The Thanksgiving Treasure

by Gail Rock

  “He’s not my enemy!” she said. “He’s yours. You invite him to your house!”

  “I asked my father. He blew his top. So you have to invite Mr. Rehnquist.”

  “There are already nineteen people coming!” she said, exasperated.

  “Great! Nobody will notice him.”

  “Forget it,” she said. “There won’t be enough chairs.”

  “Please!” I said. “He’ll bring his own.”

  “Absolutely not!” said Carla Mae, and she went back to drawing.

  I felt momentarily defeated, but I had an alternate brilliant idea all ready to go.

  “There’s only one alternative,” I told her. “We’ll have to take Thanksgiving dinner out there to him.”

  “You’re crazy!” she said. “The only reason you want to go is to see that stupid horse.”

  “It is not!”

  “Besides,” she went on, “where are you going to get the dinner?”

  “Swipe it.”

  “From where?”

  “Right off the table,” I said. “You can get some too, from your grandmother’s.”

  “Oh, no!” Carla Mae said.

  “Look,” I said, trying to impress her with my logic, “it would be a lot easier for you. There’s so many at your table the dog can come right up and snitch off the table and nobody notices. At my house there will just be six of us. I’ve got a much harder time of it.”

  “Well, count me out,” said Carla Mae. “I’m not robbing food from the table, and I’m not going out there with you!”

  “What kind of friend are you, anyway?”

  “The kind that doesn’t want to get killed,” she said seriously.

  “But just think how pleased he’ll be when we knock on his door with a delicious dinner …”

  “You have really cracked this time,” she said, looking at me wide-eyed. “If you think I’m going out there and poke a turkey in his face so he can shoot us, you’re keee-razy!”

  “Oh, I’ll do it then! I’ll get all the food if you’ll just help me carry it. He’d never really shoot at us anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “As soon as we get there,” I said, “you can hide behind a tree.”

  “What if he isn’t home?” she asked, still searching for a way out.

  “Where would he be? Nobody in their right mind would invite him out,” I said, without thinking.

  “You said it, I didn’t,” Carla Mae replied sarcastically. “Besides, what if he’s already cooked himself dinner … then he’ll have two.”

  “Can you picture him cooking a turkey dinner? Anyway, he probably doesn’t even know it’s Thanksgiving. He probably doesn’t even own a calendar, he’s such a hermit.”

  She shook her head at me. “I’m not going!”

  “What’s the matter, are you chicken?”

  “Cluck, cluck!” she said, shaking her head.

  “You’re my best friend, aren’t you?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Well, what about our oath?” I asked.

  She looked at me with a worried expression. I knew I had her trapped then, because Carla Mae and I had never gone back on our oath. I spit on my hand and held it out to her. She hesitated a moment, and then spit on her hand, and we shook, reciting our sacred oath in unison.

  “Faithful friends through thick and thin,

  If we lose or if we win,

  Signed in blood and sealed with spit,

  Our loyalty will never quit.

  Cross your heart and hope to die,

  Stick a needle in your eye.

  Vow to keep the secret code,

  Or turn into an ugly toad!”

  Chapter Seven

  By the time thanksgiving day arrived, I was beginning to get very nervous. Carla Mae had refused to help steal food, so I would have to swipe a whole dinner for Rehnquist right out from under my family’s noses.

  I was prepared to wear my jeans to dinner, figuring that any food I could drag into my lap would be a bonus, and since I kept my jeans in a generally grubby condition, nobody would notice any spills on them. Grandma, however, announced that Thanksgiving was a dress-up occasion, and I was forced to wear a dress. I searched frantically through my closet for a dress with pockets big enough to hold a chunk of turkey wrapped in a napkin, but I had none, so I would have to be very careful.

  I promised Grandma I would do all the cleaning up and serve the dessert, which surprised her, since I usually hated doing that job. However, I knew it would give me a good chance at completing my list of food.

  Early in the afternoon, Uncle Will, Aunt Nora and little Henry arrived. Little Henry was poison as far as I was concerned, but I knew I had to be nice to him for the afternoon. He and I never did get along very well. He was only eight, and very spoiled. He cried whenever he didn’t get what he wanted, and he was a terrible sissy. He was short and blond and had a pouty little face and whiny voice. I couldn’t stand him. He had on a new suit, and everybody but me made a fuss over it.

  Aunt Nora was OK, but she was a big, buxom woman, and was always hugging and squeezing and pinching cheeks, which drove me crazy. I never knew what to do when somebody pounced on me that way, and it embarrassed me. I also knew, though, that it would have hurt her feelings if I shied away from her affection, so I always stood like a slightly uncomfortable statue while she gave me lots of hugs and kisses.

  “My, you’re growing an inch a day!” she said, which only embarrassed me more. “You’re going to be a long drink of water when you grow up!”

  Uncle Will, who was my favorite, put his arm around my shoulder, and changed the subject to how I was doing in school. He always had a sense of when people were hurt or uncomfortable, and that was probably what made him such a good doctor. He was the quiet type when Aunt Nora was around, because she talked so much, but when you got him alone, he was good company.

  We all gathered in the living room, and Grandma and Nora made frequent trips to the kitchen to see how the turkey was doing. The kitchen was too small to hold all six of us for dinner, so we had set up the kitchen table in the dining room and put in the extra leaves and put on the good table cloth and the good china and the good silver.

  While we waited for the turkey, I took up a place at my usual end of the sofa and proceeded to wield the nutcracker for everyone who wanted nuts. Henry wanted to crack his own, and I finally gave in. He made a mess though, and I had to take the nutcracker away from him again and take charge, making sure that he didn’t get any more nuts than absolutely necessary. He looked very pouty until dinner time, but I couldn’t bother being annoyed with him. I kept thinking of my approaching challenge.

  By the time dinner was ready I was so nervous I could hardly bend my knees to get into my chair. I sat stiffly at attention, never slouching or putting my elbows on the table so Dad would have no reason to look over at me. I passed everything before it was asked for, and I was especially thankful Aunt Nora was there. She talked nonstop, so there was never a lull in the conversation, and I had a better chance of getting things off my plate and into my lap without anybody hearing a big plop.

  First I slid a piece of turkey into my lap while Uncle Will was busy telling Grandma how good the dressing was. I was just about ready to make the same move with half an acorn squash when I realized that my little cousin Henry was watching me from across the table. I froze, and then nonchalantly pretended to be interested in my creamed onions. I hadn’t counted on Henry being a spy, but he looked like he was about to tell on me. He kept bragging about his new suit at the table, and I made faces at him to show how ugly I thought it was.

  I sneaked a corn muffin out of the basket when Dad looked away, and Henry saw that too. He started to look under the table to see what I was doing with all the food, but I gave him a swift kick, and he stopped. I had just about everything that I could hide in my napkin by the time dinner ended, and I managed to get up from the table in a hunched position that hid it from view.


  “What’s the matter?” asked my father. “You got a stomach ache?”

  “Uh … no!” I said, hurrying toward the kitchen. “I’m just in a hurry to clear the table.”

  Rotten little cousin Henry was right behind me, and insisted on helping. He followed me out to the kitchen, and hung his precious new suit jacket on a hook by the door, so he wouldn’t get it dirty.

  “What are you doing with that food?” he asked, as he saw me putting what I had swiped into wax paper and glass jars.

  “What food?”

  “I saw what you were doing,” he said.

  “If you saw me, what’re you asking me for, you little pest?”

  I went in to get more food off the table, and he followed, helping carry out some of the dishes. When we were back in the kitchen, he continued to watch me, standing there with the gravy boat in his hands.

  “Why are you stealing all that food?” he asked. “Why can’t you just ask Grandmother for it?”

  “Why can’t you just shut up?”

  As I moved away from the sink, we bumped each other, and he spilled all the gravy on the floor. I was furious.

  “Damn it!” I said. “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?”

  “Don’t swear at me,” he whined, “or I’ll tell my mother.”

  “Stupid little dodo!” I said. “I needed that gravy!”

  “Call me one more name, and I’ll tell that you’re stealing food.”

  “I dare you!” I said. “How would you like a fat lip?”

  He ran to the door. “Mama!” he called.

  “Henry!” I hissed. “Come here a minute …”

  He came back.

  “I’ve thought it over …” I said. “Instead of a fat lip, I’d rather give you three black eyes!”

  “Well, you can’t” he said, looking at me smugly. “So what will you give me?”

  The little rat was blackmailing me. “What do you want?” I asked.

  “That raccoon tail on your bike.”

  “Fat chance!” I exploded. “That cost me eight weeks allowance!”

  “That’s what I want.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Mama …” he started to call again.

  “Hold it!” I said quickly. “I’ll give you the streamers off my handle bars.”

  “Nope. I want the raccoon tail!”

  “What about my collection of aggies?”

  “Nope.”

  I didn’t answer while I tried to figure a way out of it.

  “Yes or no?” he asked.

  He moved toward the door when I still didn’t answer.

  “Okay!” I said. “You win … Judas!”

  He went back into the living room then, and I heard him tell his mother that I was going to give him my raccoon tail. She thought that was so nice of me, and told Grandma it was lovely the way Henry and I got along with each other. It really burned me up, and while they were talking, I went over to Henry’s precious new jacket and carefully stuffed his pockets with mashed potatoes. It served him right.

  I got through dessert, swiped a couple of pieces of pie in the kitchen, and met Carla Mae outside.

  “Gad!” she said, “I thought I’d never get out of there. We had a million dishes to do!”

  “That’s easier than stealing a whole dinner right off the table,” I said.

  “Let’s get going and get it over with,” she said nervously. “I can’t stay out too long, it’s getting late.”

  “That’s OK,” I said, straight-faced. “It won’t take him long to shoot us.”

  Carla Mae gave me a stricken look, then glared at me.

  “Very funny,” she said, and lurched off down the driveway on her bike.

  “Oh, come on, I was just kidding. He won’t shoot us if we go right up to the front door and knock like regular people. Everything will be OK. We’ll just tell him we’ve brought him Thanksgiving dinner like the Pilgrims and the Indians.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said glumly. “That’s what it’ll say in the obituary column tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eight

  We pedaled furiously and got to Rehnquist’s farm in record time, because we didn’t want the food to get cold. We leaned our bikes against his front porch in just the right way so that we could make a quick getaway if necessary. We crept up onto the porch, Carla Mae hanging back a bit, and me trying to balance two bags of food.

  “There’s no light,” she hissed. “He’s not here. Let’s go!”

  “He’s probably sitting in there in the dark!”

  I kicked tentatively at the door and we waited.

  The porch swing creaked in the wind, and we both spun around, half expecting to see him standing behind us with his shotgun.

  I kicked again, louder, and I heard some movement inside. Suddenly, the door swung open, and there he stood in his rumpled old clothes, with a day’s growth of scraggly whiskers. For a second there was absolute silence, as he stared at us, unbelieving, and we stared back at him, frightened to death. I was quick to notice that he didn’t have his shotgun in his hand.

  Finally I found my voice. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Rehnquist!” I said, weakly.

  “Get out!” he shouted. “Get off my porch!”

  “But we’ve brought you a Thanksgiving feast …”

  Suddenly he reached behind the door and pulled out his shotgun.

  “Addie!” I heard Carla Mae gasp from somewhere behind me.

  He leveled the gun at me. I was sure I could see all the way down inside the barrels and make out a couple of big red shells in there. But I was angry at him for being such a grouch and an ingrate, and nothing could stop me now.

  “Go on!” I shouted. “Shoot me! I’m not afraid of you, you old misanthrope!”

  “What?” he said. “The law is on my side. Law says people keep off my property!”

  “I’m not hurting your darn old property.”

  “Go on!” he said. “Get out of here!”

  I was about to lose the heavy bags, and he still had the gun leveled at me.

  “Hurry up and shoot me,” I said defiantly, “because I’m about to drop your dinner.”

  “What dinner?” he asked.

  “I’ve brought you a Thanksgiving feast. I knew you wouldn’t make a turkey, so I brought you some of ours.”

  “And candied sweet potatoes,” said Carla Mae meekly, “and cranberry sauce …”

  “And two pieces of pie!” I added.

  “One pumpkin and one apple,” said Carla Mae.

  “What are you bringing me dinner for?” he said, slowly lowering the gun and squinting suspiciously at us.

  “Because we’re celebrating the spirit of Thanksgiving,” I said. “The way the Pilgrims did with the Indians.”

  “We’re the Pilgrims, and you’re the Indian,” said Carla Mae idiotically, still hiding behind me. I elbowed her to shut up.

  “Tell your folks I don’t need no charity,” he said irritably.

  “My folks?” I said. “Are you kidding? If my father knew I was here, he’d probably shoot me. You’re a mean old hermit who won’t pay him.”

  “Who’s your father?”

  “He dug out your pond.”

  “You Jim Mills’ kid?” he asked.

  I nodded. “And I had to steal this dinner practically out of my father’s mouth. Didn’t I, Carla Mae?” She nodded. “Now that I’ve gone to all that trouble, the least you can do is eat it.”

  For a second, he seemed to be thinking all that over, and I took the opportunity to race past him and right into the house.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “Come on back here …!” Before he could figure out what to do, Carla Mae had run past him too, and we were both inside his dingy old kitchen, dragging all the stuff out of the bags.

  I had tried to guess what his house would look like inside, but it was even worse than I had imagined. It looked as though it hadn’t really been cleaned since his wife had died fifteen years ago. There was an incredible cl
utter around the kitchen—dirty dishes, pots and pans, tools and parts of farm machinery, old newspapers, beat-up jackets and sweaters thrown here and there, peeling wallpaper, sagging cabinets and a rusty old pump in the sink. It was gloomy and scary, and later I realized it was sad to think of him living in that depressing place all alone.

  There was an old concertina on the table, and as I was about to pick it up and move it, he grabbed it away from me.

  “Hands off!” he said.

  “Do you play that, Mr. Rehnquist?” I asked politely.

  “No!” he said. “Why are you taking off your coats? I didn’t ask you to stay.”

  “We want to serve you dinner,” I said, and we grabbed a plate and some silverware from the pile on the sink and started laying out the dinner at his rickety old table.

  “Dad-blamed kids!” he growled. “I said hands off. Go on, git outta here!” He put the gun down behind the door and came toward us.

  Carla Mae backed away from the table a bit, but I could see he was looking with some interest at all the food, even while he was yelling at us, so I kept on dishing it out.

  “I said git your hands off my stuff,” he said, looking at me fiercely.

  “This is all going to be cold if you don’t sit down now and eat it,” I said, using the same tone of voice my grandmother always used with me when I was late for supper.

  “Don’t boss me,” he said, sounding almost pouty.

  I kept on putting the food on his plate. He squinted down at it. “What’s that yellow-looking stuff?” he asked.

  “Creamed onions,” I said brightly. “They’re delicious!”

  He tentatively poked a finger in the onions and licked it off. “Yeah,” he said sounding annoyed. “Well … I suppose I’ll have to eat up this junk to git the table cleared off.” He glared at us again, then sat down, trying to look as uninterested as possible. I knew we had him hooked.

  “Better get yourself a napkin,” I said.

  “Don’t have any napkins!” he snapped.

  “Not even paper?”

  “No!” he said angrily.

  “Well,” I said, reaching for a dishtowel, “this will have to do.”

  “Hands off!” he shouted. “You’re too bossy! I don’t like bossy kids.”