A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote Read Free Book Online

pudding—a guarded recipe of the ancient aunt who, despite her longevity, was still domestically energetic; to our sorrow she took the secret with her when she died in 1934, age one hundred and five (and it wasn’t age that lowered the curtain; she was attacked and trampled by a bull in a pasture).
    Miss Sook was ruminating on these matters whilemy mind wandered through a maze as melancholy as the wet twilight. Suddenly I heard her knuckles rap the kitchen table: “Buddy!”
    “What?”
    “You haven’t listened to one word.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I figure we’ll need five turkeys this year. When I spoke to Uncle B. about it, he said he wanted you to kill them. Dress them, too.”
    “But
why
?”
    “He says a boy ought to know how to do things like that.”
    Slaughtering was Uncle B.’s job. It was an ordeal for me to watch him butcher a hog or even wring a chicken’s neck. My friend felt the same way; neither of us could abide any violence bloodier than swatting flies, so I was taken aback at her casual relaying of this command.
    “Well, I won’t.”
    Now she smiled. “Of course you won’t. I’ll get Bubber or some other colored boy. Pay him a nickel. But,” she said, her tone descending conspiratorially, “we’ll letUncle B. believe it was you. Then he’ll be pleased and stop saying it’s such a bad thing.”
    “What’s a bad thing?”
    “Our always being together. He says you ought to have other friends, boys your own age. Well, he’s right.”
    “I don’t want any other friend.”
    “Hush, Buddy. Now hush. You’ve been real good to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Just become an old crab. But I want to see you happy, Buddy. Strong, able to go out in the world. And you’re never going to until you come to terms with people like Odd Henderson and turn them into friends.”
    “Him! He’s the last friend in the world I want.”
    “Please, Buddy—invite that boy here for Thanksgiving dinner.”
    Though the pair of us occasionally quibbled, we never quarreled. At first I was unable to believe she meant her request as something more than a sample of poor-taste humor; but then, seeing that she was serious, I realized, with bewilderment, that we were edging toward a falling-out.
    “I thought you were my
friend
.”
    “I am, Buddy. Truly.”
    “If you were, you couldn’t think up a thing like that. Odd Henderson hates me. He’s my
enemy
.”
    “He can’t hate you. He doesn’t know you.”
    “Well, I hate him.”
    “Because you don’t know him. That’s all I ask. The chance for you to know each other a little. Then I think this trouble will stop. And maybe you’re right, Buddy, maybe you boys won’t ever be friends. But I doubt that he’d pick on you any more.”
    “You don’t understand. You’ve never hated anybody.”
    “No, I never have. We’re allotted just so much time on earth, and I wouldn’t want the Lord to see me wasting mine in any such manner.”
    “I won’t do it. He’d think I was crazy. And I would be.”
    The rain had let up, leaving a silence that lengthened miserably. My friend’s clear eyes contemplated me as though I were a Rook card she was deciding howto play; she maneuvered a salt-pepper lock of hair off her forehead and sighed. “Then
I
will. Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll put on my hat and pay a call on Molly Henderson.” This statement certified her determination, for I’d never known Miss Sook to plan a call on anyone, not only because she was entirely without social talent, but also because she was too modest to presume a welcome. “I don’t suppose there will be much Thanksgiving in their house. Probably Molly would be very pleased to have Odd sit down with us. Oh, I know Uncle B. would never permit it, but the nice thing to do is invite them all.”
    M y laughter woke Queenie; and after a surprised instant, my friend laughed too. Her cheeks pinked and a light flared in her eyes; rising, she hugged me and said, “Oh, Buddy, I