A FLICK AND A SPLIT ON TURKEY DAY

I waved goodbye to my girls as they drove off with their father. They were excited, laughing, and I smiled at them through the window long after I couldn’t see them any more. Thanksgiving is my ex’s holiday. I get Christmas.

I was taking it a lot better than last year, the first Thanksgiving after the divorce. I had mostly cried and just felt sorry for myself. I made the mistake of letting my older sister Gail talk me into coming with her to her in-laws for turkey dinner. Boy, was that a disaster! The last thing I needed was to be in the middle of a big, happy family celebration. Her kids — Mike and Ginger — were mine’s best friends. “Where’s Annie and Katie?” Those were the first words I heard inside the door — I couldn’t find my voice.

Gail popped up. “They’re with Uncle Bill. Now get Aunt Carrie a mug of hot cider.”

She thought she was sticking up for me but all I heard was her telling everybody that my jerk of an ex was still part of our family. I wanted to smack her. As far as I was concerned, when he left me he gave up all claims. Not everybody saw it that way, though, especially him. He just scissored me out of the picture and pasted in someone else’s face.

Everyone was nice enough but my brother-in-law Sam tried too hard and said stupid things like “Don’t worry, girl, you’ll find another man,” and “A hottie like you won’t stay lonely long.” I wanted to nominate him for Mr. Sensitivity — after I cut off his balls. Guys really don’t get it!

I picked at my food for a while then excused myself — it was not working. Sis followed me to the bedroom where the coats were stacked. She gave me that pathetic “poor little Carrie” look I had learned to hate over most of my 34 years under her big sister scrutiny, and started to say something. She always had to say something.

I glared back at her. “Not a freaking word. Don’t try to fix it and don’t think you can make me feel any better about it because you can’t.”

Gail’s mouth hung open but she had the good judgment to shut up — both of us probably believed that I would have punched her if she let out one word. For one of the few times in our adult lives she seemed to get the message: “Bug off!”. She helped me put on my coat and walked me to the door, out of sight of the dining room, where the others were enjoying roast tom and the trimmings. And I was sure some were whispering variations on “what’s eating her?” accompanied by knowing sniggers.

I let Gail hug me. She said “I’ll call you later.” I almost said, “Don’t bother. I’m not answering the phone.” But I didn’t and got in my car and drove home.

That was last year. Oh, I almost forgot. When I got to my house I took a nine inch pumpkin pie and a can of Redi-Whip from the fridge and pigged out — ate the whole damn thing — then licked the last dollop of cream from the spout and tossed the can across the kitchen into the trash. I played guard on my high school basketball team and always had a good eye for the hoop — can’t say the same about men.

This year I had a plan, offbeat and going solo. Forget the feast. The refrigerator held four splits of Pommery POP pink champagne, not cheap, but I’m worth it, and two of them were going with me to the movies. I couldn’t remember ever seeing anybody frisked at the Cineplex so I shoved one chilled bottle into each of my jacket’s side pockets and took off.

I picked a two thirty screening of Four Christmases because it was supposed to be feel good — and I really like Reese Witherspoon. That’s when most other people were either eating, sleeping it off or watching football. Maybe thirty people milled around in the lobby, mostly couples. I bought the biggest tub of buttered popcorn and headed down the corridor to the theater. I climbed up the aisle to the very top row. It was empty. The overhead lights were still on so I waited to take out my first bottle of POP.

By the time the preview trailer came on and the lights went down there were only about twenty people in the room. All of them at least six or seven rows below me. I leaned back, stuck my feet on the back of the seat in front of me, reached into my right pocket and brought out my not so soft drink. Careful as I tried to be, there was a little pop when the cork came out, not completely masked by the noise from the screen, and a young couple nearest me looked around. I smiled and toasted them. They smiled back…the guy mumbled “all right!’ and raised his right thumb in the air — then they turned back to the screen.

A few minutes later, after a couple sips of the bubbly and as I was getting into the story I felt a hand reach into my popcorn and grab a fistful of kernels. “Hey!” I almost shouted. “What’re you doing?” and jerked the tub away, managing to spill a lot of the corn in the process. The thief was a very pleasant looking older woman who could have been, and I soon found out was, somebody’s grandmother. She grinned at me like a mischievous child and, very unapologetically, asked me to put the popcorn back where she could reach it. I was too startled not to comply.

“Don’t be upset, dear. I figure you’re hiding out, just like me. What is it, can’t stand your prissy relatives, uncle who grabs your butt when you bend over to serve the mashed potatoes?” Without waiting for an answer which, I can tell you now I’m not sure I would have been able to give, she looked me over and rattled on. “ Do you have another one of those, honey?” She pointed at my split. I was being accosted by a granny perv.

Reluctantly, I handed her the second bottle — it cost as much as the ticket and the popcorn together — which she wasted no time opening. She must have been a pro at this because the cork barely made a sound coming out. She clinked her drink against mine and tossed it off like she’d been doing this all her life. As she tipped back her coat opened and I could see she was wearing a kitchen apron — yellow with black and brown pilgrim and turkey figures. And what looked like greasy handprints all over.

Now I had to know more. “Okay, lady, what’s your story? Are you running away from home?” She let out a little chuckle. “Close, close. For nearly forty years I fixed Thanksgiving dinner for my family. Started small. Ernie, that’s my husband, and the boys, Jimmy, that’s the oldest, then Jason, in the middle, and my Oops! baby, Jeremy. Course I now got the daughters-in-law, grandchildren, except for Jimmy. This year it seems like everybody brought a friend and Ernie’s cousins from Toledo just happened to be in town.” She scoffed when she said that.

“I get the picture,” I said. “So, you just walked out on them.”

“Sure did. Cleaned and stuffed the bird, boiled the yams, started snapping the string beans.”

“All by yourself?

“What do you think, sweetie? Everybody was so busy with TV, video games and just plain laying about, they just let Jenny do all the work — Oh, yeah, m’name’s Jenny Workman. So I just left everything on the counter, on the stove or wherever in the world it was, picked up my coat from the hall closet and let myself out the front door.”

By this time I was really into her story. It was better than mine. “And you got here how?”

“Jeremy’s going to be a bit put out when he sees his Harley gone. He worships that machine. Probably will think somebody stole it because none of them know I can ride a bike.”

“Won’t they try to find you? Call you on your cell phone — you do have one, don’t you?” All thoughts of watching the movie were long gone. We ignored the occasional “shush” from the seats below and produced our own holiday documentary.

“Jimmy bought me a cell phone — Passion Pink — but for me it’s just another cute little gadget I don’t need to be bothered with. So I never turned it on. They’ll find it in a drawer if they look. Besides, I’ve been gone for over an hour. They’ll have all got off their butts and be walking all over the neighborhood and calling around. Between me gone missing and somebody notices the motorcycle isn’t behind the house it won’t be long before they call the cops.”

Jenny had by now finished her champagne and a steady ingestion of buttery popcorn and added to the smudges on her apron. Between us we had emptied the tub. “Honey, you know you get free refills with that jobbie. Let me take it out to the concession stand. Before I could say no she was down the aisle and out the door. Five minutes later she trundled back up to our nosebleed seats and plopped down, never missing a dip into the bucket or telling me about how her men would outdo the actors on the screen any day in loudness and grossness — except Jimmy, her oldest, the bachelor — who was a real gentleman. Was she leading somewhere with this?

Oh, the movie… I couldn’t have escaped to a worse experience. It turns out the four Christmases meant having dinner with each of Reese’s and Vince’s divorced parents — every one a bigger mess than what Jenny and I were trying to avoid. I didn’t think it was all that funny. And why Reese’s character would want to get married after all that grief and ruin a great relationship, I still can’t figure out. It wasn’t till after it ended that I realized how much I enjoyed missing so much of it. Anyway, Jenny and I could have made a great indie film. Maybe Jon Favreau (he played Vince Vaughn’s brother and is also a screenwriter) would like to see a script.

Leaving the theater Jenny stuck to me like Velcro, rattling on about how wonderful it was to have shared popcorn and the fruit of vine with “such a delightful young woman” and now she was wondering how she would be greeted when she got home, sounding a bit guilty on that note, and “Dear, you need to come with me, ’cause I know you got nothing better to do. And I don’t see a ring on your left hand.”

I was busted! And by this time I was game for anything. She was dotty but seemed harmless, and she was unfortunately right. I didn’t have anything better to go home to. “Okay, but I’ll drive my car. You’re not getting me on the back of that Harley.”

She snickered, giving me the kind of look my sister would when I refused to jump off the high dive at the swim club. “Follow me, then, and don’t be a wuss! It’s only about two miles away, up the parkway, then left at Kennedy. Keep up! Where you parked?”

I pointed out my red Altima three rows away. Walking to the car I heard the roar of the motorcycle starting and felt a knot in my stomach, already questioning my decision. Almost to the parking space, I heard then saw from the corner of my eye Jenny was riding alongside me, making sure I wasn’t going to chicken out on her. As I pulled the car out she maneuvered in front of me and took off — almost literally. She nearly pulled a wheelie. I was afraid she would fall off. Instead she waved an arm over her head motioning me along and dashed on, hair flying and coat flapping in the wind. It was getting dark and traffic was light, so I was able to keep her taillights in sight. Good thing the drive was so short. I watched for cops all the way.

Jenny zipped onto a side street of neat bungalow-style homes and slowed down as we approached a red brick Cape Cod where a crowd was gathered in the front yard and a Metro police cruiser sat at the curb. “Uh oh!” I thought. “I’m outta here!” That was not to be, however, as Jenny circled back and absolutely stared me down, daring me to leave. I pulled over about five doors away as Jenny angled the bike into the yard, straight at the mob, cop and all.

Rolling my window down, I heard loud male voices directed at the old lady, with frequent “damns” and “hells”, and an occasional “nuts” and “crazy” clear above the din, with lots of waving of arms. Jenny seemed to hold her own, though, getting off the motorcycle with the authority of Clint Eastwood dismounting a cowpony, ready for a gunfight. Chick flicks are not the only movies I like. Jenny jabbed an index finger into the chest of a large, redfaced older man I guessed was her husband and stood nose to nose with him. Not literally, of course, he had to be six inches taller. Three younger men who had been pretty agitated when they first saw her backed away quietly. They had to be her sons. It only took about three or four minutes before the police officer got into the cruiser and drove off, laughing so hard I thought his face would break.

Jenny stared down the four men, arms folded across her chest, and cocked her head backwards in my direction. The guys squinted past her, trying to see through my windshield. I scrunched down in the seat, grateful for the tinted glass. Jenny shooed her family into the house like a flock of chickens and walked toward me, a huge grin lighting up her chubby face.

“Come on in, sweetie. I’ve straightened everybody out.”

If she had known the thoughts passing through my head about her sanity during the past ten or fifteen minutes, she might not have been so cheery. To this day I question my own state of mind. But there I was and it looked like there I would stay for a while. In truth, she intimidated me as much as she had cowed those men. I was almost afraid to leave. She probably memorized my license plate and would hunt me down. Not really, but you had to have been there.

Arm in arm, we strolled up the walk like two old girlfriends. The front door opened as we stepped onto the porch, a gaggle of bodies crowded in the hall. Jenny pushed me inside ahead of her, in the direction of a tall, not bad looking, thirty-something man in a green cardigan I recognized from the scene in the yard.

“Now, Jimmy, you take Carrie and get her a mug of hot cider.”

I heard the door close behind me, and babbling voices surrounding me, like so many turkeys in a pen. As I was ushered to the dining room I had to wonder, was my Thanksgiving escapade over or had it just begun?

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