The Sky’s the Limit: My Journey with Maryellen

I pull Maryellen aside to suggest we stay home so her mom can see the flowers. Maryellen flattens like a deflating balloon, but then glances at her mom, who looks hot and frazzled, and smiles. Mom deserves a holiday, too, she says. We can make Thanksgiving decorations instead, and that sounds like plenty of fun.

We pitch the idea to Mrs. Larkin, who insists she cannot skip Cypress Gardens. But Mr. Larkin says the house already looks beautiful and the outing helps her relax. Joan volunteers to stay home, too, since she wants to finish Jane Eyre. Mrs. Larkin reluctantly, and visibly relieved, agrees to go, rattling off instructions about the turkey timer, oven mitts, the food, Mikey, and Scooter before Mr. Larkin herds everyone out to the car.

Once everyone leaves, the house goes quiet. Joan sinks into the couch with her book, oblivious even to Jerry. I already know the story. Gran has three DVDs of it at home. Maryellen suggests we tackle the dishes, so we tie on aprons and rubber gloves, feeling like Lucy and Ethel from I Love Lucy. She washes, and I rinse and set everything in the drying rack.

As we work, Maryellen says she wishes we could help Mom and Dad impress the Winklers, since Mr. Winkler might give Dad a promotion and raise. Then her face lights up, we could move Thanksgiving dinner outside to the picnic table. Coming from New York City, the Winklers are sure to find eating outdoors unusual and chic.

Maryellen is a genius. We finish the dishes, and I miss our dishwasher at home, then start decorating. We shuttle silverware, dishes, glasses, tablecloths, and napkins out to the picnic table while Scooter galumphs along, tripping us at every turn.

Next we make turkey-shaped name cards, tracing our hands so the thumb forms the head and the fingers become feathers. We are an hour into the project when Mikey wanders out in his cowboy pajamas, hair sticking up, and grabs the card labeled “Mr. Winkler,” insisting it’s his chicken. We laugh and explain it’s a turkey meant for an important guest, but he refuses to give it back.

Maryellen warns him that Santa skips boys who take things that aren’t theirs, and Mikey drops the card like a hot potato. I distract him with mud pies, which he loves even more than mischief, filling a pail from the hose and letting him churn the sandbox into muddy slurry. I slip off my watch and set it safely at the edge of the sandbox. Mikey pats it, saying “Tick-tock,” and I stay a little nervous even though I know it only works for me. Then the oven timer dings from the kitchen.

We leave Mikey in the mud and run inside. Joan rouses herself to help us lift the turkey out with oven mitts. But the table and counters are already crowded with pies and serving bowls, so we set it on a chair instead. Joan sighs and returns to her book, right as Jane is about to marry Mr. Rochester. I keep the twist to myself. Ellie and I cover the turkey with foil and prop the door open to let it cool, then head back outside to find Mikey.