Mable Saint

Mable Saint looked around her kitchen. The French onion soup was simmering gently on the stove. The Gruyère was sliced and sitting off to the side by the sink. The vegetables had been cut, washed, rinsed, and were sitting in the colander, draining in the sink. She had just finished stirring the garlic mashed potatoes, and they were ready to be taken out to the dining room. The turkey was already sitting in its place on the table. It needs time to rest after coming out of the oven.

Mable loved the holidays. Year after year, she would plan out the Halloween decorations that her husband, George, would help her set outside on the front porch of their house. The big stone staircase would be strewn with pumpkins from their garden, and, when Halloween night arrived, the kids would line up at the door for her homemade treats. One by one, she would hand them out with a smile to every child who knocked and shouted, "Trick-or-Treat!"

"It was always a treat," Mable thought to herself.

Some years it was a muffin. Others, a doughnut. Sometimes she handed out freshly baked cupcakes to the children. It was always a special treat for Mable Saint, though.

While Halloween was about decorations and costumes, Thanksgiving was a celebration of the harvest. Her pantry was stocked with vegetables from their garden. Thanksgiving meant sharing food with gathered family and friends on a cool autumn day. The trees had shed their summer coat. Dry fallen leaves of red, yellow, and gold covered the small yard around their house. Mable had always enjoyed the music of rustling leaves crunching under her feet or being blown across the ground by the chill autumn wind.

Someone should be walking through that door any second to grab the fresh bread from the oven. It needed time to cool before it could be cut.

Nobody came, though.

The door did not open. The bread - it was baked. Someone needed to take it out of the oven soon. Mable's hands were full. She still held a dish towel in one hand to keep from burning her hand and the spoon she used to stir the potatoes in the other. Why was no one coming to carry out the food?

Mable Saint approached the door to the dining room. She could hear laughter and voices chattering just beyond it. Had they lost track of time? Had someone forgotten there was more food being made? No. That didn't make any sense. Mable pushed through the door to see what her guests were up to and why they had abandoned her in the kitchen, where food was being made.

The dining room was cold. The voices fell away. She looked around the long, rectangular room. The stairs up to the bedrooms were on her right. She climbed those stairs every night with George right behind her.

The stairs were steep and narrow. Her feet barely fit on each pad. George had an even harder time. He had to turn his feet sideways on the stairs or use the balls of his feet to climb them if he was in a rush. Coming back down those stairs was another matter altogether. It was more akin to a controlled fall.

To her left, just past the stone pillars that lined each side of the opening, was the living room. Those pillars separated where the family sat together and listened to the radio from the room where they shared their meals. There used to be a big table with many chairs and a chandelier. People would come for their company, the friendships, conversations, and Mable Saint's food.

What happened here? Where had everyone gone? The cold wind from outside blew in past the front door that had been left open. The door, on its hinges, cried in a high-pitched squeal. It slowly swung back to its resting position once the rush of wind had pushed its way into the house and settled back down. The breeze made its way across the living room, through the opening between the pillars, into the dining room, and out the opening where windows used to be.

Windows that Mable would stand in front of as her husband, George, pulled into the driveway every night after work. He would shut the car off, close the door, and look up to see his loving wife standing in the window, smiling at him.

How long had it been? The car still sat where George had parked it the last time he came home. But he was gone now. George was gone - only the car remained.

That still didn't explain where everyone had gone. Mable had dinner on the stove and fresh bread in the oven. Someone needed to give her a hand with the food, but there was nobody around to help.

The living room was a special place for Mable Saint. When she was a girl, her family stood a Christmas tree, an evergreen pine tree, chosen and cut from the family's land in front of the big bay window. The tree was decorated with whatever they had to put in its boughs. Mable's family would sing Christmas hymns and exchange handmade gifts while the snow fell outside. Throughout the rest of the year, they would gather to listen to the Eveready Hour Radio show or the Jack Benny Program. Later, with her husband, she sat and listened to Amos & Andy. After George died, Mable took solace in the music from the stage of the Grand Ole Opry playing through the speakers.

Mable Saint moved to the front door to see where everyone had gone, only to find the front steps now covered in a layer of ice and snow. The open door allowed snow to drift into the house and rest several feet past the entry. There was no one outside the door. The longer Mable stood there, the more the snow and ice retreated, melting into the floor and puddling on the giant rug.

By the time Mable Saint turned to return to the kitchen, now certain that nobody was coming to aid her with the food she was making, the front porch had completely dried. The sun had returned to the sky, and the trees in the yard had donned their summer coats of green once again.

As Mable Saint reached the kitchen door and pushed through, she was careful to step gently over the bones on the floor that held the stirring spoon and the dish towel.

The holidays were fast approaching, and she had dinner to prepare.