pork sausage, squishing the glop between his fingers until it felt right and stuffing the whole mess into the cavity of the twenty-four pound turkey.
While that began roasting in a pan he had borrowed from a neighbor, he peeled and boiled five pounds of potatoes for mashing, made cranberry sauce from fresh berries, orange peel, port wine and currant jelly, and creamed two cans of peas and pearl onions. Two pies, pumpkin and apple, he had bought from the bakery, sat atop the refrigerator. The brown sugar had hardened to a rock so he beat chunks off with a hammer to melt with butter for the candied yams.
The aroma of all the various dishes now mingled and forced their way into his pores, pushing him toward the brink. He had to get away from it.
He threw a coat over his flannel shirt and jeans and walked into the overcast November afternoon. He thought if he walked long enough through the deserted streets, he might lose his way and the smell of his madness might never taunt him again.
Weary from insomnia -- how many nights had he now lain awake fearing a surrender to the darkness? -- and his frenetic activity of the morning -- cooking a meal for a family that was fifteen years dead -- he fought the familiar squeezing in his heart and the thundering return of his nearly chronic headache.
But each throb from the back of his head nagged at him again and again, "No mincemeat. You forgot mincemeat," in his father's voice.
Reaching the park on Spruce and Franklin, he leaned back against the rough granite base of the Veteran's Memorial, pinched his ears shut with his thumbs and covered his face.
But in the darkness he created he saw them: Jill and Danny and Valerie and his mother, waiting, cowering in the rubble of that other Thanksgiving dinner, waiting for Duncan Brewer's tirade to stop, waiting for him to run out of dishes to smash against the wall, waiting for it all to end.
No! Cole skinned his hands back through his hair and away from his eyes and tried to blot out the vision with the rhythmic striking of his head against the monument. Succeeding at last, he slumped to the ground, gulping throat-searing air, expecting his heart to give out, praying it would.
"Are you all right, Sonny?" a voice filtered to him after a long while.
"Yes. I'm afraid so," he mumbled and forced his way to his feet.
The old woman frowned at him and offered him a silver flask. "Be thankful you're alive, if nothing else. There'll be long, cold years ahead when you're not."
Cole took a swig of the scorching liquid, then rasped his gratitude.
"Got a smoke?"
"Probably," he nodded and patted at his pockets until he located a pack of Marlboros and matches. Remnants of Nicholas. He was not surprised when he saw her threadbare gloves close over the pack and absently drop them in her own pocket when she had finished lighting up.
"Thanks, Sonny. Just what I needed. What's yer name?"
He had to think for a minute. "Uh, Baker. Cole Baker." It was his name this year. Here, so close to his old hometown, where someone might remember the other, even after all these years.
"Well, if yer hungry, Cole Baker, they're giving away turkey and all the fixin's at the Prince of Peace Mission. Two blocks down. But no hard spirits to wash it all down. They get cantankerous about that."
"Thanks, but I -- well, maybe I will," he said, getting a sudden inspiration.
"Sure, why not? It's free. Tell 'em Gertie sent you. They'll treat you fine." Gertie passed him the flask again to fortify him for the road, then patted him on the arm as he handed it back. "And cheer up, Cole Baker. Yer too good lookin' to be so down in the mouth on a holiday. When you scrape bottom, the only way to go is up, I always say."
"Or out," he suggested. "There's always out."
"Yeah, that too, I guess," she agreed as she ambled away. "Yup, I hadn't thought of that. Up or out, either way."
With new purpose, Cole wound the streets back to his flat, steeled himself for the turkey dinner's assault on his senses, and set about his task. The meat thermometer had reached fresh poultry and despite the neglected basting, the fowl was a rich, golden brown, fit for a Good Housekeeping cover.
He told himself it was the steam that brought tears to his eyes as he