This story was first published in an online journal called Bright Flash Literary Review in November 2024 and is about an unlikely third party member to a Thanksgiving dinner. Enjoy!
Shiela began loading the SUV with a square fold out table and three fold out chairs. George’s eyebrows wrinkled as he spied her smirk that weaved a story she had called an audible on their Thanksgiving plans.
“I thought we were getting rotisserie chicken to take home from the restaurant?” George asked.
“We are, but we are not going to take it home,” Shiela announced, rubbing his chin.
“Huh?”
“You are just going to have to trust me and follow my lead,” Shiela replied, with pursed lips and bouncing eyebrows.
Their drive to the restaurant was void of conversation. George, behind the wheel, sneaked intermittent peaks at Shiela while she hummed an inaudible tune.
They got to the restaurant and picked up the entree along with the sides that included mac-n-cheese, potato salad, and candied yams.
“Now what?” George huffed as they drove off, growing gradually tired of the mystery.
“Now we find our dinner date,” she cheered, with enough enthusiasm for the both of them.
They travelled along the main road a mile when Shiela eyes sparkled with glee. “At the light, make a left.”
George negotiated to the left lane and waited on the light. He spied a homeless person holding a card board sign on a grassy island near the intersection. “Him?” George shouted.
Shiela shook like a bobblehead, as a giddy as a schoolgirl at a pajama party.
“His sign reads homeless and hungry. I offered him a sandwich several times. He rudely denied each time.”
“It’s Thanksgiving. Trust me.”
George turned at the light and parked near the intersection in the adjacent shopping center parking lot. They methodically took the makeshift dinner furniture and dinner out of the vehicle; he took the furniture as she toted the meal.
They began to set up on the island at the area near where the homeless man was. The man turned back to watch them unfolding the table and chairs. He tsked and focused back on the intersection traffic. Shiela carefully positioned the white table linen making sure each side was symmetrical.
The homeless man turned back and commented, “You’re hurting business for me.”
“You call what you’re doing a business?” George deadpanned, accompanied by a ‘cut it out’ elbow, from his loving wife.
The table and the three chairs were set up, along with the plastic cutlery, accented by a soft flamed candle that Mother Nature refused to extinguish and also provided an overcast sky to complement the ambiance.
As George began carving up the rotisserie chicken, Shiela asked the homeless man, “Come join us, before the food gets cold.”
“Leave me alone,” barked the man.
“There’s not many vehicles on the road. The stores are closing and people are home for the holiday,” Shiela persisted, as she poured a bottle of red into three plastic wine glasses.
The man gritted his teeth, but his demeanor softened as he inhaled the whiff of the chicken. “My mother made chicken on Thanksgiving. She wasn’t big on turkey,” the man lamented.
“So, join us. There is plenty for you,” Shiela offered. The man gazed out on the traffic and resigned to her invitation. He plopped himself on the chair opposite George and beside Shiela. George was so engrossed in his dish, scarfing down intermittent bites of the chicken and sides, that he didn’t notice the arrival of the third member of their party.
The man chewed his food opened mouth like a camel. He then swigged a gulp of the red. “What’s the alcohol volume on this wine?” as he perused the bottle. “7.5, it might as well be grape juice,” he mumbled under his breath, that drew a roll of the eyes from George.
“Did your mom also make sides like what is on the table,” Shiela pried.
“Forget about my mom. She is old history,” the man asserted with brooding eyes. The man stared at the candle, deep in reflection that sparked a pleasant memory. Silence drowned out the reduced traffic on the road. Finally, the man spoke. “The world has beaten me,” he said in a soft tone.
Shiela tilted her head in curious mode.
“You are wondering why I am in the place I am in. The world has beaten me. It offers good and bad. Unfortunately, the bad consumed me and I have lost faith in humanity to get back on track. I have given up.”
George raised his eyes from his dish and focused on the man. He gazed upon him as if sizing him up before a fight, but his facial expression bled compassion. “What about those that give to you, the good?”
“They’re exceptions. Most ignore me, those that give are few.”
“So we’re exceptions?” George asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. The man didn’t answer, as he reached for the bottle for another full glass pour.
George studied the man as the man stared at the candle. “The world hasn’t beaten you, the world is beating you. There may be plenty of ball game left in your life. The bottom line is there is time.” The man did not offer a rebuttal. His study of the candle and its subtle motion hypnotized him.
Thanksgiving dinner ended and George and Shiela offered a “Happy Thanksgiving” with only a patronizing thumbs up reply from the man.
George drove the next few weeks passing the intersection without sight of the man.
“Maybe we scared him off and he found a different intersection,” guessed Shiela.
About three months later, George was shopping for a bathroom light fixture at one of the big box stores, and notice the man from a distance stocking candlelight bulbs in one of the aisles. The man felt the presence of someone peering at him and made eye contact with George. The man half-smiled and rendered a thumbs-up to George, that George reciprocated with one of his own.
Moray Writes 