The sound of their laughter was alluring. He pushed his wooden chair closer to the door and peered through the crack and out into the hallway. The door to the adjacent apartment was wide open, as usual. A constant parade of relatives and fellow apartment dwellers marched in and out, carrying hot dishes, flowers, and early wrapped Christmas gifts that lit up the dim hallway in shades of bright red, green, blue, silver and gold. Beyond the doorway, a white Christmas tree adorned with multicolored, rapidly flashing lights demanded everyone’s attention. Here it was, Thanksgiving Day, and that Christmas tree was stealing the show.
He clucked his disapproval and leaned closer to the door’s small opening. The indescribable aroma of turkey, sugary pies, and hot bread pulled at his dusty heart and he stood up quickly, slamming the nearly shut door and dragging the chair across the linoleum and back into the carpeted living room.
He had been invited, as he was every year and he had politely and coldly declined; as he did every year. The Banquet Thanksgiving entrée in his freezer would do quite well, along with the Sarah Lee frozen pumpkin pie now baking in his small apartment-sized oven.
He sat down in his Canadian rocker, his eyes fixed on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade, but his ears in tune with the commotion in the hallway. Just how many people could they fit into that apartment, anyway? He got to his feet, drug the kitchen chair back to the door, and opened it up just a crack. He pushed forward again, watching in disbelief as yet another group of people glided into the apartment; laughing and bellowing out holiday greetings.
Without warning, a woman suddenly appeared before him. Startled and somewhat embarrassed, he pulled back. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. D. I will be back in 15 minutes to escort you right across the hall.” Before he could respond, she slipped away, melting back into the small, festive crowd.
He panicked. Where did she ever get the impression he was going to join them? He stood up hesitantly; not quite sure what to do. She would be back shortly and he had no intention of being a part of their noisy celebration. He turned about uncertainly. And besides that, what would he wear? Everyone was dressed in holiday finery. They didn’t have room for a cranky old man; miserable, frail, widowed, and alone. Forever alone.
He padded slowly into his bedroom and opened his closet door thoughtfully. Way in the back of the closet, a pair of red and green suspenders hung on a white plastic hanger. He hadn’t worn them in years. He reached for them and walked back to the kitchen.
What about the pie? He opened the oven door, realizing the pie was nearly done. He removed it tenderly and placed it on the cutting board. Maybe he should bring it with him.
He put his suspenders on carefully, making sure they were straight and evenly adjusted. Smoothing back his hair and stepping into his loafers, he peered out into the hall. Once again, without warning, the woman appeared and slowly nudged the door open. She held out her arm to him and he stepped out into the hall with her.
“Unfortunately,” she said, “we decided to have a contest to see who could whip up the most unique pie and in the process, no one thought to bake a plain, simple pumpkin pie. Hope you don’t mind.” He pulled away from her gently and went back into his kitchen, gathered the warm pie up in a clean dish towel and handed it to her with a nod of his head.
She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Just what we needed!” she said. His smile came with ease. “Quite the contrary, young lady. This is just what I needed.”
With pie in hand and Christmas suspenders in place, he waltzed across the corridor and into the holiday.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their goldendoodle Barney. E-mail her at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
