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creepyclothdoll · 1 month ago

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Turkey Day

I didn’t scream when Deb brought out the platter. The dish was large, white, and decorated with little porcelain angels– the ‘good china’ for special occasions. I had thought there was something grotesque about those little porcelain angels before Deb set her masterpiece upon it.

It was the conflict-avoidance in me that stopped the scream. But it didn’t stop my jaw from dropping.

“Mom, you said you weren’t going to do this this time,” Derrick said through his hands.

“Well, no, I told you on the phone, we had a surprise visitor yesterday,” said Deb.

“Bet you never saw a thanksgiving turkey like that in Minneapolis,” Trent grunted at me, before smugly, theatrically stabbing into a roast arm with his fork. He seemed pleased that I didn’t have a response. My mouth just wouldn’t form words. I couldn’t move, or speak.

“I didn’t–” Derrick finally took his fingers off of his nose. “You said, last month, that you were going to do a turkey this year.”

Trent stuffed an enormous forkful of stringy grey meat into his mouth and chewed, staring at me all the while without blinking.

“No, sweetie, you’re remembering wrong,” Deb, who would not look at me at all, argued in her gentle sing-song voice. She was short and thin with a fading blonde bob and grey roots. She wore a beige sweater over a beige dress. “I said your dad wasn’t up for it, with his hip, and with my sciatica and your brothers gone, I just didn’t think we could manage it this year. But then yesterday, around four, just about when I was unwrapping the frozen turkey, the doorbell rang! Trent, please.” Deb slapped Trent’s hand as it reached for another big forkful of meat. “Wait till I carve some for everyone first, for Christ’s sake. Poor Lexi is sitting there thinking ‘oh, these redneck McCabes, bunch of barbarians raised in a barn.’”

“It’s fine,” I said automatically. This was the first movement of my muscles since Deb brought out the platter. “I don’t think that.”

“You don’t have to be so nice,” Deb replied. “I can take it.”

Derrick was staring at me now, too. His hand passed under the table to squeeze mine.

“Why couldn’t you just carve it in the kitchen?” Trent huffed.

“That’s not how Thanksgiving dinner works, dear,” Deb replied. Her thin fingers worked to saw thinner slices of cooked flesh off of the bones. The meat seemed to be somewhat tough, because she was going very slow at it. “Anyway, I ask this fellow where he was coming from, and he said Rindley. Lexi, that’s a whole county over. He’s a door-to-door JW, I forgot to say. He’s got this stack of flyers, you should see them, they’re funny. Anyway. I say, ‘don’t you JW’s always travel in pairs?’ and he says, ‘no m’a’am, that’s not a requirement, that’s only for safety.’ And I say, ‘well aren’t you worried about crazy hicks out here in the boonies taking shots at you?’ And he says, ‘I never had a problem out here before.’ And I say–”

“Godammit Deb!” Trent blurted. He let out a long, excruciated grunt as he stood up laboriously, taking great care to make sure we all knew how much it hurt him. He pushed his walker around the table and grabbed the carving knife from his wife. “I’ll show you how to carve a roast. Christ almighty, I swear to god.” He sawed the meat with violent speed, splashing grease on his old navy checkered flannel.

“And I say–”

“Mom, maybe save it for another time?” Derrick said. He made a big show of secretly nodding towards me so his mother knew why.

“It’s a funny story,” Deb frowned

“I want to hear it,” I said. Deb only sighed and sucked her teeth. Then she sat down.

“Well, it’s not that funny. It’s dumb, actually.”

“I still want to hear it,” I said. My phone buzzed in my dress pocket, and I pulled it out instinctively.

I’m so sorry this is awful, the message read. It was from Derrick. He squeezed my hand again. I took mine away.

“She’s calling the cops,” Trent said. “Told ya.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I just got a text.”

“Surprised you can get texts out here,” Deb said. “Most people can’t. Too far out in the sticks.”

“I can get them through wifi,” I said. I’d gotten the password off of their fridge when I arrived. It was under a magnet that said Never Mess With A PISCES WOMAN Who Was BORN IN MARCH And Is Allergic to STUPIDITY, They’ll Never Find Your Body! “I also think I still have bars, though, too.”

I was getting sick of Deb acting like this suburban mcmansion was so far from civilization it might as well be the middle of Alaska. We were thirty-five minutes from Grand Rapids, tops.

“Gals try to call the cops sometimes,” Trent continued, breathing heavy now as he struggled with the roast. He wasn’t doing much better than his wife at it. Sweat dripped from his wispy brown crew cut into his piggy eyes, but he refused to slow or stop. “They don’t last very long. By the time the cops get to our door, we’ve already got a whole new Thanksgiving meal to serve up to them.”

“Okay,” I said. He raised his eyebrows, as if to accentuate that there was an implication there that I should pick up on.

“Dad.” Derrick said. “She’s not calling the cops.”

The thing I didn’t like about Derrick’s dad most was the way he said everything like he’d rehearsed it in his head a lot beforehand. Sometimes, Derrick could sound just like that. He’d say something and raise his eyebrows with a smile like he was expecting a big reaction. He wouldn’t move past it until I gave some acknowledgment that yes, I did “get” the implication. I never realized how much that annoyed me until now. What do you want, a round of applause?

“God dammit!” Trent threw down the knife. “God damn roast is tough, Deb. What about ‘low and slow’ don’t you understand?”

“Well, there was a lot of meat, dear. If you just fixed the grill this summer–”

“Oh, don’t go bringing that up.”

“Men.” Deb tutted. “Nothing is ever their fault. You know what I’m talking about, Lexi. Us women take the blame for all their stupid mistakes. But that’s life. Cleaning up our men’s messes without complaint.” Deb smiled conspiratorily at me, and I smiled back, even though I didn’t relate to or agree with the sentiment. The front door was just down the hall behind Deb, just a few square meters of grey carpet and beige walls smattered with tacky and vaguely threatening Hobby Lobby signage (Grandma’s Shit List: Don’t Say Shit, Don’t Do Shit, Don’t Expect Shit! and House Rules: ACT RIGHT or get a trip to the woodshed!). I kept glancing at it, measuring the distance in my mind, wondering if I could run fast enough to get to my car before one of Derrick’s parents caught up to me. Or drew a weapon.

Another buzz in my pocket.

I love you, Derrick had texted me. I could see him out the corner of my eye trying to make eye contact with me and shoot me his own conspiratorial smile, but I did not look at him. Trent slapped a pile of rubbery grey meat on a plate and passed it to me.

“Breast or thigh?” He joked without smiling. I took the plate. The meat was wet, as if it had been boiled, and the thin ring of white fat and skin around the edge jiggled as it separated from the muscle. I thought I could still see blonde arm hair on the skin.

Derrick took his plate of grey meat from his dad. As Deb took hers, Derrick leaned over to me and whispered in my ear,

“Don’t forget to say thank you.”

“Thanks, Deb,” I said.

“And my dad?”

Deb passed a basket of white grocery store rolls around. There was a low white ramekin of canned cranberry sauce on the table, and a big blue bowl of salad with russian dressing. There was an extremely mushy and condensed soup-forward green bean casserole. In an effort to make a good impression, I had brought candied sweet potatoes.

I took a generous helping of the salad, which was somehow also very wet. The russian dressing water from the lettuce pooled with the unthinkable and loathsome juices of the grey flesh at the bottom of the plate. I also took a generous helping of the sweet potatoes. No one else did, though.

“Let’s wait until we say grace,” Deb said through her smiling teeth, watching me take a deep swig of my wine. “Thirsty, aren’t we?” She chirped. She poured me some more wine, filling it almost to the brim this time. I think she meant this as an insult, but I was going to do that myself anyway, so the joke was on her. “Would you like to lead the prayer, Lexi?”

“Uh… I don’t really know what to say,” I said.

“Just say what’s in your heart.”

“Um.” I cleared my throat. I looked to Derrick. He nodded encouragingly at me, a sign he wasn’t going to step in and rescue me. “Thank you, God, for bringing us all together, here.” Deb and Trent both bowed their heads and touched their palms. Derrick followed suit. “I’m so glad I got to meet Derrick’s lovely parents. Thank you for this amazing… meal.” I felt the wine come back up into my mouth a little bit and had to gag it back down. “We’re all grateful to be here, rather than anywhere else. Uh. Amen.”

Derrick wasn’t religious, as far as I knew. But he gave a reverent nod before he opened his eyes and picked up his knife and fork.

“That was a beautiful prayer,” Deb said. She sniffled. “You picked a good one, sweetie. Don’t let her go.”

“No thank-you for carving your dinner. I see how it is,” Trent mumbled.

I watched Derrick take a small mouthful of meat. It was sinewy, and had come from the hand. He chewed and chewed. I’d never been less attracted to him.

My family ate Thanksgiving dinner in the early afternoon. Sometimes my grandparents were there, sometimes my dad’s brother and his kids, sometimes family friends would come. My candied sweet potatoes always killed. Not a spoonful left by the end. But the thing was that we all liked each other. My mom would get a little tipsy and tell crazy college party stories, my dad would burn the pecan pie and laugh so hard he cried, and then we’d laugh so hard we cried, and then we’d watch movies and laugh some more.

“So, what is it you do for a living?” Deb asked, chewing on her roast. Her teeth scraped the fork as she pulled it off.

“I’m a personal assistant at a pet magazine.”

“Oh, that’s adorable,” Deb laughed. I smiled a little bit.

“It’s harder than it sounds. You know The Devil Wears Prada?” I asked.

“...No,” Deb said.

“You like Prada?” Trent asked through an open mouth of food.

“No, but, basically, I do what Anne Hathaway does, except for with dog clothes. But if you haven’t seen it, nevermind.”

“We don’t like the Devil in this house,” Trent said.

“It’s not a literal Devil. It’s Meryl streep–”

“Let’s not keep talking about this. It’s Thanksgiving,” Deb snapped.

Buzz.

My mom loves you, you’re doing great.

“You know,” I said, swallowing a bite of sweet potatoes, which I made very sure hadn’t touched the grey meat or any of its accumulated juices, “these candied sweet potatoes are made with real maple syrup and brown butter. I toasted the pecans myself and sugared them with homemade maple caramel.”

After a long silence, Trent wiped his mouth and replied,

“I don’t like real maple.”

“It’s too strong,” Derrick agreed.

“We already have a dessert,” Deb said.

“Regular mashed potatoes are better.” Trent said. “And they’re traditional.”

“To each their own,” I said politely. I poured myself another glass of wine. Honestly, I hoped they did kill me. Anything to end this dinner sooner.

There was a loud, faraway noise from below us. A pounding, a rattling, and then a long, low wail. Derrick put his head back in his hands.

“Mom.”

“That’ll be our JW.”

“He’s alive.”

“You know how hard it is to break down a whole carcass, son?” Trent spat. “Nobody’s got the time for that. Not when you find out you gotta make a thanksgiving dinner for two extra people last-minute the day before. Now get your elbows off the damn table.” Then, in a moment of brilliance, he added, “Only one set of elbows on this table tonight, and they’re well-done.” He grinned and looked at me for a reaction again. “What, you got nothing to say?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said.

“Say what’s on your mind,” Trent responded.

“Okay. Well… candied sweet potatoes aren’t a dessert,” I said. “They’re a side. But I don’t want to start an argument.”

“You’ve wanted to start an argument since you got here,” Trent said. “Don’t think we can’t see you think you’re better than us. College-educated girl, women’s studies, you probably got all kinds of opinions.”

“I think you want to start an argument,” I said.

Derrick groaned beside me.

“See? Knew you think you’re smart.”

The man in the basement let out another agonized wail.

“It was journalism, not women’s studies,” I said.

“Like it matters. This day and age, you tell me what the difference is. It’s all women’s studies, gender studies these days.” Trent huffed. He chewed as he talked, and I could hear the fat squeak between his teeth as the prisoner downstairs built up the energy for another scream.

“When I was a girl, I took a women’s studies course in college,” Deb piped up, attempting to smooth down the hostile tone of the conversation by pretending she couldn’t sense it. “Back then, there were still ladies who would go out and burn their bras in a big fire. I understood feminism when it was about equal rights, but I look around today and– well, hasn’t it gotten out of hand? You know how it is, Lexi– you’re a pretty girl, you don’t shave your head or pierce your eyebrows or anything like that. Do you?”

The Jehovah’s Witness wailed in the basement and rattled his chains.

“Would you shut him up?” Trent snapped at Derrick.

“Me?!” Derrick said. “Dad.” He gestured at me. Like that would sway anyone here. Trent’s big lumpy face was stony as a gargoyle’s as he gestured at his walker. He wouldn’t be able to go down stairs with his bad hip.

“I’ll do it,” Deb said. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean it up.” She stood up and pushed in her squeaky beige chair.

“No, mom,” Derrick said. “I’ll do it.” He looked at me, then looked away quickly, towards the grey carpet. “I’ll, uh–” Derrick grabbed the carving knife from the roast and wiped it on his napkin. Then he headed towards the pantry door.

“That’s my boy,” Trent shouted, without any real pride. “Sure hope you’re loyal to him, Lexi,” Trent said to me once he was arguably out of earshot. “Most women these days–”

“I’ll go with him,” I said as I stood, almost knocking a fork off the table. I hurried after my boyfriend through the dingey, grey-tiled kitchen (past a hanging wood sign which read In This House We Believe: No Cryin’, No Whinin’, No Back-Talkin’!) and catching him before the secret door behind the rack of very expired dry goods swung shut.

“Lexi–” Derrick said, four steps down the creaky wooden staircase. The man’s screams were louder and more frantic now. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

“Is this normal for your family?”

“No– I mean, the ritual cannibalism is just a Thanksgiving thing, I promise. And my mom said she wasn’t going to do it this year. I thought it would be fine.” Derrick smiled wanly. I didn’t like the way that smile looked on his face. Honestly, I didn’t like his face very much anymore. I could see his dad’s meaty forehead and his mom’s thin nose. I could see Deb’s wide cheekbones and Trent’s lipless mouth.

“You don’t have to do what they say,” I said.

“It’s– not that big of a deal,” Derrick replied. “It’s just family stuff. You know?”

I didn’t.

“Derrick,” I said. “I don’t like your family.”

Derrick looked hurt.

“I know this is a lot,” he said. “And my dad is being an asshole. But… you don’t choose your family.”

“I mean… why not?” I said, following him as he carried the knife down the stairs.

“What’s the alternative?” Derrick said. “I turn my back on my mom and dad? No. Never. I believe in loyalty, Lexi. Even when people aren’t perfect. Even when I don’t agree with them. I don’t agree with you all the time, but we’re still together.”

“Well, don’t expect me to come to any future McCabe Thanksgivings,” I said.

“I understand why you’d feel that way after today, but… you might change your mind when they’re your family, too.” Derrick stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He looked up at me with his big, dopey eyes.

“Derrick–”

“Lexi, this isn’t how I wanted to do this. But you’ve seen the worst of my family secrets, and you’re still by my side. So will you stay by my side?”

Derrick was doing that thing again, that Trent thing, where he said a line and waited for my reaction.

“Let’s just get out of here,” I said.

“Will you stay by my side?” He repeated like maybe he thought I hadn’t heard. “For the rest of our lives?”

“I just want to go.”

“I’m asking you to marry me.”

“I have ears, Derrick,” I snapped. It was the first time I’d ever snapped at him. I never snapped at anyone. Especially not him.

His expression didn’t move an inch. He was smiling, for some reason, like this was the happiest day of his life.

“Then say yes,” he said.

“No, I don’t want to marry you,” I said.

“Because this is where I come from?” He swallowed, shaking.

“No. Because this is who you’re choosing to be.” I replied.

Derrick hung his head. The knife drooped to his knee.

“Things aren’t that black and white, Lexi.”

I clapped my hands over my ears as another shriek boomed through the basement, close now.

Derrick sighed.

“Fuck,” he said. He hurried into the basement proper, and I followed him. Again, I didn’t scream.

What was left of the man was chained by the ankles to the wall. He crawled like a caterpillar, the stumps where his arms used to start on his torso haphazardly bandaged with paper towels and medical tape. His face was a pulp, his body bruised. He was naked. An overturned bucket leaked into the drain in the floor. He looked up at Derrick and I with wide, white eyes.

“Help me!” He screamed. “Get me out of here! Oh, Lord, please get me out of here!”

“Sorry, man,” Derrick said, stooping over the prisoner. His knee fell onto the man’s back, pinning him in place. He raised the knife. “Thanksgiving with the family. You know how it is.”

“Derrick,” I said. He looked up at me a second too late to see the bread knife flash under his chin. By the time he did, it was lodged all the way through his neck. His face was stunned, betrayed. I felt bad.

I pulled the knife out, followed by a torrent of blood. Down it went, towards the floor drain.

Derrick dropped down to both knees. He clutched his neck. He didn’t scream.

“Don’t make a sound,” I said to the armless, naked prisoner, who had been screaming a lot until then. He’d rolled away to the side as soon as Derrick’s weight was off of him. “If you stay quiet, we’ll be out of here in time to finish Thanksgiving with our own families.”

The man spat bloody drool.

“J-jehovah’s Witnesses don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” he managed.

“Yeah…” I said. “I think you’re onto something with that.”

Derrick twitched and gurgled. Then, finally, he stopped.

I imagined my own family at home, topping off the evening with hot toddies and bad cable tv Christmas movies.

“Lexi, Derrick,” Deb called from upstairs. “We’re cutting into the pie! Hurry up or your dad’ll eat it all before you get any. As soon as I find my knife!”

“I’ll help you!” I shouted up the stairs.

My phone buzzed.

Miss you this year lex!! Happy Turkey Day!! Love, mom

I wiped blood from my thumb and texted her back.

Love you too.

I started up the stairs.

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