Turkey Monster Thanksgiving (4 page)

“As soon as what?” he asked.

“As soon as I put them on a pretty plate,” I said. “I’ll make them Thursday morning, while the turkey cooks.”

He slumped over his keyboard. “I can’t think about that turkey.”

I waved the magazine at him. “Don’t worry, Dad. All the turkey answers are right here.”

The phone rang and Dad picked it up. It was Mom, calling from Nashville. First, she talked to Dad. Then to Tyler. Finally, it was my turn. “What are you up to?” she asked. I loved hearing her voice. Even Mom’s talking sounded like singing.

“I’m getting us ready for Thanksgiving,” I told her. I described the festoons and the turkey on the door. “I wish you could come to our dinner.”

“I wish I could, too. You know what? I might be working Thanksgiving Day. It’s pretty frantic here.” She covered the phone and talked to someone. “Look, honey,” she said when she came back, “I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ll call next Saturday and talk to you first. I want to hear all about your dinner.”

After we hung up, I went to my bedroom and stared at the poster I’d hung next to my dresser. Mom sure didn’t look like a mom in her white cowboy boots and tight jeans and a sparkled red top. “I’m going to wear the dress you gave me,” I told the poster.

It took a while to find it in my closet. It was blue! I’d forgotten that. The blue ruffled collar and blue skinny sleeves reminded me of Claire Plummer. I shrugged out of my tee shirt and jeans and pulled the dress over my head. Stuck!

“Ahem,” said Dad’s voice. “Is that dress holding you prisoner?”

“It’s too small.” I pulled it off and threw it on the floor. “Anyway, I don’t like it.”

Dad nodded. “It’s a nice dress, but it doesn’t look like you. Your mother …” He stopped.

I pulled on my jeans and shirt. “She doesn’t even know what I like.”

He stood there a moment without speaking. Then he wiggled his shoulders and rubbed his back against the door frame like a bear rubbing against a tree. “I need a break from Flagstaff’s report. Shall we take Tyler to the park? It’s not raining.”

I kicked the blue dress under my bed. I didn’t feel like going anywhere. But then, I changed my mind. “Let’s go.”

After dinner that night, Dad put me on bathtub duty. My job was to sit on the toilet seat with my book and make sure Tyler didn’t go underwater or flood the bathroom.

Dad was back at his desk across the hall from us. I could hear his fingers racing across the computer keys. That report was sure keeping him busy. His phone rang. “Hello,” he said.

Tyler splashed in the tub. “Chug-a, chug-a.” He whammed two tugboats together.

“Don’t get my book wet,” I told him.

Dad’s voice suddenly got louder. “Ms. Morgan?” he asked. And then he closed his office door, and I couldn’t hear him at all.

A
FEW MINUTES LATER
, Dad came into the bathroom. He took his glasses off as they clouded over with steam. “That was your teacher.”

“Oh?” I closed my book and pressed it against my aching stomach.

“She thinks we’re having company for Thanksgiving dinner.”

I swallowed. My ears crackled.

“She thinks SHE is our company for Thanksgiving dinner.”

I sagged over. My book stuck sharp corners into my chest.

“She called to say she’s bringing two pies.” Dad’s voice was tired. He rubbed his forehead. “Who else is coming?”

“Just her. No one else.”

“Didn’t you hear me say ‘no company’?” he asked.

Tyler stared at Dad with big, round eyes. “Get me out now.” He stood up and tub water sloshed around his knees. “I want my train jammies.”

Dad reached for the towel and lifted Tyler out of the tub.

The tub water gurgled down the drain.

“I wanted to watch the game and enjoy my family,” he said in that same tired voice. “I wanted to get this report done. And then, I wanted to relax.”

“Can I have a story?” Tyler asked. His chin wobbled. His eyes filled with tears.

“Of course,” Dad said. He carried Tyler out of the bathroom.

While Dad read to Tyler, I huddled on my bed. Hiccups filled up my chest. Hiccuped out of my mouth.

Once Tyler was in bed, Dad came into my room. “How did this happen?” he asked. “This Thanksgiving thing has turned into a monster.”

I hugged my pillow against my sore chest and told him about the extra invitation and how it got delivered. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Nothing is ready,” he said.

“We have most of the groceries,” I told him. “Tomorrow I’ll make the Sweet Potato Brûlée. Tuesday, the Green Beans Deluxe. Wednesday, the Cranberry Tower. It’s under control, Dad.”

Dad stared at my lists on the bulletin board. “It’s different now that there’s company.” He found a piece of paper and a pencil and started making a list of his own. “Glasses that match. Cream for coffee.”

“We’ll clean house Thursday morning,” I told him. “While the turkey is cooking.” He groaned. But he wrote “TURKEY!” on his list.

“Ms. Morgan’s bringing the dessert.” I crossed off popsicles and ice cream sandwiches. “Real butter,” he said, writing furiously. “We used to have real napkins. Where’d they go?”

“They turned into diapers for Tyler’s bear. Maybe we can find them?”

“We’ll buy paper.”

“We need a table centerpiece, Dad.”

“Where’s that turkey poster you made?”

“On the front door.”

“It’s now for the table,” Dad said. He reached over and crossed CENTERPIECE??? off my list.

His list got very long. He frowned at it for a while. “Too much to do,” he said finally.

“I didn’t know you like making lists,” I said.

“It’s not a matter of liking,” he said. “It’s a matter of necessity.”

“I’m worried about one thing,” I told him. “Tyler at the table.”

“He’s just a little boy.”

“He’s awful,” I said.

“We’ll work on it.” Dad rested his forehead on his hand.

“Are you still mad?” I could feel my hiccups waiting to start again.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m worried we can’t get everything done in time.”

“T
ELL ME YOUR MENU
,” Claire said as we started to school on Monday morning. I told her.

“You have to have lots more than that! Someone might be allergic!”

“What?”

“Most people are allergic,” she said. “You have to serve lots of food, so if they’re allergic to one thing, they can pick something else. Your company doesn’t want to get a rash.”

I pictured Ms. Morgan looking wistfully at all the food. “No, thank you,” she’d say. “I’m allergic. Maybe I could eat a sandwich instead.” Dad would get out the peanut butter. Tyler would have some. Ms. Morgan would throw up.

As soon as we got to school I looked carefully at Ms. Morgan. She didn’t look allergic. During free reading time, I wrote her a note:

Dear Ms. Morgan:

Are you alergick?

Your friend, Katie Jordan

During afternoon recess, she wrote me back.

Dear Katie,

I am only allergic to poison oak.

Your friend, Ms. Morgan

Before the end of school, I wrote back to her.

Dear Ms. Morgan,

We will not have any poison oak for Thanksgiving dinner.

Your friend, Katie Jordan

That night we ate an early supper. Dad made hot dogs. “Tonight, we practice good manners,” he told Tyler.

The meal went fine until suddenly Tyler spit everything out of his mouth onto his plate. “Look,” he said, poking at the mess with his finger, “mustard and ketchup and hot dog is pretty!”

Dad frowned. “No,” he said. “NOT pretty.” He took Tyler’s plate to the kitchen. “You’re finished, young man.”

“Claire’s turkey monster will know about this,” I whispered.

Tyler’s face turned white. He got down from the table and went to play with the trucks.

He wasn’t singing any songs. The house was strangely quiet.

“All right,” Dad said as soon as the dishes were cleared away. “This recipe had better be easy.”

“It’s for the time-stressed woman,” I said, opening the magazine.

“What about the time-stressed man?”

“You, too,” I said.

We dumped canned sweet potatoes into a bowl. “Mash the potatoes,” I read.

“Recipes don’t tell you everything,” Dad said. “These need to be drained.” He tilted the potatoes over the sink until the juices were gone.

“Good thing you’re helping me,” I said.

“At least they’re cooked.” Dad started to mash. “Already soft.”

“I need help,” Tyler called from the living room. “I need help.”

Dad put down the masher. “Back in a minute,” he said.

I measured a half-teaspoon of cinnamon and a half-teaspoon of cloves and sprinkled them over the potatoes. I was good with measuring spoons. Dad had taught me how to make cookies.

“His cement truck got stuck under the recliner,” Dad said when he came back. He beat the potatoes until all the lumps were gone. “These are going to be good,” he said, licking the masher. We spread the potatoes in a pan. I melted butter in the microwave, and we poured brown sugar mixed with the butter over the top. Dad turned on the broiler.

“This is the tricky part,” he said. “The recipe says, ‘Watch carefully to avoid over-browning.’”

“Over-browning? What do they mean?”

“BURNING.” He slid the dish under the hot broiler and peered in. Before he could say more, the phone rang. “Mr. Flagstaff,” Dad said. “Hello, sir. What did you think of the first section?”

A loud voice came through the phone.

Dad smiled. “Glad you like it.”

“I need help,” Tyler hollered. This time he was in the bathroom.

“A new section?” Dad reached for paper and pencil. I ran down the hall.

Tyler had wrapped the whole roll of toilet paper around himself. “I started with a little bit,” he said.

“You look like an Egyptian mummy,” I said. “Let’s show Dad.” I led him down the hallway since he couldn’t even see.

In the family room, Dad bent over the table with the phone jammed against his ear. He wrote furiously. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, sir.”

Just then, I heard sputtering and crackling from the kitchen. A thick cloud of smoke rolled out of the oven.

T
HE NEW BATTERIES IN
our smoke alarm worked fine.

“Hold on, Mr. Flagstaff,” Dad yelled. He put down the phone and pulled open the oven door. Flames shot out. More smoke.

I grabbed our new fire extinguisher and thrust it toward him.

Dad wrestled it out of the box. He aimed and pulled the trigger.

Whoosh!

The flames disappeared. A horrible smell came out of the oven.

I threw open the back door and flicked on the fan.

Dad flapped a towel at the alarm until it finally stopped screeching.

All that time, Tyler had been clinging to Dad’s leg like a sticky burr. Dad picked him up in his arms. He picked up the phone. “All under control, sir.” The receiver buzzed against his ear.

“Just a little cooking project,” Dad said. “I’ll get right to work on that extra section you want.” He hung up the phone. The three of us stared at each other. Tyler snuffled.

“His clients are coming for the report on Thursday morning,” he said.

“But that’s Thanksgiving.”

“His clients are from Japan. They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.” He leaned toward me. “Katie,” he said, and I knew what he would say before he even began. “About Ms. Morgan coming for dinner …”

Tears burned my eyes. I turned away from him so he wouldn’t see them. “I want a real Thanksgiving,” I blubbered.

“I don’t understand,” he said, “why this is so important.”

“I want us to do what real …” I started, and then, I couldn’t even finish.

“What real families do?”

I nodded.

“Katie,” he said, “don’t you see that we are a real family? That we don’t have to do anything different?”

“We don’t do things the way …” I couldn’t finish again.

“The way Claire and Mr. Plummer do them?”

I nodded. A tear rolled down my cheek. I brushed it away.

Dad rubbed Tyler’s back with long, slow rubs. “That’s them, honey. They aren’t any more real than we are.”

“We’ll get more canned sweet potatoes,” I said, blinking back my tears. “We’ll skip the overbrowning part. You said they were delicious before we burned them. Remember?”

Tyler buried his face in Dad’s shoulder. “I don’t want any Thanksgiving.”

“I’ll call Ms. Morgan,” Dad said. “I’ll tell her the truth. That I have a work emergency. Remember? Mr. Flagstaff wants that report Wednesday night.”

My throat filled up with lumps. I couldn’t answer.

Dad looked at Tyler. “What’s this all over you?” he asked. “You look like an Egyptian mummy.” He lifted some toilet paper and peeked under. “Is there a mummy under here?”

Tyler pulled his thumb out of his mouth. He snuffled. Then, he giggled. Pretty soon, he and Dad were rolling around on the floor just as if things were still fine.

While Dad put Tyler to bed, I put on my cranberry-popcorn necklace. I switched on the porch light and looked at the beautiful festoons. I went back in and studied the lists on my bulletin board.

Why was Dad so worried about cooking a turkey? He loved making pizzas. Could turkeys be that much harder? I reached for
Beautiful Living
and turned to page thirty-nine. A half-hour later, I went to tell Dad good-night.

“I’ve got great news,” I told him. “I read all about it. I can do the turkey by myself. All I have to do is wash it and dry it and stick it in the oven for five hours. It’s easy.”

“I tried to phone Ms. Morgan,” Dad said, “but her line was busy.” His hand moved toward his phone on his desk. “Think how much I’ll learn,” I told him. “This is good for my character.”

He picked up the phone. Set it back down. “Your character could use some work.”

“Tyler’s character, too,” I said. “He might stop playing with his food.”

“The two of you used to be friends,” Dad said. “Now, you squabble all the time.”