The Secret of Me, the Tree, and the Beady-Eyed Whatever

(This short story has multiple pages.)

April, 2010

Editors' Choice Award

I first learned the secret in the late fall of ’32. I was a pig-tailed ten, going on twenty-five, or so I imagined, and I was peacock proud to be sitting at the adult table for the first time. I faced the bronzed, crackled turkey with wide eyes and wild eagerness. It was big and whole and downright regal looking, even if it did lack a head or feet. No bird like that had ever graced my table. My turkey had always come to me in miniscule chunks, already gravied, sidled up to mashed potatoes and stuffing and the dreaded something green. There was always something green. Fortunately that disagreeable offering was never a problem since my big sister and I spent holiday gatherings consigned to the little frog table with the lily pad chairs. It was just the two of us, tucked in a corner, and the something green was easily hidden on table or chair for later secret disposal.

But on my tenth Thanksgiving I felt grown. My sister had wailed loudly that, at fifteen, she was way too old to be relegated to the little kid’s table, and because my mother knew I would have brought the house down around her ears if I was the only one languishing on a lily pad, she banished the frog altogether and squeezed me between my Aunt Rita and Uncle Martin in a space big enough for only half of me. With not enough real chairs to go around, not that one would have fit in that tiny space anyway, I found myself teetering atop a too-short kitchen stool, just about nose high to my plate, dodging the elbows routinely whizzing past my nose. But I didn’t care. I was at the grown-up table.

That was the best-tasting turkey that had ever passed my lips, and though most kids would have been bored to tears with all the grown-up jabbering, I was full-blown fascinated. That’s because I was convinced that after one holiday dinner with the adults I would magically become one myself the minute the meal was over.

I eagerly anticipated adulthood with all its inherent joys. I would drive a car, pink my cheeks with rouge, kiss a boy the way my sister had done behind the carnival tent, wear high heels, and watch the breasts I didn’t have suddenly pop out to the size of oranges. As soon as those whoppers were out, which I figured would be right on the heels of dessert, I would rig them up in a pretty purple brassiere like the one Mom wore when Dad came home from his business trips. I was about to bust wide open with anticipation.

Things started to go south when I couldn’t find anywhere to stash my peas. Though I tried not to panic as the impact of being frogless crashed down upon me, desperation swooped in just the same. Swallowing the disgusting little green balls was not an option, but with the turkey and potatoes and stuffing gone, those awful peas stuck out on my snowy white china plate like a fat toad in a bowl of cream. I had to figure something out, and fast, before Mom or Dad dared to look my way. Searching everywhere within arm’s reach, I began to squirm as I contemplated the dismal choice of potential hiding places. There wasn’t a bit of camouflaging green to be had, and as my stool was barely big enough for my backside, it offered no help at all. Then I hit on the answer. I just mashed my pile of peas with the back of my spoon until they were a nice thick paste, sandwiched the glob between the two squishy halves of my dinner roll, and switched my roll for Uncle Martin’s when he wasn’t looking. I thought for sure it would work. After all, Uncle Martin had eaten his peas. I saw him. What’s a few more?

Uncle Martin didn’t have kids of his own. In fact, of all the relatives gathered around the huge leaf-expanded table, my sister and I were the only ones under the age of thirty. I guess my plentiful aunts and uncles just weren’t keen on the whole concept of preserving the family tree. But Uncle Martin was the least keen of all, and when he bit into that pea-stuffed roll, he made a most monstrous face before spitting the partially chewed wad across the table right onto my mom’s favorite pink angora sweater. It clung to her left breast for the longest three seconds of my life before slithering down her front like a drunken snail, leaving a slimy trail of spit, dough and smushed peas in its wake.

Time stopped. No one talked. No one chewed. Everyone simply stared, first at the icky green chunk, then at me. Less than a heartbeat later, with Uncle Martin screaming something about damned kids belonging in the kitchen, half the grown-ups were hot on my heels as I bolted from the table, rounded the china hutch, and made a mad dash for the back door. I wasn’t afraid for my life or anything, but I figured that whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be pumpkin pie with whipped cream.

Mom always called Uncle Hubert the dimwit brother because he just never got the concept of the linen napkin, though I’m guessing there could have been other reasons, too. But no one could say Uncle Hubert didn’t like a good chase as much as the next guy, and with a holler, he sprang to his feet to join the posse. I dared a glance over my shoulder to gauge my lead just in time to see Uncle Hubert, tablecloth tucked deep in his straining belt, leap toward the pack. His lurch catapulted every last remnant of Thanksgiving dinner toward Mom’s prized cherry wood ceiling fan, and that snared tablecloth billowed like a ship’s sail sending food, china, wine, and silverware airborne.

Like Old Faithful, the cornbread dressing shot straight up and out of its bowl then swan dived into Great-Grandma’s lap. Speckled stuffing spread across her thighs like some kind of living blanket, and I could tell from the “O” her lips made, she was flirting with a dead faint. She might have avoided the swoon if she hadn’t looked up just in time to see the decapitated hole-riddled turkey fly by. That did it. Her eyelashes batted above her wobbly, wrinkled neck just before her head flopped right onto the fruitcake roll. Other stunned relatives didn’t fare much better as peas rained from the heavens, gravy clung to eyeglasses, and gelatin jiggled on the curtains. I think there was screaming.