Turkey Round-up

“How have you been honey?”

I paused, taking a deep breath before bending over to take off my winter boots. Barely across the threshold into my grandmother’s house and she was already pestering me.

“I’m fine mom, no complaints.” The laces on my boots were knotted, and I gave an annoyed growl as I struggled with them. Standing up, I noticed my mother’s concerned smile. She stepped away to let me finish getting settled in.

Be patient with her, she’s just being a concerned mom, I thought, reasoning that I would probably be asking the same thing of my children. I hung my burgundy scarf on the wooden coat rack and followed her.

My grandmother’s house was unchanged, frozen in time for as long as I could remember. Old black and white family pictures adorned the wood paneled walls of the entry-way hallway. Worn patches dotted the brown, floral carpeting. The old propane stove was turned up high, as always, its warmth and the smell of cooking turkey bathing me in nostalgia.

“Bit of a light crew this year, I’m afraid, mostly just the old folks,” my mother said as we walked down the hallway of memories. I noticed a new padlock on the cellar door as I passed it.

“Hey, kiddo! How ya doin?” My uncle Allen’s voice boomed across the living room. At 45 years old, with two grown kids of my own, it felt strange to still be greeted like the shy little girl that used to avoid him at family get-togethers.

“Take a seat! We’re playing Crazy Eights!” he continued before I could respond.

My aunts and uncles sat at a round, wooden table near the stove, the designated game area. They acknowledged me briefly before focusing back on their hand of cards. A chunky, square television sat on a TV tray next to the table, a muted Dallas Cowboy game barely visible through the static.

My mother took a seat on a dark green couch along the near wall and opened the local newspaper.

I hesitated near the table for a moment before responding. “I will in a sec Uncle Al, but I’m gonna check if Grams needs some help first.”

“Aww, you know the old broad is just gonna kick you outta there. I just got told off a little bit ago,” he said, chuckling. “I’ll save ya a spot!”

I followed the chopping sounds echoing from the cramped kitchen. My grandmother’s back was to me as she stooped over the counter, probably busy preparing some side dish. “Hey Grams, what can I help you with?” She turned slowly, squinting her eyes to look at me. Her brow furled, and she shook her head.

“Ah, sweet of ya to ask, but ya don’t need to help me, I’ve got this handled. Go enjoy yourself in the family room,” she said sternly, wiping her hands on her faded yellow apron. I’d expected as much, but I couldn’t help but ask. At 92 years old, she was a marvel of health and stubbornness.

An empty chair awaited me at the gaming table. I had barely plopped down before the questions started.

“How’ve ya been?”

“Are ya keepin’ busy?”

“It’s awful cold ain’t it? How’s the heat at your house?”

I was used to having others deflect the focus. This was the first time I was showing up to Thanksgiving by myself in who-knows-how long. The kids sports and school, Peter’s businesses, I had gotten used to talking about those. Now, by myself, at 45 years old, I felt like a shy child again, desperate to avoid the blinding spotlight of my families attention.

I was relieved when my Aunt Jesse finally asked about the kids.

“Oh, well, Junior is at his girlfriend’s family for the holiday, and Kim is at her father’s for the day.”

“Hah!” Uncle Allen exclaimed, “Only half-way through freshman year and that kid’s already got himself a girlfriend!”

“Yep, he’s always been a romantic.” Same as me, I thought, that’s why I stayed with Peter for far too long…

“Want me to deal ya in?” Uncle Allen’s question snapped my focus back.

“Nah, I’ll sit out this round. I’m going to check up on the kids first.”

I lied. They wouldn’t respond even if I sent a dozen texts with fire emojis. Instead, I browsed social media, trying to convince myself I wasn’t jealous of the families posting their too-perfect holiday pictures.

I must have browsed for a long while, as I hadn’t noticed that the card game had ended, and had been replaced with a heated discussion amongst the aunts and uncles. Placing my phone face down on the table, a felt a pang of loneliness despite the arguing family around me.

“I just don’t understand how you could vote for him…”

“Hah! Like she is some saint? You know what she would’ve done to this country if she got elected?”

“At least she…”

A chuckle escaped my mouth as I pushed my chair back from the table. It was annoying, cliché. The same tired arguments that had exhausted me for the past year. Wounds of election night were still sore, and I desperately wanted to avoid picking at the scabs.

I joined my mother on the couch, hoping to put some distance between me and the heat of both the argument and the stove. I tried to make a joke about how almost comical it was, at this point, and how I was sure a similar argument was being had in many households across the country this Thanksgiving. She seemed as annoyed as I was, nodding and rustling her paper in response.

Unable to look away from the scene, I noticed the seating arrangement around the table had become split, probably unintentionally, across political lines. It was my aunts, and my bleeding-heart liberal uncle Dave on one side, and my two uncles on the other.

“He is gonna save us from all this woke nonsense that’s…”

Uncle Allen's voice boomed as he wiped sweat from his tomato-red face.

“The turkey’s ready to–”

“Hang on ma, we gotta finish this discussion first.”

My grandmother glared at him before cursing under her breath and shuffling back into the kitchen. My mother had even put down her paper and was looking concernedly over at the group riled up around the table.

“Uncle Al, maybe it’s better that–”

“It’s okay kiddo, we’re just talkin’ here. I gotta talk some sense into your aunties.”

That’s it, I thought, I’ve had enough of this kiddo crap. I resisted the urge to stomp over and smack him across the back of his sweaty head. I stood up, my stomach twisting and my teeth clenched.

“Honey, are you…”

I held up a finger to my mother as I walked by, as if to say, not now mom.

Pausing in front of the cellar door, I looked to check that no one had followed me. The new padlock required a code. Lifting it, I chuckled when I saw the code scribbled on tape on the bottom. #1234. Good ol’ Miller-family security, I thought.

Cool and musty air greeted me as I carefully opened the unlocked door. I tip-toed down the creaky wooden stairs, remembering where to step from the many times I had snuck down there to sneak drinks of grandma’s booze as a teenager. In the darkness, I felt for the light switch at the bottom of the stairs.

The single overhead light bulb illuminated a group of men huddled around a small, rusty radiator along the opposite wall. The smell of sweat and urine nearly made me gag. The group turned their heads in unison to look at me, duct tape over their mouths, all with wild hair and scraggly beards. Steel shackles snaked from their ankles to a bolt near a drain in the center of the cement floor. Despite their emaciated appearance, I still recognized a few of them. There was Pastor Rob, some car salesman from a local dealership, and my old PE coach from elementary school. There seemed to be fewer of them than the last time I had come down here.

I grabbed a key hanging from the nail near the stairs and started unlocking the shackles. They looked at me, wide eyed as I freed them.

There was a second entry into the cellar, which opened out onto cement steps leading up into the backyard. I grabbed a shovel and broke the rusted lock on the door. Turning towards them, I motioned with my head for them to go. They paused, stumbling as they stood, their atrophied muscles struggling to support themselves.

“I’ll give you a ten second head start,” I said to them, grinning.

Pastor Rob pushed past the others while they looked at me, confused. Once he was out the door the others rushed forward, tripping and falling over one another.

One, two, ten!

I bounded up the cellar stairs and into the living room.

“We’ve got escapees!” I yelled, doing my best dramatic acting impression. The room fell silent as everyone looked at me. Then a burst of activity.

“I’ll get my shoes!” Uncle Allen yelled, jumping up from his seat and moving faster than I could ever remember. My aunt Meredith, who was in better shape than me despite being almost 70, rushed out the back kitchen door without bothering to put shoes on.

Grandma shuffled out of the kitchen, pointing a knife at me as she asked, “did ya let ‘em out?”

“Of course not,” I said, my tone unconvincing, “…and what are you doing with that knife?”

She looked down at the knife, and back at me. “Well, I’ll teach ‘em a lesson!”

“Grams! We don’t want to kill them!” I said, my hands raised in a show of caution as I walked towards her.

“Ah a few cuts won’t kill ‘em, just remind ‘em that they should stay put.”

I chuckled and let her be. It’ll be over before she shuffles out there, I thought.

Out on the back patio, I gleefully took in the scene of chaos ensuing in the backyard. It was like a peewee football game, with everyone running around and not quite sure what to do. The escapees each took a turn trying to jump the tall backyard fence, before relenting and running around in circles as my family chased them.

One by one, each family member tackled an escapee to the ground. With just one rather energetic escape left, my Uncle Allen came lumbering out of the house, finally having gotten his shoes on. He cornered the poor fellow and slammed his large beer gut into him, knocking the man to the ground.

“Well done, everyone!” I cheered. My Uncle Allen raised a fist in celebration as he shifted to sit on his capture.

“What’s for dessert?”, he yelled.

I helped my two aunts carry in a squirming escapee before heading upstairs to help prepare dessert.

“You missed all the fun Grams!” I chuckled, as she slowly shuffled in the back kitchen door.

A few minutes later, we all resumed our places in the living room. I noticed that the seating arrangements had shifted. No longer arranged by political affiliation, Aunt Jessy and Uncle Allen sat next to each other, laughing and trading compliments about their tackling form between bites of pumpkin pie.