THANKSGIVING
Surprisingly, Goldie went to bed that night not thinking too much about the man who jumped off the covered bridge. After all, in one twenty-hour period, she’d discovered that her long-time live-in boyfriend had been unfaithful, she’d been struck by a car, she’d awakened in a different state in a different time, she’d cut her hand to verify what was happening to her wasn’t a dream, she’d discovered she had an alternative life and career in the previous century, and she’d attacked a man with a bucket of light-orange paint. So, another man jumping off a bridge—and not even off a high bridge—was a pretty low priority, all things considered.
She awoke to the distant but distinct smell of turkey cooking in the restaurant downstairs, and it briefly reminded her of her youth in the Bronx. When she and her sister, Ellen, were young and their parents, Tom and Carla, were together, her father used to wake them up early and take them downtown to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. When the parade was over and they went back home, her mom would be cooking, and the aroma of turkey permeated their apartment. It was the smell of safer and happier times.
After a yawn and stretch, she tossed back her patchwork quilt, revealing a 1940s pointed brassiere and high-waisted panties that she’d gotten from her suitcase. Neither garment was comfortable nor stylish.
Getting to her feet, she looked around at the hotel room. “Yep, still here,” she said quietly.
She got her yellow cloth robe, slipped it on, then collected her toiletry kit and the towel off the back of the chair at her desk. Opening the door in her bare feet, the first thing she saw was the short, slightly pot-bellied man in the red robe from the previous day, complete with the towel hanging around his shoulders, passing by. They paused and looked at each other.
“Wow.Groundhog Day,”she said.
“Nooo,” the man replied. “Thanksgiving.”
He looked at her judgmentally, then continued on his way while she went in the opposite direction toward the bathroom.
After Goldie had gotten ready for her day in the second of her three dresses, a one-piece deep green outfit that buttoned up the front with a matching belt and puffy shoulders, she went downstairs to a busy lobby. Like every town in America, there were people who had once lived in Sparkledove but had moved away. Now, they all seemed to be back: children visiting parents, sisters visiting brothers, cousins visiting cousins, and a fair number of them were staying at the hotel. Because some families didn’t want to be bothered with dinner preparations, not to mention people were using ration books for everything from butter to sugar to canned milk, many families decided to celebrate Thanksgiving at the Sparkledove Arms. The hotel had a steady stream of dinner reservations beginning at noon that continued until 8:00 p.m. Even for breakfast, Goldie had to wait in line just for toast and coffee. While she did, a guitarist and violinist were starting to set up music stands to play a variety of popular tunes, although she learned they didn’t begin until 2:00 p.m. Meanwhile, Maddie and Dean hurried around the place, attending to various duties dressed as pilgrims from the 1620s.
After breakfast, Goldie was content to stay in her room for several hours and even started to type up several things she’d learned about the town from her trip to the library. She didn’t exactly intend to write a three-thousand-word article about Sparkledove, but she was used to keeping a daily diary and wanted to remember things she’d read the day before at the library. Writing also helped her adapt to her surroundings. She figured if she adapted, answers would come.
At 3:50 p.m., she returned to the lobby wearing her overcoat, and the place was still bustling. While the guitarist and violinist played a nice instrumental version of “Good King Wenceslas,” a young woman, about eighteen years old, stood behind the registration counter. She was dressed like a Native American, complete with two long black braids on each side of her head, a headband with a feather sticking up in the back, and a fringe buckskin dress. She also wore a name tag that read “Josie.” She was talking to a young man who stood in front of the counter. He had a crewcut, wore a high school varsity jacket, and was about the same age. It was obvious from the way they smiled and leaned into each other that these two were a couple.
“Excuse me,” Goldie said, approaching and chewing her gum as usual. “Sorry to interrupt. Do you have a phone book I could borrow? There wasn’t one in the phone booth.”
“Would you like the Denver directory or the local one?” Josie asked. She had dimples, a fresh-as-a-daisy face, and looked very Anglo-Saxon Protestant for someone dressed up as a Native American.
“The local one, please?”
Josie reached under the counter and produced a very thin booklet.
“There you go.”
“Thanks a lot,” Goldie said, then she eyed the young woman’s outfit again. “Y’know, some people could take offense at what you’re wearin’.”
“Really?” she asked innocently. “Like who?”
“Native Americans,” Goldie replied.
“Who?” the young man asked, apparently not familiar with the term.
“People from indigenous heritage,” she explained.
“In-in what?” the young man in the varsity jacket asked.
“Indians,” Goldie clarified. “People from Indian heritage.”
“Why?” Josie wondered. “It’s Thanksgiving. Wouldn’t they be more offended if they weren’t remembered?”
“It’s not about them being remembered,” Goldie explained. “It’s how they’re portrayed.”
“What do you mean?” the young man asked.
“Native Americans don’t generally like how the white man has represented them.”
“I don’t understand,” Josie said.
“I don’t know any Indians,” the young man replied.
