One
Jill
Dazzling autumn leaves floated in the breeze from the tree tops. The colorful reds, yellows and oranges of the season tickled her senses like fancy French champagne. She welcomed a chill permeating the crisp fall air so that the oodles of brightly colored sweaters she imagined hanging in her closet could come out of mothballs for the winter. Behind the wheel, Jill dreamed of what her life could be. Snapping back into reality, nothing in the flat, barren scenery of the land of sunshine and palm trees told Jill Thanksgiving was coming. Except for the annual argument.
Stopped at a red light, Jill blew the hair out of her eyes and attempted to put on mascara while using the rearview mirror. The glare of the early morning Florida sunshine reflected off the hood of the car, temporarily blinding her. The light changed to green and barely a nanosecond passed before the car behind her honked its horn. Startled, the mascara wand poked her in the eye before falling to the floormat, leaving a trail of black goo down the front of her new white blouse.
"Damn." She pulled out into the intersection with one hand on the wheel, one eye on the road with the other squeezed shut while patting around the floor boards with her free hand searching for the makeup wand that had rolled out of sight.
Narrowly missing an old woman shuffling across the crosswalk, Jill slammed on the brakes with only a moment to spare. The tube of mascara rolled out from under the passenger seat bringing with it a nickel, dime and two moldy French fries. The woman turned and gave her the finger.
Jill rolled down her window and yelled, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"
"You should watch where you're going," the woman yelled back with her middle finger still raised.
More horns honked. A siren blared off in the distance. Jill never had a ticket for reckless driving in her entire life. She liked to follow the rules on and off the road. Today wouldn't be a good day for her first encounter with the law. Her marriage stood on the brink of divorce and if she didn't get to work on time the company would dock her pay.
Jill believed in being prompt and ready to face the day when she left home for work every morning. It was not in her nature to race out the door and put on her makeup while she drove. But today, she didn't feel like herself. Nate's annual ambush had begun.
Earlier, she tip-toed around the bedroom getting dressed, not wanting to disturb him while he snored in their king size bed. He was much more agreeable when asleep and unable to spew the thousand reasons he memorized over the years about why he should get his way about their Thanksgiving meal.
Jill heard his illogical reasoning so many times, she knew the list by heart. Nate set the trap every November of their married life, now totaling well over twenty years. After all that time, Jill should see the argument coming in time to prepare some rebuttal but she never did. Between working, making sure Nate had dinner on the table, which heaven forbid he would ever lift a finger to prepare; and all the demands of teenage twins; on a good day Jill's nerves frayed into a thousand fine crackling threads. When November came around, those threads buzzed like a thousand killer bees.
In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, she and Nate engaged in the same argument every year. Their squabble usually started shortly after the last of the leftover Halloween candy had been eaten and ended when the last trace of the holiday dinner disappeared from the refrigerator.
Frankly, Jill was over it.
Would Nate's dream of a mammoth bird that included weeks of leftover sandwiches and casseroles; be cooked for the holiday dinner? Or would Jill's petite and manageable fowl find its way onto the table? The feud would consume all their waking hours from here on out.
Jill preferred to cook a small bird, maybe ten to twelve pounds. Only their family of four came for dinner. She and Nate were both only children and their parents had passed long ago. The twins, Chad and Chelsea weren't fans of turkey and all the fixings and never had been. They'd be happy if she served them a Big Mac and fries on Thanksgiving. Still Nate persisted.
No amount of air conditioning could overcome the heat of the oven left on all day in order to properly cook Nate's oversized obsession. Cooking anything in the oven these days left her feeling sticky and sweaty. She hated sweating especially now that she approached the age of fifty. Mother Nature cruelly cranked up her own internal thermometer, she didn't need any help from the kitchen. The ritual of Thanksgiving dinner left her exhausted and unable to enjoy anything about it. Nate didn't seem to notice.
Nate's love affair with having the largest turkey on the face of the planet, was a mystery to all who knew him. He claimed he only picked at the Thanksgiving turkey while growing up. It fell in the middle of wrestling season and trying to stay in his 185-pound weight class proved to be a challenge. Nate hadn't qualified for that light of a weight class for as long as she'd known him. The years hadn't been kind in that regard.
He stopped wearing a necktie shortly after the twins were born, opting for the more casual look of an open collared oxford shirt. As his neck grew in circumference, the tie was often accused of being a noose. Now that he had children to support, he didn't relish death by necktie. Death by stuffing his face with food and namely turkey had taken its place.
Nate's formative years of supposed holiday deprivation now made him eager to overeat himself silly with turkey and all the trimmings every day for at least a month. Chad and Chelsea, now college students, chose to ignore the uneaten leftovers in the refrigerator opting for their usual tacos or can of Chef Boyardee ravioli followed by a heaping bowl of rocky road ice cream. Jill dumped the remains in the trash as soon as the meat began to stink. The family ended up eating less than half of the leftovers before they started to rot.
"Aw, c'mon, Jill," Nate whined as she got ready for bed the night before. "I love turkey and all the leftovers. Let's get the biggest turkey we can find. Then I promise you won't have to cook dinner for a month. We'll reheat the leftovers in the microwave."
"I get sick of all that turkey. Sometime before Christmas I'd like to have a big, fat juicy steak. Not some slimy, overcooked turkey leg."
Jill stood in front of the bathroom mirror slathering her face in night cream hoping to scare Nate away.
"C'mon Jill. It's once a year. You can't do it for me?"
She slipped on the ugliest nightgown she owned, a green camouflage flannel that covered her completely from neck to toe. Her friend Rita, gave it to her one Christmas as a joke when she pulled Jill's name in the office Secret Santa drawing. She'd tolerate her night sweats if the military style fashion statement kept Nate at a distance.
"Nate. It's a pain in the ass to cook and carve a turkey that big," she argued. "I not only have to cook it; which takes forever, I have to clean it off the bones and wrap it all up to put in the refrigerator. Remember the time I let you carve it with the electric knife? I had to scrape turkey bits off the kitchen walls for days."
"For me, honey?" he cooed in her ear before trying to steal a kiss.
Jill pulled away. "You sit on the couch all day watching parades and after dinner it's football games until midnight. I spend it in the kitchen with sweat dripping down my neck. I want to see Santa arrive in his sleigh and watch the dog show and not be worried about when it's time to baste."
"I promise I'll help you this year," Nate purred. "Pretty please?"
Jill pulled the covers over her head leaving one eye exposed so she could keep tabs on him.
"Fine. I'm tired of fighting. You win. But you're cooking the damn thing and I'm drinking as much wine as I want. When you go to the store to get your wooly mammoth, get a couple cases of chardonnay while you're at it."
Nate did a little happy dance, a nerdy, twerking type of dance, that made his oversized belly jiggle like Jello and his arms flap like a chicken. It usually made her laugh. In all the years they'd been married, he always won this argument. This year however, Jill was sick of losing.
Jill exhaled when she parked the car in her usual spot in the company lot. She arrived unscathed; a miracle based on the wild ride she had to the office. One look at her blackened face and tousled hair told her that this wouldn't be a good day. Spitting on a tissue, she attempted to clean her blouse. The smudge only grew larger.
"Damn you, Nate," she said to her reflection in the mirror. She rolled her lips together to smooth out her newly applied soft pink lipstick which perfectly complimented her fine, golden, brown hair. Finally satisfied with the application of the remainder of her war paint, she opened the car door and stepped out. Taking in a deep breath of warm, autumn air, Jill's spirit renewed itself.
Now, she decided was the time to plot her...
