The Day after Thanksgiving

When I was younger—much younger, I had the opportunity to participate in something called, “The Day after Thanksgiving Dinner.”  It was the one Thanksgiving that will for me be impossible to forget.

A friend of mine had an apartment in the Capitol Hill section of Denver, Colorado.  Back then, Capitol Hill had a particularly seedy reputation as a crime-splashed haunt of druggies, street people, hookers, and dingy apartment houses that wafted of urine and Pinesol.  It was the type of place that most folks drove through without stopping.  There was always some wretch with a greasy rag to smear your windshield and a foggy dream of getting enough coins to buy the next bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 to retrieve yesterday’s stupor.

Probably because of some recollected experience my friend was mysteriously moved to prepare a traditional Thanksgiving dinner and to invite the neighborhood.  Maybe he was trying to relive and savor some meaningful moment in his past. The signs he had posted in the liquor store, 7-11, and laundromat windows invited anyone who missed out on Thanksgiving dinner the day before to show up, hungry.

I came more out of curiosity than the need to fill any remaining crevice left from dinner the day before.  I showed up early and in time to begin to watch the neighborhood arrive.  It was a sunny but frigid day.  The old radiators were hissing hot and chased the chill as soon as I walked in.

A single mother with a nursing child in her arms and a four-year-old daughter in tow was the first to arrive.  She sheepishly knocked on the wide-open door and peered around the corner.  My friend Jack and his girlfriend Amy were in the tiny kitchen making last-minute preparations. 

Being the only other person there I assumed the role of greeter.  “Come on in and make yourself to home,” I smiled as I offered my hand, “You’re right on time.”  The four-year-old flew in first on the aroma of roast turkey that filled the apartment.  “Have a seat,” I encouraged mom.  She found a seat in the most anonymous corner of the living room, sat down with her baby, and smiled at the floor.

While her four-year-old was hugging and petting my friend’s dog, a miniature golden retriever mutt, a twentyish couple in jeans and leather jackets entered without knocking (as intended), stood in the middle of the living room and the guy asked, “Is this where we get the free dinner?”  “Sure is,” I responded.  “Cop a squat,” I added in their assumed genre.  They sat down on the big, faux suede cushion, a sole survivor of a love seat that was now only a memory.  The girl asked no one in particular, “Why the free meal after Thanksgiving?”  I wasn’t sure myself.  “You might have to ask our hosts when they are finished in the kitchen.”

A large, pleasant-looking black man with a face that looked like it was accustomed to lots of laughing knocked on the open door.  “Is this the place?” he smilingly asked.  “Yeah,” replied the young man in leather, “Have a seat.”  He walked over to the great, fan-backed wicker chair by the bow window and stopped, turning on one foot and said, “Guess I oughta be polite and say, ‘Hi’ to everyone,” at which he offered his hand first to mom, then the young couple, and then to me. He had a firm, confident grip and smiled, “How ya doin’?  He then plopped down in to the big chair and smiled some more.

While I was appreciating this man for his friendly presence I noticed the young waif standing just outside the open door in the dimly-lit hallway.  She was slight, plain, and darkly dressed, almost blending into the background, looking around as if for an excuse to turn and hurry away. 

The smiling man in the big chair surprised the others who had yet to notice the young woman in the hallway, “Whatcha doin’ out there?  Come on in and have a seat.”  She hesitated as she considered her last chance to escape.  She took a stealthy step inside and paused a second or two, looking around the room at the growing ensemble.  “Come on in.  You can sit here,” he offered as he stood up and took a couple of steps away from the big chair and sat down on an old wooden kitchen chair with a worn vinyl cushion.  The young woman in dark seemed to float rather than walk to the chair, turned to sit with two thin hands in her lap and smiled nervously.

“This your place?” Mr. Smiles asked me.  “Oh no, I’m a friend of the guy who’s cooking.  I’m one of the guests.”  I asked him if he lived nearby.  “No, not nearby, at least not now,” he replied.  “I’m from Chicago.  I’m between jobs and was staying at a friend’s place in Aurora.  I was on my way to catch a bus to San Diego where my cousin may be able to get me a job.” 

“Really?  What do you do?”  I asked.  “A little of this and a little of that,” he responded.  “I wanted to be a teacher when I was younger, but we couldn’t afford me goin’ to college.  I had to drop out of high school and get a job ‘cause my daddy never came home one day.” 

His smile straightened and became serious.  “Daddy was always a dreamer.  He was always tellin’ momma and us that one day he was gonna hit it big and that we’d all have whatever we wanted.  He worked hard, real hard, but never had a job that paid more than minimum wage.  He busted his butt to feed us and to pay the rent, but with me and two sisters he just couldn’t make it work. 

Just before Christmas last year we got a phone call from the police.  Turns out that a friend of my daddy’s offered him a hundred bucks to stand outside a liquor store and yell if he saw any cops.  Daddy was so hurtin’ to give us Christmas presents that he said he’d do it as long as nobody got hurt.  My daddy never hurt nobody even growin’ up in the south side of Chicago. 

While he was standing outside of the liquor store he heard a gunshot from inside.  His friend came runnin’ out and disappeared ‘round the corner.  The store owner, a small Korean guy came out with blood runnin’ from his shoulder and a big, shiny pistol in his hand.  Seeing that he was hurt, my daddy took a step towards him and the man pointed the gun at my daddy and shot him in the head. 

Momma collapsed and dropped the phone when they told her that daddy was dead.  She cried a lot after that, almost all the time.  I could hear her cryin’ in the middle of the night sometimes.  Not long after, momma collapsed again.  This time she didn’t get up—she just laid there on the floor.  She peed herself pretty bad. I raised her head with my hands and looked into her eyes.  This time it was me who was cryin’.  “Momma, Momma, what’s wrong?  Can you hear me?  Momma say somethin’.”  She didn’t say a word.  She just looked at me with tears runnin’ down her face.

“Mrs. Jenkins our neighbor had a cellphone and called 9-1-1.  They came and took momma to County General.  She had had a stroke and couldn’t talk no more and she couldn’t walk too good neither.  Our aunt in Detroit said momma could stay with her and her family for a while, but she couldn’t take us kids.  My mom’s dad and mom took my two sisters, but didn’t have room for me.  That’s why I’m heading to my cousin’s in San Diego.”

There wasn’t a sound in my friend’s apartment at that moment the day after Thanksgiving.  Even the four-year-old girl just clutched her mother's dress and looked at the pleasant-looking black man.  Even the cooking sounds stopped in the kitchen.  Jack stood in the kitchen door with his hand on Amy’s shoulder.  Amy had stopped in the middle of drying a dish and they both stood silently looking at the no longer smiling man.

“Hello?” said a small, heavily-accented voice from the doorway.  One by one each head slowly turned away from the pleasant man to look at the voice.  A shrunken, wiry man of about 80 years wearing a worn suit with frayed elbows, a pressed white shirt, and a necktie that was nearly as old as he stood with one hand on the door jamb and one holding a cane to steady himself.  “Is this the right apartment for the Tanksgiving dinner?

With those words we were all reanimated.  I cleared my throat and managed a jovial, “Why yes, hello!  Come on in, you are very welcome.  The slight man shuffled across the hardwood floor and offered his hand.  “Happy Tanksgiving!  Are you the host?”  “Oh, no I replied,” still a little tight in the throat.  “Here’s the host and hostess.  This is my good friend Jack and his friend Amy.

The wiry man with a twinkle in his eye took Amy’s hand in both of his and gave it a little squeeze.  “Hello, I am very happy to make your acquaintance.  It is so very thoughtful for you to make this dinner and to invite strangers to come to your home to eat.  I am honored to be here.”  He then shook and patted Jack’s hand as he smiled.  His presence and words lifted the somber mood like a blanket.  The others began to welcome the wiry man.  Jack took a long look at Mr. Smiles who sat silently hunched in his chair as Jack regained his voice and announced, “Everyone, dinner is ready.”

Young mom sat with her baby at her breast and her daughter to her right.  A still subdued Mr. Smiles sat to her left.  On his left was the dark lady and then Amy.  Next was the leather man and on his left was his companion.  Jack sat at the seat closest to the kitchen.  To Jack’s left was the wiry man.  I was between the young mom and the wiry man.

After everyone was seated, Jack asked if would be okay with everyone if he said a blessing before we ate. Mr. Smiles was the first to respond with a fervent “Yes!  Momma always said a blessing over every meal.”  Young mom smiled and silently nodded, the leather couple looked at each other and bowed their heads.  She crossed herself after the Catholic fashion and elbowed her companion who then did the same.  Amy reached over and put her hand on the folded hands of the dark lady who began to pull her hands away, thought better of it and put her hands on top of Amy’s.

Jack began the blessing.  “Dear merciful father God who gives all good things to His children, we thank you for this meal that you graciously set before us.  We pray for all those who have less than we.  We thank you for all the blessings that you shower upon us...”  Jack then hesitated before he began the last petition of the prayer, “We ask this in the name of your only Son…”

Jack raised his head and looked at the wiry man with the accent whom he guessed was Jewish.  Without looking up, the wiry man smiled, slightly nodded and Jack concluded, “…Jesus Christ.  Amen.”

The platter of sliced turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, green bean casserole, stuffing, and cranberry sauce were passed and eagerly emptied.  Just then, the wiry many exclaimed, “Oh my goodness!” 

He sat looking intently at the golden braid on the table with tears welling in his eyes.  “It’s challah!  Why do you have Jewish challah bread on the table?”  Jack replied, “I’m not sure.”  Jack continued, “While Thanksgiving was originally a Christian celebration, it just struck me that our faith has very deep Jewish roots.  It only seemed reasonable during this meal to remember our Jewishness.” 

With a few more tears in his eyes, the wiry man raised his head, put his hand on the loaf of challah and spoke softly, “Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, Hamotzi lechem min haaretz”  (That is in Hebrew, “Our praise to You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the universe, Who brings forth bread from the earth.”)

The wiry man explained that his mother according to tradition would make challah for holy days and special occasion meals.  It became her trademark for special family times.  She loved to make challah because it had significance in the Jewish faith.  The wiry man explained that challah is traditionally made with two strands and often six twists to signify that during the Exodus manna fell from heaven for six days, but not on the Sabbath.  The day before the Sabbath a double portion fell.  Hence the six twists and two strands.

The wiry man had not had his mother’s challah since he and his family had been arrested while living in Cracow, Poland in 1939. The Gestapo kicked in the door to their apartment just as the family was getting ready for their Sabbath dinner at which challah was always present. 

His father confronted the jackbooted thugs who kicked in the door and berated them for disrespecting the Sabbath.  One of the Gestapo men reached under his black leather trench coat, pulled out a pistol and shot his father in the head in front of his family—the wiry man’s mother, two sisters, and a brother.  They were all dragged off by the brown shirts never to see each other again.  That was the very last time the wiry many had eaten any challah.  Mr. Smiles took special note of this story and ached more than the others for the wiry man.

The things the wiry man spoke of came as much of a surprise to the leather jacket couple.  They had heard that Jews had been persecuted by the Nazis, but had never really understood the extent the persecution reached.  The wiry man explained that life in Poland as a child and young man was about as idyllic as one could imagine.  He grew up in a city of old and often ancient buildings, neighbors that cared for each other, his mother’s wonderful cooking, playing ball with his siblings, and where his father a worker in leather would take him fishing in the large lake near their cozy home.  The wiry man explained that things became frightening in 1939 when the Nazis and what seemed like the entire German army and air force invaded Poland.

Life quickly degraded into a fight for survival for Jews in Poland and soon in the rest of Europe.  The wiry man described how Jewish shops and then homes, including his father’s shop were vandalized and eventually shuttered.  He told how many of their neighbors began to revile and mistreat them.  He and his family were spat upon.  He showed the young couple the numbers that the Nazis had tattooed on his arm.  He said that his youngest sister was taken by a group of Nazi soldiers and repeatedly ravished.  At his words the dark lady hunched over and began at first to weep, then to sob, and then to sob uncontrollably.

Amy sensed that there was great pent-up pain churning in those sobs.  She turned in her chair and faced the dark lady.  Amy pulled her close and hugged her as the dark lady’s tears wet her own cheeks.  Her sobs continued until her breathing itself became one long sob.  The young woman in leather rose and walked over to the dark lady’s chair and put her hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed as her own cheeks bore tears, the young mother came over and took her hand and silently began to weep with the dark lady.  Mr. Smiles, the wiry man, the man in the leather jacket, and I silently exchanged pained glances with each other and then looked back at the dark woman being comforted by those who were once strangers.

The dark lady sobbed that she had been raped by a group of boys in high school for most of an afternoon.  She never told anyone including her parents.  The boys continued to torment her with painful sneers, snickers, and jokes that made her time in high school torture of the worst kind.  When her period stopped a month or so later she found a clinic that would help her without telling her parents.  This heaped trauma upon trauma.  She thought that she would never know any happiness or love in her life.  The long scars on the insides of her arms spoke of a serious attempt to end her pain.  Her life became very dark.  The wiry man listened to her tears and thought how much she looked like his sister a lifetime ago in Poland, and his eyes fell.

The young mother, moved by the dark lady’s tears also began to weep. She held her baby close to her chest and sat her daughter on her lap.  She hugged them as tightly as she dared.  The wiry man rose from his seat and walked over.  He offered the young mother his neatly pressed handkerchief.  His eyes filled again as he watched her tears fall onto her baby and daughter.  He took her hand and put his other hand on the baby’s head and silently uttered a prayer in Hebrew.

Once the handkerchief was dripping wet and the young mother could cry no more she shared that she and her children had also lost family, at least in a way.  She explained that her boyfriend was less than overjoyed when she told him that she was pregnant with their first child.  He had always said that he wanted children, just not yet.  He was likewise sure that they would marry, but he just needed a little more time.  The young mother waited for the right time, but it never came.  When she became pregnant with their second child, her companion decided that it was the right time—to leave.  She never heard from him again.  He had left her with one child, another on the way, a stack of bills, and, it seemed, no hope.

The young man in the leather jacket rose from the table and strode over to the large window and gazed on the street below.  Striking an almost defiant pose with his arms crossed over his chest he stood nearly unblinking as cars and people passed by.  He couldn’t take it anymore. The collective misery and tears were mixing with his own dark memories making him angrier by the minute.  He clenched his jaw making the skin of his cheek ripple. He was close to putting his fist through a wall.  He wanted to break something.  Anything.

Jack had been sitting at the table stunned by the transformations in a room of strangers who were now confessing to and tearfully comforting each other.  This was supposed to be a happy occasion, or so he thought.  Instead, here was a handful of people, victims, if you will, of life.  People who were carrying bags of sad memories and bad experiences.  This was supposed to be a time of thanksgiving, a time of joy, a time of love, and a time for good memories.  Instead, it was crying and hurting people.

Jack then noticed the young man in the leather jacket with a seriously clenched jaw staring out the window.  Jacked slid past the table of injured people comforting each other and stood next to the young man in leather.  “Pretty sad, isn’t it?” inquired Jack.  “Whaddya mean?” asked the leather jacket.  “All this pain and sorrow.  This is supposed to be a happy occasion, right?”  The man with the seriously clenched jaw turned to Jack, “Happy?  Why happy?  Why exactly should I be happy?  Life sucks, doesn’t it?  You get screwed and then you die.  What’s happy?  Jack could almost feel the heat of the young man’s anger.  “Aren’t you a bit young to be so angry and cynical?” asked Jack.

“No, I’m not cynical, I’m realistic. And yes, I’m angry.  Nobody really cares for anyone else, not really.  It’s all for show.  Maybe it’s just to keep the peace.  All you get when you care for someone is a reason to hurt and to feel bad. Look at all of these people.  They are all miserable.  And no one really sticks around because they want to.  It’s all for show, really.”

“So you have no feelings for your companion?”  He looked at me and slightly unclenched his jaw.  “I don’t know, I’m not sure.  Maybe.  We met by accident at permanent temporary foster care with a family a few years ago.  She lost both of her parents in a car wreck and had no other family.  We just sort of fell together.”  “And what about you?  How did you wind up in foster care?”  His jaw became a mechanic’s vise.  “I got dumped because my loving and caring father killed himself and my mother drank herself to death rather than care for her three children.  Ain’t that love?

I scanned his face.  He didn’t look quite so angry as he did hurt.  I looked back at the small group sitting around the table; strangers only an hour ago they were now crying and comforting each other.  They were now becoming to each other what missing family could not be.  Hands were holding other hands, hearts embracing other hearts, and arms entwined while tears touched other cheeks.

The wiry man gingerly took the loaf of challah in his hands, broke off a piece and passed the loaf along until each of us had a piece.  The wiry man smiled as one lone tear fell to the table cloth and we each gestured with our morsels as in honor of his mother and ate the bread.

We began to eat our cold dinner each of us with an arm around or holding a hand of someone next to us.

After dinner and sharing doggie bags with young mother we took a long time to say good-bye to dear friends who we would likely never see again.

After all of the recent, former strangers left, Jack, Amy, and I sat silently in the living room regarding all of the now empty chairs.

And I now had a pretty good idea of what moved Jack to celebrate the day after Thanksgiving. 

There are actually 364 days after Thanksgiving.