The Last Thanksgiving
by Sara Pauff
Whisk one can of pumpkin puree into three beaten eggs. Add sugar, salt, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves. Stir in one can of evaporated milk. Pour into a prepared pie crust and bake until set. Serve with whipped cream. Sounds marvelous, doesn’t it?
Adam grumbles, clutching his empty belly, when I read the pumpkin pie recipe aloud. “Stop. You’re making me hungry.”
My stomach growls with every word too, but reading Grandma’s recipe book is our Thanksgiving tradition, and today might be our last, so I roll over on my cot and keep perusing recipes for buttermilk rolls, Jell-O salad and honey-baked ham.
When we first moved into the shelter, Grandma spent a week going through our stock of canned and freeze-dried goods, figuring out what she could substitute to ensure our first Thanksgiving underground was a success. Cornstarch to thicken the pumpkin pie, instant potatoes and gravy from a packet, canned chicken breast, molded into the shape of a turkey. As our supplies dwindled, substitutions became more numerous and her magic in our narrow bunker kitchen became more daring: apple pie without the apples, mashed lima beans, the last can of Spam, sliced and served on saltines. She recorded every trick in the food-stained margins of her cookbook. Add maple syrup, lemon juice, she wrote underneath a maroon splotch. Cranberry sauce, perhaps?
Adam hugs his knees to his chest and his lips pucker as if he’s gotten a mouthful of the bitter berries. “How much longer?”
I glance down the cave-like hall and swallow, my mouth watering. “Soon. Ma’s in the kitchen.”
When the Lord came to save us, there would be a feast, Grandma promised; that’s why we kept the cookbook. “When Jesus comes, the war above ground will cease, and we will no longer hide in darkness,” she’d preach after dinner. “We will celebrate in the light of the Lord.”
Grandma is already feasting with the Lord. After tonight, maybe I will be too. No more canned food, no more days in stale, dungeon-like rooms. I press the tip of my tongue to the red splotch on the cookbook. It’s not cranberry sauce.
“Dinner’s ready,” Ma calls out.
Avoiding each other’s gaze, Adam and I rise from our cots and trudge through the hall to the windowless kitchen. I don’t look at the pantry shelves as we pass, remembering our rainbow of nonperishable bounty, gone now.
Grandpa and Ma hunch over the table, hands folded in prayer. Grandma’s antique silver cloche sits between them on top of its matching silver turkey platter. My brother and I take chairs opposite each other. The dome of the tarnished cloche distorts my reflection, elongating my nose, narrowing my eyes. I clasp my hands to pray, but only one word comes out. “Please.”
Ma grabs my shaking hands; her smile wobbles with tears. “It’s Thanksgiving. Let’s say what we’re thankful for, like Grandma used to.”
“O–okay.” My gut heaves, torn between hunger and nausea. “I’m–I’m thankful for my family.”
“I’m thankful for my family,” Adam whispers.
“Light.” Grandpa stares at the concrete walls. “Where’s the light? Where’s Granny? She’ll miss dinner.”
“She’s not hungry, Pa,” Ma lies, as she does every night. Standing, she hugs Adam, then me. “I’m thankful for you and your brother. You are my light.”
Adam and I watch, breath held, as Ma lifts the cloche, revealing four folded slips of paper no bigger than my thumb. We each take one; mine rests light as an empty stomach in my palm. Grandpa tries to eat his paper scrap until Adam grabs his hand.
When Ma nods, we unfold our ballots.
“It’s me,” Adam says.
“No!” With a strangled cry, Ma collapses into her chair.
“It has to be me,” my brother murmurs, tears sliding down his thin cheeks. “Dad and I settled things when it was his turn: I’m next. Grandma was sick, and it’s not fair to ask Grandpa; he doesn’t even know where he is.”
“I should be next!” Ma wails, clutching her chest. “I’m your mother!”
Adam unfolds his lanky six-foot frame from his chair. “I’m the biggest. I use the most resources. Without me, you could live for weeks longer.”
Ma cries into her hands. “I can’t. I won’t do that to my boy.”
My brother’s jaw tightens, his eyes as dark as the bunker at midnight. “It’s okay, Ma. I’ll do it myself.”
Adam hugs Grandpa and then me; his tears drip hot on my neck. “Take care of them, okay?”
He approaches Ma last. When he kisses her cheek, she grabs his arm and her face crumples into pleading sobs.
“Adam, my boy! My boy!”
Gentle as St. Jerome pulling thorns from a lion’s paw, my brother slips out of her grasp. “Worthy is the Lamb who was slain,” he whispers the Bible verse as he wipes her tears with his sleeve. “To receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!”
I don’t watch as Adam strides down the hall. Ma’s sobs soften into exhausted weeping. Grandpa mutters at the ceiling. My stomach growls, a wolf on the hunt, as the shot rings out.
###
“Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts…” I murmur grace over the tarnished cloche. With Adam gone, Ma no longer feels like praying, not even when we light the Advent candles. It will be Christmas soon; Jesus is coming.
Lifting the cloche, I barely glance at the steaming roast. Leftovers again. I carve and deposit slices of glistening meat, pink in the center, onto each of our plates. Grandpa saws into his portion and chews through the gristle. After a moment, hunger overtakes Ma’s grief, and she takes tiny forkfuls, sipping water between every bite.
As I lift a chunk of meat to my lips, I touch the paper in my pocket. My Thanksgiving ballot, a sacrificial lamb drawn in the center.
I close my eyes, take a bite, and dream of pumpkin pie.
Sara Pauff is a professional communicator, part-time storyteller who primarily writes young adult fiction and is at work on her first novel. She has participated and placed high in rounds of NYC Midnight’s flash fiction and short story contests. She is also a regular participant in the #VSS365 challenge on Twitter, in which writers craft a 280-character micro story based on a one-word prompt. You can find her on Instagram, Twitter, and Threads at @spauffwrites.