The Thanksgiving Gift Pt 02

This one may be a bit long. Not long ago I wrote The Thanksgiving Gift as a standalone story without any intention of a sequel. More recently I wrote Laundry Day named for reasons that will become obvious where I used the same characters simply because I liked them. I finally had to admit that with just a few minor changes I had written a sequel, made those changes, and here you have part 2 of The Thanksgiving Gift. Part 3 is also written, and I'll be submitting that soon.

I drew from life with great editorial license along with more than a little fantasy. There are more than a few side stories that somehow found their way into this little tale, and I'm not sure whether I should apologize for them. They may be the best part of the story.

The story is set somewhat in the future as you will learn near the end. I should probably apologize for that, but made peace with it and I hope the reader can as well.

There are pieces of this story that have been rattling around in my brain for a time, but it wasn't until now that they started to fall into place. I hope you like it.

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My name is Chris Barton, but that's probably not important. I recently turned seventy and let me tell you that every morning when I climb out of bed that reality is made evident to me. I wake up thinking I'm still thirty-five, but when my feet hit the floor, my knees hurt, and my back is slow to straighten, that's when my body puts the lie to that fantasy.

My wife died ten months ago and for a time my life was in chaos as I seemed to lose direction and purpose. As I came to terms with the new realities of my life, my behavior gradually changed along with my priorities. I'm a creature of habit and I still enjoy many of the things that I enjoyed when I was young, but the balance is shifting. I am embracing my hobbies at the same time that I'm working more either at the office or at home. I am eating more simply than before, and a balanced diet has become beef today and vegetables tomorrow. Plus, I'm hiring the neighborhood kids to do the outdoor maintenance on the yard and gardens, not to mention the snow shoveling, and spending more time in what I liked to call my man cave which is about as far from any man cave as there ever was. It has no television or pool table and no overstuffed leather chairs. It has no bar, but it does have a refrigerator where I keep a few beers and such. I'm not much of a drinker. What it does have is the topic of discussion for later.

Not long after my wife died, I decided that I was ready to start a working retirement. That means that I still enjoy the work, but I want it on my terms. When you get to be my age, what you value most is your time. You grow aware of your own mortality in a way that the young can never appreciate. So I turned in my paperwork, kept my office, and pursued my interests. I'm still productive, but I'm no longer required to teach or sit on committees even though I still get asked. I figure I've gathered some useful experience and insight along the way, so I sometimes agree, but I don't want to be taken for granted, so I sometimes tell them, "Gee, I'm sorry. I'm really too busy right now." It's true enough. Well, it's almost true. Okay, it's a lie, but it's a useful lie and I think my efforts are better appreciated because of it. I figure I've got a few more good years in me, and I want to make the most of them.

It was about six-thirty Monday evening, two days before Christmas 2024, when this tale begins, and I was packing it in for the evening. With no wife to celebrate the holiday, and with gifts long ago mailed to my adult children and grandchildren, there wasn't much to rush home to. Over the weekend I picked up a pound of my favorite coffee beans, a bottle of my favorite bourbon, and the makings of a few good salads that I would enjoy over the coming holiday. I had what I needed for some stew that I would start tomorrow along with some eggs, cheese, and sausage that I would use to make some omelets, but there was no plan for any great feast. Weather permitting, I would spend Christmas Eve on the back deck with my telescope looking up at the stars and contemplating the universe in its great diversity. If the weather was bad, I'd spend it in the basement. I know it's not the usual bachelor holiday, but it suited me well enough.

As I walked to the elevator and rounded the corner, I came face-to-face with my friend and coworker, Margaret Jenkins or Maggie as I've called her for years. If I am seventy, Maggie is... let's just say her not-so-early sixties. She'd kill me if I told you. It's not that she's vain. She's in full-blown denial! Maggie, like my favorite bourbon, is what you might call an acquired taste. She can be loud and sometimes outrageous, or she can be as quiet as a mouse. She is sometimes in your face, and at other times almost painfully shy. It took me years to understand her moods, and I think it has a lot to do with her confidence in some areas and her severe lack of confidence in others. At work, she has no equal, but without the work to shield her I think she sometimes feels vulnerable and unsure of herself. At least, that was what I thought then.

One night while we were both on travel for work, we sat down together each with a glass of bourbon to savor and time to kill, and we told each other our life's story. I'll tell you just a synopsis of her story and I think she will forgive me for that much. She had been briefly married, caught her husband with a neighbor, divorced, and never remarried. Although she has never said as much, I don't think she has ever felt truly loved after that, at least not by a man who was not her relative and not by the time this story begins. I'd been married for much of my adult life, but it had been a difficult marriage, and the scars ran deep. I suppose that's why I could always relate to Maggie. That's enough. There's no point in telling more than that.

So I was headed for the elevator when I ran into my friend with her briefcase over her shoulder, and she was her usual amusing self. "What are you doing working late? Don't you know it's Christmas Eve Eve?"

I cocked my head and grinned. "You're one to talk. What are you doing here this late?"

She exhaled and slumped like she was exhausted, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and said, "My washing machine broke. I went shopping for a new machine last night, but it won't be delivered until the end of the week what with Christmas and everything. So I have a car full of laundry and I'm headed out to spend the evening at the laundromat. I haven't done that in years!"

"Wow! I can't remember the last time... Do you have enough quarters? Do they even take quarters anymore?"

"Yeah, they take quarters. It's $2.50 for a load in the washer, and about $1.25 to dry. I had to look it up online." She laughed quietly at her own situation. "I must have 4 or 5 loads at least."

I remember laundromats as being horribly boring, and I had no reason to think they'd changed. That's when I had an idea, and I immediately knew that I liked this idea very much!

"Why don't you bring your laundry to my place? My machine is still working. You can do as many loads as you need, I'll fix us dinner, and we can talk or watch television or listen to music or whatever you like?" I surprised myself when I realized how excited I was at the prospect of having someone to spend the evening with.

"I don't want to be any trouble."

"You're no trouble. Dinner for two is no more trouble than dinner for one." I looked at my friend not wanting to seem too desperate, but it was time for some hard truth. "If I'm being honest, and you know how I hate to be honest, it would be a real treat to have some company. I normally just go home and fall into my routine. With you, I'll have someone to talk with."

"...as you fall into your routine." There is a sarcastic streak that runs deep in my friend.

"Yeah!" She always knows how to make me smile.

She seemed hesitant and if I was reading her face correctly, she seemed almost concerned.

"Sorry. I don't mean to put you on the spot. If you don't want to do it, I understand."

That seemed to wake her from her thoughts.

"I was just thinking about some of my clothes that need washing. I'd be mortified if you saw them."

That gave me a brief laugh.

"I mean..." She frowned. "...we girls want to seem naturally sweet and pure without ever trying, but we never let the men see what it takes to get that way or what we're like at the end of the day." She looked genuinely embarrassed and then said, "Some of my things are pretty awful."

I'm slow sometimes, but I was getting the picture. It was hard not to laugh.

"Okay, you can keep the door closed and I won't peak. It's really the first-floor bathroom, but I can make it upstairs if I need to." I guess we were both admitting to things we'd rather keep to ourselves.

"Are you sure? I really don't want to be a burden."

"I'm very sure. And you won't be a burden; you'll be a blessing."

That earned me the smile I wanted. "Alright. I'll follow you home if that's okay."

We were walking out the door when we noticed there were only three cars in the parking lot and two of them were ours. "I think we work too much."

Maggie's reply was simple and to the point. "No shit!"

Then it hit me. I didn't have the makings of a decent meal in the house.

"Ah, I just realized that I need to hit the store on the way home. I can give you the address or you can join me in selecting dinner."

Now she was getting back to her normal confident self. "Oh, if I'm eating it, I intend to have a say in what we prepare." That's the Maggie I know, and to be honest about it, the thought of doing a little food shopping together appealed to me. There is something very real about walking the food aisles together and deciding on dinner. It's domestic. This was starting to sound like fun.

I should take a moment to fill you in on what has happened since Thanksgiving. I threw a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for all the orphans in the department and a bunch of their friends that turned into a multi-ethnic potluck dinner. By "orphans" I mean people who either had no place to go for Thanksgiving, had family living too far away, or students from other countries where the holiday wasn't practiced. It was a great night, and I spent the last few hours with Maggie by my side. Since that night, we'd been having longer conversations and sitting together over coffee from time to time. She had become the bright spot in my day.

As I contemplated the two of us preparing dinner together, I started realizing in a not-so-subtle way just how much alone I'd been since my wife died. If I am being completely honest, I was feeling too much alone even before she passed. I think my wife lost interest in me a long time ago. It was then that it dawned on me that Maggie might be needing this evening as much as I was. Living alone can become not so much a struggle as a bad habit, and like all bad habits it needs to be broken.

We picked up two tenderloin steaks, some butternut squash raviolis, and dinner rolls. I had some vegetables in the freezer and the makings for a nice salad. I was low on butter, so I solved that problem because the steaks would require a little pan sauce, and I planned to finish the raviolis in sage butter. It was going to be a rich meal. We then grabbed two bottles of wine before checking out. I completely forgot about dessert.

I gave Maggie my address just in case we got separated, but we drove at a leisurely pace and found our way to my place together. No sooner did she pop the liftgate and I was confronted by the scale of the problem. Maggie drives a rather large SUV, and the back area was wall to wall, front to back baskets of clothes needing a wash. That's when I remembered that the machines at the laundromat all took double loads compared to household machines.

I was looking at what had to be seven or eight loads of laundry at the least and stuttered, "Ah, ah, how... how long did you say your machine has been broken?"

I shouldn't have said it. She was embarrassed.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have imposed. I let a lot of laundry from late summer and fall pile up since I knew I wouldn't be wearing any of it for six months. Maybe I should go to the laundromat after all."

That shook me from my stupor. "No, no, it's fine. We'll just do however many loads it takes. I was just a bit surprised. That's all." Then, trying to recover the fun we'd been having, I said, "Why don't you give me two baskets that aren't too personal, and I'll carry them up the stairs along with the food we bought. Then you can get started with the laundry and I can get started on dinner."

She was still looking at the back of her car. "It is awful, isn't it? I just let it go until it sort-of developed a life of its own."

I couldn't help myself. I saw the opportunity and I took it. "You mean you think you may have evolved life in one of those piles?"

She turned and looked at me with an unspoken "What?" before dissolving in laughter. "No, it isn't that bad. Maybe a mouse or two, but nothing worse than that." With that, she loaded me with two overly full baskets, and I began the slow walk of carrying them up the steps to the first floor. Now, please don't ever tell her that I told you this, but two baskets of soiled clothes rise just about to my nose, and those two baskets were very much in need of a wash. I was beginning to think that my friend who normally had it all together might be just a bit of a... No, never mind. A woman is entitled to her secrets. I'll just say that I was glad I didn't faint going up the stairs.

I dropped the baskets in the laundry room, showed Maggie where the detergent was kept, and headed for the kitchen. Emptying my pockets in the tray I used for that purpose signaled that I was home, and then I set about pouring two glasses of wine, grabbing a few bits of cheese from the fridge, hunting for that last pack of crackers, slicing one apple, and setting out a passable plate of nibbles to keep us going as we would take our time making dinner.

Maggie got the first load started and then we sat down to contemplate the evening. "I have frozen peas, green beans, carrots, Brussel sprouts, and corn. What appeals to you, and do you like your steak rare, medium, or well done?"

She thought for a moment and said, "Definitely green beans. Do you have any almonds?"

I did and with the mutual decision that good steaks should not be abused with anything beyond medium rare, I started the process of preparing the steaks. Salt and pepper to cover, hot pan with a little butter for flavor and oil to stand up to the heat, brown all the surfaces, and then into a hot oven for four-and-a-half minutes on each side. The raviolis got started with a fast boil and then into a hot pan with melted butter and sage. The green beans went into the microwave last. While the steaks were in the oven, I managed to assemble a passable salad with some crumbled blue cheese, a few croutons, and store-bought poppy seed dressing. It was bachelor cooking. The steak came out and rested before I set about making the sauce as the green beans steamed in the bag. A little wine in the pan with the steak drippings to deglaze, some butter and a little brown sugar at the end, and then all that remained was to pour it over the steaks. We spooned up the green beans with a little added butter and some almond slivers, buttered a few rolls as if we needed more butter, and sat down to eat. It must not have been too bad because Maggie finished every bite, and I started thinking that maybe I knew how to cook! Well, a man can fantasize, can't he?

Every single man, and every single woman as well, needs to have three foolproof meals they can prepare. The first is dinner for the girlfriend. She'll sit nearby and watch, maybe comment, and it doesn't need to be perfect. It just needs to be good, and she'll be impressed that you tried for her. The second is breakfast for the same girlfriend. If she wasn't delighted the night before, then breakfast won't save you, and I'm not talking about dinner. The third meal is the tricky one. You need to be able to prepare a meal for her parents. The day will come when they want to know that you can take care of their little girl. It doesn't matter how old she may be, she is still their little girl. If her parents are passed on, as are Maggie's, then there are siblings, nieces, and a host of relatives to impress. If you can buy and cook a meal, you're on your way. The tricky bit is that this meal requires you to be able to converse and cook at the same time, but there's a good chance they will be sitting with their daughter in the other room discussing other aspects of the boyfriend, so you can't hide in the kitchen the entire time. You need a good casserole side dish that will be cooked in the oven, a sophisticated protein that is quick to prepare, and a dessert that her mother will enjoy. It needs to be good, but not too good. Don't make it look easy. Her mom will appreciate that it took some effort. Men have been trying to solve this problem for generations. Good luck.

The dinner I prepared for Maggie was one such meal I'd prepared many times for my wife and family. It isn't fancy, but it works. If I were truthful about it, and you already know that I try to avoid the truth whenever possible, I'd admit that I was surprised by how hungry I was on this night. It had been a long time since I'd had a reason to fix a meal with more than one component. It had been a long time since I had someone to cook for. We were finishing the last of the meat when we heard the washer ding and the spin cycle end. Maggie excused herself and five minutes later she was back with the sound of both washer and dryer running in the other room.

"Why don't we pour another glass of wine and take it into the living room?"

Maggie agreed and I was soon settled onto the couch with the contended feeling of a meal in my belly, wine in my glass, and the good companionship of a lovely woman on the sofa next to me. I'd been missing this feeling for a long time. We were soon so engrossed in conversation that we almost missed the sound of the washer and dryer ending their cycles. Maggie again excused herself, took a few extra minutes to fold something although I never knew what, and was back before long to continue our conversation with the sound of the washer and dryer once again running in the other room.

Things were moving along swimmingly, so of course I had to make a blunder. Maggie had excused herself to go upstairs to use the bathroom, although I'm not entirely sure why she didn't use the facilities in the laundry room, when I heard the sound of the washer and dryer reach the end of their cycles. Thinking only that I should help, I walked into the laundry room, filled a basket with dry clothes, and proceeded to transfer the wet wash into the dryer. I was about halfway through that task when I realized that I was holding a handful of Maggie's unmentionables in my hand and froze. They were lovely and pink. Not overly sexy, but still feminine. I was standing there like a fool looking at the panties in my hand when I heard a voice say, "See something you like?"

I quickly tossed them into the dryer, turned, and tried to explain that I was just trying to help.

She suggested that she should finish the transfer and that I should retire back to the living room. I didn't argue. When she finally joined me, picked up her glass, and gave me that withering stare, I thought I detected just a hint of amusement in her eyes. I wasn't quite sure.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

That got me a decent smile and a "No harm done, but if I knew you wanted a look, I'd have brought my sexy pieces."

I took a deep breath. "My heart barely survived those. I don't think I'm ready for the sexy ones."