The Dead Bird

by Tracy Speelman


“That’s a bird?” I ask. “A real bird?” Lying in the center of the table, fat, still. I suddenly feel afraid. Where is his head? Where are his feathers? 

“Yeah,” my father says, “That’s Big Bird.”

Laughter.  

Big Bird? My stomach turns. I see Big Bird in my head, singing, dancing, his bright yellow feathers bouncing.

Big Bird is dead.

My mother offers me a plate. I shake my head and step back.

“Look what you did,” she says to my father, “You made him cry.”                                                   

                                                                                                  *

I am hung over right now. I stare at the turkey on the table in front of me and remember that day, twenty-something years ago. No one ever told me it wasn’t really Big Bird. Somehow I figured it out myself. I must have finally noticed the size difference.  

I stare down at my plate and hold my pounding head in my hand. 

“William?”

I look up at my mother’s tired face staring at me from across the table, her dyed platinum-blond hair pulled back into a bun.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“You haven’t said one word.”

“He never does,” my father says.

My mother lets out an exasperated sigh. “And you’re still not eating meat, I see,” She presses her lips together and shakes her head.

Here we go again. I look down at my plate. I’d loaded it with extra stuffing and vegetables, hoping she wouldn’t notice the absence of meat. But she always noticed. Every single year.

“A man that doesn’t eat meat,” my father says, “I never heard of such a thing.”

As if we haven’t had this conversation before. And now my mother is going to say…

“I really wonder how your body functions without protein. I wish you would think about that…”  

“I get plenty of protein, Ma.”

Why did I come here? Because I’m supposed to. Because that’s what people do on Thanksgiving. They visit their families. I tried to get away from them by moving to the other side of the United States, but now that means I have to spend several long days with them during the holidays instead of a few short hours. It’s not that I don’t love them, because I do. I just don’t know how to be with them. 

“So what’s going on with you, William?” my mother asks, her voice raised a pitch in an attempt to sound lighthearted. “Tell us what’s happening in your life.”

My mother’s face is pleading with me to give her an answer that she wants. Something, anything to let her know she did something right.

I force a smile. “Oh nothing much to tell, just working a lot.”

“How’s the job?” my father asks.

“Good, good.” This forced conversation is killing me. “Mom, can you pass me that bottle of Jack Daniels behind you?” I ask, reaching out my hand.

She stares at me for what feels like an eternity and I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. She turns and reaches for the bottle in the liquor cabinet behind her. She is moving in slow motion. My hand is open and begging for the bottle to be placed in it.  

When she finally places the bottle in my hand I feel relieved. I open it and pour it in my glass. I drink it in big, long swallows, loving how it burns my throat and chest, not caring that they are both staring at me wide-eyed.  

“Do you have a girlfriend yet?” my mother asks.

Yet. As if I'd never had a girlfriend in my life. I want to remind her that I did have a girlfriend once. In high school. I fill up my glass again and take another big swallow.  

My life is nothing close to what they want me to have. My life is nothing close to what they could even comprehend. I don’t know how much longer I can go on pretending. 

Staring down at my plate, I say, “I have to leave here tonight.” 

They don’t respond. I clear my throat, cutting through the thick silence. “Work tomorrow. Double time, you know?”

Still no response.  

“Every penny helps, right?” I add.  

Still nothing.  

“My girlfriend and I, we’re saving for our wedding.”  

My mother gasps. I’ve finally made her smile.                            

“I know, I didn’t tell you,” I say. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m going to get married.  Not sure when yet, but eventually.”

“Oh, William!  I’m so happy!” My mother gets up and runs around the table toward me, her arms outstretched. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight. I look over her shoulder at my father, who is staring at me with a confused look on his face. No, I’m not the bright yellow Big Bird who is singing and smiling and bringing joy to those around him. I am the Big Bird who lays there still and lifeless, with no sound, no music.  

Suddenly I feel my mother’s arms tense around me, and I realize that she has made eye contact with my father. She stands up. I feel her stare pressing against the side of my head as I stare down at my plate. I don’t have to say the words, that I’m not engaged, that I don’t have a girlfriend, that I will never, ever have a girlfriend, because she knows. They both know. 

We sit in the silence. I wait for her to cry, to throw something, to ask me why. I wait for my father to grunt something in disgust or walk out of the room. But there is only silence. 

“His name is Lenny,” I say to my plate. “He is wonderful. We’ve been together for four years. He’s a vegan chef. He loves to cook for me. We love each other. We really do. He wanted to come here to meet the two of you but I didn’t want to give you both a heart attack.”

I push my plate away and look up at my mother, into her eyes. And I realize she is looking at me differently. Not as a son who has failed her by lying, but as a son who has been lying because he has been failed. And I realize that we’ve all failed each other. By expecting each other to be anyone but exactly who we are.

Suddenly I hear the tink of my father’s fork hitting the plate as he goes back to his turkey dinner. I don’t know if it’s the Jack Daniels or what, but in that moment all of my tension melts away. I know that from this day on, Thanksgiving Dinner will never be perfect, but at least it can now be real.