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Historical December 1990 report or notice. Original dates, prices and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
Thanksgiving was over, and he knew what that meant.
It was time to put some of the leftover turkey in the freezer.
It was the start of the holiday season, and it was time to check on Cindy and make sure that everything was O.K.
It had become a sort of ritual for him.
First, the Monday before Thanksgiving, he’d go to the store and buy a turkey for the gala dinner.
He had gone to the same store. Carl’s Market, for years now. He’d buy the turkey and along with it some rolls, a can of cranberry sauce, a couple of potatoes, and a quart of chocolate ripple ice cream. He’d usually eat most of the ice cream before Thanksgiving.
The turkey would stay in the refrigerator freezer until the night before Thanksgiving when he’d put it on the counter to thaw.
The morning of Thanksgiving was spent cooking, with television parade talk and music in the background, bland announcers making bland comments. Once he had tried to watch a parade, the one in New York, but after two or three minutes he was bored.
He was eating a bowl of popcorn at the time and entertained himself by throwing pieces of popcorn at the floats on the T.V. screen.
If Cindy was still around, she’d be very upset, he thought. He’d sleep late that Thanksgiving morning. Working at the warehouse wasn’t easy and each morning his back pleaded with him to stay in bed for just a few more minutes.
This was one of those mornings where he could listen to his muscles. Sure, you could do that on weekends, but it felt better on a Thursday. Six years ago he and Larry had decided not to go to work on a Wednesday. That was a day that he’d never forget because of what he found when he came home. That morning, he and Larry each called in sick.
He remembered Cindy next to him, in bed, begging him not to make the call because if he was caught, he’d be fired and then how could they live?
He remembered talking to the foreman and stumbling when the foreman asked him what, exactly, was wrong.
He knew that if he just said, “I donno, I’ve been thrown up all night,” that would have been O.K., but he was too pleased with himself for pulling a fast one, so without thinking he said, “I’ve got these red spots on my chest.” “Red spots on your chest?” the foreman answered. “Yeah, little red spots, dozens of them.” He smiled and looked at her. Cindy was half under the sheets, holding a pillow over her mouth so that her laughter wouldn’t be heard over the phone. “Red spots. Are you sure?” the foreman asked. “Oh yeah, they itch too. Got to go!” and then he hung up.
They both laughed after that for what seemed like hours. Of course, it really wasn’t hours because Larry came by soon, driving his truck and smiling to beat the band.
The two of them went driving. Just driving; actually Larry did the driving and he sat shotgun.
They rode up and down the highways, laughing at all of the suckers who were going to work or coming from work or working in their cars.
They stopped for lunch at some bar on 40. past Weldon Spring, and ate potato chips and drank beer. Lots of beer.
They bought a six-pack, three really, for drinking in the afternoon while they drove around and laughed at the suckers.
The beer was probably why he didn’t realize that the house was so dark when he got home.
It shouldn’t have been like that.
He remembered stumbling to the door and having trouble getting the key in because the porch light wasn’t on.
The lamp inside, the one in the living room by the window, wasn’t on either, so he couldn’t use any light from it to help him find the keyhole.
He opened the door, but that didn’t help.
It was dark inside too.
He turned on the light by the sofa and then he saw Cindy. He’d never forget how she looked.
She was always beautiful, but not then.
She was on the floor, face up, with her eyes frozen, looking at the ceiling.
A bottle of sleeping pills was in her right hand and their prom picture, back from high school, was in her left. Right away he knew that Cindy was dead. You could just tell. No note, no nothing.
He spent hours crying, sobbing, letting the pain run down his cheeks. Sure, they had problems, but so did everybody. Sure, she’d threatened to leave, but she never meant it.
He held her and rocked, crying and singing.
She always liked it when he sang.
The next thing he knew it was the middle of the night.
The house was quiet and she was still in his arms.
Her eyes were still open, staring at nothing, but her body was already getting stiff and cold.
He knew that he should close her eyes, pull her lids down like he’d seen in the movies, but he couldn’t do that.
As long as Cindy’s eyes were open, she really wasn’t gone and he wouldn’t be alone. Morning came and went.
He only sat her down to call work and tell the foreman that the spots were still there and he wouldn’t be in today either.
He must’ve sounded different, though, because the foreman only told him to take care of himself.
It was noon and he still wasn’t hungry.
They were still sitting together, on the floor.
He couldn’t think of going on without her. And what would people say?
He thought about taking some pills himself, but the bottle was empty.
He remembered that day like it was yesterday, even though it was six years ago.
He shook his head and smiled a bit.
Now it was time to check on her.
He went to the meat freezer and looked inside.
There was a big tinfoil package with masking tape marked “Hmbrgr” and two or three frozen pizzas, wrapped in cellophane.
He moved the Hmbrgr package and found a bunch of tinfoil packages, all different sizes.
He picked them up, one after another, and began to smile while he read the labels aloud, “Cindy-left hand,” “Cindy-shoulder,” “Cindy-right hand,” “Cindy-neck,” “Cindy-right leg,” “Cindy-left ear.” The freezer was strong because the packages were hard as rocks. Everything was O.K. and she was fine.
He continued moving the packages from one side of the freezer to the other, reading the names aloud, “Cindy-forearm,” “Cindy-eye.” He always enjoyed the holiday season.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, December 1990.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times1990_12.pdf, printed page(s) 8; PDF page(s) 8.
