The Sky’s the Limit: My Journey with Maryellen

I pull Maryellen aside so that I can suggest that we stay home. That way, her mom can see the flowers. Maryellen flattens like a balloon losing its air. But then, she glances at her mom, who looks hot and frazzled, and she smiles at me and says that’s a great idea. Mom deserves a holiday, too. In fact, we can make Thanksgiving decorations. It’ll be fun.

We present our idea to Mrs. Larkin. At first, she says that she can’t possibly go to Cypress Gardens. But then Mr. Larkin interrupts and says the house already looks beautiful. It’ll help her relax. Joan says that she’ll stay home as well. She has to finish reading Jane Eyre anyway. Mrs. Larkin reluctantly says that she’ll go. She sounds relieved at the same time. She tells us to not forget to take the turkey out of the oven when the timer rings. And that we should use oven mitts. She gives us further instructions on the food, Mikey, and Scooter. Finally, Mr. Larkin convinces her to head out to the car with the rest of the crew.

After everyone leaves, the house is quiet. Joan lies down on the couch and dives deep into her book. Not even Jerry can distract her from the romance. I know the story because Gran has three different DVDs at home. Maryellen suggests that we do the dishes. Feeling very grown-up and in charge, we tie aprons around our waists and pull on rubber gloves. We look like Lucy and Ethel from I Love Lucy. Maryellen washes, I rinse, and then I put the dishes in the drying rack.

As we wash, Maryellen thoughtfully says that she wishes we could help Mom and Dad impress the Winklers. She knows they’re hoping Mr. Winkler will give Dad a promotion and a raise. And the extra money would come in handy. And then, her face lights up. We could decorate the picnic table and move all of this, she flings arms wide, outside. The Winklers are from New York City. They’ll think it’s unusual and chic to have Thanksgiving dinner outdoors.

Maryellen is a genius. We finish washing and drying the dishes. It takes a while, which makes me miss our dishwasher at home. But finally, we can begin decorating. We traipse back and forth, moving the silverware and dishes and glasses and table cloths and napkins from the dining table to the picnic table. Scooter galumphs along with us on every trip, dogging our steps, tripping us, and getting in the way.

Maryellen suggests we make name cards for everyone in the shape of turkeys. We know how to make a turkey by tracing our hand so the thumb is the turkey’s head and the other four fingers are the feathers. We work for an hour or so, and Maryellen is happily coloring the turkeys and labeling them when Mikey appears. He’s still in his cowboy pajamas, and his hair is sticking up all funny. He grabs the finished turkey labeled, “Mr. Winkler,” and says it’s his chicken. Maryellen and I chuckle. We tell him it’s not a chicken, and it’s not his. It’s a turkey for a very important guest. We ask for it back, but Mikey says no.

Maryellen winks at me and then tells Mikey that Santa will be coming soon, and he won’t leave presents for little boys who take things that don’t belong to them. Mikey reverently repeats the name, “Santa,” and then drops the turkey as if it is a hot potato. I distract Mikey by suggesting we make mud pies. Santa probably loves those. Mikey beams. There’s nothing he likes better than a good mess. I fill a sand pail with water from the hose and carry it over to the sandbox where he immediately spills it and makes a nice, sandy, muddy slurry. We play happily for a while before I get wise enough to take off my watch so it won’t get wet and muddy. I lay it carefully over the edge of the sandbox. Mikey pats it fondly, saying, “Tick-tock.” Even though I know the watch only works for me, I’m still a little nervous when Mikey touches it. And then, I hear a ding from the kitchen.

Maryellen tells Joan that the timer went off. We run inside, leaving Mikey in the mud. Joan rouses herself from the couch and meets us in the kitchen. We all put on oven mitts and with scrupulous care, lift the turkey out of the oven. Maryellen looks around, and ask where we should put it. There’s no room on the kitchen table or the counters because they have so many pies, platters, and serving bowls on them. Joan suggests we put it on the chair. We lower the turkey onto the chair and look at it. Joan sighs and says she’s going back to her book. Jane is about to marry her true love, Mr. Rochester. I don’t want to ruin the surprise, so I don’t tell Joan that something huge is going to stop the wedding. She returns to reading, which she clearly prefers to cooking. Ellie and I cover the turkey with foil. It’s supposed to cool off, so we prop open the door to let the breeze blow on the turkey, and then we go back outside to find Mikey.