Turkey Monster Thanksgiving by Anne Warren Smith Page A

do.”
    “I don’t think so.”
    She fluttered the pages at me. “It has guest lists, menu lists, grocery lists, decorations lists, to-do lists.”
    “Lists?” I reached for the magazine. It stunk of perfume. “I don’t want this,” I said, trying to hand it back. But Claire was staring at the floor. “It really shows,” she said.
    “What shows?”
    “No mother here. This floor is dirty!”
    I tossed the magazine at her. “It’s been raining. We track stuff in.”
    Claire pressed the magazine to her chest as if I’d broken the thing. “I brought this for your own good,” she said. “So people wouldn’t feel sorry.”
    “Hello, Claire,” Dad said. He stood in the hallway with his coffee cup in his hand. “How’s your dad?”
    “This year, we’re doing Thanksgiving the way we used to,” Claire said. “My father’s already practiced the turkey.” She handed the magazine to Dad. “He wanted you and Katie to have this,” she said. “He gets good ideas from it.”
    “Thanks,” Dad said. “We could probably use some ideas.” He tucked the magazine under his arm.
    Claire went partway out the door and then turned back. She waved her umbrella at the toys on the porch steps. “I almost fell,” she said.
    Dad peered out the door. “You almost fell?”
    “A mother would have picked those up,” she said.
    “Good-bye, Claire.” I tugged Dad’s sleeve to get him back in and slammed the door. “I wish you didn’t make me walk with her,” I said.
    “It’s safer in pairs,” Dad said. “I hope you’re nice to Claire.”
    “I’m nice to her. But it’s not easy.”
    Dad looked at Claire’s magazine. On the cover, a brown crusty turkey filled a huge silver platter. Dressed-up people stared at it, their mouths all saying, “Ohhhhh.”
    He handed the magazine to me. “I like pizza for Thanksgiving.”
    “Me, too,” I said.
    “You should take this back to Claire,” he said.
    “Tomorrow.” In my room, I tossed the magazine into a pile of papers and turned my radio on to the country and western station in case they played one of Mom’s songs.
    Sometimes they played my favorite, the one about letters from home. That song made Mom think about me. She had told me so.
    Later, I helped Dad fix supper. All our meals were Dad’s famous ones, recipes he made up. Tonight it was his famous toasted tuna salad sandwiches. He lifted the plate of sandwiches over his head and carried it to the table just like a French waiter.
    “Wait till you taste these. I put in green chilies,” he called.
    I could hardly hear over Tyler’s new song. “Big engine goes,” Tyler roared, “va-room, va-room, va-room.” He pounded his fork on his newspapers.
    If we ever had forty people for dinner, what would they think about Tyler? “The Plummers,” I yelled, “are inviting forty people for Thanksgiving.”
    Dad sat down and draped a towel across Tyler’s front. “Good for them,” he said. “Mr. Plummer is very organized. He also doesn’t work for Harold Flagstaff. Mr. Flagstaff has hired me to write a big report, and it’s due the night before Thanksgiving.”
    “Claire said if we don’t do Thanksgiving right, people might feel sorry for us.”
    “Feel sorry?” Dad asked. “Why?”
    Tyler squeezed his sandwich and tuna juice dribbled out onto his sleeve. And then he licked it off.
    “It’s like we’re not really a family,” I said.
    “We have a real family here,” Dad said, “even if your mother and I are divorced.” He set his sandwich down and leaned toward me. “Harold Flagstaff pays the bills for this real family. As long I write reports for him, we get to eat.”
    After we finished dinner, Dad scooped Tyler up in his arms. “Time to wash off the dinner,” he said. He looked at me. “Join us at the bathtub? Big race tonight. The ducks against the boats.”
    “Come on, Katie,” Tyler said. “We can race Dad.”
    “Oh, no.” Dad shivered in fear. “The two of you against poor