Turkey Tom [FICTION]

With coke bottle glasses and unruly, curly hair, my cousin Melvin epitomized every conspiracy theorist ever written about. By tacit agreement, almost everyone in the family avoided getting him started on any of his pet theories. Uncle Mort, however, loved to try to start new ones with Melvin’s help. Usually, Melvin regarded our uncle with skeptical eyes before pushing his glasses back up on his nose, sniffing disdainfully, and turning away or outright explaining why he didn’t believe a word Mort said. Either way, Uncle Mort’s raucous laugh drowned out all conversation for about five minutes.

This year, Uncle Mort decided to start a little more subtly. He stepped up to the window and peered outside. He maintained this silent vigil for ten minutes before Melvin finally took the bait. He tentatively stepped over to peer around our uncle’s prodigious stomach.

He whispered softly, “What do you see out there?”

“Huh?” Mort feigned being startled and looked down at Melvin with a gleam in his eye. “Well, boy, the neighborhood strays are up to something, so I am watching them watch us.”

At that announcement, I had to come peer out the window, too. My mother shook her head at me and rolled her eyes at her younger brother’s antics. I persevered in joining the gawking. When I finally found an angle to see outside, a small horde of cats gazed back at me with bored yet intelligent eyes. At their center sat our own wild cat, Tom. His head titled just so as if he saw me, and I smiled.

“They know we have turkey,” Uncle Mort intoned, “And they mean to have it for themselves.”

Melvin elbowed me gently in the side, “Molly will share with them. Every cat knows she is an easy mark.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I couldn’t deny that I have snuck bits of turkey to any cat I could lure close enough since I could walk. I knew my my mother would proudly pull out photographic evidence of my infinite cuteness and slavery to cats multiple times during the evening. I clamped my mouth shut and offered him the closest version of a sneer that I could muster while holding back a smile.

He didn’t notice. His focus alternated casting quizzical looks at the cats with suspiciously regarding my uncle. He finally decided to pop out the front door and peer under the bushes along front of the house. The cats found this too much to bear and disappeared. My uncle found this hilarious and snickered in self-satisfaction. As Melvin turned back toward the house, he stifled his good humor and wandered into the kitchen to sneak any food that was ready before the turkey.

He returned with a roll, which he promptly stuffed into his face as Melvin approached him with that look that foretold questions followed by more questions. Melvin opened his mouth to speak and Mort held up one hand to silence him while pointing at his chipmunk cheeks with the other.

“Later then,” Melvin narrowed his eyes and returned to the window.

I peeked over his shoulder to see that the cats had already returned. I shivered a little as all those intelligent green eyes turned my way.

“It really does look like they are casing the place,” I whispered.

Melvin shook his head, “You know how Uncle Mort kids. If you want to know about a real conspiracy, I offer you the assassination of…”

“Oh crud. I was supposed to help mom with the gravy,” I conveniently remembered.

I doubted Melvin believed me. I wouldn’t have. But I had heard every one of his conspiracies so many times. I could share them as succinctly as he does and even offer proof of my assertions, well, his assertions. I shuddered and hurried to the kitchen. To my chagrin, my mother accosted me in the doorway.

“Just in time to stir the gravy, darling,” she offered me a wooden spoon and beelined for the back door. “Whew! I need some cool air in here.”

My aunt mumbled something about “hot flashes” and earned a dirty look for her commentary. My mother opened her mouth to respond in kind, but my youngest cousin’s squeals of horror brought the whole house running to the front door.

“Tom. Tom. Are you okay?” She cried out.

We gathered around to watch her pick up the giant tabby cat, who normally discouraged such effrontery with claws and teeth. As she cradled him to her chest, his eyes opened a fraction but quickly closed again. We crowded around her. My mother reached over and took him into her own arms. Mother was his favorite and he snuggled happily into her arms. He instantly began purring loudly.

“He seems fine to me,” mom said.

A crash from the kitchen brought the concerned congregants rushing in another direction. We converged on the kitchen to find the turkey roaster overturned on the kitchen floor. The runt of Tom’s litter, Tiger, straddled the cooling turkey and dragged it as fast as she could torward the back door where the rest of the watchers waited to help her. Tom chose this moment to extract himself from mom’s embrace and join the feasters on the lawn.

“Well, there goes Thanksgiving,” my mother said sadly as we watched the turkey disappear except for a trail of grease leading to the lucky hoard of soon to be over-stuffed cats.

“Finally got one right,” Melvin patted Uncle Mort on the back while gazing up at him with new respect.

Mort stood with his mouth open. No teases or guffaws preceded from his gaping maw—just borderline hyperventilation as our Thanksgiving dreams became feline reality.

~~~

Watch out for those tricky kitties. They will get your turkey if you let them! Hope you have a fabulous Thanksgiving and are grateful for all that you have.

Pain or Purr

Due to the lack of sharks washed into my basement by Hurricane Sandy, I didn't get a chance to give this piece one more look before posting it. However, I wanted to present it as a Halloween present, so I am posting it a whole day early. I hope it meets up to your high standards. What do you think? 

“It’s not good to go poking around in other people’s pain.” My father glared at me with glassy eyes.

My spoon dropped into my cereal bowl with a final clank. I regarded him in silence with wide eyes. He shook his head disapprovingly and leaned forward. As he wrapped his battered hands protectively around a white ceramic mug that announced his feelings about mornings, I gently pushed my chair back from the table. I winced as wooden legs squeaked against worn linoleum, but my father didn’t respond. I tiptoed up the stairs to claim my backpack.

With equally cautious steps, I crept back down the stairs. My father still hadn’t moved. Without a word, I opened the front door and stepped out into the fall morning. I eased the door closed and hurried across the porch as fast as I could without making much noise.

Every hurried footstep released the damp smell of leaves as I crossed the lawn to meet my friend Spike. We nodded our greetings and turned toward the school. Neither of us dared speak until we turned the corner.

“Your dad made it home last night?” Spike asked softly.

“Or this morning.” I mumbled.

“So you didn’t get a chance to ask him about tonight?” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he kicked at the leaves underfoot.

I offered a half-hearted grin. “I decided that I don’t need to ask.”

Examining my face for signs of insincerity, he grinned. “So you’re in?”

“You better believe it.”

“Good. I found some sparklers from the fourth of July.”

I grinned. We stepped closer to avoid being overheard as we neared the schoolyard. Finalizing our plans for the evening lifted a heavy weight from my chest. Halloween helped me escape from my dad’s terrible mood swings in a way no other holiday could. I never expected him to participate, so I never got disappointed when he stumbled home drunk and demanded my silence or my absence.

Every year, Spike pondered and schemed until he developed a trick more fantastic than the last. We graduated from toilet papering trees to pelting doors and windows with eggs many years back. This year, his grand plan revolved around the crazy cat lady and the hundreds of feral cats in abundance around her house. We just needed to make it through a day of school and an afternoon of waiting for the sun to go down. Then, when darkness descended, we would have both tricks and treats.

Thus the last rays of the fading sun found me anxiously tapping my foot as Spike and I crouched behind a long row of unkempt hedges that shielded the abandoned house behind us from the two-story house across the street. Streamers of fake cobwebs hung from the lowest branches of the spindly trees on either side of a rough stone path. The silhouette of a black cat filled every window, some made by real cats.

“Come on, Spike. It’s got to be time.” I whispered excitedly.

“Just trust me. She always calls those cats into her house when it gets dark.” He gestured toward the lawn.

A few cats sprawled happily under the trees. One jumped up over and over in a vain attempt to catch something caught in the spider webs. A couple even waited at the door with tails twitching to mark the time.

“Are you…?”

Before I could finish my question, the door squealed open. A short woman in a loose black sweater stood framed in the doorway. She leaned down to pat the two waiting cats as they slipped past her. She cleared her throat loudly.

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” Her words rolled and echoed like a yodel across the lawn.

The remaining cats stopped what they were doing to rush to her. She cooed and chattered at them as they brushed against her ankles. Some stopped to mewl at her appreciatively as she scratched behind their ears. Finally, the last flitting tail disappeared into the warm, orange glow of the interior. With a cursory glance for stragglers, the woman pulled the door shut behind her.

“You made the sign?” Spike instantly got down to business.

I nodded and unrolled the piece of poster board clutched in my hand. In big black letters, it proclaimed, “Dead cats are the best cats.”

Spike whistled. “Perfect. I found something else to go with it.”

He grinned as he unslung his backpack and gently extracted a plastic bag. Something heavy shifted as he placed it on the ground. A faint odor instantly filled my nostrils.

A sour taste filled my mouth as I stuttered. “Um. Wh…wh…a….t is that?

“Just a little something I found beside the road.”

“I…”

“Sh. Come on.” He tiptoed to the middle of the lawn, dumping the contents of the bag on the ground beneath one of the trees.

My stomach heaved as the grey mound of fur plopped onto the moist grass. Spike reached for the sign, as I dared to take another peek at the gruesome lawn decoration.

“I think that’s a raccoon.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Spike shoved a couple of sparklers into the ground around the body, dropping a few stones on the corners of the sign to hold it in place. “Light your sparklers fast and run for the hedge.”

I nodded, pulling a lighter out of my pocket. As the last sparkler burst into life, Spike threw a large rock at the front door. It missed, hitting a post and shattering. I raced toward the hedges as a cascade of smaller stones rained down on the porch. As Spike joined me behind the hedge, the front door flew open.

The crazy cat lady peered out into the darkness. Her eyes quickly rested on the tableau on the lawn. Even from a distance, her face visibly paled as she squinted at the sign. One hand rose to cover her mouth. Short, quick steps carried her toward the dead raccoon. She stared at it in silence for a moment. Then her head lifted and she scanned the neighboring yards.

“You shouldn’t try to bring pain to other people.” She called out as her eyes focused on our hiding place. “That pain will find you again.”

As if summoned by her words, a wave of cats poured out of the open door. A couple joined her to sniff at the corpse. The rest bristled as they closed the distance between us. The cat lady’s lips moved, but her words got lost in a chorus of hissing and snarling.

I looked at Spike for guidance.

“Run?” Though he questioned his decision, he pulled his backpack tighter on his shoulders and turned away from me.

We ran the length of the hedge, trying escape the hunters. Some rounded the hedge close on our heels. Others growled even as they matched pace with us on the other side of the dense branches. As we broke through an opening into the next yard, a battalion of four-legged warriors rushed forward to cut us off.

Spike exclaimed a string of words I dare not repeat though I know many of the same words, and some worse, escaped my own lips when we realized that they surrounded us. Hissing and yowling expressed sentiments of disapproval. Wetness flooded down my legs as at least a dozen of the vile creatures leaped at me.

Knocked off balance by the extra weight, I fell backwards. Lightning went off in my head and blackness took over. When I awoke, every part of body ached. The unpleasant smell of feline urine filled my nostrils. As I slowly pushed myself up from the ground, I realized that the smell emanated from my clothes. They clung to me with every movement. I looked around for Spike, but only saw crumpled leaves in the rough form of a body.

A soft hiss jolted me to my feet. I simulated running, fighting my clothes with every step. A couple of blocks from my house, my momentum faded. I glanced anxiously over my shoulder with each weary step back to my house. Finally assured that nothing pursued me, I stumbled up the stairs.

My reflection in the glass panes of the front door revealed a face covered in upraised slashes. I shuddered and closed my eyes. As I pushed it, the sound of the television greeted me. I tried to sneak past, but sobriety made my father notice me.

“Son, I told you not to go poking at other people’s pain.” His words chased me up the stairs.