The Christmas Goose

[firsty]

"You can look up the percentage of free lunches that each school provides. This will give you a good idea about the educational background of the parents of the kids in different schools, it will give you an idea about the class of children in each school," she said.

"Did you just say, 'class'?" I asked. Penny stepped on my foot.

"Well, you know what I mean," she said.

"Actually, I think what you 'mean' is actually worse than what you said," I said.

"?"

"Forget it."

This goose was cooked. I hated Christmas geese. This one was overdone and brown. I wanted to chop it in half, and I wanted the chopping to be as simple and dramatic as it was in that scene from "A Christmas Story" where the Chinese waiter chops off the head of the cooked duck right in front of the wife and kids. I wanted to chop this Christmas goose in half and throw the two pieces out into the street for speeding trucks to run over it.

My kids were playing under the dining room table just like I used to do. Instead of having a grandmother that chain-smoked, laughed gruffly and handed out wintergreen Lifesavers, my kids had a grandmother that wanted them to go to school with a bunch of overprivileged white kids who brought their own lunches.

I'm sure, though, my own experience as a child was leaving things out. My kids didnt hear this last exchange, after all.

Penny stirred the gravy. Outside the dogs were sniffing the air. Instead of throwing the goose into the street, I thought, I could throw it to the dogs.

We were the only family in history to still have a Christmas goose. They went out of style with the Cratchits. To my kids, Bob Cratchit was Mickey Mouse. They both wanted to be Tiny Tim - a cute smaller version of Mickey himself, squeaky and full of life and color. When I was a kid, the image of Tiny Tim haunted my dreams, hobbling around, about to die, coughing and pale. Even with Scrooge's help, the kid was probably going to die, I figured. All you had to do was look at him.

The skin of the goose was crackled and dark. I picked at it. It was disgusting. Even the dogs would be afraid to eat it. I'd have to throw it in the street for sure. Living geese flew over the house, squawking and mad. I felt hunted. I limped downstairs on the pain of my legs and closed the washroom door behind me for a smoke and another dose of painkillers. I heard Penny upstairs getting the boys ready for the table, washing their hands. I heard my mother asking where I had gone off to, as if I was always going off somewhere.

Down in the palm of my hand were a pile of what must have been thirty or forty pills. I had no idea how they had ended up there, I wondered how many I had already taken. I knew if I took them like I had apparently wanted to, Penny would be alone in fending off the demons from the boys. That thought made me want to die even more, but hardened my knowledge that I had to just go back upstairs and eat that fucking goose, just like every other year.

I closed the washroom door back behind me, went back up those damn stairs, sat down at the table, and prayed.

[mtmynd]

left me in a balance between sadness and laughter... intended or not. I enjoyed the read and appreciated the write - right to the end.

[firsty]

best comments ever yes. thanks c.

[mnaz]

The horror of the holidays.

I'm not much caring for this Penny character.
Not much at all.... about enough to zap one's 'peace-on-earth-good-will-to-men' quotient....

[joel]

Score one for the vegetarians.

Score one for the author.

Score as many as needed for the subjects at hand.