked a few times and asked, “Is it time to get up yet?”
“Just about; it’s eight o’clock.” He leaned over and kissed her. She smiled and did a big stretch.
“Which of us gets the bathroom first?”
“Why don’t you go ahead while I make us some coffee?
“Okay, I won’t be long.”
“Take your time. I’m going to put on the TV. The parade doesn’t start until nine but there’s a pre-parade special on.”
Richard lived under the large six foot plus shadow of his father. He had intended to follow a program of Pediatric Cardiology at medical school but eventually gave in to his father and entered the University of Vermont, School of Medicine in Burlington to become an OB/GYN. Although he applied to his father’s alma mater he did not receive an invitation from them. He never asked his father why he didn’t exert any influence to get him admitted to Yale; he always found it was best not to question his father’s intentions.
His eventual choice of schools made Richard the target of his father’s barbs. First he was constantly reminded that his school was rated nineteenth on the list of top Schools of Medicine, while Yale was rated number six. When his grades on a subject were higher than those his father had received for a corresponding subject, his father would point out that being a better school, Yale’s standards were higher. He applied the same logic when a grade was lower. Richard almost escaped scrutiny when he took a course that was not available back in the eighties, however, even when a one-on-one comparison wasn’t possible, his father questioned why the course was even required, usually adding the comment,
Tuition is high enough without making students take these pantywaist courses.
Richard was glad that his residency was finally over. It was as if he was redeemed. Once he became a staff OB/GYN at the hospital, his relationship with his father changed. After eleven years, all told, his life was no longer under his father’s microscope. Discussions with his father morphed into professional camaraderie. He supposed that in his father’s eyes he was now a fellow OB/GYN and therefore deserving of his admiration and respect.
He made his way to the kitchen. The one-bedroom apartment had a small kitchen area, which was called a kitchenette. It served him well when he lived there alone, but with Theresa moving in, it got a bit tight at times. They planned to move to a three-bedroom apartment nearer the hospital when they got married. He turned on the small TV to view the holiday festivities.
***
The town of Wallington had two special days; the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving. These were special days for one big reason. The town, being the home of the prestigious Harding Institute of Music also housed the Wallington High-Step Marching Band. Under the leadership of Warren (Pop) Werner, the school blossomed from a local training facility for the town’s band, to a nationally acclaimed institute with over three hundred students.
WHSMB was the town’s pride and joy. On the Fourth of July, the high-stepping musicians paraded down Main Street behind a procession of floats and balloons and before the TV cameras that broadcast the festivities over the nation’s top three TV networks.
On Thanksgiving Day, however, the residents of Wallington had to settle for watching their band on TV. This year, as they had done the past ten years, the Wallington High-Step Marching Band participated in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. Proud townsfolk yelled and cheered at their TV sets as the band entered their screens. It was a day of celebration for this town of 28,000 residents.
The parade show was already in progress. Richard was like a little kid when it came to parades. He was glad to be able to view the parade in town on the Fourth. He would probably miss the band’s parade appearance again this year. It seemed that they always performed while he was on his way to his parents’ house. It was times like this he wished that he had a DVR recorder for his TV.
That’s going to be a must when we move to our new place.
He had promised his mother that they would get there by noon and since this was also going to be a special day for him and his for his fiancée, he wanted everything to be perfect.
Richard went back to the bathroom to shower, shave, brush his teeth, and do the rest of his grooming. When he was finished he put on a robe and headed back to the kitchen.
“Do you want me to make anything for you?” Theresa asked as she poured him a cup of coffee.
“I think I’ll just have some toast with a smear of peanut butter.”
“Saving room for the turkey?”
“You bet. Everything Mom puts out is so delicious, especially her stuffing. I can’t resist having seconds.”
“I’m looking forward to having Thanksgiving dinner with your family. Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. Last year I was on duty and I just had some dried out turkey and mashed potatoes in the duty room.”
“Did you ever go back to Faribault for Thanksgiving?”
“No. I made a few Christmas trips, but never on Thanksgiving.”
“Did they ever try to get you to move back to Minnesota?”
“You mean did they ever stop trying? Faribault is just sixty miles from the Mayo Clinic at Rochester. It was their dream that I work there. I did apply, but as you can imagine the number of applications for RNs that they must receive in one year is probably in the thousands. Even though I was virtually a home town girl, they never even invited me for an interview. I guess I should consider myself lucky, though. If I had gone out there, I would be all alone now and I would never have met you.”
He leaned over and gave her a prolonged kiss that they both understood to be invitation to return to the bedroom for some lovemaking. It was quite possible that they might arrive late at his parents’ house, after all.
8:30 a.m. at the Symington Household
Marilyn removed the turkey from the refrigerator. Twenty pounds made for a bulky bird to wash and prep for her special stuffing, which was a traditional “old family recipe” handed down by five generations of Porters—a recipe she would pass on to Maggie when the time was right. The only copy of the recipe was written on a yellowed sheet of paper torn from a school notebook back in the early nineteen hundreds. It was hidden away under the book jacket of a book on spices. She thought for a moment how funny it was that people hid family recipes as if they were treasure. She guessed that the reason was that if they were to become too commonplace, the very thing that made them special and appreciated would somehow be lost. Eventually she would pass the recipe on to Maggie, but for now she intended to hold the secret close to her heart.
Marilyn carefully washed the bird, placed it in the roasting pan, and returned it to the refrigerator. She put the liver and giblets in boiling water for five minutes, chopped both into small squares, and set them aside as ingredients for her stuffing. She didn’t need to reference the paper to make her stuffing. She knew it by heart and had spent about an hour earlier in the week locating and measuring all of the ingredients she would need. A trip to the store secured those missing or in low supply. Marilyn always made her stuffing alone. Alone meant alone; no one dared to venture into the kitchen while her culinary masterpiece was being prepared. There were several reasons why she needed privacy, but mostly it was to avoid sharing the secret of the family recipe.
The final result always brought accolades; her turkey stuffing was “to die for.” She smiled inwardly as she saw the expression of approval on the face of anyone tasting it for the first time. There were a lot of mistakes a person can make while roasting a turkey, but for the most part, no one judged the turkey anywhere near as much as they did the stuffing. There were probably tens of thousands of regional recipes for stuffing in the United States, each with a unique ingredient or ingredients that made it stand out from the others. Marilyn wasn’t at all interested in competing with any other recipe. She just wanted to serve a stuffing her family would enjoy; the one that her mother had passed down to her and that she, one day, would pass on to Maggie.
Ron was her best judge. “This is really great,” he usually said and his opinion was the one she appreciated the most. His mother had been considered by many to be an outstanding cook, but he told Lynn the very first year she made her stuffing for him that his mother’s stuffing couldn’t hold a candle to hers. That alone was worth a lifetime of compliments. Life doesn’t always provide a lot of kudos for housewives and mothers, so any time they are compared favorably to their own or their spouse’s mothers, it is cherished. Several times she considered letting him taste it before the meal, but her confidence in her personal culinary skill would not allow her to do so.
She worked methodically, being careful to measure each ingredient as she blended them into the sixteen quart clear glass mixing bowl. Every step was done by hand; just as it had been done for over one hundred years. That, she always believed, had a lot to do with the success of the final product. Too often, would-be chefs tampered with “old family recipes,” thinking that folks in bygone years didn’t know enough about spices and herbs from around the world. Their improved recipes may have turned out passable, possibly even superb, but to refer to the stuffing as “authentic” was a true misnomer.
Although it defied logic, Marilyn believed that the ingredients, the measurements, and the timing of mixing-in each ingredient was important; as if there was some magic to when and how they entered the mix. She wasn’t going to argue with or change the process as it had been laid out on that notebook paper over a century ago. Her mantra,
You don’t tamper with success.
She discussed this with her friends at the Wallington Women’s Social Club and was surprised that the majority of them felt that there was enough to do for Thanksgiving dinner without slaving over the stuffing. Several of them were even completely happy with packaged stuffing. Marilyn shuddered at the thought.
It took her a little more than an hour to prepare the dressing. When it was finished she stuffed the turkey, stitched it up, stuck the thermometer in the bird’s breast, and placed it in the pre-heated oven. After setting the timer, she finally had time to relax with a second cup of coffee. She looked at the clock; Maggie wasn’t due for another half hour. She turned on the small TV on the counter and tuned in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She liked the balloons and floats, but felt that the high school bands overlapped each other too much to really be enjoyed. There was also a similarity between them that took away from the overall spectacle. Of course, her opinion of parade bands did not apply to Wallington’s High Steppers. They put on such a magnificent show that the producers zeroed in on with coverage that included the commentary by Pop Werner, himself.
He hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years. He’s just as cantankerous as he’s always been, but god—I wouldn’t miss watching him for the world.