Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

                                                       - Edgar Allan Poe

    The nightmare had begun one crisp November morning in 1978. It had been a Wednesday, and Bud, Cathy and their four kids had piled into the family's pale lime, 1976 Ford LTD, a color Bud had insisted on, one which everyone but him had hated. The trunk rode low under its load of luggage and the tank was full of gas as the Langham family started out on their first-ever trip to Chattanooga, Tennessee to join Cathy's family for a massive Thanksgiving reunion. 

    Cathy had been secretly amazed that Bud had ever agreed to the trip. He had absolutely no patience with the kids and very little with long road trips. That he would agree to a combination of the two seemed beyond belief. And even more importantly, it had been three days since Bud had had a drop of booze. It was his best effort yet at staying sober, and Cathy's hopes were running high. The trip could end up being historic in more ways than one. 

    All four of the kids sat in the spacious backseat of the LTD. Chilly temperatures kept the windows up except for the small crack Bud and Cathy each allowed as a vent for their cigarette smoke.  Looking back, all the kids were amazed they ever survived to adulthood, considering how many cigarettes they had smoked, second-hand, in their house, and worse, in the car. Now, in the backseat on the road north, they enjoyed the passing autumn scenery, almost oblivious to the stagnant pall that hung motionless all around them. 

    Bud's patience was first tested when he couldn't tune the radio to his favorite station, WUNI-AM, the "Woonie Bird." Broadcasting from a small studio on the Mobile Bay Causeway, the "Woonie Bird" laid down a twenty-four hour a day background of country hits with minimal commercial interruptions. It was the favorite of seemingly every dad in the southern half of the state, especially since it had courageously and defiantly stayed on the air throughout the raging devastation of Hurricane Camille in 1969. All through that horrible night, dads all down the coast, from Bay St. Louis, Mississippi to DeFuniak Springs, Florida, leaned in to hear the weak, crackling, but ever-present reports from Carlton Trainor, WUNI weather man. They had ridden out the big one together, and down south, you took your allegiances seriously, especially concerning country music and the weather. 

       “Dammit!” Bud had shouted without warning.  “Set that blasted thing on Woonie before I ram my fist through it, Cathy!” 

    Cathy was startled from her silent prayers, but the kids barely took note. They were well accustomed to such outbursts from Bud behind the wheel, plus they were just so excited to be travelling to Tennessee. The rumor in the backseat was that they'd probably see some mountains. To kids raised on the coastal plain of Alabama, anything more than a speed bump stirred mental images of soaring peaks and snow-swept heights, so even minor foothills of the Smokey Mountain Range would be greeted with awe from the back of the pale lime LTD. Cathy quickly locked in on Woonie, and a fragile peace was restored. She noted 288 miles to go, give or take, and said another quick prayer.

    Finally, just after three in the afternoon, the Langhams eased into John Presley's driveway in Chattanooga, Tennessee. The kids were still wide-eyed and giddy over the changes they'd noticed as they'd gradually made their way north, rocky outcroppings, hardwood forests, the more pronounced autumn coloring in the trees, and finally, the foothills of the Great Smokey Mountain range. Even Bud's frequent threats to stop that car and beat their fannies hadn't been able to quell their excited chatter and bickering, and Cathy was amazed he hadn't actually stopped and made good on his threats. Four packs of Winstons and a steady stream of RC cola had brought Bud through, and now, mercifully, they were there. 

    The kids spilled from the LTD still comparing notes on the geography of southern Tennessee, while Cathy hurried to hug and greet her family, all of whom were already there. Bud emerged from the car cursing to himself and fumbling for his lighter and a smoke. Lighting a cigarette, he took a long, calming drag, and approached John's porch. Oh how he longed for a "toddy," but he had promised Cathy, and he was still determined to make good on that promise. The greetings were long, loud, and boisterous, and Bud thought they'd never get inside so he could go to the bathroom. Later, he joined the adults at the kitchen table for coffee and updates. Meanwhile, the kids made their way warily into the backyard to begin the awkward and somewhat scary task of melding with the cousins they knew only fleetingly. It was truly shaping up to be a fantastic reunion.

    Thanksgiving Day had dawned cold and clear, just like Cathy always imagined it had been on that first Thanksgiving celebration with the Pilgrims and the Indians. Dressing quickly and quietly, so as not to wake Bud, she took her hot coffee out onto the front porch to breathe in the crisp mountain air. Cathy couldn't wait to sit down with her family and enjoy the great feast the women had begun to prepare the night before, the kids drifting off to sleep to the muffled sounds of laughter and fellowship as Cathy and the other parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles worked well into the night getting everything ready. Now, the great day had finally arrived.

    Later, gathered at the massive oak table, Cathy looked around at this large smiling family and could scarcely contain her excitement. Everybody was in place and ready for Granddaddy to say the blessing. Everybody, that is, except Bud. When Cathy realized Bud was missing, she felt a mixture of fear and disappointment. Her immediate thought, which she was sure she shared with all her kids, was that Bud had slipped out back for a "toddy" to get his stomach right. She prayed it wasn't so.

    “Where's Bud?” Granddaddy asked. He was ready to pray and eat.

    “I saw him go into the hallway bathroom just a second ago” Johnny said.

    “I'll go get him” Cathy said with a slight, temporary sense of relief. Please don't let him be drunk she prayed silently.

    “Bud, dinner's ready” she called. “We're all at the table. Are you about done?” 

    There was no answer.

    “Bud...are you in there?” she called again, going into the hall 

    No answer.   

    “Cathy, is he alright?” Granddaddy asked as he came to join her. Even at sixty-four, he was a powerful, hardy man. He had been wounded in combat fighting the Japanese in the Philippines during World War II, and was still the prototypical spit-and-polish warrior. All the grandkids loved him beyond words, and to them he was a hero in every sense of the word. Now, as he moved quickly to the bathroom door, everyone felt better. 

    “Dad, do you think he’s alright?” Even she could hear the fear and hopelessness in her own voice. She felt like a child herself, calling on her father to make it better. 

    “Bud! Bud! Can you hear me?” Granddaddy shouted and then, apparently having had enough of this one-way conversation, broke open the bathroom door with his shoulder in one short, powerful movement and pulled Bud, who was crumpled on the floor, apparently unconscious, out into the hall. 

    “Bud! Can you hear me?” he repeated, shaking Bud and steadying his head, which was lolling from side to side.

    "Cathy, call the ambulance" Granddaddy shouted as he doused a towel in cold water and applied it to Bud's sweating brow.

    Cathy's kids knew what had happened. Somehow, Bud had sneaked some booze and had gotten too drunk. Now he was passed out and they were humiliated once again. Another great Langham holiday memory was in the process of being created.

    Bud moaned, and, dropping the phone, Cathy ran to kneel beside him.

    "Is he okay Dad?" she pleaded. "Is he conscious?"

    "He's coming around" Granddaddy told her. "Get me a glass of water!" he barked to Grandmother in the kitchen.

    "Bud! Bud, can you hear me?" Cathy cried.

    "Where am I?" Bud asked. 

    Cathy looked at her father, not bothering to hide her confusion. This was not Bud’s drunken voice. She’d heard that one more than enough to have it committed to memory. This was different, and she could not smell alcohol on Bud's breath. Now she was really scared.

    "You're at Johnny's in Tennessee...for Thanksgiving, remember?" she pleaded with Bud. "Don't you remember? We drove up yesterday."

    Grandmother arrived with the water. Bud saw it, grabbed it, and drained the glass in seconds. "More" he grunted. Cathy felt his forehead and was startled at the heat. He must have a fever of 105! she thought. 

    "More water!" she screamed as she reapplied the cold compress to Bud's brow. "Bud, do you remember now?" Cathy pressed on.

    "Remember what?" he asked in a dazed voice. By now all the kids had made their way to the hall. They knew now that Bud wasn't drunk. Drunk they understood. Drunk was a known quantity. Drunk had its routines and protocols, and drunk was manageable. This new condition that their father was in was completely unfamiliar, and the fear in Cathy's voice fed their own. They huddled together as Cathy and Granddaddy worked on Bud.

    "I...have to...sleep" Bud said, and Cathy was startled at how fast he was out. He seemed okay, simply asleep, but his dementia and fever warned of much worse. Cathy suddenly understood.

    "Dad, it's the DTs!” she exclaimed. “Bud stopped drinking three days ago, cold turkey, and now he's got the DTs!”

    "The what?" Granddaddy asked. 

    The Langham kids' blood ran cold. They didn't know what the DTs were, but they knew that in moments, the sad, humiliating story of Bud's alcoholism was going to be common knowledge to the whole family.

    Cathy explained that DTs stood for delirium tremens, and that it was a condition that sometimes occurs in alcoholics after a period of excessively heavy drinking followed by a period of abstinence. She explained that victims get extremely confused, depressed, and sometimes they hallucinate. Cathy was also worried because if she was right, and Bud did indeed have the DTs, then later that night she knew he would suffer severe tremors in his hands, his head, and maybe his whole upper body, and the condition could last several days. 

    Cathy realized they had to get home before the worst of it started. Staying there and allowing the coming nightmare show to be played out before the whole family was simply unacceptable to her. If nothing else, she refused to let her children suffer that indignity.

    "Dad, Mom, we have to go" she said to her parents. They tried to object, but she was adamant to the point of anger. She would not let this happen there in that happy place. The kids kicked into crisis mode as they had so many times before, and within the hour, the LTD was packed and idling, Bud slumped unconscious in the front passenger seat, dosed up with aspirin and wrapped in a blanket, as the kids waved sadly from the backseat at their so recently befriended cousins. Cathy hugged each of her family, wiping tears as she accepted their encouragement and sympathy. Promising to call the moment she arrived home, Cathy climbed into the car, and they drove away from their family on Thanksgiving Day.

    Cathy couldn't remember a more terrible experience than what transpired over those next twelve hours, although the trip home proved mostly uneventful, Bud dozing in and out of consciousness. Fortified with nicotine and driven on by the unknown fears that awaited just beyond Bud’s stupor, Cathy made good time, knowing that when he awakened, the situation would probably get ugly. The Langhams pulled into their driveway two hours after dark, exhausted but relieved, adrenaline surging again as they hurried to unpack and prepare for the next phase of the DTs.

    Expecting the worst but playing it down, Cathy put the kids to bed as Bud began to come around, assuring them that she would be alright taking care of Bud alone. In vain she hoped they would be asleep before the fireworks began. By ten the kids were tucked in, the lights were out, and Cathy had called her parents. Now, she braced herself by Bud's bedside, armed with a thermometer, a gallon of iced water, a bottle of aspirin, and some towels. An hour later, Bud came alive with no warning.

    "What the hell!" he screamed as he jumped from his bed and tore his sweat-soaked T-shirt from his body. 

    "What Bud? What is it?" she demanded, reaching out for his arm.

    "Worms! There's worms all over me!" he shouted, dashing wildly around the bedroom, grabbing and scratching himself bloody.

    "Bud! Calm down and listen!” Cathy told him, trying to corral him back to the bed. “There are no worms! You're hallucinating. It's because you've gone cold turkey. It's the DTs!”

    "Dammit, it's worms! I can feel 'em and I can see 'em! Don't tell me it's the DTs!" he screamed. 

    Struggling to recall the specifics of the DTs from her nursing school training, Cathy prayed that the delirium part ran its course quickly.

    Bud saw the iced water, and lunged for it, dumping it over his head as he continued his battle with the imaginary worms. Cathy guessed he was once again fighting the searing heat of his intermittent fever as well as the worms, and the iced water seemed like a good idea. Bud burst from the bedroom, then stopped suddenly, Cathy following him from a safe distance.

    "The critters are gone!" he said, cocking his head sideways as if listening for something. "They're gone!" he repeated.

    Thank you God Cathy prayed silently. But her relief was premature.

    "There they are, in the hall!" Bud yelled, but instead of chasing after them, he raced to the kitchen and began throwing dishes aside in a frantic search for something, glass and china shattering on the floor and against the wall. Cathy saw the kids in the hall, frozen in fear and confusion. Before she could send them back to bed, he yelled.

    "There it is!"

    Bud grabbed an empty pickle jar, filled it half full with water from the kitchen faucet, then burst past Cathy on his way to the bathroom where he emptied a bottle of rubbing alcohol into the water in his jar. He looked at Cathy with a mixture of anticipation and bloodlust. He was going after the worms.

    "Look out!" he screamed at the kids, and they all scurried back to their rooms to watch through cracks in barely-opened doorways.

    "They're everywhere!" Bud shrieked as he held an imaginary worm up to the light. Plopping it into his solution, he went after another while Cathy watched in horror, before darting past Bud and gathering her children together in her arms. As Bud's phantom battle raged furiously for the next half-hour, she sat on the floor with them, whispering soothing assurances that this was normal behavior when an alcoholic quits drinking, promising them that it was about to run its course. Slowly, their tears subsided, while, in the hallway, Bud's dementia moved to a new level.

    "AAAGHH! You son of a ...!" he screamed, falling to the floor and thrashing about as he dug at his tongue and lips with both hands. 

    "Bud, what's wrong?" Cathy yelled. Even she wasn't ready for this phase.

    "They're in my mouth now! Get me the peroxide!" he demanded.

    Swishing a large gulp around in his mouth, he spewed it across Cathy and the kids. As they scattered, dripping with the disgusting mix of peroxide, blood and spittle, Bud announced another victory.

    "Got that little devil!" he rejoiced, plunking an imaginary worm into his jar, and quickly screwed the lid into place. 

    "See there? I told you they were in there!” he exulted. “But they ain't gonna get the best of ol' Bud Langham! Hell no!”    

    Speaking of his plans to take the captured worms to Dr. Taylor the next day for testing and analysis, Bud went to the bathroom, washed up, and prepared for bed just as if nothing had happened. For a long while, Cathy and the kids just stared at one another in disbelief. In all their experiences with Bud, this had taken the cake. Finally, Cathy nudged the kids into bed again. She cleaned the hallway in silence, praying Bud was done for the night. 

    It was midnight before she crawled into bed. It had been the longest and most terrifying day of her life, and she hoped sleep would come quickly. Glancing at her alarm clock, she saw that Thanksgiving Day was officially over now. As her eyelids grew heavier, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling and silently praying where so recently insanity had raged. The day's events had taught her what it really meant to give thanks. Thanks for peace. Thanks for sanity. Thanks for merciful sleep.