Chapter 5
Five
THANKSGIVING
Surprisingly, Goldie went to bed that night not thinking too much about the man who jumped off the covered bridge.
After all, in one twenty-hour period, she’d discovered that her long-time live-in boyfriend had been unfaithful, she’d been struck by a car, she’d awakened in a different state in a different time, she’d cut her hand to verify what was happening to her wasn’t a dream, she’d discovered she had an alternative life and career in the previous century, and she’d attacked a man with a bucket of light-orange paint.
So, another man jumping off a bridge—and not even off a high bridge—was a pretty low priority, all things considered.
She awoke to the distant but distinct smell of turkey cooking in the restaurant downstairs, and it briefly reminded her of her youth in the Bronx.
When she and her sister, Ellen, were young and their parents, Tom and Carla, were together, her father used to wake them up early and take them downtown to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
When the parade was over and they went back home, her mom would be cooking, and the aroma of turkey permeated their apartment.
It was the smell of safer and happier times.
After a yawn and stretch, she tossed back her patchwork quilt, revealing a 1940s pointed brassiere and high-waisted panties that she’d gotten from her suitcase. Neither garment was comfortable nor stylish.
Getting to her feet, she looked around at the hotel room. “Yep, still here,” she said quietly.
She got her yellow cloth robe, slipped it on, then collected her toiletry kit and the towel off the back of the chair at her desk.
Opening the door in her bare feet, the first thing she saw was the short, slightly pot-bellied man in the red robe from the previous day, complete with the towel hanging around his shoulders, passing by. They paused and looked at each other.
“Wow. Groundhog Day,” she said.
“Nooo,” the man replied. “Thanksgiving.”
He looked at her judgmentally, then continued on his way while she went in the opposite direction toward the bathroom.
After Goldie had gotten ready for her day in the second of her three dresses, a one-piece deep green outfit that buttoned up the front with a matching belt and puffy shoulders, she went downstairs to a busy lobby.
Like every town in America, there were people who had once lived in Sparkledove but had moved away.
Now, they all seemed to be back: children visiting parents, sisters visiting brothers, cousins visiting cousins, and a fair number of them were staying at the hotel.
Because some families didn’t want to be bothered with dinner preparations, not to mention people were using ration books for everything from butter to sugar to canned milk, many families decided to celebrate Thanksgiving at the Sparkledove Arms. The hotel had a steady stream of dinner reservations beginning at noon that continued until 8:00 p.m. Even for breakfast, Goldie had to wait in line just for toast and coffee.
While she did, a guitarist and violinist were starting to set up music stands to play a variety of popular tunes, although she learned they didn’t begin until 2:00 p.m. Meanwhile, Maddie and Dean hurried around the place, attending to various duties dressed as pilgrims from the 1620s.
After breakfast, Goldie was content to stay in her room for several hours and even started to type up several things she’d learned about the town from her trip to the library.
She didn’t exactly intend to write a three-thousand-word article about Sparkledove, but she was used to keeping a daily diary and wanted to remember things she’d read the day before at the library.
Writing also helped her adapt to her surroundings.
She figured if she adapted, answers would come.
At 3:50 p.m., she returned to the lobby wearing her overcoat, and the place was still bustling.
While the guitarist and violinist played a nice instrumental version of “Good King Wenceslas,” a young woman, about eighteen years old, stood behind the registration counter.
She was dressed like a Native American, complete with two long black braids on each side of her head, a headband with a feather sticking up in the back, and a fringe buckskin dress.
She also wore a name tag that read “Josie.” She was talking to a young man who stood in front of the counter.
He had a crewcut, wore a high school varsity jacket, and was about the same age.
It was obvious from the way they smiled and leaned into each other that these two were a couple.
“Excuse me,” Goldie said, approaching and chewing her gum as usual. “Sorry to interrupt. Do you have a phone book I could borrow? There wasn’t one in the phone booth.”
“Would you like the Denver directory or the local one?” Josie asked. She had dimples, a fresh-as-a-daisy face, and looked very Anglo-Saxon Protestant for someone dressed up as a Native American.
“The local one, please?”
Josie reached under the counter and produced a very thin booklet.
“There you go.”
“Thanks a lot,” Goldie said, then she eyed the young woman’s outfit again. “Y’know, some people could take offense at what you’re wearin’.”
“Really?” she asked innocently. “Like who?”
“Native Americans,” Goldie replied.
“Who?” the young man asked, apparently not familiar with the term.
“People from indigenous heritage,” she explained.
“In-in what?” the young man in the varsity jacket asked.
“Indians,” Goldie clarified. “People from Indian heritage.”
“Why?” Josie wondered. “It’s Thanksgiving. Wouldn’t they be more offended if they weren’t remembered?”
“It’s not about them being remembered,” Goldie explained. “It’s how they’re portrayed.”
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Native Americans don’t generally like how the white man has represented them.”
“I don’t understand,” Josie said.
“I don’t know any Indians,” the young man replied.
“Native Americans?” Goldie corrected.
“Oh, wait,” he remembered. “Johnny Bodine. He’s one, I think. I mean, his dad is a member of that lodge over in Brownsville.”
“That’s the Elks,” Josie corrected. “They don’t have anything to do with Indians.”
“Native Americans,” Goldie corrected again.
“Yeah, but they meet in a ‘lodge,’” he argued.
“Barbara Little used to have a tepee in her backyard for sleepovers,” the young woman recalled. “That doesn’t mean her parents were Apache.”
“Apache were really tough,” the young man noted. “They’d ride a horse until it dropped and then eat it.”
“You guys are missing the point,” Goldie said.
Both of them looked at her.
“Native Americans don’t want to be portrayed by white people wearing cheesy costumes.”
The young man examined the girl behind the counter. “That is a cheesy costume,” he agreed. Then he smiled. “But you look really cute in it.”
“Thank you,” Josie grinned with her deep dimples.
Goldie expelled a breath. “I can see that raisin’ social consciousness around here is goin’ to be challengin’. Kinda like Megan Fox takin’ acting lessons.” She held up what she came for. “Thanks for the phone book.”
She stepped a few feet away to the edge of the counter so the young people could continue their conversation.
She wanted the directory to find a local photographer who either already had some holiday photos of Sparkledove or was willing to take some for a price, should she decide to attempt an article.
Though she wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, she couldn’t help but hear what the two teenagers were talking about.
“I get off at 6 p.m.,” the costumed Josie said. “You’ve got to be at my house no later than ten after.”
“What time is dinner?” he asked.
“About 7:00. Will you be able to eat again?”
“My Mom’s serving about 4:30, but I’ll eat light. If your mom’s not serving until 7:00, why do I have to be there so early?”
“My Aunt Ami will be there, and she drives me nuts,” Josie answered.
Then, she affected an irritating older adult voice.
‘Josie, are you really going to wear your hair like that, dear? How serious are you and Dexter? When he finishes high school in the spring, is he going to enlist? Why the army? The Marines are better. Have you thought about college? Have you chosen a vocation? I was a teacher, you know?’ The woman can ask more questions than a Japanese interrogator.
You’ve got to be there to help me deflect her nosiness. ”
“Okay,” the young man agreed. “6:10, you got it.”
“Dexter, promise?”
The young man smiled, then turned and started to walk toward the front doors. As he went, he said, “Just call my name. I’ll be there. Just look over your shoulder, honey.”
Goldie paused from studying the phone directory and looked up curiously toward the young man as he disappeared out the door.
Whoa. How weird was that? she thought. That kid just recited a couple of lines from “I’ll Be There” by the Jackson 5.
She turned back to the counter with a bemused smile at the coincidence and spent about thirty more seconds perusing the directory when an older man, whom the young woman recognized, came into the lobby.
“Hi, Mayor,” she greeted. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Josie,” the man reciprocated, approaching. “Nice Indian costume.”
“It’s Native American,” she corrected, glancing toward Goldie.
“Uh—okay. I’m looking for Karen Maraschino.”
Goldie quickly took the gum out of her mouth and turned to the man. As she did, she subtly stuck it under the counter.
“I’m Karen,” she smiled, recognizing him from a photograph in an article she’d seen at the library. “You’re Mayor Banyan.”
“Call me Charles,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to Sparkledove, Miss Maraschino, the perfect place for Christmas.”
“Call me Goldie,” she reciprocated, shaking hands. “All my friends do.”