Taken on Thanksgiving

by Annabelle Winters

  “Fuck yeah,” I grunt, holding back a grin as I think back to that crazy, wonderful time in our ranch way outside Canberra. “Mama-roo came bouncing in through the front door for her kid! It was fuckin’ wild! Dad took a shot to the chest before he knew what hit him! Mum was hopping about the room like she was a wild animal too! And I—”

  “You were loving it,” squeals Aunt Raff, leaning back in her chair and almost rocking herself off balance. I almost leap across the table for the gun while she’s distracted, but the moment passes too quick. Besides, Uncle Raff still has that shotgun cocked. “Oh my,” she gasps, coughing out a puff of smoke, her ashen face red from laughter. “Haven’t laughed like that in ages!” She turns to Uncle Raff. “Isn’t this fun, love? Imagine, we could’ve done this every year if only . . . if only we’d been able to . . . if only you’d been able to . . .”

  I stare at Uncle Raff as the blood rushes to his face so fast his entire bald head turns bright red like a neon bulb. I blink as my shoulder and arm throb, and I wonder what the fuck is going on here.

  “Keep going,” comes Amy’s whisper from my left, and when I glance at her I see her gesture towards the turkey with her head. “Keep carving. I’ll keep talking.”

  I nod and get back to work on the bird, and soon I’m lost in the strangely satisfying act of slicing off thick chunks of succulent turkey breast as Amy babbles on in the background like this is a picture-perfect Thanksgiving dinner in America. Before I know it I’m smiling, and my breathing relaxes as the warm brine gathers in the dish, its aroma reminding me of the saltwaters of the Australian coast.

  “Tell me more about little Angus’s antics,” Amy is saying when I focus back on the conversation.

  “Ay, can we not call me little Angus, for fuck’s sake?” I say with a grin, straightening up to full height and squaring my shoulders. My massive frame casts a shadow over the entire length of the table, and I really do feel like the fucking man of the house here, the head of this surreal, twisted family comprised of a woman I just met and have already decided is mine forever and an aunt and uncle who seem ready to blow our brains out for . . . for . . .

  Wait, an inheritance, I think as everyone laughs at my comment about being called little when I’m like nine times the size of everyone in the room. Nobody told me about any fucking inheritance. We weren’t rich back in Australia, were we?

  I think back to that diamond ring—my grandmother’s diamond ring. The same grandmother that supposedly cut Aunt Raff—her own daughter—out of the will. I frown as I slowly place slices of steaming hot turkey meat in the white dinner plates that Amy’s holding out for me. She’s trying not to look into my eyes, and I feel a wave of warmth go through me at sight of her leaning forward, a tight smile on her face, focus and determination emanating from the way she’s carrying herself. This girl is strong as fuck, it occurs to me as a smile breaks on my own face. Of course, she’s not a girl—she’s a goddamn woman. Instead of losing her shit and bawling like a baby or screaming like a child she stepped up and got us to the point where we’re still alive, where we still have a chance, where we might be able to turn the tables on this.

  And then it occurs to me that maybe this whole fucking thing is about us, about me and her, Amy and Angus. Maybe instead of cursing my aunt I should be grateful for the situation we’re in. After all, is there a better way for me and Amy to get to know each other than being thrown into a crisis that’s wilder than the time that Mama-roo came bounding into our living room, fists pumping, ready to kill us all for her kid?

  “So you never had children?” Amy asks just then, glancing up at Aunt Raff as I think back to that half-finished jab Aunt Raff had made at her husband, about how they’d never been able to . . . to what? Conceive? Fuck? Get it up?

  Silence descends over the room like a shroud as Aunt Raff’s face tightens, and I glance at Amy as I wonder if she made a mistake, pushed a button that shouldn’t be pushed. Hell, maybe Aunt Raff will kill everyone in the room—including her own husband. Then she’ll sit quietly and finish her meal, smoke a cigarette, and put on some old song on the record player. Yeah. That sounds about right. That’s probably how this fucking story ends.

  “Angus was like my own,” Aunt Raff says after a long, pregnant pause. She looks up at me, those hard gray eyes softening for a moment. But just for a moment, and quickly she looks away and shakes her head. My head spins as I wonder what the fuck she means, and suddenly I decide I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m at the end of my fucking rope. All this talk is causing me more pain than the damned bullet-wound.

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Aunt Raff?” I snap at her as I shovel a bunch of green-beans onto my plate, pile up a mountain of stuffing, pour on so much gravy that my plate looks like a lake. Then I sit my ass down and just start eating, my eyes fixed on Aunt Raff like I’m straight-up daring her to put a bullet in my head. “You just fucking shot me, Aunt Raff! Over some inheritance that doesn’t even exist! And you’re babbling on about how I was like your own? Hell, you were barely even around when I was a kid!”

  “Because I was kicked out of the family by my own mother!” shrieks Aunt Raff. “Your mother was the baby of the family, the diamond of the family!”

  “My mother who died because of you!” I shout back, raising my fork, which still has a piece of turkey stuck on it. I don't really believe Aunt Raff is to blame for Mum's cancer, but I remember some family drama about it and maybe the idea got stuck in my head.

  “Because of me? Your mum died of cancer! How is that my fault?!” Aunt Raff howls at me, still waving a gun and a cigarette as I feel the mood escalate into straight-up lunacy, taking me with it.

  “You know what?” I growl, shoveling food into my mouth like a sulky child. “Just pull that fucking trigger. It’ll be less painful than having this argument with you.”

  “Maybe I will,” snarls Aunt Raff, pointing the gun at my forehead as I stare her down without blinking. I can feel Amy tense up next to me, like she’s about to do something drastic, and I almost kick myself for losing control. Fuck, I’m getting caught up in some family drama instead of playing it cool and following my woman’s lead, playing this game the way Amy wanted to play it!

  But it’s too late now, and I lean back in my chair and put down my fork as Aunt Raff cocks the gun and aims. I almost smile as I think back over this day. Fuck, it really felt like things were falling into place, didn’t it? It really felt like fate, like destiny, like meant-to-be. And when I saw Amy it felt like forever. But who knew that forever was only gonna last an hour?

  I reach out and grab Amy’s hand firmly in mine, squeezing as if to say goodbye, as if to say that with two guns pointed at us, there’s not much even I can do, that we’re done for, that our story is fucking over before it even began.

  “Angus, don’t,” she whispers to me, shaking her head firmly like she’s just straight-up refusing to acknowledge the reality in this room, the sad truth that it was worth a try to stall the inevitable but now we’re at the finish line. I snort quietly and try to pull my hand away so I can make a last-ditch effort at taking out my crazy aunt and uncle, maybe getting them both to blast me into oblivion and give Amy a shot at getting out.

  But I can’t move, and I frown as I wonder if I’ve suddenly turned into a fucking coward, if I’ve frozen when it comes to protecting the woman I’ve claimed as mine, protecting the seed I’ve put inside her, protecting what’s mine, mine forever. It’s only when I focus on our hands locked together that I understand it isn’t fear of death that’s holding me in place.

  It’s the will to live.

  The will to love.

  The will to fight for my forever in this life and not the next one.

  Time seems to slow down as I take in the scene. It’s a rectangular table, with me and Amy facing my aunt and uncle. The table is solid wood—not that particle-board shit that they make these days. It’s also he
avy as fuck, and I glance over at Amy, down at her strong legs, muscular thighs, thick calves. She can do it, I think as hope rises up in me like a spring, morphing into cold confidence as I take firm hold of her hand again and bring it up to the underside of the table so she gets what I’m planning.

  I see her legs tighten as she places her palms flat under the table along with mine, and now I’m burning with energy, my body on fire with certainty that I was right, that this is our fucking story and it’s gonna end with life and not death. Not our deaths anyway.

  “Now!” I whisper, bracing myself and getting ready for the grand finale. “Push, Amy. Push!”

  7

  AMY

  Push, Amy! Push!

  My vision goes blank as Angus’s voice echoes in my head, and I respond to his command with all the fight in my body, all the energy in my heart, all the urgency in my soul. Through my hazy vision I know that we’ve flipped the heavy, food-laden table on its side, each of us pushing with our legs. That’s one good thing about carrying extra weight your entire life: Your legs get strong as fuck. Who knew my big ass and thighs would save my life someday, save my forever someday . . .

  I know the scene is pure chaos, with plates and silverware and food and drink flying everywhere, guns going off, people screaming and yelling. But inside me it’s calm like a pond without a ripple, and I just smile lazily as I watch the heavy table pin the old couple down to the floorboards like it’s a perfectly staged play, a drama orchestrated by the mischievous universe, a scripted scene in my tale of forever.

  I giggle like a madwoman as I watch hot gravy scald Mr. Raff’s bald head, watch a turkey-wing poke Mrs. Raff in the eye, see the wild rice go hogwild all over the floor, see the cranberry sauce jiggle like it’s dancing to that old record (which isn’t playing, btw . . .). I squeal like a child at the playground as Angus roars like a kid in the yard, and then we’re jumping around the room and whooping like monkeys, hugging each other and laughing and crying and screaming and howling. It’s pure fucking madness, and although I know that it’s the climax of all the adrenaline, the sudden release of tension, the culmination of the chaos, I can’t help but revel in the happiness of the moment.

  Angus sweeps me into his arms, lifting me right off my feet and kissing me full on the lips just like it’s a fairy-tale. In the background his aunt and uncle are groaning and grunting, but it still sounds like music, like the theme song to our love story (or maybe a dark comedy . . .).

  “Where was I before Aunt Raff so rudely interrupted?” Angus says, pulling back from the kiss but still holding me firmly as he turns and looks down at his aunt, who’s gasping for air under the heavy wooden table. “Ah, here we go.”

  Angus reaches down and picks something up, and I gasp when I realize it’s a diamond ring. It’s small, but it shines bright like a star, and I blink in disbelief when Angus goes down on one knee, holding my hand, looking into my eyes, about to ask the question that confirms that this is the craziest day in the history of the world, perhaps the history of the universe.

  “Don’t fucking move, you two,” are the words I hear instead of the words I thought I’d hear.

  I blink as reality comes blasting through in the form of police officers swarming through the front door, guns drawn, eyes wide at what must be the most fucked up scene in their own lives. This is a small, mostly well-behaved town, after all. Oh yeah, and it’s fucking Thanksgiving!

  “Holy fucking hell,” one of the cops mutters as he surveys the scene and then fixes his gaze on Angus. “Down, boy. Down, before I put you down!”

  “No. No. No!” snarls Angus, and I see the rage and frustration in his green eyes. He’s still on his knees, still holding that ring, still holding my hand.

  “They tried to kill us!” comes Mrs. Raff’s voice, weak and frail in a way that I know is exaggerating how badly hurt she is. Immediately my mind whips through the scenarios, and I realize that it’s gonna be by no means clear who did what and to whom! Yeah, the Raffs’s fingerprints are the only ones on the weapons. And yeah, clearly Mrs. Raff shot Angus in the shoulder. But she’s also clearly gonna claim self-defense, and I listen in horror as she does exactly that, babbling some nonsense about how the two of us plotted to kill them for their meager savings and their house and even their damned Social Security checks!

  “She’s lying!” I scream as two of the bewildered cops get the table off the groaning elderly couple while the other officers handcuff both me and Angus like we’re the criminals! Common sense and logic tells me that the cops are just doing their jobs, controlling the situation until they can sort out what the fuck actually happened here. But common sense and logic are meaningless right now, and I pull on my handcuffs and look at Angus in despair, look into his green eyes, see the anguish on his face. Instantly I know that if he’s already on parole, once we’re charged with a crime there’s no way a judge is gonna let him out on bail until the trial, which could be months or even years away! The cops can hold us for twenty-four hours before charging us, so our future might come down to our word against the word of a helpless old couple who were found bruised and broken in their own home!

  And as we’re led away to separate police cars, away from each other, away from our happy ending, I close my eyes and wonder what comes next.

  8

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  ANGUS

  “Next,” says the judge, tapping his gavel and looking past me and Amy like he’s thinking of the sandwich he’s gonna eat for lunch. There was no trial, no sentencing, no pointing out defendants, no expert testimony. Our lawyers just shook their heads and said that the physical evidence could easily be interpreted as self-defense, and that any jury would be sympathetic to a sweet elderly couple with bruises and broken bones. And so we agreed to a deal, and this was just a summary hearing to close the fucking case.

  “There’s no shortage of stories about younger couples murdering older folk, burying them in the basement, living in their homes, and even cashing their Social Security checks for the next twenty years,” our lawyers told us. “Your best option is to make a deal with the District Attorney’s office. There’s no direct evidence of conspiracy to commit murder or premeditation, which means we can probably get the DA to plead it down to assault.” The lawyers had glanced at Amy before looking at me and sighing. “Given your legal situation, Angus, that means—”

  “I know what it fucking means,” I barked at them. “It means I’m going back to prison.” I’d gritted my teeth at the thought, but I knew I’d survive. Amy, though . . . fuck, she’s a strong woman, but prison?! No. No fucking way. “What about her?” I’d asked.

  “Well,” the lawyers said, sighing again and blinking as they looked back at her. “Given her situation, we can probably get a suspended sentence. No jail time.”

  I almost passed out in relief, clenching my fists and exhaling slowly. I spent a good chunk of my first stint in the prison library, and I know the law pretty fucking well. I’m probably getting sent back for five years, maybe eligible for parole in three or four. Slowly I turned to Amy, but I didn’t even need to ask the question because I saw the answer in her eyes.

  She’ll wait for me.

  Our story isn’t over yet.

  I started to smile, started to feel hope and optimism rise up in me again as I imagined our future together, decided that although doing more time was gonna be torture, in some ways it would also be a fucking cakewalk now that I knew what was waiting for me outside, that I was gonna have my prize at the end of the finish line.

  But I saw something in those big brown eyes of hers that made me flinch, and then I remembered the way the lawyer said something about Amy’s “situation.”

  “Wait,” I’d said, not sure if I was talking to the lawyers or Amy. “What situation?”

  “Angus, listen,” Amy said, her expression making me wonder what the fuck was going on, what she wasn’t tel
ling me. She glared at the lawyers like she was angry or something. Then she looked back at me, that look on her pretty round face almost breaking me when I guessed the answer to my own question. “I’m . . . I’m pregnant, Angus. I found out last week. I mean, I still need to do a blood test to make sure, but—”

  “You’re pregnant,” I’d repeated, both joy and despair flooding me at the same time. “You’re pregnant!” I’d shouted, the joy winning out as I grabbed my woman and kissed her so hard I swear it bruised her lip. I did it so quick the lawyers didn’t say shit, and that kiss was so fucking warm and beautiful that I almost forgot we still had a long road to our forever.

  I held Amy’s hand firmly in mine for the rest of that conversation. Both of us wanted to say fuck the deal, that we were gonna roll the dice with a jury. But in the end common sense and logic forced itself down on us, forced us to acknowledge that the downside was big, that if a jury found us guilty on charges of conspiracy to commit murder based on circumstantial evidence, we were looking at a long fucking time before that forever arrived.

  “We’ll take the deal,” I finally said after we went back and forth a hundred times. “So long as Amy doesn’t spend one day behind bars, so long as my kid isn’t born in a prison hospital. I don’t give a fuck how long I have to wait. I’ll do the time standing on my head, now that I know what’s waiting for me.”

  I felt Amy’s heart almost stop, but she stayed silent. She could feel the resolve in my tone, the determination in my voice. I’d made the decision and it was final. I’d made the decision for all of us, for the family we already were. I was the fucking man of the house, just like I was at the fucked-up feast when I stood up bleeding and carved the shit out of that turkey.

  “Five years, but I’ll be out in three,” I say now to Amy as we look into each other’s eyes in the mostly empty courtroom. “I’ll be a fucking saint in there, Amy. I swear it. I’ll be out in three. Our kid won’t even be in school yet! Three years, baby. Just three years.”