Hungry Man Turkey Dinner

Looking out the back window of his second-floor apartment in Newark, Gabe saw two boys and a girl, he guessed to be about 12 years old, shooting hoops. The basket was hung on the side of a garage.

 On the day before Thanksgiving, he was already feeling lonely; he knew he would spend the holiday alone. He spent most days alone. He had no family and not many friends. Sitting in his freezer was a Swanson Hungry Man Turkey dnner, which he would eat tomorrow while watching a meaningless pro football game. Only a couple of years shy of seventy, thinning hair and twenty extra pounds on him, he was feeling sorry for himself and he hated it. He’d had a good life.

 As he watched the children heaving the basketball toward the rim, he remembered doing the same thing when he was their age in a yard less than a mile from where he now lived. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to join their fun. He imagined bounding down the steps and trotting over to them. Maybe shooting baskets would take his mind off the emptiness he was feeling. There was a time when he could effortlessly put the ball through the hoop and revel in the swishing sound it made.

 He shook his head and laughed. Who would ever believe he had once been the CEO of a Fortune 500 company? His career ended suddenly when the market crashed and two board members accused him of malfeasance. He was innocent of any wrongdoing, but he spent a good deal of his savings to prove it. Unable to find comparable work after that, he went into a tailspin, forming a toxic relationship with alcohol. He became depressed and, in the process, making plenty of poor life choices. Two years ago, bored and scared, he’d moved back to Newark’s North Ward. He returned home, hoping for a miracle, something that might re-direct him to his former glory.

 He slept fitfully that night. When he woke up on Thanksgiving morning, he made coffee and sat at the kitchen table, looking at a stack of mail he hoped would confirm what day of the week it was. He noticed a flyer that he’d removed from a mailing envelope a couple of days ago. The church was looking for volunteers to feed the hungry on Thanksgiving Day. That’s how he remembered what day it was. He looked toward his refrigerator as if to check on his Hungry Man dinner.

 He got up, showered, shaved and dressed as if he had someplace to go. He looked out the back window again. The children were long gone. Absentmindedly, he tapped his fingers on the window sill. He straightened up and headed out the door. He drove his 2009 Toyota Camry to the church. He walked in and, surprising himself, said, “I’m here to help.”

 “Great,” an elderly man said. “Would you mind serving mashed potatoes?”

 For the next three hours Gabe spooned out mashed potatoes to men, women and children. At first, he didn’t look up at anyone. Some of them wished him a Happy Thanksgiving. An hour passed before he uttered a response, and then only to say thanks. After two hours of serving, he started looking at the people who spoke to him. He found himself saying, albeit softly, “Same to you.”

 The woman standing next to him, who had been serving peas looked vaguely familiar. When the last folks had finally passed through, she said, “I’ve been looking at you all afternoon. Do you remember me?”

 He glanced at her. She was about his age, maybe a bit younger. “Sorry, no.”

 “You’re Gabe Morrison, right? You were the CEO of the Upchurch Corporation.

 His shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

 “I worked for you once upon a time. My name is Babs Younger. You were a hard man to work for.”

 He looked at her then. She was tall and fit. He shrugged. “Sorry.”

 The woman wiped her hands with a fresh towel. “I heard you fell on hard times. Is that true?”

 He frowned. “Yes, it’s true.” He removed the white cap he’d been wearing and placed it in the trash.

 “From what I heard about you; I never would have dreamed you were one to do charitable work.”

 He just wanted to get away from her now. He didn’t need to be reminded that he’d been an unpleasant man. His two ex-wives had documented his shortcomings extensively during divorce proceedings. He survived each day in spite of his many regrets, mostly by not thinking too much about them. He nodded, turned away and took a step toward the exit.

 “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving dinner?” She touched his shoulder. “I have a feeling you don’t.”

 “I have a Hungry Man Turkey Dinner waiting for me,” he said. He kept walking but he slowed his pace.

 She moved quickly so she could walk beside him. “Did you drive here?”

 He laughed, softly. “I did. I’m not that bad off. I have a car.”

 “Follow me, then. You can have dinner with me. I’m a widow now. My husband died six months ago.” She took a breath, before adding, “My daughter and her two boys will join us.”

 He was about to refuse, but something stopped him. It was Thanksgiving, after all. “Real turkey?”

 “Butterball. Enough for a hungry man,” she said.

 He smiled. “Was I really that hard to work for?”

 “You were, but people change.”

 “You think I changed?”

 “I like the way you spooned out those potatoes. That’s a start.”