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Another of my Published Stories: "THANKSGIVING TRADITION"
Current mood:  thankful
Category: Writing and Poetry
Hey gang! Happy Thanksgiving! For this special holiday, I though I'd post another one of my short stories that got published in the horror magazine "HACKER'S SOURCE" back in 2002. I thought it would be a good read today since it takes place on Thanksgiving. It's called "THANKSGIVING TRADITION" and I really hope you enjoy it. Please leave a comment when you finish with your thoughts, as I really enjoy reading what people think of my writing. I'd really appreciate it. Ok, without further ado.. here is ...
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THANKSGIVING TRADITION
BY LARRY LUDWICK
© May 2001
"Hurry your ass up, woman! We're gonna be late!" Buddy yelled down the hallway, shifting the sack of food from his right arm to his left. If he hadn't been so annoyed with his wife he might have enjoyed the smell of the cornbread dressing wafting up at him from within. Now, though, it only added to his irritation. "We shoulda left a half hour ago!" His snakeskin boot tapped impatiently against the stained linoleum floor. "Always waitin' on you. I swear to God."
"I'm hurryin'," Theresa timidly called out from the next room.
"If you don't get yerself out here right now, I'm leavin' without ya!" he hollered, checking his watch. "I already missed the kick-off, goddamn it. If you don't hurry I'm gonna miss the whole damned first quarter! What the hell are you doin'?"
"I'm in the bathroom," she answered. "Puttin' on makeup."
Buddy rolled his eyes. "I done told you before you don't need no makeup. Don't do any good on you anyways. You're still fat."
Behind the locked bathroom door, Theresa stared mournfully at her reflection. She had become a gaunt and frightened woman since she'd married Buddy and she hated herself for letting it happen. Her hair -once a beautiful shade of auburn- was almost completely gray. The lines in her face had become more pronounced, deepening around her nostrils and forming canals down both sides of her mouth. She guessed that's what happened when you stopped using your smile muscles -they just deteriorated and withered away, like the happiness she'd once known in a life that now seemed so long ago.
"GODDAMNIT, I'm not telling you again!" Buddy yelled and Theresa winced at his voice. She studied her reflection in the mirror one last time and frowned. The makeup didn't quite hide the bruise like she'd hoped it would. "Comin'," she sighed and quickly flung the door open, turning the light off as she left.
*** *** ***
She sat quietly, holding the food in her lap during the twenty-five minute ride across town to Buddy's parents. Normally, it would have only taken them ten but the roads were slick and hazardous, glazed over with a shimmering sheet of ice from a winter storm that had swept through the previous night. Theresa leaned her head against the window and watched the scenery pass by. Flat, barren fields. Trees, dead and naked. Dilapidated barns with sagging roofs. Abandoned tractors. All covered now by an endless blanket of white, as if Old Man Winter were trying his best to hide the bleakness from her. But -like the makeup on her cheek- it wasn't very effective.
The cornbread stuffing warmed her lap through the grocery bag, its delicious smell permeating the pickup's small cab. Everyone loved her dressing. It was her mother's recipe -God rest her soul- and each year she was put in charge of making it. A simple task, really, but it was something that belonged only to her; something that nobody else could take away. And as small a thing as it was, it meant all the world.
Silence, thick and heavy. Like a third person sitting between them. How she wished she could play some music but the radio had been stolen one night and though Buddy blamed it on niggers, she was pretty sure he'd either lost it in some stupid bet or hocked it for beer money. Probably the latter. Buddy had a drinking problem but it wasn't her place to tell him that. He'd just hit her again and tell her to mind her own business. And so she did, figuring she was probably better off not knowin' what he did on his own time anyway.
"Goddamn it!" Buddy cursed, checking his watch again. He swerved dangerously in and out of traffic on the narrow two-lane road, the truck's wheels half-skimming, half-sliding across the ice. "This is goddamned Thanksgivin', Theresa. What does it look like to you if we're late? Huh?"
She looked down at her lap and shrugged. "I don't know."
"Well I'll tell you, Miss Genius. It looks like we don't give a shit. Is that what you want my family to think? That we just don't give a shit about bein' on time?"
"They ain't gonna start without us."
His voice, quick and icy cold: "Don't talk back to me."
"I wasn't talkin' back. I was just sayin'---"
Buddy's face snapped around with a look so fierce that Theresa cowered into her seat. "I said don't you talk back to me!" He glared at her for a moment longer then returned his attention back to the road. Their pickup swerved around a slow moving car and Buddy laid down hard on the horn. Theresa kept her head down to avoid looking at the other driver as they passed him but from the corner of her eye, she saw the man flipping them the bird and mouthing obscenities. It was embarrassing to drive with Buddy sometimes, especially when he was pissed off.
"If we're late, it's all your damn fault. And I'm gonna tell 'em that too, don't think I won't." She kept her head down, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the paper sack's crumpled handle. "My brother's probably been there for hours," he went on. "His wife don't make him late. He don't put up with her shit the way I put up with yours."
Buddy suddenly changed lanes and made a turn with a sharp jerk of the wheel. The tires spun atop the ice and the truck's back end began to fishtail. Theresa sucked in her breath and grabbed hold of the dashboard with her free hand but Buddy quickly pulled out of it and continued on down the road without so much as acknowledging it ever happened. He was still continuing with his train of thought and he was on a roll now.
"And don't say nothin stupid this time like you did last year. It embarrasses me. All that nonsense 'bout you getting a job. They saw right through that bullshit, Theresa. Don't take no genius to figure out that without a high school diploma, ain't nobody gonna hire your dumb ass. 'Cept maybe a McDonald's or some place that don't care if you burn their fries or whatnot."
"I wouldn't burn no fries," Theresa whispered under her breath.
"You talkin' back to me again?" He raised his fist and threatened to backhand her. "What'd I tell you 'bout that?" His arm moved to strike her but he pulled it back before actually completing the blow. She cringed and he laughed at her. "Shit, I'm just playin' with you," he said and patted her knee.
His touch felt like a cold, wet eel across her skin and she recoiled. Fortunately, he didn't notice her reaction and returned his hand to the steering wheel.
"You know I wouldn't hit you on Thanksgivin'," he added as an afterthought.
*** *** ***
Virginia opened the door with a grim half-smile and turned her cheek for her son's greeting. "Hello, Buddy. How are ya?" she asked, her voice as cold as his kiss.
"Good as always, Momma. Where's Daddy and Tommy?"
"They're inside. Round the television, I suppose."
He pushed passed her and disappeared into the house. As he did, Virginia turned to Theresa and her smile warmed a bit. But then her eyes fell to the black and purple bruise unsuccessfully camouflaged beneath the heavy layer of makeup on Theresa's cheek and her smile immediately deflated. She felt an overwhelming need to apologize for her son, as though she herself was responsible for his violent outbursts; ashamed that she had allowed such a vicious monster to escape from her womb. How she wanted to say something -anything- that would take the pain out of this poor girl's eyes and give her back the life she'd probably wished for herself before falling into Buddy's miserable clutches. There was so much she wanted to say yet none of these words found their way out. Instead, all she did was smile and say, "Hello, Theresa. It's nice to see you again."
Theresa felt her mother-in-law inspecting the bruise and self-consciously dropped her eyes. In a weak effort to draw attention away from it, she quickly held out the sack of food she'd brought from home. "Here's the dressin'. It's still warm but you might wanna put it in the oven till we're ready to eat."
"Thank you, honey," Virginia said and took it from her. She opened the sack and inhaled deeply. "Mmm. Smells good. I've been waitin' a whole year for this."
Theresa smiled and looked up, noticing for the first time that the older woman standing in the door had a bruise to match her own. It was older, the discoloration almost completely gone, and like Theresa, she too had tried to cover it with makeup.
Virginia turned her head before Theresa could get a better look at it. "Well, let's get this into the oven, shall we?" she said. "Come on in."
"Thank you," Theresa folded her arms across her chest to warm herself. "It's cold out here." And as she followed Virginia through the doorway she guessed that it probably wouldn't be too much warmer inside the house.
*** *** ***
Buddy entered the living room to the sounds of a football game blasting through the television speakers. Tommy, his older brother, was sprawled out across the sofa. His father was sitting in his favorite recliner, the one no one else was allowed to sit in. Both had their backs to him. "Hey, Pops, who's winnin'?"
The old man shushed him, completely engrossed in the action on the screen. Buddy grabbed a folding chair, whirled it around backwards, and took a seat. He snatched a handful of pretzels from a bowl on the coffee table and popped them into his mouth. "What'd I miss?" he asked, noisily chewing with his mouth open.
"Dallas just got a touchdown. Missed the kick," his brother said.
"Shhh!" the old man shushed again, angrily waving his wrinkled hand at them.
Tommy looked just like his younger brother, even down to the dark, greasy hair that grew bushy around the sides, flared out by the same, permanent hat indentation encircling his head. The only discernable difference between the two was Tommy's new beard that he'd grown for the winter. Buddy couldn't help but stare and laugh at it.
"What's that you got wrapped around your face there, Bro? Looks like you're tryin' to kiss a skunk or something!"
"Keeps me warm when I'm outside working. Somethin' you wouldn't know anything about."
Buddy's smile dropped. His shoulders tensed. "What are you tryin' to say?"
Tommy glared at him. "I'm not tryin', I'm sayin' it. Unemployment office must be pretty warm when you go pick up your checks, huh?"
"All right, you two! Cut the shit!" their father yelled in his coarse and raspy voice. The tube feeding him oxygen from the portable tank by his feet hissed into his flared nostrils. "You ain't together more than five minutes and already you're at each other's throats!"
Buddy pointed at his brother. "He's the one who started it with all that--"
"I don't care which of ya started it!" He stopped to take a deep breath from the tube then continued. "But you're gonna stop it right now!" Another pause while he took another breath. "There ain't gonna be no fightin'. It's a goddamned holiday so shut your mouths! Both of ya!" He inhaled the hissing oxygen. "I ain't too old or too sick to still use my belt, so you two better mind yourselves right now and behave."
Buddy and Tommy immediately simmered down, shriveling at the mere mention of the belt. It wasn't really a belt but a barber's leather chair strap -the ones they used to slide and sharpen their straight razors on, back before razors went electric. It was a thick piece of leather, worn hard by oil and age. And even though that thing must have weighed a good ten pounds, their daddy had no problem swinging it across their backs or buttocks when they were younger. To this very day, some twenty years later, the scars were still visible on both their bodies, forever etched into their skins like tattoos; an ugly testament of their father's love.
The room fell quiet, the silence underscored by their father's oxygen canister, hissing through its long, thin tube like an agitated snake.
"So where's Rebecca?" Buddy finally asked, changing the subject.
"In the kitchen with Momma," Tommy answered. He lifted himself off the sofa and peeked over Buddy's shoulders. "You bring Theresa?"
"Yeah. I reckon she's in there too."
Tommy looked to his younger brother and asked grimly, "Did you hear Becka's pregnant?"
*** *** ***
"That's wonderful news!" Theresa smiled to Rebecca as she whipped a large bowl of mashed potatoes. "When are ya due?"
Rebecca's answer was held prisoner by the sudden appearance of a quivering lip. She stared at the butter knife in her hand until it blurred from the tears, then dropped it onto the countertop and took a seat at the table. Her hands began to tremble and her breaths came in big gulps of air, almost as if she was going into labor this very moment. Theresa and Virginia were by her side in an instant, handing her napkins so she could dab at her watering eyes.
"What's the matter, honey?" Virginia softly asked, rubbing the woman's back.
Rebecca tried to speak but choked on an ill-timed swallow and coughed. She caught her breath then said, "He told me I was stupid for getting myself pregnant. He said he never wanted a baby; that I tricked him, but I didn't! I didn't, Virginia. I didn't trick him." Her wet eyes pleaded to be believed.
"I know ya didn't, honey. I know you wouldn't do that."
"So now he's…he's been…" She shook her head, too frightened, too ashamed to finish it. She cried harder into the damp napkin clutched between her fingers.
"What's he been doin', Becki?" Theresa sternly asked, lifting her chin up.
"He's been hittin' me," she whimpered. Her eyes were bloodshot now and overflowing with unbearable misery. "In the stomach. When he gets mad. He's been hitting me in the stomach." She looked up to Theresa for support, for understanding.
Virginia's own stomach tightened and she felt sick. How could a man born of her loins turn out so wrong? And not just one but both of them. When had the Devil come and snatched her children? When had he stolen their souls and filled what was left with poison? Where had she been when all of this was happening?
Theresa covered her mouth with a trembling hand.
"He hit me real hard last week," Rebecca continued, punctuating each sentence with a thick, wet sniffle. "We were fightin' over something stupid and out of nowhere he just punches me right in the stomach. It knocked the breath out of me and I thought I was gonna faint for sure." She grabbed Virginia's hand. "Oh, Ginny, I haven't felt it move since then! I think he killed it! I think he killed my baby!"
Virginia rubbed Rebecca's back while the woman cried into her hands.
Theresa stood there, shaking her head, anger replacing horror. "That ain't right. That just ain't right."
"I can't leave him either," Rebecca said, sniffling back another stream of tears. "He won't let me. Said he'd track me down no matter where I went or how far away I got." Virginia lovingly stroked Rebecca's hair. "Said once he found me he'd hurt me even worse."
Theresa immediately thought of the bullet.
*** *** ***
Buddy had called her into the kitchen one night after they'd been fighting. She had warned him earlier that if he hit her one more time, the marriage was over and she'd file for divorce the very next morning. He told her to pull up a chair and sit down at the table with him. She did so, hesitantly. He was being nice all of a sudden. TOO nice. It made her nervous. The smell of beer on his breath was strong and sour as he waited for her to get comfortable in her chair. Then he reached into his pants pocket and sat a single silver bullet down in front of her.
"That right there," he said, pointing to it, "is the bullet that's gonna shoot through your skull and spray your brains all over the carpet if you ever -and I mean EVER- threaten to divorce me again. Do you understand me?"
Theresa nodded, her eyes transfixed on the bullet's glistening, golden-tipped point.
"I didn't know you had a gun, Buddy," she said, her mouth suddenly dry.
"There's lots of things you don't know about me," he answered with an unsettling smirk and took a swig off his beer. "Why don't you just sit here awhile and think about that." He got up from his seat and left the room, which now seemed entirely too small and claustrophobic.
Theresa sat there and stared at that shiny, silver bullet for more than ten minutes. She listened while Buddy took a long, noisy piss (he never shut the door) and then passed out on the sofa in the living room. Finally, she got up from the table and locked herself in the bedroom. She cried herself to sleep that night and had bad dreams; nightmares of waking up to a loud POPPING noise and opening her eyes to see her brains splattering against her pillow in a speckled starburst of clumpy, crimson chunks.
*** *** ***
Rebecca's crying brought Theresa back to the present moment. She looked into Virginia's face and saw the quivering chin, the tightly-mashed lips, the dreamy, far-away look in the eyes as the older woman obviously recalled a similar nightmare from her own unhappy past. "What should we do, Ginny?" Theresa asked in a hushed voice.
Virginia blinked and met her gaze. "I don't know," she answered. "I don't think there's anything we can do."
"I'm just so scared," Rebecca said, shaking her head in quiet resignation. "I'm scared for my baby." She rubbed her swollen belly. "My poor little baby."
"He's gonna kill her if we don't do something," Theresa pressed, trying to control the anger that was mounting in her voice. "Or he's gonna kill that baby if he hasn't already. One way or another, this ain't gonna end up good. And you know it, Ginny."
Virginia turned away and stared helplessly down at the floor. "Like I said, I don't think there's anything---"
Three soft knocks at the kitchen's back door interrupted their conversation.
Rebecca, Theresa, and Virginia turned and stared at the door behind them. Through the curtained window, a small, unassuming shape stood motionless on the other side. They looked to each other with questioning eyes.
"Who could that be?" Virginia asked. Strange that they would use the back door and not the front.
"Are you gonna answer it?"
"Guess I better." Virginia said and shuffled across the floor to the doorway. Rebecca and Theresa followed behind her.
The door opened to a small, well-dressed woman who smelled of sweet lilac perfume and smiled pleasantly at them. She looked to be Virginia's age (which was fifty-six, but that was really "nunya-bizzniss, thank ya very much") and wore a flowery, wide-brimmed hat to shield the sun from her eyes. It looked like an Easter bonnet, Theresa thought, and found herself thinking of old Mrs. Haagan, her Sunday school teacher. But that had been another lifetime ago it seemed. Had old Mrs. Haagan finally tracked her down after all these years to ask her why she'd suddenly stopped coming to church? Or why she had turned her back on Jesus? (Which wasn't entirely true. She hadn't completely abandoned the Lord and Savior but she sure was mighty pissed at Him.) Theresa often wondered if Buddy was meant to be God's punishment for letting her church attendance fall by the wayside. He must be. What else had she done to deserve this miserable, unhappy life?
"Hello," the demure woman smiled. "Happy Thanksgiving."
"Same to you," Virginia curtly answered back, eyeing the visitor with guarded suspicion. "What can we do for ya?"
"Not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you." The woman smiled, paying no mind to Virginia's less-than-welcoming tone of voice. "Can I have a few moments of your time?"
"Well, I don't know," Virginia shot an uneasy glance back inside the house. The men roared and clapped at a touchdown from the living room. "We really ought to--"
"It won't take very long at all," she offered, warmly. "Please hear me out?"
"I suppose," Virginia sighed. "If it won't take too long."
"Thank you," she said and bent down to retrieve a small, leather satchel resting by her brand new shoes. "It really is a beautiful day, isn't it?" she asked, making small talk as she unfastened the gold-plated lock on the front of the case. "A bit cold, but otherwise…" Neither of the three women responded but she didn't expect them to. The lock popped with a click then she balanced the case in one hand and opened its top with the other. "Take a look at this," she beamed, proudly presenting it as if it were a newborn.
Virginia and the others craned their necks to see.
Sitting atop a ruffled mountain of purple velvet, a stainless steel cutting knife shimmered in the mid-afternoon sun.
"Isn't that beautiful? The way the blade catches the sunlight like that?" The women behind Virginia stepped closer for a better look. "Let me tell you a little bit about this knife. It has a total length of eleven and three-fourths inches and the blade is three-sixteenths of an inch thick. It's made of the finest, hand-crafted stainless steel on the market which makes it completely impervious to any type of corrosion or rust."
All three women immediately stepped back into the doorway, their faces visibly dropping interest. "No thanks," Virginia said and slowly started to shut the door. "We got enough kitchen knives already."
The tiny visitor immediately wedged her foot into the doorframe to stop it from shutting on her. "But you don't have this one," she said, the tone in her voice hinting at something ominous hiding behind her sweet, Avon-lady smile. She took the knife from the case and held it up. "Just one more minute of your time?"
Virginia sighed and impatiently rolled her eyes. "I suppose."
The woman straightened her posture and tugged at the ends of her blouse, her friendly demeanor once more returning. "Today is Thanksgiving, the day to count all the wonderful blessings that the Good Lord above has seen fit to bestow upon us." As she spoke, her eyes traveled to each of the women huddled in the doorway. "And though we may not always recognize these blessings, they are there nonetheless. We just need the right pair of eyes to see them with when they do come our way."
"Ma'am," Virginia interrupted, her patience at an end. "Whatever it is your sellin' -God or cutlery- we ain't interested, okay?" Again, she tried to shut the door.
But it was Theresa who put a hand out this time and stopped it from closing.
The tiny woman standing in the doorframe met Theresa's gaze and smiled. "Looks like someone here has those right pair of eyes after all."
"I'm interested in the product you're sellin'," Theresa said in a firm voice that surprised the others. "Would you tell me more about it please?"
"I'd be delighted," the woman winked then continued her sales pitch. She handed the knife to Theresa, who took it and tightly wrapped her fingers around the handle. "The handle there is made of what they call "thermo plastic". It's been molded with tiny grooves to provide you with a comfortable, non-slip grip, even when it gets wet. And it's removable for cleaning, too."
"Tell me about the blade," Theresa asked as she studied her reflection in the knife's shiny gleam. Somehow, the face that looked back at her was a younger, prettier face. No wrinkles. No lines. No bruises. It was her face, the way she'd surely look today had she not met Buddy. How she wanted that face.
"Well, like I said before, it's three-sixteenths of an inch thick and as you can see there's a two inch section of the blade that's serrated, which makes it an excellent tool for skinning and gutting."
Rebecca leaned in for a closer inspection and asked, "So it would be good for all types of…big game?" She was beginning to understand this woman's sales pitch.
The woman nodded. "Indeed. The turned-down point lets the blade slit through the hide without snagging the meat. And if you look closely, there's even a little groove in the metal, called a "blood groove", that provides the blood a clean avenue to exit the wound as you cut so it won't clog up the serrated edges." She glanced up to Theresa and added, "The craftsman who forged this knife thought of everything, didn't she?"
Theresa smiled and nodded her head. "She sure did."
Virginia carefully took the knife from Theresa and inspected the fine point up close. "So how much does something like this go for? We don't have much money."
"Well, that's what makes this offer so special," the woman said and dug into the satchel's interior. She produced a small paper card, yellowed and worn with age. The threads were straining to hold itself together, showing evidence of having been folded and refolded many times throughout the years, by many different hands. The woman smiled and passed the card to the three.
Theresa took it from her and noticed two things as she did: first, the woman's hand. More specifically, the ring finger of her left hand. There was a discolored band of flesh close to the knuckle where a wedding ring had once been, but was no more. The second thing she noticed was the woman's nose as she leaned in closer to hand her the card. Its bridge was misshapen, raised ever so slightly in the unmistakable mark of having once been broken.
As Virginia and Rebecca peered over her shoulder, Theresa opened the folded card and read its price. Not a word was spoken by the three as their eyes scanned the lines of type printed on the aged note. The old woman politely waited for them until Theresa finally looked up and announced, "I do believe that's in our price range. We'll take it."
"You'll be very happy with it. I personally guarantee."
She handed the leather satchel over to Theresa and took a few steps back from the porch. "You ladies have a wonderful Thanksgiving now, ya hear?"
"We will," Theresa nodded. "Thank you."
"It's been a pleasure," she added then turned and walked down the stone path until she disappeared from sight around the corner of the house.
Theresa, Virginia, and Rebecca quietly stepped back into the kitchen and softly shut the door behind them. Wordlessly, they looked at each other with knowing eyes, eyes that were different now; eyes that had been awakened to the mysterious ways of the Lord on this day of blessings. They stared at the knife in Virginia's hands, mouths working hard to suppress big school-girl grins, as if it were not a knife but a winning lottery ticket. And in its own peculiar way, it was.
"HEY!" Buddy hollered from the living room. "What the hell's goin' on in there? Are we gonna eat or what?"
Theresa looked to Virginia, her eyes asking the question for her.
"Those ain't my boys anymore," Virginia said, her voice barely a whisper. "Just like that ain't my husband. Ain't nothing in there but a couple of monsters."
Theresa took the knife from Virginia. She cleared her throat and answered in a voice almost as cold as the November wind blowing outside. "It's almost ready, Buddy. We just need to carve the meat."
"Well stop your damn yackin' and hurry it up! We're getting hungry out here!"
"Then maybe you'd better come give us a hand with it," she said, glancing at Rebecca and Virginia. They both nodded, ready. "You know how women are when it comes to things like this." And then more quietly, "We just need a little help sometimes."
Buddy grunted as he got up from his chair and crossed to the kitchen that smelled of a Thanksgiving dinner he'd never get to enjoy.
*** *** ***
The three, soft knocks that came to Shannon's back door startled her and she almost dropped the bowl of green bean casserole. That would not have been a good thing. Peter loved his casserole but not spilled all over the kitchen floor. He would've surely beaten her for being so clumsy. She tensed as she tried to balance the heavy bowl in her one good hand -the other wrapped in a cast and sling that looped across her neck and chest. She sat the bowl onto the countertop and quietly opened the back door.
Three, nicely dressed women stood on her porch. New clothes. Sunday church clothes. One was cradling an adorable baby boy who cooed happily as his mother bounced him in her arms. She wasn't wearing a wedding ring, Shannon noticed. None of them were. All three smiled warmly to her as one of the ladies stepped up and introduced herself.
"Happy Thanksgiving. My name is Theresa," she said and held up a small, leather satchel. "And have we got a bargain for you."
~END~
Ok, gang... there ya go. Another one of my own stories. I had a single mental image that inspired this story: it was kind of like a twisted Norman Rockwell painting of an old fashioned family all sitting around a table full of Thanksgiving dinner food and the men were all smiling while each of their wives had black eyes from domestic violence and looked miserable. From this single image came this story. I hope you enjoyed it. Again, please leave me a comment with your thoughts. Thanks and have a Happy Thanksgiving!!!
~Larry
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