“Also, did you know that Benjamin Franklin proposed that the turkey be made the symbol of this country? That Meleagris gallopavo is the Latin name for turkeys,” the peacocks looked at each other, impressed, “and that turkeys have been given names in many other languages as well, including pavo, the name given to turkeys by Christopher Columbus’s crew, and did you know that they were called guanajo by the Carib Indians, and guajolote by the Aztecs, and chumpe by the Mayans? Did you know that turkeys have great fight-back, and have survived regardless of their decimation by hunters, and with all of the nobility that the turkey is associated with you give Tommy here such a hard time.” The peacocks lowered their heads. “Ridiculing him and calling him derisive names just because some ignorant people have begun to identify the name turkey with Broadway flops and bad craftsmanship. And most of all, though your teacher never told you this,” the class looked over at their teacher, all of which was left were some bones on a plate. “Turkeys and peacocks are cousins. It’s possible that you have a common ancestor. Finally, before you ridicule Tommy Turkey, think of this. If they weren’t eating turkeys for Thanksgiving, they might start to eat peacocks. Don’t ever think that you are too pretty for the freezer.” The classroom was silent. Black Peter left the classroom. After a while the peacocks approached Tommy Turkey and offered him some of their corn and grain. Tommy smiled and from that day on Tommy never had any trouble at the school of peacocks.
23
Samantha came into her room the next morning. She held an ice pack to her head, and her eyes were bloodshot. She’d come to demand that Beechiko clean up the mess that her guests had made. Mr. Longsfellow would be arriving from upstate later in the morning. But Samantha took one look at her and grimaced, “I tole you not to be wearing any more of Mrs. Longsfellow’s belongings.” She went to the bed where Beechiko lay sleeping. All she saw was a heap of blonde hair sticking out from underneath the covers. She yanked at the hair and the sleeping person turned toward Samantha. Samantha sobered up real quick, and her hair stood straight up. “Samantha, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Have you lost your mind? Go brush your teeth. Your breath reeks of whiskey,” the person said in a husky and hoarse voice. But Samantha didn’t hear all of the reply. She almost ran through the door, trying to get out of the bedroom. Beechiko tried to call out to her, but all she heard was a lot of commotion downstairs, followed by the slamming of a door. When she got downstairs, the Crawfords’ car was turning out of the driveway. She looked at them out of the window, and when Crawford saw her, his eyes bulged as though he were being strangled. He took another look. He rubbed his eyes. He took off toward Eighth Avenue doing about sixty. Beechiko turned to the mirror that stood in the living room. Her heart almost stopped. She threw her hand up to her face in horror. Just then she heard the key in the door. She tried to run upstairs. She tried to scream. Her thoughts couldn’t come together. Her body wouldn’t do what her brain wanted. She could not control what she said. She was imprisoned in another’s body. Mr. Longsfellow didn’t see her at first. He was shocked by the scene in his living room. Liquor bottles all over the place. Dirty plates with half-eaten food on the dining room tables. Cigarette butts and roaches everywhere. The downstairs toilet was stopped up. Longsfellow removed his overcoat and put down his copy of Salmagundi magazine. He brushed off the snow and hung his overcoat in the closet. “Crawford, Samantha, and Beechiko, what is the meaning of this?” he shouted upstairs.
And then he saw her. He just stood there for a minute, his eyes not blinking. Beechiko tried to say something, but somebody else’s voice came out.
“Wadsworth.”
“Grace. My God. Grace. What—” and then Longsfellow thought. For Wadsworth Longsfellow, there was always a rational explanation for everything. He had read that grieving spouses sometimes, after losing a loved one, had a supernatural experience in which they actually saw their dead husband or wife.
“Wadsworth, aren’t you glad to see me?”
He thought for a moment. “Frankly, no. Things around here couldn’t be better. For the first time in my life, I’m happy. I’ve met someone who not only knows how to treat a man, but shares my interests.”
“Wadsworth. What are you saying? All of the years we spent together, I thought you were happy,” Beechiko found herself saying.
“You never bothered to ask. You were always complaining. Always whining, and I won’t forget that last vacation we had together. As soon as we got off the plane in San Juan, you started to complain about the weather, about the hotel, about the room service, and you called the bellhop a dirty Mexican.”
“Wadsworth, you little schlemiel, don’t you talk that way—”
“I’ll talk any way I want, and … and here’s something that you can roll over in the grave about. I’m going to ask Beechiko for her hand. She’s Japanese. She also likes characters who come alive and breathe. She despises postmodernism. One-dimensional trash.” Beechiko wanted to run into his arms, but she couldn’t, she was paralyzed.
“But, but, she’s not blonde,” his dead wife said.
“I don’t care about that.”
“Ha. You who used to burn candles for Marilyn Monroe. You had to go into therapy over that.”
“That was the fifties. These are the nineties.”
“But what about her … her … eyes?”—and when she said that pulled back the corners of her eyes. “Stop it. Stop,” Mr. Longsfellow said, and she found the body in which she was imprisoned laughing. She wanted to shake the body. She wanted to — and then she awoke. It was quiet downstairs. She dressed and went down. Mr. Longsfellow was seated at his desk. The downstairs was in a mess from where the Crawfords had left it. He rose and walked over to her.
“Where are Crawford and Samantha?” she asked.
“I got rid of them.”
“You what?”
“I came back early and they were playing some terrible music. Some bum who had passed out said it was called ‘Nighttrain.’ It just had this insufferable saxophone solo. It sounded like a tomcat in heat. It assaulted my sensibilities. I fired them, of course; I gave them severance pay.” He showed her the photo of her with his wife’s wig on. She was embarrassed.
“You don’t have to be a blonde, Beechiko. I love you the way you are. I like your hair. I like the texture of your skin. Your eyes … so inscrutable.” Beechiko smiled shyly. Mr. Longsfellow embraced her for a long time. She looked out of the window, and there winking at her was Black Peter. They winked at each other. He had given her the best Xmas she ever had.
24
Black Peter, the impostor, awoke. He must have blacked out. His last memory was that of him and his cronies trying to top each other in a liquor-imbibing contest. His friends must have left because he couldn’t find his wallet. His eighteen-year-old Minnesota Viking was sleeping next to him. Her blonde hair covered a teddy bear. Her hand clutched a half-eaten Mars bar. The ashtray was full of roaches. He’d have to somehow get out of bed, throw cold water on his face, and prepare for another appearance. He had to do everything that Jack Frost told him. He was about to ring for breakfast when Jack Frost burst into the room. His hands were full of newspapers.