Turkey Bones

It’ll probably be his last Thanksgiving.

That’s what mom said, right? His last Thanksgiving. What does that even mean? What in the hell is wrong with him? Always thought the bastard was too mean to die. So now I have to come home, after three years, for one final round of insults? To hear about what a piece of shit I am?

I can’t.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode just thinking about it. How can I go back into that place? The smell of vegetable soup and stale smoke in my nose, creeping up to my brain, bringing back a million memories.

I’ll puke.

They’ll all be acting normal, gnawing on turkey bones, slurping wet cranberry sauce, and I’ll freak out. I’ll barf and faint and wake up with him laughing down at me, and everyone else laughing because they’ll be scared not to.

Afraid that they’ll be next.

Damn it, where’s my suitcase? What would I even wear? I look pudgy in everything.

He’ll say, “you sure you need those sweet potatoes, pal?”

I won’t be able to wear a hat at the table.

He’ll say, “I’m getting some glare off that bald spot.”

What if I hit him? I could lose control and stick my fork in his arm. Even if he can’t beat me up anymore, he’ll call the cops. I’ll go to jail for assault with a deadly weapon. He’ll get the best lawyer and I’ll get a public defender and by Christmas all my teeth will be knocked out and I’ll die slowly of sepsis after being stabbed a hundred times by a feces-covered shiv made from the toothbrush I no longer need.

My hands aren’t working right. How can I eat Thanksgiving dinner if my fingers are paralyzed? My windpipe is like a cocktail straw. I’m going to die of an aneurysm before that asshole is in the ground.

I can’t do it.

No way.

Impossible.

What was it that Shane said in the summer? “The old man’s getting meaner.”

Meaner. I can’t imagine. That’s like saying the sun is getting hotter. He’ll probably bite me the second I walk in the door. Does he still have all those guns? Jesus, surely mom doesn’t let him play with those anymore. Surely, they’re locked up somewhere.

He’s probably got a bullet with my name written on it.

Literally carved right into the brass.

Where are my goddam keys?

It’s freezing in this car and I was already feeling lightheaded. I’m going to faint while driving and kill a family of four on Thanksgiving Day. They’ll all watch it on the news tonight and he’ll just be nodding his head. Finally, a reason to disown me. Disavow me. He’ll have mom cut my face out of all the photos in the house.

“Who?” He’ll growl if anyone mentions my name. “Never heard of him.”

I’m not bringing anything. That’s for sure. I’d rather get criticized for being empty-handed than make an effort and have it thrown in my face.

Good Lord, pulling onto this street is painful. I can’t. I’m going to shit my pants. Right down the leg of my jeans. He’ll make them spray me with the hose right in the front yard until I’m dead of hypothermia and embarrassment.

Can I actually push this doorbell? I hear everyone inside. Talking. Laughing. Could he be laughing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile once in my life. I think his lips are only capable of scowling. Screaming. Spit flying from his rage hole.

Christ, help me.

Here we go.

I’m going to die.

Heart attack.

Stroke.

Personalized bullet.

It’s mom in the doorway.

“Henry! I’m so glad you came. Come get out of the cold.”

She has my coat off and her arms around me but my eyes are scanning the kitchen and what I can glimpse of the TV room. The game is on. I see family. My brother. His wife. Kids. Is that Mr. Hamilton from next door?

I don’t see dad.

I do the hellos, talking around the lump in my throat. Hands in my pockets to hide the shaking. Shane is drinking. Can’t blame him. We’re both soldiers, waiting for the boat to hit the beachhead.

“He wants to see you.” Mom looks pale.

I ask with my eyebrows and she takes my arm. My legs turn to rubber walking down the back hall toward the bedroom door. All the framed photos still have my face in them, so far.

Inside, the lights are low. Sweat and bleach and shit in the air. The bed is weird. Small with rails. A hospital bed. There’s an old man lying in it. Skeletal.

“Frank,” she whispers. “Henry’s here.”

My shoulders are just under my ears, lifting involuntarily to protect my neck. My gut is tensed, rigid against the waiting blows.

Mom herds me to a wooden chair positioned beside the plastic and metal bed. I hear her close the door and we’re alone.

Someone seems to have removed the skin of his face and laid it overtop of a pile of bones.

It moves. It opens its milky eyes and sees me there.

Even if he can no longer slap, choke, grip and punch, I still brace for the words. Those sharp words.

“Bud?”

My mouth is too dry. Tongue won’t make a sentence.

“Are you there, Bud?” My uncle. His dead brother.

“I’m Henry.”

“Help me, Bud.”

“I’m not your brother, dad. I’m your son, Henry.”

His thin lip shakes. Wet eyes wide.

“Hide me. He’s coming.”

Death? Does he see the reaper? The fucker has never been afraid of another human on the planet.

“Who’s coming?”

His eyes roll around the room, searching. I can hear them squeak in their sockets.

“It’s dark outside. He’s been up to the tavern.” Fast, short breaths. “Please don’t let him hurt me, Bud.”

Terror turns his face into a man I’ve never met. An ancient child. I feel his helplessness in my jaw. My chest. My soul.

I fight the urge to scream, curse, cry, spit, claw. I want to tip the bed over and run. Voices rise and fall in the family room, miles away. I reach up and put my strong, warm hand over his, like a dry twig in the snow.

Our tremors cancel each other out.

“It’s ok,” I tell this man, what’s left of him. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

We breath the stale air together, both thankful that everything is over.

It’s finally all over.

•