November 27th, 2014 - Angela Townsend

Orange blobs oozed across the screen like yams, but there were no marshmallows to sweeten the deal. The radar was psychedelic. The Weather Channel said the situation was “deteriorating rapidly.” My mother did not want my Subaru skidding into the driveway.

I reminded her I was thirty-three years old. I had four-wheel drive. I only got to see Uncle Jeffrey once a year. My arguments were invalid. She brandished the ace she keeps behind my picture in her wallet: “do you love your mother?”

Her only daughter had only one answer. I pushed all my chips across the phone, onto the table where our kin were eating artichoke dip. I would not drive to Thanksgiving in the ice storm.

When I am sad, I practice my favorite hobby, apologizing. I told my mother I am sorry I live two hours away. The road here just squiggled out in front of me after school. She reminded me that the only jobs in her rural county are tree surgeon and brush hogger. I suggested I could build an empire selling decorative pine cones. I apologized for not considering this sooner.

My mother commanded me to redeem the day. I could trace my hand on construction paper and draw turkeys. I could dispense with my annual liturgy of the sorries for not eating turkey. I could say a blessing over my cats.

I started to cry, so I decided to go to Walmart.

“In the ice storm?”

“The orange potatoes are not here yet,” I promised. “Besides, the cats are acting normal.”

If apocalypse was imminent, Dibbles and Pippa would have told me. Dibbles was an ocelot impersonator with a meow like Roy Orbison and a history of zero hisses. Pippa was an arctic fox who slept in my arms every night. They were my children and caregivers. They knew the forecast.

They were alumni of the shelter where I intended to work for one year. Instead, I was promoted to Development Director and squeezed into a crowded table. Seven years later, I was still two hours from my mother, infatuated with a job for which I was unqualified and a state no one is expected to love. This is how you confirm that God has a sense of humor. This is how you end up spending Thanksgiving in New Jersey, thinking about Walmart.

It always grieved me to think of people in blue vests missing green beans crowned with crispy things to restock rollbacks. Blake, the bad decision I had brought to Thanksgiving 2013, scolded all my eruptions of empathy. A year later, I gave thanks for Blake. He had vaccinated me against the fear of ending up alone. Now I had an idea.

With Pippa at my heels, I scoured our apartment. When you are the resident marshmallow at a cat shelter, volunteers in “Blessed” sweatshirts give you tokens of affection. After seven years, my collection of ceramic cats and angels exceeded the population of Belgium. It was time to give out some thanks.

The roads were empty. My rogue mission began with a man as pink as cranberry mousse.

“Welcome to Walmart!”

His badge read “Reggie.” He should have been watching the parade with people who addressed him as Great Grand Peepaw. I pressed a resin angel into his hand.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Reggie. You are an angel.”

Reggie examined his gift. “For me?”

I had to stick to my script, or I would cry. This was just about the time I should have been praying aloud. Uncle Jeffrey kept asking me to give the blessing, even after the infamous Prayer of 2003. That was my first year of seminary, when I expounded on the Greek word for “mercy” until the mashed potatoes congealed into a single unit. I put my family at risk of salmonella. Uncle Jeffrey was still asking me to pray in 2014. But this year, my prayer was Reggie.

“You’re giving up your Thanksgiving so people have a cheerful, familiar place to go today.” I would not cry. I would not cry. “Single people, strange people, people far from home—”

“—people who need toothpaste.” Reggie nodded. We looked at each other until we cracked up.

“You got more angels in there?” He gestured towards my purse.

“At least ten. A few cats. I think one hedgehog, too.”

He stretched his arm across the realm. “You’d best get to it.” He winked, proving that he is indeed someone’s Great Grand Peepaw. “Buy yourself something nice. Stouffers makes a good turkey dinner.”

“I’m a vegan.”

“Just like my granddaughter.”

I contemplated giving him my full phalanx of angels. “Happy Thanksgiving, Reggie.”

With stealth learned from cats, I slipped between Apparel and Beauty, handing cherubs and calicos to women folding sweatpants and a man stacking anti-fungals. The deli woman yelled for the bakery man to show off her treasure, a seraph vaguely resembling Neil Young, and they both gave me high-fives when I produced the porcelain hedgehog.

“You’re an angel,” the bakery man accused.

“I’m a goofus,” I corrected. “I’m 49% feline.”

“What?”

The deli woman lifted her hand for a second helping of high-five. “Can we give you some sliced turkey?”

“How about a muffin for the goofus?” The bakery man reached for something streuselly.

“I’m sorry, I’m vegan,” I apologized. “Also Type 1 diabetic.”

“No wonder you’re here instead of Thanksgiving!” The bakery man sighed. “All you can eat is air!”

My cell phone buzzed with a text from my mother: “Do you love your mother? Please get home safe.”

“Is that your boyfriend?” The deli woman looked hopeful.

“No, my Mom.”

“Even better.” The bakery man placed his hedgehog in his apron pocket. “Happy Thanksgiving, goofus.”

One last high-five from the deli woman. “Maybe the goofus saves the world.”

Ten years later, I have yet to hear a better prayer than that. But since Uncle Jeffrey keeps asking, I will keep trying my best.

---

Angela Townsend is the happy development director at a cat sanctuary. She graduated from Princeton Seminary and Vassar College. She is a three time Best of the Net nominee and the 2024 winner of West Trade Review’s 704 Prize for Flash Fiction. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Arts & Letters, Paris Lit Up, Pleiades, SmokeLong, and Terrain, among others. Angela has lived with Type 1 diabetes for 34 years. Her poet mother is her best friend.

Angela would love for you to check out Tabby's Place, the cat sanctuary near and dear to her heart.