Spaghetti Thanksgiving

Terry Donnelly

 

The elevator ride exposed the lie. Our invitation indicated the Thanksgiving celebration would be on the 14^th floor of the Panorama Condominium Tower. I’d only lived in Colorado for three months, so receiving an invitation to the posh and historic downtown Denver building, which promised impressive views of my freshly adopted and still riveting Colorado Rocky Mountain Front Range, was worth the anxious doubt of going to a party with a couple dozen people I had never seen or knew little.

I was included on the invitation as the ‘other’ attending with my newly minted, just four months earlier, wife, Karla. We had been dating and getting serious about each other in Porter, the small Michigan town in which we both taught elementary school––her, music; me, third and fourth grade––when she made a move to Boulder for an academic year to matriculate, earning a Master of Music Education degree while also studying piano performance with a renowned maestro on the faculty of the University of Colorado. I stayed behind teaching my third and fourth-graders while maintaining and fine-tuning our long-distance relationship. After her graduation at the end of the school year, Kar accepted a position on the university’s faculty to teach her adviser’s music education classes and assist the professor on the textbook she was authoring during a sabbatical leave. We decided to nix the separation, married in Karla’s hometown in Michigan during the summer, then moved to Boulder a few weeks later.

Over the years, my stock answer to the oft asked question: “How did you end up in Colorado?” is always: “Chasing a woman.”

Kar is my pet name for my dear wife. I’m not much for sugary, sappy pet names like “Honey” or “Baby.” I tried “Kitten” once and that was good, but I expended that name on an ex-girlfriend and thought dusting it off for Karla was both tacky and risky. Calling her Kar was my attempt at intimacy early on in our relationship. The first time I used it she looked at me like I had stabbed her. She thought I was equating her to an automobile. Her reaction made me panic, thinking I had committed an irreversible faux pas. I frantically tried to explain. Apparently, she found my extreme groveling endearing and decided she liked it after all. Shortly after, in an effort to inject some variety and add a bit of teasing to our relationship, I tried calling her “Plymouth” and “Edsel” a couple of times but that was a bridge too far. So, I decided to quit going for a laugh and be happy I had a moniker for her of which she approved. My advice to others communicating with her is simply this: Call her Karla. 

I was along for the ride to Colorado. Karla had a job and had been enlisted to assist with writing a textbook. I took a leave of absence from the Porter School District but had no job waiting in Boulder.  I began a search, interviewed with several districts, and soon found a great, new job teaching sixth grade in a progressive Colorado school district that seemed to be interested in going forward with educational excellence and not stand pat and turn stale with the same old pedagogy techniques. 

This was exciting because the Michigan school district I just left, may have had a concerned and eager community that I enjoyed socially––after all, Karla and I met there––but lacked academic oomph. The upper schools were progressive enough, especially the middle school, which thoughtfully grouped kids in creative, age-appropriate pods and offered a variety of learning opportunities. A few years earlier, Porter’s middle school had successfully lobbied and gotten all the town’s fifth graders reassigned from elementary to middle school. They then sent the ninth graders to the new Porter High School as freshmen. The middle school was housed in the former two-building high school. The middle school grouping innovation divided their students into pods; one of fifth and sixth graders in one building and another pod of seventh and eighth graders in the other. The two groups seldom interacted. The elementary schools became, basically, primary schools. 10-year-old fifth graders had no business interacting with kindergarteners or first graders, and keeping the fifth and sixth graders separated from more mature seventh and eighth graders eliminated a lot of the opportunity for bullying and teasing of much younger kids at all the schools. I thought it was pure genius and a boon to academic success. The middle school was filled with young, energetic, collegial teachers and soon became an oft-copied model. 

The Porter elementary schools, however, where I worked, were mired in 1950s protocol. When hired, to my surprise and consternation, I had been encouraged to study my principal’s old lesson plans, which were stacked in binders behind his office door. The implication was that they were to be used as catechism and I should internalize how classes had been operating and what was taught in the past. I ignored that bit of direction. 

Besides dating Karla and teaching, I was knee-deep in an Elementary Reading Education doctoral program. I commuted to Michigan State University several evenings a week and stayed on campus for summer classes. I knew holding tightly to what had traditionally been done in schools wasn’t a winning plan to keep modern kids interested and learning. My studies offered me first-hand knowledge and involvement with current educational renewal data that I saw as integral to improving American education.

I had become anxious about not using what I was learning at MSU and felt I needed a change even before our move to Colorado. In fact, I had interviewed for an opening in the Middle School and was on the way to joining that merry band as a fifth-grade teacher, but the marriage and moving quashed that. 

Now in Colorado, with this new opportunity in Boulder, I was excited to finally work in a district that encouraged bringing university research into classrooms while supporting and applying cutting-edge strategies.

An added benefit was the school to which I’d been assigned was in a poor community. I’d be working with struggling families, much like those I worked with years before in Louisville, Kentucky at the dawn of my teaching career. I left Kentucky after four years of being more a social worker than a teacher. The kids there were in dire need of a confidence boost and had to learn to accept the school as a safe and caring environment before they could tackle any academic challenges. My newness to the profession left me knowing I needed more education to be more effective at both the sociology and academic rigor of teaching. I moved from Kentucky back home to Michigan, due to burn-out from the myriad of problems both the community and school faced daily, plus, I wanted to take advantage of an opportunity to study education at Michigan State to hone those skills. The ensuing years away and more experience made me realize I now missed the challenges presented by working in underserved communities. I was mentally refreshed and prepared to advocate for those families and kids again. 

The move to Colorado had been a good one for both of us. I had my progressive, new job in an underserved community and Kar was experiencing an incredible opportunity to broaden her experience and showcase her talents. So, my reluctance about being around academics at this party seems a bit unwarranted. My anxiety stemmed from the fact that this invitation was to the home of the piano maestro and his wife. Kar had been invited to this gala, rife with music and theater people, due to her newly gained status as university faculty member. I half-expected long cigarette holders, thin mustaches, and affected accents. I could talk about Dostoevsky, Camus, Hemingway, or Vonnegut, and discuss any substantial children’s literature author of one’s choosing. Also, I met and spent a few hours serendipitously drinking bourbon while sitting in a tree with Nobel Prize winner Saul Bellow on the campus of Kalamazoo College one fine, summer afternoon during my undergraduate days. So, I could add that tidbit to any name-dropping, high-brow conversation. But, the depth of my musical interests were Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Motown. I had long hair, but by no stretch of the imagination was I a classical long-hair. I was certain there would be conversations to which I could add nothing. My anxiety could be an over-reaction to having never met any of these people other than Professor Maestro. If everyone were like him, my fears could be valid, if all were like Karla, the party would be fun. 

I had doubts.

She thought we should go.

I think Kar was suspicious too, and also a bit nervous, because she took exceptional care with what she chose to wear. Deciding on her clothes was never her top priority, as most of her wardrobe consisted of one piece much the same as another. Her idea of variety in her closet was, after finding a sweater she liked, going back to the store and buying four more just like it in different colors. Today, however, she tried on several outfits, consulted me, changed her mind, and finally settled on a skirt and silk blouse. I told her it was perfect and was relieved she didn’t press me for any further details about why it was “perfect” because I had nothing to add. My prize for consulting on all of this was watching her dress, undress down to her underwear and stockings, and then repeat. The underwear was the fun part. She was pleased that I wore my camel colored, corduroy, Brooks Brothers sport coat, a black turtleneck sweater, a pair of jeans, and boots. I thought I looked bohemian. She loved that sport coat and frequently rewarded me with her favors when I chose it.  

Ascending in the elevator I discovered we weren’t going to the 14^th floor. That was the lie on the invitation. We were headed to the 13^th. There was no 13^th floor listed. There was a button for the 12^th floor and next was the 14^th.  This common building contractor ploy to divest anyone of angst over living or visiting on an ‘unlucky 13’ was anathema to us. Karla’s birthday was November 13^th and we purposefully chose July 13^th to be our wedding anniversary into perpetuity. We had even adopted Hiss, a completely black, rescue cat, to finalize our portrait as a couple who liked to live on the edge and spit in the eye of superstition. So, when I pointed out the discrepancy to Kar on our steady lift into the sky, she playfully suggested, “That’s it! Turn this thing around. We’re done here.”

The elevator bumped to a stop at the mis-numbered floor. The doors slid open revealing a gilded foyer. The walls were covered with wallpaper depicting sheaves of grain in what could have been real gold leaf and the floor sported lush, amber carpeting. There appeared to be two condos but there was no doubt about which one we were invited into–– the door was open and framed a busy scene. 

I hesitated as I stepped into what appeared to be the great room. My first vision was an entirely glass wall looking west into the mountains. This lofty vantage point created great clarity, making the range’s snow-capped peaks seem close enough to reach out and grab a handful of the precious powder that made Colorado a winter ski paradise. The depth of this scene was reminiscent of the three-dimensional View-Master slides I owned as a kid. This real-life vista was as glorious as promised in the Panorama Tower promotions. If I couldn’t engage in any conversation with these strangers, I could be happy casting my gaze out the expansive window at this mountain majesty. The view alone was enough to make me glad I agreed to come.

Unlikely as it seems, my attention to the mountains was quickly drawn to another feature. Was it Professor Maestro’s polished, ebony, Steinway, grand piano standing proudly in its place of honor in the great room? Or perhaps the cache of fussy art on the walls? No. Neither of those. The attention-getter was a stream, softly illuminated with muted, blue-green light, running diagonally through the living room floor. I like streams. I’ve attempted to capture their splendor and relentless motion in photographs. I’ve camped by mountain and field streams and marveled at being able to enjoy their tranquil setting in nature’s wilderness. I’ve slept refreshing, dreamless nights listening to their babbling. Yet here one was in urban Denver inside an upscale condominium where a stream was not remotely what I expected to see. It captured my full attention. Its water flowed lazily between a couch and the piano into a small, still pool in a corner beneath the glass wall and, apparently, cycled back through pipes in the floor to a fountain waterfall on the other side of the room, only to cascade down the wall and make the journey all over again. It was a nearly foot-wide channel of elaborately created white noise and constant current that served no other purpose than to render these quarters unique. 

There was an arched bridge to get from one side to the other, but I stepped across the stream, not really knowing if this was an affront to protocol, to retrieve a bit of goose liver pate on melba toast from an array of appetizers and two glasses of wine. I popped the bite into my mouth, picked up the wine glasses, and began to search for Karla. I did this mostly to focus on a familiar activity––eating and drinking––as close to normalcy as I could find in an effort to steady my bearings. I was also sure Kar could use some wine to facilitate her bearings steadying too. I was glad both of us had taken care with our outfits. This gathering could end up being memorable and I wanted us to be dressed for the occasion.

This was a pot-luck Thanksgiving meal with everyone bringing a favorite recipe. Karla made a chopped, fresh spinach, mozzarella cheese, and butter baked appetizer. It was a new recipe for her and was really tasty. I know because, over Kar’s objection, I sampled a square earlier in the day as the pan came out of the oven. Culinary taste treats aside, being a Midwest boy, was expecting turkey and dressing as today’s entrée. But no. There was no aroma of roasting bird. Rather a long table with an olio of covered dishes and bowls people had brought as offerings. 

Best I could figure, it looked like my main course was going to be Thanksgiving spaghetti. The goose liver pate appitizer was the only bit of fowl on which I’d be dining this day. 

The arrival of guests slowed to a few stragglers. As I scanned the room I did not see Professor Maestro or anyone who might be his wife. I had only seen him the one time on campus I mentioned earlier, but heard stories of him being an odd duck who lived his absent-minded professor role with aplomb. He was flamboyant to the extent that he occasionally wore a cloak around campus. I suspected, without a shred of evidence beyond my imagination, that Professor Maestro also had a silver knobbed cane he could wield like a scepter to accessorize his cloak. Karla is able to separate his persona from his piano skills. She says she enjoys studying with him. I always envisioned her lessons as her in full color calmly paying attention, fingers poised on the ivory keys, while sitting on the piano bench next to an exuberant, baton wielding, animated, wild-haired caricature in black and white. I never wanted to be a party to any of Karla’s lessons, as I didn’t want to muddle that ridiculous image with what was surely the much more normal reality. Having such limited knowledge of who Maestro actually is allows my mind the freedom to wander and be creative. I had never met his wife––that was an event yet to happen––but no one currently in the room could possibly have been her.

Kar enthusiastically took one of the wine glasses from me. After her first sip, she and I crashed an in progress, small group conversation. We discovered it was about Edward Albee’s play, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” There would be a production playing in one of the smaller venues at Denver’s Center for Performing Arts beginning after the first of the year. Two of the cast members were at the party, and involved with the discussion. Neither had a lead part. One was playing the Roadhouse Waitress and the other the Roadhouse Manager, the only two parts in the play outside the main four. The woman with the waitress part was also the understudy for Honey. They talked about currently being in rehearsals and were quite obviously pleased basking in their moments of being the center of attention. The play depicts two, dysfunctional, academic couples and their night of booze and indiscriminate insults. My mind immediately leapt to the possibility of an expanded recreation of the play in this setting. I mentally scanned the room and, by looks alone, began to pair characters to take the lead roles. I tried to escape that troubling thought by posing a question, to no one in particular, asking whose side they were on. In West Side Story one had to choose Jets or Sharks. In The Old Man and the Sea, the reader had to choose the fish or Santiago. It seems only fair to ask: “Whose side are you on; Martha, George, Nick, or Honey?” 

Personally, in the beginning, I was on Nick’s side and hoping beyond hope that Honey could survive with what little sanity she seemed to have, but by the end Martha tentatively became my choice for protagonist. I’m still really not sure, so my question to the group was genuine.

The discussion of Albee’s play made my over-fertile mind start thinking about this whole Thanksgiving affair as theater being staged for the benefit of one. Just for me. The stream began representing a metaphorical divide––neither a Rubicon, which when crossed, decisions were final, nor a Styx that after being ferried by Phlegyas, damnation was eternal. Rather, traversing this relentless Stream-of-the-Maestro, one could travel between reality, on the side with the couch, and the fantasy world of losing one’s self in creating music and drama on the piano side. I could choose to enter or exit a fantasy world by simply stepping across the mystic stream with impunity. I imagined I could sit on the couch, blink, and see Fantasia with dancing brooms. Blink again and the ongoing, surreal Thanksgiving celebration would return to the stage. I was having a good time with these musings and also heartened to realize that the mountain wonderland outside the window was on the side of reality.

I decided to start taking mental notes so, if need be, this improvisational theatre could be recreated. Act I set the scene with the snow-covered mountains, seemingly only an arm’s reach out the window, the piano, the food-laden table, the fussy art, and, of course, the odd little stream that meandered through the whole set. Act I continued with the introduction of characters, conversation, and the crushing realization that there would be no golden-brown bird with dressing and gravy to be had on this Thanksgiving Day in 1977. The final scene of Act I would foreshadow the hosts and the plot twist I suspected to be true, but did not expect to manifest in the way it did.

The curtain was raised on Act II with the buzz of voices and the bustle of extra players moving plates and bowls of food around the set. As if on cue, from the wings stage left, came the maestro and the love of his life, a piano prodigy. A chap perhaps less than half Maestro’s age with dripping wet, shiny, black, combed back hair that could only have, just moments before, come out of the shower. And, from the wings stage right, appeared Mrs. Maestro and the woman who obviously delighted her. Both in gowns fit for a gala, and both with dry, coifed hair dos. If there had been an orchestra, there would have been a brass fanfare. All four met center stage, heralded the gathering as if they were royalty rewarding crowds of loyalists in the plaza with a rare viewing. Finally, giving notice that all players were in attendance. The plot could now begin to thicken. The curtain fell on Act II.

Act III began rife with a flurry of eating and consuming wine in a scene fit for Bacchus. The actors stood while dining and continued conversations, or sat on a variety of chairs or pillows strewn around the great room. Also present, the wafting aroma of pot mixed with the continued patter. This could have been a modernized scene from “Henry VIII” or a rewrite of the hedonistic meal from “Tom Jones.”

As the dinner scene concluded into a fade-out, activity began to redirect. Fresh cadres formed, and distinct conversations began to meld into a steady din. Now, coming to fruition was the dramatic promise of Chekhov’s gun. The piano, which loomed slightly out of focus at the edges of activity since being introduced in Act I, became center stage as guests-turned-performers took turns showcasing their skills. Polite applause ended each piece. As I predicted, not one Smokey Robinson or Lennon-McCartney tune was featured. Notably, Mrs. Maestro did regale us as did the wet-haired prodigy, but Professor Maestro himself did not. Neither did Karla. My take is that she thought it too pretentious. She was not shy about performing––she had remarkable skills, but there was a time and a place and she wasn’t interested in becoming one of the musical cast of extras.

Kar and I stepped across the stream, to get ourselves out of focus and onto the edge of the action. We decided to quietly observe from the reality-based side of the stream while more of Act III’s scenes continued to unfold on the fantasy side. We felt isolated and alone. We sat side-by-side on one of the couches and sipped our wine. 

The players on the stage across the stream scurried about with some clearing, cleaning, and rearranging of dishes that had been emptied. Others paired up and took seats with more drinks or added depth to the aroma of cannabis––the piano recitals continued. 

To stave off ennui, after one piece I asked Kar, “Who composed that?” 

“Chopin.”

“Whose music is that one?”

“Beethoven.”

“That one?”

“Debussy.” And before I could ask, after the first bar of notes from the next, Kar preempted me, “Liszt.”

She was clearly getting irritated that I was testing her with our new game. “Beethoven again. Hey! Why do you even care about this?” 

I demurred. 

We decided we’d be even less conspicuous as spectators if we sat more obscurely on the floor, like many of the others. We slid the pillows off the couch and nestled close with our backs against the frame. We watched Professor and Mrs. Maestro converge, meeting with their heads leaning together as they appeared to chat using their best miming techniques. They were tacitly projecting seriousness to show the audience they were deep into solving one or another of the day’s most pressing issues. It was obvious they came to agreement and hastily retreated, in what could only be described as choreographed motion, back to their lovers’ sides––once again, effecting a party mood. They were skillful. 

We watched Puck flitting around the long table sampling more of the food choices. His delight shown with emoted hand gestures and facial expression. He seemed particularly intent on Kar’s spinach bars. “Ooh-la-la,” 

I stifled an urge to applaud. 

As we sat curled on the cushions, I noticed Kar’s skirt had ridden up exposing the tops of her nylon stockings and garter clips. I reached over intending to smooth the skirt, but instead, without any particular thought, gently ran my hand under her skirt, up her leg, past the top of her stockings, and caressed the silky smoothness of her panties between her legs. She reacted with a shiver, then by stiffening her legs, and slapping at my hand. No one was paying any attention to us, so I challenged her by lightly continuing to caress that softness.

I reached my thumb deeper between her legs and my middle finger toward the top of her panties, then lightly brought them together into an O shape. I did this again and again. Kar pushed down on my hand coyly indicating for me to stop––this wasn’t the place––but did not make any other attempt to remove my hand away from its hiding place. I slowed my movement and began to stroke her in a cadence. The action was hypnotizing both of us. The steady reach of my fingers and slow closure in that rhythmic pace put us both into a foggy trance. Our attention began to switch. Watching the actors in the play unfolding before us became mindless and secondary. My attention was entirely on me, still playing beneath her skirt. Kar relaxed her legs, moving them ever so slightly farther apart. She was still attempting to keep some attention on the drama before us but a much greater, lion’s share, shifted to the diversion I was providing. Still, no one seemed to notice, or care, that we had crossed the stream to become uncredited members of the audience, albeit turning the play interactive by engaging in covert action befitting the grandest of playwrights.

After a time of semiconscious caressing between Kar’s legs and minimal attention to the cast on the stage-across-the-stream, I noticed a dampness begin to mingle with my stroking. Kar began to push back against my fingers with almost imperceptible force. Her hips began to match my cadence. If I slowed, she slowed. If I moved more quickly, she rushed her thrust to catch up. I put more force behind my strokes and found the groove her panties had slipped into that gave the reach and close of my fingers an even wetter path to follow. 

I brought my glance to her face for the first time since we began our scene in Act III. I found her looking at the ceiling rather than the stage-across-the-stream. She looked to be far away in her thoughts with her lips slightly parted and they, like the fen between her legs, were moist––kept damp by the occasional appearance of her tongue licking them. I watched Karla’s face steeped in serenity and heard the faintest, unintelligible whisper from her. I didn’t need to look at her lap to tell that her thrusting against my caresses had gotten stronger inviting me to push in even deeper. Her reaction began to cause pleasure in me and to feel my own dampness. My breathing quickened to match hers as my fingers found the edges of her panties and moved them aside revealing a much different, more exciting softness and wetness. 

Now, it didn’t matter if we had taken over as lead actors of this cast on the drama side of the stream, or were still just audience out of focus on the reality side. The time had come to not turn back. Kar gave a hard thrust of her hips and my fingers sank all the way into her dampness. An uncontrolled whimper escaped from her that had as much of an effect on me as it did her. She muffled her mouth with her hand while her legs trembled and clamped tightly shut around my hand, trapping my fingers deep within. A heavy sigh from me as I looked around the room. If anyone had any idea what had just transpired, they gave no indication that they cared or that it was even unusual. 

Kar finally relaxed her legs, offering me an escape, and tended to her skirt. At long last covering the tops of her stockings. She panted quietly. After she regained her regular breathing, she straightened her sitting position, gave me a lingering kiss on my cheek, and cooed in my ear, “That was really special. It’s your turn next.”  

Before I could take her up on her promise, we needed to rejoin the play on the stage-across-the-stream and participate in bringing down the curtain on Act III, our final act. Then we could head back to Boulder and my reward.

Kar and I got up, quickly replaced the couch cushions, and portaged back across the stream. We stepped into a conversation about the calendar for the upcoming spring semester at the university and who would handle which class sessions. I had nothing to add to this chat, so I found some dessert made with raspberry sorbet and a wafer to tide me over on our trip back to Boulder. I took one last look at the outdoor wonder in front of me. The sun was setting behind the mountains. What remained was a silhouette of the Continental Divide. An orange glow flooded the sky above the peaks, revealing the Divide’s defining outline. 

Kar retrieved her sweater, a gesture to let me know she was ready to leave.

“Adieu.” I turned away from the ethereal vista and we headed toward the elevator to make our way down from our 14^th, nay 13^th, floor perch. Darkness awaited us at the outside door. I draped my corduroy jacket over Kar’s shoulders and walked a block with my arm wrapped around her for warmth. Her sweater was no longer sufficient protection from the after dark, November chill. We slid into the car and began our silent, enjoyable, wine enhanced drive exploring a different route back to our new home.

After several miles I broke the silence. Just to be sure Karla was clear, I informed her, “You know, I’ve never had spaghetti for Thanksgiving.” 

Rather than respond, in an effort to bring a bit of familiarity back into our lives, Kar slid a Bob Dylan cassette into the player and we listened to him sing about a lady on his big, brass bed. She took my hand and held it in her lap, the site of the most memorable moment of this Thanksgiving Day.