Chapter One

Ben dropped the bombshell on Thanksgiving at lunch. He was sitting at the living room table with his parents and two brothers. The half-eaten bird rested in the middle of the table, emitting it’s roasted scent. They were just about finished eating and Ben was gnawing on a turkey drumstick. His father Max eyed him suspiciously.

“You never used to like dark meat.”

“White meat’s too dry.”

“Your mother’s sitting right here.”

“It’s all right,” Elizabeth said.

“I didn’t mean your turkey,” Ben explained. “I just meant turkey in general.”

“It never used to be too dry for you,” Max said.

“People change,” Elizabeth said. “Taste buds change. Philip used to like meat. Then he found his true love. Tofu.”

She giggled.

Ben’s older brother, Philip, had become a vegetarian last year. When Philip visited home, he always offered to walk the beagle, Snuggles, but Elizabeth wouldn’t let him. She was afraid he would try to set Snuggles free. Elizabeth considered vegetarianism to be an eating disorder like anorexia or bulimia. She had urged Philip to see a psychiatrist but he refused.

Philip spooned up a big lump of tofu that was artificially turkey-flavored. “Laugh now,” he said. “But when you’re all groggy and incapacitated from eating turkey, I’ll take your wallets.”

Ben’s younger brother Logan was already past groggy and incapacitated. His head lay next to his plate, his fair hair fluttering onto the plate and being stained by a mixture of cranberry sauce and stuffing. He snored lightly.

Max shook his head and looked at Ben. “I hope you don’t follow in Philip’s footsteps.”

Ben swallowed and cleared his throat. “I’ve decided to be a poet,” he announced.

Ben was a Freshman at the University of Illinois and hadn’t yet decided what to major in.

Max nodded. “You’ll need something to fall back on. You should get a teaching certificate.”

“I’m not getting a teaching certificate.”

“You can’t make a living writing poetry.”

“I’m not going to spend of my life doing something I hate.”

“Why not? Everyone hates his job. That’s why it’s called a job. You think I like being a dentist? We have the highest suicide rate of any profession.”

Ben suppressed a groan. Max was always bragging about the prolific suicide rate of dentists.

“I’m not paying for you to write poetry,” Max said.

“You don’t have to. I didn’t say I was majoring in poetry. I said I’m going to be a poet. I’m quitting school. After this semester, I’m finished.”

There was silence and the silence caused Logan to stir. “Turn off the television,” he mumbled. Then he slumbered and started to snore again.

“You shouldn’t drop out,” Max said. “Your poetry will be much better if you study poetry while writing it.”

“You said you weren’t going to pay for it.”

“You should listen to what I mean, not what I say. You’re staying in school.”

“I’m still dropping out.” Ben set down the drumstick and wiped his mouth. “I need to feel the plight of the working man in my bones so I can align my creative drive with the downtrodden.”

“They’ve got enough problems without you writing them poetry. They don’t need the boy who doesn’t floss as their poet laureate.”

Whenever Max was angry with Ben he called him The Boy Who Doesn’t Floss.

“I don’t want to be a poet for the bourgeoisie.”

“I don’t send you to college to learn words like that.”

“There’s so many people who have to work backbreaking hours in factories for little money. How can I lift them up if I’m sitting in an ivory tower? College is just training me to be an enemy of the working man.”

“Get your college degree first. The steel mill will still be there after you graduate. Besides, I read that poem you gave me. It didn’t even rhyme.”

“They don’t have to rhyme. That’s so old fashioned. There’s no rules to poetry anymore.”

“I can see why you like it so much then. You don’t want to follow the rules. You don’t want to go to college. You don’t want to rhyme your poems. You never follow the rules—”

“Who wants dessert?” Elizabeth asked. “Who wants pumpkin pie?”

“Do you still like pumpkin pie?” Max asked. “Or have your taste buds changed?”

“Yes. I still like pumpkin pie.”

“Well that’s too bad, cause you’re not getting any.”

Logan looked up and rubbed his eyes.

Elizabeth shook her head. “Max, no—“

“Yes. This is still my house and I say he’s not getting any pumpkin pie. If he’s going to drop out of school to scribble limericks on the bathroom walls of working class bars, he can eat someone else’s pumpkin pie.”

“It’s my pumpkin pie too,” Elizabeth said.

“Paid for with my money,” Max said.

Elizabeth lifted up her chin. “I baked it.”

Max shook his head. “You thawed it.”

Elizabeth’s hand gripped the white tablecloth and the muscles in her forearm tightened. The only sound was Snuggles’s paws faintly scratching on the wooden bathroom door. They had locked her in there so she couldn’t get her snout in the turkey.

“Is there gonna be a food fight?” Logan asked.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and spoke with forced calmness.

“This is a holiday. Problems can wait until the holiday is over. This is the time for family to be together, a time to be thankful for what we have. I’m going to go get the pie now and we’re going to eat it. All of us.”

She turned and strode into the kitchen.

Max was silent. He just slowly shook his head. Philip picked at his teeth and licked his fingers. Logan stretched out his arms and let out a big yawn.

“You’re mother’s right,” Max said. “Holiday traditions come first. I’m not going to let you ruin Thanksgiving.”

Max leaned back, pleasantly groaned, rubbed his sizable stomach, and unbuckled his belt.

“Are you going to beat him?” Logan asked.

Max glared at Logan.

“I’m changing the notches! I ate a lot of stuffing.” He unbuttoned the top button of his pants. “I’m not a thirty-six waist anymore.”

Then Max reached into his pocket and took out a well-used piece of green dental floss.

“Dad, please don’t do that here,” Ben said.

“Why? We’re done eating.” Max started to floss between his teeth.

Ben put a protective hand over his water glass.

“We don’t want little bits of floss gunk flying across the table and hitting us.”

Max sighed and put the floss back in his pocket. “Don’t come to me if you get a cavity.”

“I won’t.

“And don’t think it won’t happen. With all those candies you munch. You’ve always had a sweet tooth, boy who doesn’t floss. A sweet tooth for trouble.”

They ate their pumpkin pie and rested for about an hour. Then it was time for another family tradition, the Turkey Bowl, the annual two-on-two game of touch football.

They groggily made their way out to the front yard. There was a chill in the air so they all had on their earmuffs.

Elizabeth stood on the sidelines waving blue and white pompoms. She was the cheerleader for both teams. Next to her, on a lawn chair, was the bronzed statue of a turkey quarterback getting ready to throw a pass. The winning team got to keep it for a year. Last year, Ben and Philip’s team had won and the trophy spent the year on the shelf of Philip’s apartment.

Logan yawned, still groggy from the turkey. Max stood on one foot like a flamingo and pulled his lifted ankle up, stretching his leg. Philip and Ben were in the huddle. They had their arms on each other’s shoulders and their heads pressed close together.

“Why are you dropping out of college really?” Philip asked. “Are you flunking?”

“I’m not flunking. I’ve got straight A’s.”

“You shouldn’t try doing poetry around poor people. They’ll beat you up. They don’t like poetry and they hate poets.”

“That’s just a stereotype.”

“Yeah, well there’s a reason for stereotypes. Millions of years of evolution and we still have stereotypes. That means stereotypes are worth something.”

“No they aren’t.”

“What are you huddling for?” Max shouted at them. “It’s the kickoff. You don’t need a huddle.”

“Maybe they’re doing an onside kick,” Logan said.

“Why would they do an onside kick? It’s the first play of the game.”

“Exactly. We’d never see it coming.”

Max rubbed his whiskers like he was deeply pondering this and then slunk up closer to the line of scrimmage.

Philip turned towards him. “Don’t try to listen in.”

“Hurry up,” Max said. “There’s gonna be a delay of game penalty.”

“I’ll give you a penalty.” Philip turned back to Ben. “Why don’t you get a job washing dishes at the school cafeteria? They’re mostly ex-cons but I think they’d take you. You don’t get more downtrodden than that.”

Max pulled a whistle out of the pocket of his sweatpants and blew it. “I’m calling a penalty!”

The huddle broke up.

“Where did you get a whistle?” Ben yelled.

“You don’t follow the rules!” Max shouted. “You don’t want to go to college, your poems don’t rhyme, and you’re delaying the game! You can’t even follow football rules!” He blew the whistle again. “You forfeit! Forfeit! The winners are Logan and Dad!”

“Who made you the referee?” Ben shouted.

Max ran over to the Turkey Bowl trophy and snatched it up.

“Put that down!” Philip screamed.

“No!”

Max bore his head down and ran. He ran up the porch steps and into the house.

A cold breeze rustled the tree branches above them.

“I guess we’re finished,” Logan said.

“No,” Elizabeth said. “The game must go on.” She threw her blue and white pompoms to the ground, snatched up her plastic Illinois cheerleader’s megaphone, raised it to her mouth, and turned towards the frosty dirt where she grew marigolds in the summertime. “Is there anyone here who can play football?” she asked the imaginary crowd. She lowered the megaphone, turned around, and answered her own question. “I can play football.”

“No you can’t,” Logan said. “You don’t even know the rules.”

“I’ve seen it done enough. I’ve been cheerleading all these years, I think I’ve picked up a little.”

Logan frowned. “Who’s gonna be the cheerleader?” he asked.

“I’ll still do that.”

“For both teams? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“I’m a professional.”

Logan shrugged. “Let’s play.”

They started up the game. Philip kicked off to Logan and Elizabeth. Ben looked towards the house and saw Max peering through the window like a troll peering through the slats on a bridge.

The tradition of the Turkey Bowl continued. It was a Thanksgiving miracle.


February 6, 2007