Beyond Cuckoo

There are many old friends in this segment. A few have passed from this earth and others have taken another path. I miss them all. We had good times. However, today, I continue to enjoy this place with Blake.

A few days later, on Thanksgiving morning, bright sunshine bounced off our bedroom mirror and hit me in the face. I opened an eye and glanced at the clock, eight-thirty. Instead of hopping out of bed in my usual manner, I rolled over and snuggled up to a sleeping Blake. The red-winged blackbirds’ melodic twills said no hurry—they had the world under control. I wondered if anyone would miss us if we hid in our room all day. I was so warm—so happy here.

Blake shifted, rolled away and stretched. “What time is it?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“What are you still doing here?” Blake asked, wasn’t used to waking up with me.

“Enjoying this place─and you.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” Blake goaded me.

“Fuck you,” I teased back.  “I’m going to do as little as possible today, for a change. Let everyone else cook . . . it is a potluck, after all.”

I finally sauntered into the kitchen in search of coffee around ten o’clock, only to find the pot empty.  “Mr. Coffee needs a refill.” I smiled at Asna, who was stuffing a turkey into a brown paper bag.

“That’s an interesting way to cook a turkey.” I scooped coffee into a paper filter.

“Well, I don’t have to baste it this way and it stays moist. I still have latkes to make. D’you want to grate some potatoes while you wait for the coffee?”

“No thanks, I’m in lazy mode.  I’ll wok some rice and veggies later.  Right now I want to sit, relax, and have my coffee.”

Asna didn’t seem to hear me as she rummaged through a kitchen drawer. “I wonder what happened to the potato peeler. Have you seen it?”

Ignoring her query, I carried a mug of Sumatra blend towards a seat in front of the fireplace.  Someone had built a fire and I settled into the couch and put my feet on the coffee table. Déjà trotted in behind Blake who had scored his coffee in the kitchen and joined me on the couch. We sat in silence, perfectly coupled, dog at our feet. The doorbell rang.

“Are you going to get that? Blake asked.

“No,” I said.

Blake looked at me quizzically, but didn’t get up to answer the door—it rang again. Neither of us budged, we took another sip of coffee. A third ring and Phil descended the stairs two at a time.

“It’s Joel, Bruce, and Nancy,” he exclaimed as he threw open the front door. Hugs and kisses all around, then Phil led his siblings into the kitchen. Blake and I didn’t budge.

The doorbell rang four more times, bringing with it more food and more people, all of whom gathered in the kitchen.  It wasn’t long before, Blake and I decided to pry ourselves off the sofa and check out the party.

As we turned the corner, I decided that the case of wine Blake and I contributed would be fine—there was more than enough food. Every inch of counter space was covered by someone’s gourmet specialty. And in the midst of it all, stood Bud, beaming with pride and directing the action.

Blake and I dutifully obeyed Bud’s commands for setting the table and unfolding extra chairs. Almost noon, the wine came out along with the first course of salads and hors d’oeurves. By this time the noise level of over fifty people filled the entire downstairs.

Bruce had invited his college friends. I was drawn to a perky bright-eyed student. Her exuberance bubbled out in every direction and her feet seemed to barely touch the ground as she skipped between conversations. Her dancing brown eyes matched her hair—delicately pulled back from her face with little-girl barrettes.

“Hi,” she said to me. “I’m Laura Ann and these are my friends, Paul and Dennis. Paul works at Books, Inc. in Coddingtown, and Dennis is in some of my classes.”

“Glad to meet you.” Before I could say more, Joel, a physically larger version of his brother, Phil, commandeered the action. He donned a green elf hat, and moved through the crowd, quivering in a high-pitched voice, “Follow the yellow Brick Road . . . Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

“That’s interesting,” Blake laughed as Joel sprinkled us with invisible fairy dust and handed each of us a fresh flower as he disappeared into another room and some other crowd.

More food courses materialized from the kitchen.  I met so many people, that I couldn’t begin to keep the names with the faces. Bud was a permanent fixture near the fireplace; with a ceramic wine goblet set on the mantle and a turkey leg in hand, he looked like a medieval king holding court.  I gave his highness a wide berth.

At the end of the day, as the last car left the driveway, Blake and I shot each other a “let’s get out of here” look and slipped down the side walkway and back to our room.

“I feel guilty about not helping with the clean up,” I said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Don’t worry about it . . . most of its done, anyway. It’s good for you to stop giving yourself away.”

“That’s an odd expression. I don’t understand.”

“You’re a people pleaser—always trying to help everyone. You wear yourself out.”

“Well, I certainly would like to please you,” I whispered.

“Well, that’s different . . . I’m special.”