Levi dropped a frozen turkey off at my house this morning. To be more precise, he ordered one of his minions to do it, so it was delivered by a woman who looked like she’d rather be doing anything other than running a personal errand for the Mayor-elect. She rang my doorbell and then without waiting to see if I was going to open the door, she opened the screen door and set the bird on the threshold between the screen door and the real door. Given that I share my yard with a family of coyotes, this really wasn’t the most responsible choice on her part. Besides which, I was home. She could have waited for me and said a decent, “Hello, here’s your godforsaken turkey” before clattering off in high heels to the waiting SUV.
Turkeys are in short supply; last year hardly anyone had one for the holiday and this year is even worse. But Levi hunts, believe it or not, so the turkey is a wild one he shot himself in a woodland near his parents’ house in Kentucky. I’ll be sharing the turkey with him and my dad and my dad’s girlfriend. Dr. Cohen has to decide whether to come to my house or to Jenna’s. I invited him, and I’m fairly sure Jenna did, too, though she’s said nothing to me. But his not saying yes right away made me suspicious.
I wonder if you even know what Thanksgiving is. I suppose over in India, it will be an ordinary Thursday sandwiched as usual between Wednesday and Friday, without a cranberry anywhere in sight.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.