Chapter Eight
Mara-Present
I’ll Get By-Avi Kaplan
Thanksgiving is tomorrow.
My entire childhood, Thanksgiving was one of three days my dad took off every year, the other two being Christmas (even though we are technically Jewish) and Super Bowl Sunday. The holiest of all days.
Thanksgiving was always catered with normal Thanksgiving foods, and the house was decorated to the nines with pumpkins, rust tones, and the occasional turkey.
My mom thought it would be a good idea to get a live turkey one year to greet guests in the front yard.
But the wild beast tried to take out the food delivery boy’s eye so he was shot on the spot and his body discretely disposed of.
That’s something an eleven year old never forgets.
All those holidays spent in my parents house was akin to being a third wheel on a date.
I was seen but not heard, present to keep up the loving family facade.
Though I think I preferred that. My parents usually invited the most insipid of guests and the last thing I wanted to do was make small talk with people who didn’t want to interact with me.
I guess I should be thankful they didn’t try to engage with me.
In college, my parents never protested that I wanted to stay in California for the holidays. I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home eating Chinese take out in my apartment with my boyfriend at the time.
The second year, I spent it in a bar trying to drink a turkey’s weight in vodka sodas.
I was unsuccessful. At least the bartender put me in an Uber home before I left with the guy I was making googly eyes at across the bar.
And thankfully, Mr. Bad Idea didn’t try to tag along.
I woke up a foot away from vomit on my rug the following morning.
Not my classiest moment but there were no witnesses, so no one has to know.
This year, I figured I’d be fielding questions about why I’m home from college at another awful party my parents threw.
While being stuck in a cabin in the woods with tweedle-mute and tweedle-always happy isn’t my first choice, I don’t think it will be too bad.
It might even be my best Thanksgiving ever, which is kind of sad, really.
The Thanksgiving I spent with my boyfriend eating Chinese was pretty nice, but it’s now tainted by his betrayal.
A quiet holiday eating a basic meal that consists of less than twelve courses is far more appealing.
We’re just having chicken since one of them started biting and Dylan said they don’t tolerate biters. I can’t wrap my head around having to eat an animal with a name that I helped feed everyday. But maybe if I tell myself I pulled it out of the meat section at the store, I’ll be able to stomach it.
Dylan insists it’ll be better than any store bought chicken. We’ll see about that.
I decide to try my hand at baking and use ingredients from the pantry to make a pumpkin pie.
The filling seems easy enough. Just dump and mix the ingredients, no such thing as over mixing.
But the crust seems a little trickier. Anything that requires precision and worrying about consistency is a recipe for disaster in my book.
Using a marble rolling pin, I try to evenly roll the dough out over the floured kitchen island but it keeps sticking to the rolling pin. No matter how much flour I sprinkle on the dough, the sticky texture attaches to the rolling pin instead of rolling flat.
I just don’t get it. I’m following the recipe exactly.
Exasperated and about ready to give up completely, I set the rolling pin down with a thud and throw my hands in the air earning the attention of the two men sitting at the table finishing breakfast.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dylan oh so helpfully asks.
I shove my hands toward the mess on the island as if I’m banishing it from existence. “The dough keeps sticking and I can’t get it to smooth out. It’s impossible.”
Much to my dismay, Jason snorts a stifled laugh I meet with a withering glare. Apparently, my agony is amusing to him.
“I’m trying here,” I insist. “What do you want from me?”
Jason stands, takes his plate and fork to the kitchen sink, then comes to stand at my side. He takes the rolling pin off the counter, a pinch of flour from the jar beside the dough, and spreads it over the rolling pin without taking his eyes off me as if to say flour the pin, not the dough. Duh.
I meet his stare with one of my own and respond to his wordless chastisement. “Well, the instructions didn’t say to flour the rolling pin, it said to put flour on the dough.”
Another rub of flour into the rolling pin is Jason’s only response. Dick.
After using the trick Jason showed me, which worked like a dream even though I almost wish he’d been wrong, the crust is flattened and fully formed in the pie dish.
I pour the pumpkin pie filling into the crust after poking the holes in the bottom like the instructions dictate.
As I’m sliding the pie into the oven, I peer out the window and see a large deer with swooping antlers that come to five points on either side.
“There’s a deer outside,” I alert Jason and Dylan.
Dylan comes to stand at my side and informs me, “That’s not a deer. It’s an elk.”
He’s magnificent. If I remember correctly, only the males have antlers.
His are almost as long as his neck and head.
His mahogany fur lightens to the color of coffee creamer on his legs and belly.
He just stands in the snow fifty feet from the back door near the barn, tall and proud, majestic in every way.
I understand now why people are so enthralled with them, he’s truly a noble creature.
Click.
Boom.
I’m not even remotely prepared for the sound of the shotgun firing or the sight of the impressive elk dropping to the snow laden ground in a heartbeat. One minute he’s standing tall and proud, the next he’s dead as a doornail in the snow that’s now stained with his blood.
“What the actual fuck?” I shout over the ringing in my ears.
What is it about Thanksgiving that makes people want to shoot things?
Jason must have crept out the front door to the porch and circled around with the shotgun while I was transfixed by the elk. He’s already picking up the discarded shell from the wood porch and coming back inside to get his snow gear on.
How can he act so nonchalant about this? He just took an animal’s life and he’s just going about his business stuffing his legs into snow pants without a care in the world. As if this is just another Wednesday.
“Awesome, elk will be way better for Thanksgiving dinner instead of that damn chicken. We can have that Friday.”
“What?” I don’t even try to restrain my utter shock and horror at what I just witnessed. “You just shot that beautiful creature in cold blood.” I sound like a witness on a crime drama show.
“It wasn’t in cold blood,” Dylan laughs like my comment is a ridiculous notion. “That beautiful creature is going to feed us all winter long. Did you see how many points he had on each antler?”
This feels like a trick question but I answer anyway. “Five.”
“That’s a fully grown male elk who has spread his seed all over this mountain and lived a long life. He’s not a baby. He’s done his service to the ecosystem and his species. And his circle of life has come to an end to keep our lives going.”
Before I can argue any further, Jason holds my snow gear in front of my face silently demanding I suit up. I just stare at him, if he thinks I’m helping him butcher the elk he’s got another thing coming.
At my obvious refusal, Jason shakes my coat, hardening his expression to meet my defiance.
“No,” I exclaim, holding my ground with arms crossed over my chest and one hip popped, taking me back to my bitchy high school days.
But that backfired quickly. Jason swoops down bringing his shoulder to my stomach and an arm around the backs of my thighs and hoists me fireman style into the air.
Fuck. No.
“What the fuck?” Fists pounding, I protest his assault with shouts and kicks and poorly angled punches but it gets me nowhere as Jason carries me through the freezing cold to the barn and plants me beside a large butcher block table that’s at least a foot thick, supported by sturdy wooden legs.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout as soon as I’m on steady ground. I feel a little ridiculous balling my fists at my side, like a child standing up to a grown up.
Jason just turns around and leaves the barn, but not before taking a fucking saw off the wall. Before the door swings shut I spot Dylan stepping out onto the back porch in his snow attire as well. He must be going to help Jason bring in the elk.
I could risk the cold by going back to the house, but there’s at least two and a half feet of snow outside since the last time I shoveled. And my clothes would get soaked. Is it really worth it?
What the fuck is Jason’s game? Why does he insist on pushing my buttons and my boundaries?
I thought we were making some progress with our coexistence when he showed me the breathtaking frozen pond.
And we read together almost every night.
I’ve kept that habit up mainly because I have nothing else to do.
We started Heart of Darkness two nights ago.
I’ve never read this one before, either.
I’m stuck standing in the moderately warmer barn waiting for the two dickheads to come back and get me. I don’t have a watch and there isn’t a clock in the barn so I have no idea how much time passes. But it feels like a while.
As I’m taking my first step toward the door, it flies open letting a flurry of snowflakes in.
I’m met with the dark eyes of a decapitated elk that are truthfully smaller than I realized.
The most horrifying part—more terrifying than the bloody entrails hanging from its neck—is the fact that the mouth is hanging open.
If the tongue was hanging out as well, I might have vomited right on the spot.