Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not own the characters and no profit is being made.
He gently awoke and blinked to clear his head. Though a gray and drizzly day the light from the window was brighter than it should be. Mark realized he had overslept but more astonishingly Hardcastle had let him oversleep. Since moving into the gatehouse reveille came in various forms, ranging from a basketball bouncing outside his window to Hardcastle yelling for him from the bottom of the stairs, but it came consistently and it came early. Except this morning, nothing. Mark rolled out of bed and slipped on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt. After a quick stop to use the facilities he headed over to the main house steeling himself for Hardcastle's wrath.
As he made his way across the yard he remembered it was Thanksgiving Day and it was among many of the things he found himself musing, "I wonder how this is going to work." It had been that way since he had agreed to the crazy plan of helping Judge Milton C. Hardcastle. "Agreed" wasn't exactly correct, "blackmailed" was a more accurate description. Helping the Judge chase down wanton criminals was better than a four by nine at San Quentin. He begrudgingly admitted to himself that despite the weirdness he liked being here and he actually liked the Judge. Still, it did lead to all sorts of wondering on how things would work.
Somewhere around mid-November as he and the Judge were watching a game a commercial came on for Thanksgiving turkeys and all the fixings. It depicted a warm glow around a table full of food surrounded by laughing, happy people. Then it hit Mark. How's Thanksgiving going to work? Not that every meal wasn't a feast at Gulls Way. Mark never before had a time in his life where he had steady, delicious and plentiful food. Sarah was an excellent cook and though he doubted she would admit it she remembered his favorites. Days that his chores were especially arduous always seemed to be capped off with a favorite meal or dessert. But Thanksgiving was different. It was a holiday. A meal to spend with family and close friends. Mark knew he was neither though recently he had allowed himself to feel a friendship might be percolating. But then he would remember the Judge's harsh words and he would reset his expectations to that of an employee, not a buddy, or a son. People did not share Thanksgiving feasts with their employee, especially an ex-con yardman.
Mark opened the back door and was immediately awash with glorious scents. Savory roasting meats, baking bread and pumpkin pie wafted in the warm kitchen air. Sarah sat at the table with a cup of coffee not looking at all like she had been up for hours cooking.
"Good morning, Mark." She motioned to the carafe on the counter. "I just made fresh coffee. What would you like for breakfast?" Mark was still drinking in the aroma and wondering if he had ever smelled anything so heavenly.
"Good morning. Coffee's great. I'll just grab some toast."
"Nonsense. Sit down and I'll fix you a proper breakfast." Mark poured his coffee and sat at the table.
"What're you cooking, it smells great?" Sarah cast him an incredulous frown and returned to her work.
"You do know it's Thanksgiving?" Mark dropped his eyes. She softened her tone and asked, "Don't you celebrate Thanksgiving?"
Mark could feel his face redden as he thought back on his Thanksgivings. His mom had always picked up extra waitressing shifts for the holidays. Their Thanksgivings were eaten late, after her shift, and consisted of reheated leftovers from the restaurant. After she was gone, he found little to be thankful for with his family Thanksgivings. The relatives would gather and remind him that he was an unwanted bastard child and how lucky he was to have a home with his uncle. Later the flow of liquor had Mark praying to not cross into his uncle's line of sight for fear of another beating. The foster homes had not been much better. Utilitarian and dispassionate the holiday often went unnoticed or was marked with a cursory attempt at a turkey dinner. Of course, none of those were as bad as the last two that he spent eating off a tray on long tables in the meal hall. It had almost been worse that San Quentin tried to make it special. The lumpy potatoes, mushy green beans, turkey-like pressed meat and glutinous gravy didn't inspire any thanks and made it all the more depressing. There had been a few real Thanksgivings with Flip and Barbara. Those memories he held almost as dear as those with his mom. He suddenly became sad, missing Flip and his mom, until his thoughts were broken by Sarah placing a plate of food in front of him.
"Thank you," he murmured. He dropped his eyes, not wanting Sarah to see his grief, as he tucked into his food. She sat across from him with a fresh cup of coffee. She watched him carefully and Mark felt her gaze piercing into his thoughts. He was thankful when Hardcastle came barreling into the kitchen interrupting the silent inquisition.
"There you are. Did you get enough sleep there? I was beginning to wonder if you'd get up before we carved the bird."
Mark swallowed and with a quick gander at the clock shot back, "You know Hardcase, you could stand a little beauty sleep yourself. And in the sane world getting up at 7:30 is actually considered reasonably early."
"Nonsense," Hardcastle waved a dismissive hand. "Wasting half the day. We have things to do." Mark started eating faster sensing he was about to be dragged away to an appointment with gutters or a hedge. Sarah scowled at him and Mark carefully put his fork down and mumbled an apology.
"And you, Judge, let the boy finish eating." Hardcastle frowned but remained silent. No one took on Sarah, especially not on her home turf. Mark ate a couple more bites, pushed back from the table and carried his plate to the sink.
"Thanks, Sarah. That was great. What'd you need me to do, Judge?"
Hardcastle clapped his hands together. "Come on into the den. I have a couple of files to look over before the game starts."
Mark tried not to look too bewildered as he followed the Judge into the den. He understood the concept of people sitting around watching football on Thanksgiving but he had never had the opportunity himself. When they entered the den Mark saw the TV was already on; Bryant Gumbel was previewing the Thanksgiving Day Parade.
"Thought we could read things over as we watch the parade." Mark stood with eyes riveted on the TV.
"Hey. You with me here, McCormick?" Hardcastle inquired. Mark slowly turned from the screen and faced the judge. Hardcastle noted his eyes were wide and misty and then instantly McCormick's face went void of all emotion.
"Uh, yeah, sorry. I was just, uh, yeah I'm fine. What're the files about, Hardcase? Some guy get away with jaywalking and we're going to stake out the crosswalks until we catch him in the act?" Hardcastle recognized the misdirection for what it was.
"Sit down, Kiddo. Cut the crap, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong except you wanting to sit and watch a parade while we go over case files. Sorry, that's not the way I'm used to spending Thanksgiving." McCormick regretted the words. How he spent the holidays was not a door he had intended to open.
"Yeah? Well, I'll have you know lots of people enjoy watching the parade but hey, if you'd rather not, I'm sure the pool could use a good cleaning. But before you do that, how about you stop avoiding the question and tell me why a parade made you turn white as a sheet."
Mark stared at the Judge who stared back. Mark sighed. "It's just, you know, I used to watch the parade with my mom before she had to go to work. I guess I hadn't thought about it in a long time. It just kinda hit me." Mark looked at Hardcastle, waiting for him to scoff. Instead, he saw a small, knowing smile and a faraway look in the old man's eyes. He looked sympathetic. But that couldn't be, Hardcase Hardcastle was not sympathetic, was he?
"I can turn it off," Hardcastle suggested quietly.
"Nah. I like it," Mark said. And with a smile added, "Maybe there'll be a Dixieland marching band and you can pick up some pointers."
Hardcastle grinned, happy for the return to normalcy. "Sure, and you can watch how they drive the cars and learn something about appropriate speed and control on city streets."
Both men settled into chairs and watched the parade offering comments and quips as the floats went by, the files strewn on the table, forgotten.
Sarah, who had been placing a quilt to the hall closet, had overheard the exchange. She smiled and returned to the kitchen. Thanksgiving feasts didn't prepare themselves and she, thankfully, had a family to feed.