Thanksgiving

This was the first Thanksgiving with my wife's family,

sitting at the stained pine table in the dining room.

The wood stove coughed during her mother's prayer:

Amen and the gravy boat bobbing over fresh linen.

Her father stared into the mashed potatoes

and saw a white battleship floating in the gravy.

Still staring at the mashed potatoes, he began a soliloquy

about the new Navy missiles fired across miles of ocean,

how they could jump into the smokestack of a battleship.

"Now in Korea," he said, "I was a gunner and the people there

ate kimch'i, and it really stinks." Mother complained that no one

was eating the creamed onions."Eat, Daddy." The creamed onions

look like eyeballs, I thought, and then said, "I wish I had missiles

like that." Daddy laughed a 1950's horror movie mad scientist laugh,

and told me he didn't have a missile, but he had his own cannon.

"Daddy, eat the candied yams," Mother hissed, as if he were

a liquored CIA spy telling secrets about military hardware

to some Puerto Rican janitor he met in a bar. "I'm a toolmaker.

I made the cannon myself," he announced, and left the table.

"Daddy's family has been here in the Connecticut Valley since 1680,"

Mother said. "There were Indians here once, but they left."

When I started dating her daughter, Mother called me a half-Black,

but now she spooned candied yams on my plate. I nibbled

at the candied yams. I remembered my own Thanksgivings

in the Bronx, turkey with arroz y habichuelas and plátanos,

and countless cousins swaying to bugalú on the record player

or roaring at my grandmother's Spanish punchlines in the kitchen,

the glowing of her cigarette like a firefly lost in the city. For years

I thought everyone ate rice and beans with turkey at Thanksgiving.

Daddy returned to the table with a cannon, steering the black

steel barrel. "Does that cannon go boom?" I asked. "I fire it

in the backyard at the tombstones," he said. "That cemetery bought

up all our farmland during the Depression. Now we only have

the house." He stared and said nothing, then glanced up suddenly,

like a ghost had tickled his ear. "Want to see me fire it?" he grinned.

"Daddy, fire the cannon after dessert," Mother said. "If I fire

the cannon, I have to take out the cannonballs first," he told me.

He tilted the cannon downward, and cannonballs dropped

from the barrel, thudding on the floor and rolling across      

the brown braided rug. Grandmother praised the turkey's thighs,

said she would bring leftovers home to feed her Congo Gray parrot.

I walked with Daddy to the backyard, past the bullet holes

in the door and his pickup truck with the Confedeate license plate.

He swiveled the cannon around to face the tombstones

on the other side of the backyard fence. "This way, if I hit anybody, t

hey're already dead," he declared. He stuffed half a charge

of gunpowder into the cannon, and lit the fuse. From the dining room,

Mother yelled, "Daddy, no!" Then the battlefield rumbled

under my feet. My head thundered. Smoke drifted over

the tombstones. Daddy laughed. And I thought: When the first

drunken Pilgrim dragged out the cannon at the first Thanksgiving--

that's when the Indians left.