$1.59 Per by Holly Richmond

Wednesday, November 24

Fran wrote the date at the top of a blank page in her notebook. It was the day before Thanksgiving. She liked the even loops of her handwriting, the way it marked the first entry in her book. Behind the wheel her husband, John, drove with hands at ten and two. As early as their honeymoon, he’d made her keep a travel journal to record their trip details. He said it was important to leave an accounting. Future generations would want to know.

Beside the date, she wrote:

Left Omaha at 10:30 for Chicago. Spending Thanksgiving with the girls.

Even though it was just a long weekend, John wanted them to take their time, go the scenic route. Fran didn’t have a problem with that. Sometimes when they visited their daughters, Fran felt like a mother who’d already served her purpose.

§

12:00, stopped at Macdonald’s for lunch—$12.76. Clean, nicely kept.

John studied the map while they ate and Fran glanced around. A young mother pushed chicken nuggets in front of her toddler before taking a jar of baby food from her oversized bag to feed the infant who had been strapped into a plastic high chair. Fran remembered when her girls had been babies. She’d made her own baby food—cooked, pureed and strained it, beets, carrots, peas and apples. Now everything came from a jar or a bag or a box. Not that she had a problem with that. Progress was a good thing. She just wished she’d been given the proper credit for all her effort.

“Are you going to finish those?” John pointed to her French fries, and she pulled the bag closer and popped one in her mouth.

§

Thursday, November 25, Thanksgiving. Checked out of Motel 6 at 8:00 a.m.—$24.99 a night + tax. Got gas—$14.31 ($1.59 per). Sky cloudy.

Fran had had a fitful night in the motel. The mattress sank in the middle and she kept rolling into John. She’d never been able to sleep if they were touching, so she spent most of the night clinging to her side of the mattress, a castaway holding on for dear life. All she wanted when they left was a strong cup of hot coffee but they couldn’t find any place open. By the time they arrived at their eldest daughter’s, Stephanie’s, Fran felt as disgruntled as the sky above her. Maybe if the clouds had portended a white Thanksgiving, she might have perked up, but she could tell that nothing but drizzle and rain hung in their future. She hoped Stephanie had some coffee brewing.

“We’re here,” John said.

She wrote:

 Arrived Stephanie’s 10:00 a.m.

§

Thanksgiving had always been one of her favorite holidays. Not much to distract from the main appeal—Thanksgiving dinner. After a number of years, Fran had to admit, she’d perfected a faultless golden turkey, bread stuffing, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole and corn pudding. Not to mention her melt-in-the-mouth pumpkin pie. Even though they’d arrived mid-morning, long after the turkey should be in the oven, Fran had been prepared to roll up her sleeves and take command of the kitchen, or at least don a supervisory hat and sprinkle sage advice. But she hadn’t bargained on Stephanie changing the menu so drastically or her younger daughter, Joann, to have suddenly become a vegetarian.

Not that Fran cared that her daughters didn’t want guidance or assistance with the meal. She wasn’t that kind of mother. What worried her was what John and the other men might think about the menu. They would expect to fill their bellies, loosen their belt buckles a couple of notches, and wait for a turkey drowse to wash over them as they watched TV. Fran couldn’t see how that was likely to happen.

She had no beef with the way Stephanie had set the table. She told herself to focus on that. The centerpiece was perfect, made of autumn leaves that wound around candles of different sizes. Stephanie had used the good china that Fran’s mother had bequeathed to her. The tablecloth, of blended fabric with a herringbone weave in a pumpkin color, made the old china seem chic. Stephanie’s flair was the thing Fran most admired about her daughter, although she’d never told her so.

Fran snuck a peek at her husband’s face as Stephanie brought out the main course for those who were not vegetarian. Fran almost grimaced. No way around it, the thing looked like desert.

“Voila,” Stephanie placed the platter in the middle of the table. “A turkey cake.” All the Thanksgiving fixings mixed together to form a three-tiered cake with mashed potatoes as the frosting, pureed sweet potatoes on top with mini marshmallows that had been lightly toasted. “The layers include everything,” Stephanie said, “Stuffing, turkey, cranberry sauce. And I’ve got gravy to pour over the whole thing.”

“What do you know?” John shook out his napkin. “Who’d of thought?”

“Dad, go ahead and take the first slice.”

Fran’s husband picked up the spatula and cut himself a large wedge. “And you just put gravy over the whole thing?”

“That’s what I’d do.”

Fran watched her husband drench the cake with hot gravy. “I guess you’re out of luck if you want gravy only on your turkey, or if you prefer your foods not to touch,” Fran said. Her daughters exchanged looks, and Fran hurried to add, “but it looks delicious.”

Joann put down two other dishes. “And for those of you who don’t want to eat living things, I’ve made some quinoa and roasted eggplant salad, plus a mushroom and chickpea tart.”

Stephanie brought in cornbread and an arugula salad, Brussels sprouts, and a side of cranberry sauce and, although the table was full, Fran wouldn’t call it a vision of plenty. She cut herself a slender slice of the turkey cake and tried to separate the mashed potatoes from the ground turkey, sweet potatoes, and stuffing, moving each to its own pile.

“Mom,” Stephanie said.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Just once, Mom, I thought we could try something new.”

Fran looked up from her plate. “Please pass the gravy.” She poured a little on the pile of mashed potatoes and the brown mess that was supposed to be turkey. “You know what they say. It’s best not to fool with tried and true things. I’m only thinking about your father. He isn’t the adventurous sort.”

John, his mouth stuffed, stopped chewing.

Joann laughed. “He seems to be doing fine.”

“Maybe I’ll try a little of that eggplant thing,” Fran said, putting a tablespoon on her plate, the only polite thing to do. A part of her wanted to embrace her daughters’ choices, be enthusiastic about a turkey cake, but for god’s sake, why would anyone purposely do that to a perfectly good bird?

Fran took a breath. She wasn’t going to be critical on Thanksgiving. She’d worked hard at not being a naysayer like her own mother whose first comment was always, “Why do you want to do that?” The same words she’d said when Fran had wanted to wear cream instead of traditional white at her wedding. When Fran had wanted to use formula instead of breastfeeding. When Fran had wanted to get a job and earn her own money while her girls were still young,

Fran took a sliver of the mushroom and chickpea abomination, the smallest slice she could manage, just so she could say she tried everything, and tried not to notice the way both of her daughters stared at her plate as if the tiny piles of food were an indictment. She smiled. “I’m saving room for pumpkin pie.”

Of course there hadn’t been any pumpkin pie. Pumpkin trifle and some gluten-free chocolate tart that left a strange aftertaste in her mouth. To be honest, the whole evening had been tense, and Fran had excused herself to go to bed earlier than usual. She lay in bed with her trip journal clutched to her chest for a moment before writing:

9:30 p.m. Thanksgiving dinner with the girls. The table was lovely. Went to bed exhausted.

§

Fran reminded herself the moment she opened her eyes in the morning that they hadn’t come all this way to have the perfect Thanksgiving meal, but rather to spend time with her daughters and grandchildren. And yet when she opened the refrigerator the next day, thinking that when her daughters returned from shopping on Black Friday, they could have leftovers, she was reminded that there would be no turkey sandwiches. She knew she should have gone with her daughters that morning, but she didn’t see the point of getting up at four a.m. to stand in line to buy some electronic gadget that surely a four-year-old didn’t need.

Her grandchildren, a boy and a girl, five and four respectively were in the next room, the TV on, some cartoon show blaring. At least she’d have some time alone with them before her daughters returned. She poured herself a cup of coffee and went into the living room.

Her granddaughter, Tina, came and sat beside her on the couch. “Granma, do you like turtles?”

“I’ve never thought about it, dear.”

“We have one.”

“You do!”

Tina nodded her head solemnly. “I’ll show you.”

She trotted out of the room to return moments later barely managing a bowl full of rocks. At first Fran couldn’t see the turtle. Not until she made out the faint design on its shell. No head or legs, everything tucked efficiently inside, blending into its surroundings. She took the bowl from her granddaughter.

“He’s sleeping,” Tina said.

A swampy odor drifted out of the bowl as Fran peered more closely. The turtle’s shell seemed dull, lacking whatever vivacity a turtle should have. She prodded its back with the tip of her finger. No movement. She leaned closer and sniffed, detecting the dried-up-sweet smell of decay. Most certainly the turtle was dead. She glanced at her granddaughter’s upturned face, so expectant.

“It doesn’t want to play with us,” the sweet angel said.

“No, honey it doesn’t.”

“Why?”

Fran knew she should be honest, tell the poor child her pet was dead, but surely breaking such harsh news wasn’t a grandmother’s job. The turtle had obviously been dead for days. “It’s tired. Maybe you should put it back. Let him rest.”

Tina nodded, her eyes moving to the TV where an animated raccoon was dancing. Without taking a second look at the turtle, she left her grandmother and returned to her seat on the couch. Fran put the bowl on the end table.

No one noticed the dead turtle until much later, after her daughters had returned, after the bargains they’d found had been hashed over, dinner debated, and the grandchildren packed off to bed. Stephanie, sitting at the end of the couch nearest the end table, asked, “What’s that smell?”

Fran tried to stick to the facts, not weigh in because she thought remaining neutral was best when it came to the whole topic of grandchildren and pets. But she felt she had to point out the possibility that the turtle had been neglected. Had no one fed it? Had no one even looked at it for days? Surely children shouldn’t have pets if they’re not responsible enough to take care of them.

“You just left it here?” Stephanie pointed at the bowl.

“I didn’t feel it was my place to tell the poor child her pet was dead.”

Stephanie picked up the bowl, staring down at its cadaverous contents and then back at her mother. She shook her head. “And so you left it here.”

“I didn’t want to interfere.”

“Is this about dinner yesterday?”

Fran blinked. How had she raised such sensitive daughters? The thing that made these trips so uncomfortable. It was like staying with strangers, needing to tiptoe around and not offend. Fran never understood why everyone she knew thought family was such a refuge, a place to relax and be yourself. Family seemed the trickiest terrain of all. At least strangers tried to be polite, considerate.

“I hardly see…”

“Oh, come on, Mom. You’ve been moping around ever since.”

Fran saw her youngest standing in the kitchen doorway with arms crossed, listening. Of course, she would side with Stephanie. Of course John was nowhere to be found. Fran shoulders sagged. Outnumbered, she might as well wave the white flag, although, honestly, she couldn’t see what she’d done wrong. Expressed her opinion. Tried to be a good houseguest.

“I just wanted the holiday to go…”  and the tears came, unannounced, stopping her words.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Stephanie reached her first.

“We love you,” Joann hugged her.

And Fran wanted to feel release, relief at this declaration, but it seemed more of a defeat. She saw how quickly they wanted it to go away. They simply didn’t want to be faced with a crying mother. Her own mother had told her years ago that the best way to end conflict was for someone to cry. Fran wished her mother had bequeathed her something more satisfying.

That night she faithfully wrote in her trip journal:

Friday, November 26, 9:00 p.m. Went to bed. Girls found great after-Thanksgiving bargains. Weather cool.

§

John wanted to hit the road so they wouldn’t have to drive after dark. Stephanie offered to pack them some leftovers, but Fran told her no reason to go to all that trouble. They could get something on the road. Tina gave Fran a drawing of a turtle with a human head. They hugged each other in the driveway and talked about getting together at Christmas. Fran thought how nice it would be to sleep in her own bed as they pulled out of the driveway, waving to Stephanie’s family until they were out of sight.

“Nice to see the girls,” John said, and Fran nodded.

They pulled on to the interstate. Traffic was light, one of the reasons they preferred to drive on Saturdays rather than Sundays on holiday weekends.

“Maybe we should have the kids come to us at Christmas,” Fran said.

“Sounds good to me.” John turned the radio dial to find a college football game.

Of course it was better when Fran had her daughters on her own turf. Not that John would notice. Men thought holidays just happened, that they rolled themselves out and organically grew like putting down sod. Fran would be careful at Christmas to make her girls feel welcome and wanted.

They pulled into a highway gas station. John looked up at the sign posting the cost of gas. “Huh,” he said, “$1.64. It’s gone up five cents.”

“That much?” Fran felt a tiny nub of anger. “Highway robbery,” she muttered and  took out her trip journal, anxious to record before she forgot these things that made up the moments of their lives. She wrote:

Saturday, November 27. Left Stephanie’s at 9:45 a.m. Stopped for gas at exit 25. $1.64 per! Gas stations taking advantage of holiday travelers.

Holly Richmond received an MFA from the University of Nebraska, and is currently a writing consultant and the president of a nonprofit cultural organization. She writes fiction and is a recovering Marketing Vice President in the financial services industry. She has published nonfiction articles in magazines and trade publications, including Twins Magazine and Risk Management. She served for several years as an Assistant Editor for the Journal of Applied Behavioral Analysis and worked as a freelance editor for psychology textbooks. She is currently working on a novel.