GOBBLE, GOBBLE, OXEN FREE

by Kurt Newton

© 2003 by Kurt Newton. All Rights Reserved.

Walter huddled his thin, eleven-year-old body against the morning cold. He’d spent the night in an abandoned warehouse wrapped in mothball-smelling dinner jackets and old lady dresses he’d stolen from a Salvation Army dumpster. He wished the bag he’d grabbed had contained clothes he could wear, but then beggars can’t be choosers, as his father was fond of yelling when he’d come home drunk with a bag of pretzels and a can of soda for supper and say, “Here, now eat and shut up.” And if Walter showed the slightest hesitation or hint of complaint, somehow that message would find its way through his father’s drunken fog and the accusations would start flying. “Good for nothing parasite… Just like that whore of a mother of yours….” And like grease for the wheels of violence, the words would turn into fists and all Walter could do was hope that unconsciousness came quickly…

Walter watched the morning sun stream in through the warehouse windows and tried not to think that today was Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all the fixings. He supposed that “fixings” were all the other side dishes that came along with Thanksgiving dinner. At this point he’d even go for just the fixings to satisfy his hunger.

His stomach growled, then spasmed with pain. Somehow the hunger he’d felt over these past two weeks was worse than any bruise his father could inflict.

His ears perked up when he heard the scrape of a box from across the warehouse. Followed by a whispering of voices.

Walter buried his head and tried to disappear.

“Hey, here’s one!”

Walter heard footsteps gather around him. Then all was silent. He pushed back the sequined hem of an old lady’s dress from his face and stared at the faces that stared down at him.

Three boys and one girl. Each was dressed in winter coats, wool mittens, scarves and earmuffs. They ranged in age from perhaps eight years old to fourteen. Each looked well fed.

“Hey, don’t be afraid,” the oldest said. “I’m Matt, this is Marshall.” He placed a mittened hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “This here is Melinda Sue, and this one’s Mikey.”

Walter stared at Melinda Sue. She looked to be about his age and her smile was as warm as the roses on her cheeks.

“How would you like to come home with us?”

Walter looked at the four cherub-like faces and thought he might still be dreaming. He saw visions of a Thanksgiving Day feast, surrounded by brothers and sisters, a mother and father who were neither an addict nor an alcoholic. Walter’s stomach growled again, but he was still unsure.

“We do this every year, take a kid off the street,” said Matt. “It will be fun!” The others nodded, their eyes bright. They seemed eager to get going.

Matt held out his hand. The others did the same.

Walter almost felt like crying. He sat up and they pulled him into their group as if he were part of the family.

* * *

They made their way out of the city, over railroad tracks and into the woods beyond. They walked along a well-worn path that wove its way deeper and deeper into the woods until they came upon a field where the grass was waist-high.

Walter thought this was great. He’d lived in the city all his life, in rat-infested tenements and crappy hotels. He’d always dreamed of living out in the country, out where there were trees and leaves and squirrels. Maybe they had a dog, he thought. A big fluffy dog he could lay his head against on a hot summer day. He always wanted a dog.

“Gobble, gobble, oxen free!”

Walter jumped. It was Matt who had yelled it. The children scattered, each to the surrounding woods, leaving Walter standing alone in the middle of the field. He wanted to run after Matt, then thought that maybe he should follow Marshall instead. Melinda Sue would have been a good choice, but she was girl. And he couldn’t follow little Mikey because the young boy disappeared into the grass like a snake. So Walter simply stood in the middle of the field as the others fled.

“What’s going on? Are we playing a game?” he shouted. He felt the crisp November air against his cheeks. His feet were numb from the walk. There were rustlings in the woods, followed by giggles. “Count to ten!” one of them yelled.

Walter spun around. It was hard to tell from which direction the voice came from. The field was like a big open circle, except for one large stone outcropping at its center. He really didn’t feel much like playing. He was hungry. He was cold. But these kids seemed to want to play a game of hide and seek first before they brought him home. Maybe it was some kind of test to see if he would be a suitable brother and playmate. They’d been so nice to him, he figured the least he could do was play along.

“Okay! I’m going to count now! You better hide real good!”

Walter walked over to the stone outcropping and leaned against it, forearms covering his eyes. He began to count.

“One…”

(he saw himself seated in a nice chair, his hands washed, his hair neatly combed)

“Two…”

(the table dressed up like one of those displays in the department stores, all silver and sparkly, with candles and a fruit bowl, and nuts)

“Three…”

(everyone was seated around, his newfound brothers and sister, his newfound mom, all pretty face and smelling nice, his newfound dad)

“Four…”

(and the smells, all smoky and sweet)

“Five…”

(sausage stuffing and giblet gravy)

“Six…”

(candied yams and cranberry sauce)

“Seven…”

(baby onions, greenbeans, and corn)

“Eight…”

(apple pie and pumpkin pie)

“Nine…”

(and in the center, all golden brown and glistening, the largest Thanksgiving turkey he’d ever seen)

“Ten!”

Walter opened his eyes. The field was still, the air a silent calm. They could all be hiding in the grass for all he knew. He climbed up on top of the stone outcropping for a better look. He could see the individual trails each of the kids had made when they cut through the grass into the woods.

A wide grin spread across his face, the first grin he could remember feeling in a long, long time. “Gobble, gobble, oxen free!” he yelled. His voice echoed across the field. It was then he didn’t so much feel the gunshot as heard it reverberate in his ears.

He flew through the air and landed on his back in the grass and lay staring up at the sky. It felt like one of his father’s backhands, only this one didn’t hurt. For some reason his eyes were locked open and a curious twinge ran along his scalp, like the tickle he used to get when his mom cut his hair. Aside from that, he couldn’t feel a thing.

He heard footsteps though. And voices. Young kid voices. And one adult. Like trees they gathered around.

“What do you think, Uncle Frank?” Matt’s voice, eager to please.

Uncle Frank, hunter’s hat pulled down over his ears, rifle under his arm, lit a cigarette. He crouched down, grabbed the collar of Walter’s jacket, lifted him slightly off the ground and let him drop. “This one’s at least a hundred-pounder. You kids did good.” Uncle Frank straightened up. “Okay, you two grab his shoulders, you two grab his legs.”

Walter wanted to shout that this wasn’t right, they couldn’t do this to him, that this was Thanksgiving for Christ’s sake! I’m not dead…I’m not dead….

But the smaller faces that stared down at him looked so happy, so…hungry. In fact, Walter had a hard time remembering what it felt like to be hungry, what it felt like to be cold, even what it felt like to be alone. In fact, these strangers had given him more in a few hours than his mother and father had given him in his entire life—a sense of family and togetherness.

“What’s the matter, Melinda Sue?”

“It’s his eyes, Uncle Frank. They got tears.”

“It’s just the cold, that’s all. Here, let me fix that.”

Walter watched as Uncle Frank leaned over him, cigarette gripped between his fingers, and stamped the hot end into each of his eye-sockets. With a hiss and a sizzle the sky went dark.

Walter heard the boys laugh when Melinda Sue said, “Eeyou.”

After that he was thankful he couldn’t feel a thing.

*This story first appeared in
Scary! Holiday Tales To Make You Scream,
published October 2003.