Free Hung Out to Die by Sharon Short

five inches long, was thankfully covered in leather.
    â€œI have a whole set of these vintage knives out in my sports car, which you hit. The knives were supposed to be gifts to all the men in the family when we go hunting tomorrow—”
    â€œWe brought vintage hankies for the ladies,” Mama piped up, but Daddy went on as if he hadn’t heard her: “—but if you want to have it out now, we can, although I’m warning you, I’d be glad to cut you down dead faster than . . .”
    â€œReally, this is great cranberry salad,” I half said, half hollered, desperately hoping to stop this ugliness. But I came down too hard with my spoon, just on the side of the plate that was tipped on the higher table, and turned my plate into a catapult that launched a glob of cranberry salad right onto Uncle Fenwick’s chest.
    The whole table went quiet again.
    After a second, Aunt Nora clutched her chest, making her turkey’s waddle flash red frantically. “That’s . . . that’s his favorite shirt . . .”
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry, Uncle Fenwick,” I said, meaning it. “I know how to get that out . . . I really am a stain expert . . .” I dipped my paper napkin into my water glass and reach for his chest. First, scoop off as much as possible. “Let’s see . . . the cranberry’s both a fruit and sugar stain . . .”
    Uncle Fenwick swatted my hand away. He grabbed his own napkin, and in so doing, grabbed up one of the paper turkeys.
    â€œHey,” Daddy said, apparently forgetting their mutual death threats. “That one was mine! I made it in third grade!”
    Uncle Fenwick stood up. “I’ve had enough!” He tossed down the napkin and pine cone/construction paper turkey, and unfortunately, they landed on the he-version of the Pilgrim candleholder. The pine cone turkey knocked over the boy Pilgrim, right onto the turkey carcass, which, dry as it was, immediately flared. Then the turkey grease at the bottom of the serving plate went up in flames.
    â€œMy carcass! My carcass! For the soup!” shrieked Mamaw.
    â€œI’ll take care of it!” Aunt Suzy tossed the contents of her glass onto the flame, but the flame surged and caught on the tablecloth.
    â€œMy, my, I thought she just had iced tea. Was that alcohol in her glass?” Mama asked primly.
    â€œMy carcass! My carcass!” Mamaw kept shrieking.
    â€œWater, everyone, just toss water!” Fern hollered.
    Wow, I thought. From Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving scene, to flaming turkey carcass and family hollering, in less than twenty minutes.
    Still, I tossed my glass of water onto the flaming table. Everyone else did, too, except Uncle Fenwick and Daddy, who just glared at each other.
    And that’s how I left the Toadfern Thanksgiving dinner, with most everyone pouring water on the flaming turkey carcass.
    They seemed to have the flames under control.
    Plus I was due to visit the Burkettes next door.
    And, truth be told, I just wanted to get away from my family on Thanksgiving.
    I’ve been told, since then, that that’s not an uncommon impulse.

6
    After I left Mamaw Toadfern’s, I realized that I still had about two hours before I was supposed to arrive at the Burkette’s at four-thirty.
    I didn’t think showing up that early would impress the Burkettes, which, to both my chagrin and surprise, I found I wanted to do.
    The afternoon was so beautiful—the sky a shade of blue that somehow looked cold, the snow-covered fields sparkling—that I thought about taking a walk along the old towpath that ran behind the Toadfern and Burkette properties as well as the old orphanage. The bike/hike trail followed along where a canal once ran . . . and then a train line . . . and a telegraph line. Some of the old telegraph poles still stood, but the train and canal lines were long gone, converted by