Tim Dorsey - When elves attack

Rita Davenport smiled back and looked at her plate. “Martha, do you need a new dishwasher?”

“Why?”

“Nothing. But remind me to ask you where the bleach is.” Then she shifted her eyes. “Jim? Remember the turkey your grandmother used to make? Nothing could compare to her recipe… Oh, and by that, I didn’t mean anything about your turkey, Martha. I’m sure it’s fine. Especially with my stuffing.” She placed her napkin in her lap. “Yessiree, his grandmother was quite the cook…”

Martha practiced breathing exercises.

“Jim,” said Rita. “Have you heard anything from Tommy Kilborne?”

“No, Ma.”

“I heard his wife invited his mother to move in with them. Isn’t that nice? I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I worry that nobody will be there. I was trapped in my bathtub the other day.”

“What!” said Jim. “For how long?”

“Just a few seconds this time, but soon, who knows?”

Martha clutched her napkin tightly under the table.

Jim glanced anxiously at both of them. “Ha ha, don’t want the food to get cold.”

Rita scooted her chair closer to the table. “I always liked Tommy’s wife. So generous. Some women could have a problem with their mother-in-law moving in, even if it means leaving them to rot. I have spastic colon.” She bowed her head. “Jim, why don’t you say grace?”

“I’d much rather hear you give the blessing,” said Jim. “It’s practically tradition.”

“No, I insist.”

“Mom, I’m not sure I even remember.”

“How can you forget grace if you say it every night?”

“You know I converted years ago.”

She briefly waved a hand. “I don’t believe that. You know, it’s not too late to have the children baptized.”

“Mom,” said Jim. “Melvin’s in college, and Debbie’s married.”

“What about Nicole. She’s still in high school.” Rita looked in another direction at a young girl seated at the table, dressed entirely in black with heavy black eye makeup. “Nicole, why are you giggling?”

“Nothing, Grandma.” She turned and smiled in her mother’s direction.

“Nicole,” said Rita Davenport. “Why don’t you say grace?”

Martha’s eyes shot daggers when she saw the grin on her daughter’s face: Don’t you dare!

Nicole looked back at her grandmother. “I can’t say grace.”

“Why not, young lady?”

“Because I don’t believe in God.”

“Ahhhh!” Rita clapped her hands over her ears.

Martha involuntarily shrieked.

Jim lowered his head and sighed.

Nicole cracked up.

Rita Davenport rocked back and forth in her chair. “I didn’t hear that! I didn’t hear that! Jesus in heaven, the child-she doesn’t mean it!..”

“Nicole!” shouted Martha. “Tell your grandmother right now you don’t mean that!”

The teenager stifled laughs. “Sorry, Grandma. I was only kidding.”

“What kind of a joke is that?” Then to Martha: “You approve of this behavior?”

Jim’s arms flew out, practically lunging halfway across the table. “Mom, Martha didn’t say anything. I’ll talk to Nicole later.”

Rita turned back to the teen. “Please don’t do that again to your sweet grandmother. So, you really do believe in God?”

“Yes.” Nicole shot her mom a glance, then back to her grandmother. “But I choose to follow Satan.”

“Ahhhhh!” Hands over Rita’s ears again.

Martha shrieked.

Jim slowly covered his face with his hands.

Nicole was still cracking up as she rose from the table and headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” yelled Martha.

“To the mall.”

“No, you’re coming back to this table and sitting down right this minute!”

The door slammed behind the teen.

Rita’s hands fell from her ears. “I’ll be dead soon.”

South Dale Mabry Highway.

A ’72 Chevelle jumped the curb in front of a sub-budget motel.

“Serge,” said Coleman, glancing over his shoulder into the backseat. “That’s a pretty big turkey.”

“The biggest they had.”

“But there’s no way we’ll be able to eat it all.”

“That’s the whole point of Thanksgiving!” The Chevelle skidded up to their room. “Cooking way too much friggin’ food, cramming the fridge with mountains of leftovers, and then the race is on against salmonella. The most exciting holidays are the ones where not everybody is going to make it.”

Coleman opened his door. “You sure we’ll go unnoticed at this motel.”

“We loaded all that copper, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, but then we dragged that tied-up guy from your trunk and into the room.”

“Did anyone complain?”

“The guy.”

“Besides him?”

“No, but I feel pretty exposed right next to this busy highway.”

“Look, if Cuban spies can go unnoticed, we’ll blend in like ninjas.”

“Spies?”

Serge reached in the backseat and grunted to lift the turkey. “See the military checkpoint down at the end of this road? That’s MacDill Air Force Base, home of Central Command. Most people don’t realize it, but everything important in the world is coordinated on that tiny tip of land at the south end of the Tampa peninsula. Iraq, Afghanistan, you name it.”

“What does that have to do with Cubans?”

Serge waddled toward their door with the giant frozen bird in his arms. “Back in the nineties, Castro sent spies here to monitor the base. Total farce. Against an installation sealed that tight, what are a few of Fidel’s boys going to do? It was all just window dressing so Castro could tell the other Latin leaders, ‘Shit yeah, I have people in Tampa.’… Coleman, get the door for me?”

Coleman inserted the key and turned the knob. “They didn’t spy?”

“No, they starved.” Serge entered the room and hit the light switch with his shoulder. “Castro so totally destroyed his island’s economy that he couldn’t pay them anymore. They ended up pawning their binoculars and taking jobs as dishwashers. And because they were so broke, they lived in motels right along this strip, maybe even this one.”

Serge tossed the turkey on the bed and it bounced two feet.

“We’re just going to eat the turkey straight?” asked Coleman.

“Of course not.” Serge ran back to the car and returned with a large paper sack. “Thanksgiving is why they invented Kentucky Fried Chicken. We got all the fixin’s.” He began removing items. “Here are the biscuits and super-large sides of mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese… Doesn’t it smell great?”

Coleman turned on the TV. “Football.”

Serge dug deeper into the bag. “And the piece de resistance, coleslaw to die for.” He tossed the last Styrofoam container to Coleman. “Ice that down in the sink like the Pilgrims did with the Indians.”

Coleman went in the bathroom. “But how will we cook the turkey? Everything else is ready.”

“Have to eat the turkey later. It’s all side dishes until then.”

Serge sat down at the desk facing the wall and tucked a napkin in the collar of his T-shirt. Coleman sat next to him, facing the same peeling wall. Serge set his fists on the desk, a plastic utensil gripped upright in each one, and smiled back at his buddy in their crack-den motel. “Now, this is fuckin’ tradition.”

Coleman dove into the mashed potatoes. He stopped. “Serge, what about the guy?”

“The guy?… Oh!” Serge threw his arms up. “My manners!”

He walked across the room, opened the closet, and stared down at a young, hog-tied man with duct tape across his mouth. “You completely slipped my mind. I’m so embarrassed. Come! Join our feast!” Serge dragged him across the carpet.