The Turkey Lady

1.

It all started a few weeks before Thanksgiving in 1987. Her cart near overflowing with pumpkin puree, frozen cranberries, piecrusts, cool-whip…everything one desires at a Thanksgiving feast. Her twenty-pound turkey resting in the fold out section of the cart meant for tiny children.

She watched the price slowly rise with the scan of each item. Thoughts of the pleasure of preparing and serving her meal, and the company of family and friends easing the psychological tension on her wallet.

"Where's your second turkey ma'am?" The clerk asked.

Confused, she stared back blankly. For a second she thought he might be attempting some sort of joke. Mocking her overflowing cart. But no, his face was serious, sincere even. He sensed her confusion and came to her aide.

"You spent over $100. You get a free turkey." He pointed to the sign advertising the promotion, as if without written proof she would not take him at his word.

"What am I going to do with a second turkey?" She asked.

The clerk simply shrugged. "You want it or not?"

Impatience was beginning to color his words as the line at his register began to grow. Aware of the many shoppers silently pleading for her to move along, she nodded affirmatively. The bagger was sent to retrieve the free seven-pound turkey while the clerk continued loading her cart.

As she drove home the thoughts of this unwanted, unneeded seven pounds of poultry occupied her thoughts entirely. The obvious options where to cook it now, sort of a precursor to the upcoming holiday. But then, with only two weeks to go, that would only spoil the enjoyment of the true bird presented in its iconic fashion. She could freeze it. Saving it for Christmas. But the thought of freezer burn setting in and drying out the succulent meat was too much for even an amateur chef.

"I wonder if the Greenburgs have bought their turkey yet." She thought. The Greenburgs lived across the street, in a lovely two-story, mock-Victorian. They were a young couple, late twenties, early thirties maybe. Mrs. Greenburg was pregnant with their first child. "In her condition, I doubt they will be traveling. I wonder if they even have family nearby." As she drove, the reasons multiplied as to why the Greenburgs would be the perfect recipients of the extra bird.

She pulled into her stone paved driveway, parked, shut off the engine, and opened her trunk. Three trips later, the car was grocery free, and her dual fridge and freezer, plus the freezer in the garage were stock full. She peered through the living room's red drape curtains and into the Greenburg's front lawn. Mrs. Greenburg's car was parked in the drive.

She removed the unwanted bird from the garage freezer, and looked both ways before crossing the street. The underneath of her forearms grew wet from the condensation and began to sting and turn red from the frozen meat. She reached the door, and rang the bell.

"Mrs. Harris?! What a pleasant surprise" Mrs. Greenburg looked as though she meant it.

"Hello dear." Mrs. Harris said. Then bypassing all formalities, she got straight to the point. "I hope you don't mind me stopping by. But I am in a slight predicament that I thought you could benefit from."

Mrs. Greenburg was silent, not sure how to respond. Fortunately for her Mrs. Harris did not wait for a response, but continued speaking.

"I guess the market is giving away tiny turkeys this year if you spend a certain amount. And it appears that I spent enough to earn a seven-pounder. Anyway, I have a turkey and I do not need another one. I thought since your family is small this might be just the right size for you. It's a gift of course, free of charge."

Finally she ceased, and waited for the inevitable thanks and gratitude that would pour from Mrs. Greenburg's mouth. But Mrs. Greenburg, instead, looked at her with sympathy.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Harris, but I won't be needing the turkey. It is such a generous offer, and I am touched that you thought of us. But you see, we are flying to my husband's parents home in Connecticut."

Before Mrs. Harris could think twice the words escaped her. "From Texas? In your condition?" Mrs. Greenburg was either unaware of or chose to ignore the reprimand.

The bag of thawing turkey hung limply in Mrs. Harris' hand as she crossed the street, defeated. She dropped the bird in the freezer and retreated into the comfort of her Rockwellian home.

2.

There were exactly four days left until Thanksgiving. All the RSVP's were in. And as usual, there were scarcely any regrets. Those in Mrs. Harris' world looked forward to her feast 364 days a year. Indeed, once the last morsel was swallowed, the cravings for the next year's feast began. She surveyed her items, taking inventory of every needed and already acquired ingredient. A meticulous planner, and this not being her first time around the cutting board, she had very few items remaining to be purchased. And of course, turkey was not one of them.

That seven-pound bag of meat occupied more than its fair share of space in both her freezer and her mind. She was not one to be wasteful. She felt as if she was being overindulgent. Stealing a turkey from someone who really needed it. Every time she saw it or thought of it, images of harried women fighting over the last bird in the supermarket flashed before her eyes.

But she had asked every neighbor she could think of to ask. Even going so far as to asking those she had not yet come to know. And still, no one had taken the turkey. In fact, many of the women she met were facing the same dilemma. However, most of them were content to let the turkey gather frost until Christmas or New Year's; or even next year's Thanksgiving. With a shake of her head, Mrs. Harris stepped off those porches in utter dismay. Feeling pity for the children and husbands of such careless homemakers.

She hung her finalized shopping list on the refrigerator, securing it with a glittery magnetic her daughter had made in elementary school. She surveyed the kitchen, a small pile of dirty breakfast dishes sat uncharacteristically next to the sink. There had just been no time this morning.

"Hannah, Robert?" She shouted. "You're father's warming up the car, now let's go." Just then her husband came through the front door. Not knowing his wife was downstairs he shouted as he passed through the foyer.

"What is the hold up?" He practically bellowed in her ear. "Oh, sorry". They both then turned to the stairs expectantly. "Kids." He cried in that tone of voice; that tone that every child knows and fears. He moved to start up the stairs, but was stopped by the sight of his two children.

"Sorry." The older Hannah said to both her parents as she bounded past them and headed outside to the toasted car.

"Yeah, sorry." The little Robert echoed. He followed his twelve-year old sister and shut the front door behind him. Mr. and Mrs. Harris exchanged a silent look. After fourteen years of marriage thoughts could be read and the need for speaking had dwindled. They closed and locked the front door behind them, and climbed into Mr. Harris' Cadillac.

They drove to church in silence. A ritual born after many fights for control over the radio. Mrs. Harris gazed out her window at the familiar streets, decorated both by hands and by nature to celebrate the fall harvest.

Fall was her favorite time of year. Fall and winter. The dropping temperature that seemed to leave the air crisper and cleaner than the year before. She loved the smell the heater made the first time it was turned on after so many months neglect. She loved wearing her husband's old sweatshirts and crocheting afghans by the fire. Her children nearby, roasting mallows for their S'mores, there hands and faces sticky with sugar and chocolate.

She was lucky. She knew this. But something about this time of year made her blessings even more apparent. And somehow more precious. This feeling of love for her husband and children washed over her as they pulled into St. Augustine's drive and parked in one of the few remaining spaces. The Harris family climbed out of the car, and seeing a few of their friends headed for Sunday school, Hannah and Robert ran to catch up. Watching, Mrs. Harris took her husband's hand and they walked toward the tall wooden doors that led to the sanctuary.

3.

"I just don't know why I didn't think of it before!" Mrs. Harris exclaimed to her husband. Her voice was louder than normal, as it competed with the sound of running water from the kitchen tap. Pots, pans, and dishes with the remnants of grilled cheese and tomato soup were all soaking in the warm and soapy water. She looked to her husband who was in the adjoining living room, nestled into his La-Z-Boy.

He was reading the comics and then passing them on to Robert. Robert who was still young enough to tolerate the company of his parents. Hannah, having hit pre-adolescence was too cool for such indulgences. Mrs. Harris paused briefly to enjoy the sight of father and son before cutting in.

"Sam? Did you hear me?" He looked up from the paper. It was obvious he had not.

"I said, I don't know why I didn't think of it before." She repeated.

"Think of what dear?" He asked innocently.

She did not even try to hide her frustration. "The turkey Sam. Weren't you listening at all?" She waited, giving him a chance to redeem himself. Silence. She continued. "The extra turkeys Sam. Giving the extra turkeys to the poor."

"Anna, what in God's name are you talking about?"

"Today's sermon, weren't you listening?"

"Yes I was listening. But what does that…"

"Revered Thomas told that story about those people who delivered food baskets to the poor people?"

"Yes I was there." And then it hit him. "Anna you are not going to drive around East Austin with a trunk full of thawing turkeys; knocking on the doors of strangers."

"Fine. I'll drive around South Austin." She turned promptly and moved back to the sink. He followed her into the kitchen.

"Annie, it's a sweet thought. Really it is. But I just don't think it's a good idea. It's not safe east, south, west or north to go knocking on strangers' doors."

"You're not supposed to talk to strangers mommy." Robert was serious, but neither his father nor his mother could contain their amusement. The weight of the conversation fizzled with the sounds of their laughter, and the matter was temporarily put to rest. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Harris spoke another word on the subject for the remainder of the evening. Both thinking they had won, neither wanting to resurface the issue.

4.

With the children at school, and her husband downtown, Mrs. Harris went to work rearranging her freezers. She miraculously managed to create space enough for four more small turkeys. That task completed, she poured herself a cup of earl grey with lemon; and seated herself at the kitchen table.

She opened the neighborhood phone directory and scrolled down to the middle of the B's. She lifted the receiver and dialed.

"Hello, Mrs. Burk. This is Mrs. Harris."

"Hello, Annie, how are you today?"

"Oh just fine thank you. Listen, I had an idea for those extra turkeys of ours."

Mrs. Burk listened intently. At first she was unsure as to the potential success rate of Mrs. Harris' plan. In fact she almost word for word echoed Mr. Harris' concerns of safety. As if he had been feeding her the very words she uttered. In the end, however, Mrs. Harris had convinced Mrs. Burk. And by the end of the afternoon, eight other neighborhood wives had agreed to donate to Mrs. Harris their free small turkeys.

"Gracious, it's a quarter to five," she thought. Hannah and Robert would be home soon from their various after school activities. Mr. Harris would be returning from work in less than two and a half hours with an appetite so enormous one would think he had not eaten in a week. Mrs. Harris surveyed the contents of both her pantry and her dual refrigerator/ freezer.

"Nothing." She said aloud. "Everything is for Thursday." She grabbed her purse and keys, and headed to her 1983 mustard yellow Volvo. With no certain idea as to what she would serve for dinner, she headed to the market. It was a logical enough trip, as she also wanted to purchase those four turkeys she had made space for.

She wandered the aisles of the supermarket aimlessly. She picked up a box of macaroni, considered it for a moment, and then returned it to its place on the shelf. She stood in front of the frozen peas and carrots until the chill from the aisle forced her retreat to a warmer section of the store.

Finally she settled on her menu. She would bake pork chops, accompanied by steamed green beans, brown gravy, and biscuits. She weighed out a pound of fresh green beans on the nearby produce scale, requested four thick chops from Mural, the butcher, and grabbed a pop can of ready to bake Pillsbury biscuits, and a can of brown gravy.

Now, normally she would make her biscuits and gravy from scratch. As her mother and grandmother before her had done. But with so little time, Mrs. Harris found it necessary to take advantage of such modern day conveniences as ready to make foods. With a quick stop back to the freezer section to pick out four small turkeys, Mrs. Harris was ready to leave the market.

5.

No sooner had she unloaded the groceries and set out a plate of carrot sticks and mustard dip, than her two children rush through the front door.

"Hey mom."

"Hey mom."

They both called as they brushed past her and up the stairs, without so much as a glance at either her or the carrots.

"How was school?" She called to their backs.

"Good." They both said just before shutting their doors.

With a sigh Mrs. Harris returned to preparing supper. It was now a quarter to seven. She had approximately twenty minutes before she needed to put the pork chops in the oven. She turned on the TV, catching the last fifteen minutes of Dan Rather. His familiar voice relayed to her the latest news as she set her cherry wood dinning room table. Four dinner plates, four salad plates, glasses, utensils, napkins. By most families' standards the formality of her table would have been a declaration of some birthday or monumental moment in family history. But for Mrs. Harris her table simply declared, "dinner."

As she filled the four glasses with lemon-kissed ice water the oven timer sounded. She called her family to dinner and as they gathered, she set the warm biscuits beside the chilled butter. The green beans were slightly crisp, and the scent of pork chops, having been roasted to perfection at 325 degrees fahrenheit, filled the air.

Her family ate every morsel. Their typical dinner conversation accented by "mmm's" and "ohhh's." Her last minute meal was a success. The children carried their plates to the sink before returning to their rooms. The muffled sound of their TV's were soon heard; but quickly hidden behind the clatter of dishes.

Mr. Harris helped his wife clear the table and scrap the plates.

"I'll do the dishes honey, you relax." He told her.

It was not completely out of character for him to offer to aide in such a chore; but rare enough that she was still taken by surprise. She sat at the kitchen table and watched him.

"How was your day?" She asked. To him the question was typical, bearing no hidden meaning or intent. But to her it was a way to ease into the subject of the now five small turkeys that surrounded the various Thanksgiving ingredients in the garage's freezer.

"Oh, the usual." After a brief moment he offered, "We may land the Morrison account."

"Oh, that's wonderful, congratulations."

He smiled gratefully at her before inquiring as to the success of her day. And there it was. Executed perfectly.

"The usual." She too paused before continuing; choosing her words carefully. She quickly judged her husband's mood, and decided that the direct approach would be best.

"I decided what to do with that turkey."

Mr. Harris laughed. He knew his wife well enough, but even after all these years the idea that she gave so much thought to an additional turkey seemed rather, well, ludicrous. But he could tell that she would utterly disagree and so he kept quiet and simply waited for her to reveal what was sure to be a well-crafted plan.

"I spoke with some of the other women in the neighborhood. You know there are several women in a similar predicament? Anyway, several of them are in agreement. I bought four more turkeys today, so with my five and their eight, that gives me thirteen turkeys." She was silent for a moment, waiting for him to catch up; wondering if he would realize what she was saying before she actually had to say it. Whether he did or did not, he remained quiet and so she continued.

"On Wednesday I will deliver thirteen turkeys to thirteen needy homes. I would of course prefer to do it on the actual day, but I will be so busy cooking that there just won't be time. And before you say anything, Mrs. Burk has agreed to go along with me."

She waited then for his response. It came, after what seemed like to her an eternity. He closed the door to the dishwasher, shutting in the near full load. He stood there, nearby the dishwasher and looked at her calmly.

"Sweetheart," he started, "I just…" But he could not continue. The look in her eyes prevented him from doing so. He could see that not only her mind, but her heart too was set. And so he relented.

"And how exactly will you decide which family to visit?"

"Well." She paused. She knew she had won, so far, at least but feared loosing ground on account that this aspect of her plan was still being worked out. But she offered what she could and hoped it would be enough.

"Mrs. Burk and I are going to point to a place on the map, drive around, and judge each house based on the look of it until there are no turkey's left." She said it with false conviction. An attempt to convince both her husband and herself that this was the best way to go about the delivery.

6.

On Wednesday morning, both Mrs. Burk and Mrs. Harris went about their usual routine. However, once breakfast crumbs had been wiped from the counters and kids and husbands had been kissed goodbye, their actions deviated from the typical habit.

Mrs. Burk arrived about a half past eight. In the backseat of her car, resting atop several beach towels, where eight turkeys gathered that morning from the other women in the neighborhood. To this poultry collection they added the five from Mrs. Harris' freezer and headed out.

They drove down the winding, tree lined roads of their subdivision and neighborhood chatting excitedly, anxiously, about their plan. The trees gave way to exit signs as they drove north on Loop One. They cut through downtown, turned onto Seventh Street, and followed it underneath interstate thirty-five.

They drove along east Seventh Street; rundown houses on either side. They turned when the spirit moved them. Stopped when the spirit moved them. Two hours later, they were down to their last turkey.

The delivery of this turkey, it being the last, was of great importance. The recipients to be chosen with great care. They drove and drove, circling and repeating various blocks and streets and houses, until it seemed as though they had seen every house in east Austin.

There were plenty of places they could have stopped. Plenty of families they unknowingly passed. What they were looking for specifically they did not know. Their method of choosing could not be put into words. It was simply a feeling. An impulse. A mutual agreement that yes, that was the house that needed the first turkey, the fifth turkey, the twelfth turkey. But that thirteenth turkey still sat in the backseat of Mrs. Burk's car; sogging the beach towel as it thawed.

And then finally they saw it. This house they had passed before, but continued on for no other reason that it had seemed as though no one had been home. But now as they approached it they saw a young woman. A woman who could have been all of nineteen. She was sitting on the front steps, watching what one must assume to be her daughter. The little girl's pig tails bounced as she jumped on one foot, two foot; the game of hopscotch recognizable even at this distance. The mother watched taking sheer joy at her daughter's frolic. There was no one else to be seen.

"Surely," they both thought, "this woman and her child did not live alone." But regardless, they both knew, knew with out debate or discussion, that these two, both children in their own way, deserved the last remaining turkey.

Mrs. Burk pulled over, parking her car on the opposite side of the street. Both she and Mrs. Harris stepped out, and Mrs. Harris removed the surprisingly still chilled turkey from the back seat. Together the women approached the house.

"Hello." Mrs. Harris spoke first. "Sorry to intrude, but, you see, we have found ourselves in a silly predicament that we were hoping you could save us from." The words now flowed expertly, flawlessly from her mouth. The woman pulled her daughter close, and said nothing. She stood silently, confused, unsure how to respond.

"You see," Mrs. Harris continued, "My sister and I thought that our family was coming to us this Thanksgiving, but as it turns out we were meant to go to them." Of course Mrs. Burk and Mrs. Harris were not sisters, but this small lie seemed to add the right flavor to their story.

"So you see," she went on, "we have this extra turkey, and thought maybe you might want it." They looked at the woman hopefully, expectantly. Their feelings of good intentions still not completely accommodating for the awkwardness of the situation. At last the young woman spoke.

"Why me?" Her little girl peeked at the two women through the space between her mother's knees. Mrs. Harris and Mrs. Burk looked warmly from the child to her mother and Mrs. Harris simply said,

"Why not you?"

The turkey exchanged hands. And as Mrs. Burk and Mrs. Harris began to drive away they looked just in time to catch a small glimpse of the woman's exuberant smile. What they did not see was the tear filled eyes. What they did not hear was the rumbling of empty stomachs.
Thirteen lives were changed that day. And fifteen more the Thanksgiving next. Each year, more and more turkeys were donated to Mrs. Harris. And Mrs. Harris, in return, touched many more lives. Mrs. Burk was not always there to help her. In fact, most years Mrs. Harris drove the streets of east or south or wherever Austin alone. That same spirit and intuition guiding her, pointing her in the correct direction, leading her to the houses that, that year, needed her most.