Thanksgiving Dinner

Mike McCall sat alone at the counter of the Denny’s on Sheridan Boulevard, just outside of Boulder, Colorado. He stared at the menu with unfocused eyes. His mind was elsewhere. The drive here had taken almost eight hours in his rented Ford Taurus, even considering two short stops to relieve himself. He now wondered, Should I just eat here, turn back, or keep going? Did I really drive almost 450 miles to spend Thanksgiving Day eating country fried steak and eggs? No, I didn't. He tossed the menu on the counter and walked back to the parking lot.

The drive from the restaurant to Mapleton Hill took only about twenty minutes, but Mike spent the next half hour slowly driving through that expensive, leafy neighborhood, all the while chain smoking Marlboro Lights. As he rolled down the window, he could feel the late autumn chill and hear the wind whistling through the almost bare branches of the white birch trees that lined both sides of Azalea Drive. He had always wondered about that name, as azaleas were nowhere to be seen. He pulled to the curb and, while collecting his thoughts, he stared at the large house at the far end of the cul-de-sac, while yellow, burnt orange and brown leaves skittered along the enormous and well-manicured lawns that flanked the cobblestone street. 

Mike had finally accepted his sister-in-law’s most recent invitation to spend Thanksgiving with family. He would have, as he had always done over the years, declined this latest attempt to broker a reconciliation, but now the time was right.

Despite the years that had passed, his brother’s house looked the same. A squat, immense structure that did not at all fit in with the large, pitch roofed Victorian era homes that dominated Mapleton Hill. 

The home was festooned with variegated ivy clinging to, and winding around, a series of Doric columns. The columns formed a colonnade that in turn supported a sloping Spanish tile roof that extended roughly twenty feet over a terrace that his brother had insistently referred to as a “portico.” Over the main entry was a wide, octagonal painted frieze inlaid with variously colored stones that, to Mike, always seemed to form a vague image of a cross between a bird of prey and a snowman. He laughed at the thought. Knowing his brother, Robert James McCall III, it was likely a bird of prey. Robert was never one to be understated or, frankly, sophisticated about his wealth. To Mike, his older brother wore that wealth clownishly, like a pinwheel lapel button or a fake rubber nose and glasses. A court jester who had somehow become king.

He hadn’t spoken to his brother in the three years since he had been released from prison nor, for that matter, at any time during the last two years of his five-year sentence. The last time they had spoken was when Robert had, for the one and only time, visited him in prison to tell Mike that he had been removed from the board of the family-owned holding company, and that he had prevailed upon their now late father to cut Mike off from all financial connection to the various family businesses and income.

Mike slowly allowed the Taurus to move forward along the curb towards his brother’s house, his window cracked open to vent the cigarette smoke out into the crisp autumn air. It seemed it might snow after all, which would be beautiful holiday touch. As he wondered whether Avis would learn he had violated its no-smoking policy, he could hear the crunching sound the tires made as they rolled over the leaves that had accumulated in the gutter. He put the Taurus in “park,” grabbed a small duffel bag from the passenger seat and eased his way out of the car.

Walking up the serpentine brick path lined with gleaming, bell-shaped brass lamps, Mike could see framed in the multi-paneled windows his brother’s guests milling about, drinks in hand, dressed to the nines. He thought he recognized a few distant cousins, but most were strangers and it made him wish just for a moment that his mother was still alive. She had died prematurely shortly before he was sentenced, but now it was certainly best that she had.

He buttoned his worn pea coat and stared at the heavy, African Blackwood double entry doors, wondering whether he should knock or ring the bell. He could smell the aroma of baking bread mingling with what he knew was roasting turkey. Most likely the work of an expensive caterer but, nevertheless, quite seasonal, and delightful. After a moment of indecision and uneasiness, he rang the bell. 

As he waited at the door, Mike thought back to family Thanksgiving celebrations as a child. It was always his favorite holiday, even better than Christmas. His remembered his family gathered around the table crowded with the foods he looked forward to eating once a year, and all prepared from scratch by his mother and grandmother. Crispy, glazed ham encrusted in herbs. Blood red baked beets sitting on beds of green salad. Batter dipped, deep-fried okra sprinkled with grated cheese and dressed with home-made hot sauce. And of course, the fresh turkey that seemed to bake in the oven most of the day. All topped off with sweet potato pie covered with fresh whipped cream. He was hungry and these thoughts made his mouth water.

The front door abruptly opened. Mike felt momentarily disoriented as his eyes adjusted to the bright, intense glow coming from the “great room.” The room was as he remembered. Dark, stained mahogany floors covered with ornate Persian rugs, lit by three large Murano glass chandeliers hanging like a triumvirate of giant, inverted pink tulips. To the right was the pearl white Steinway and Sons grand piano that likely no one had yet to play. To the left a temporary long table had been set up, topped with stainless steel chafing dishes, each covered and emitting swirling bursts of steam while being tended to by a woman in white jacket and black slacks. Directly in front of him stood his brother.

“Come in, Michael” Robert said in a dull and neutral voice. He turned and slowly walked back into the room. To Mike, it seemed the guests were staring at him as if he was an exotic reptile who had escaped its cage. 

Moving quickly, Mike reached into the duffel he had been carrying, pulled out a stolen Glock 9mm pistol and shot his brother once in the back of the head. Robert jerked forward and fell face first on the floor, the blood from his shattered skull forming an enlarging crimson pool. The screams of the guests seemed muffled and far off, as if they were coming from the distant adjacent property. Mike placed the still hot muzzle of the gun firmly under his chin and pulled the trigger again.