Michael A. Kechula

Compromise

By the time I was eleven, I hated going to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving. I hated the turkey. I hated the mashed potatoes. I hated the gravy, and I hated every side dish. I cursed every teaspoon.

Then I realized I hated Grandma, too.

At school, I asked Joey Bartoli if his dad was still in the rackets.

“Yep.”

“Can I come over tonight?” I asked. “Maybe we can play Monopoly. Will your dad be home?”

“I think so.”

I got lucky. Joey’s dad was home.

“Hi, Mr. Bartoli.”

“How’s it going, Jimmy?”

“Things ain’t so good,” I said. “I wonder if I could talk to your boss.”

“Mr. Calzone’s a busy man. It’d have to be very, very important to get to see him.”

“It’s a matter of life or death.”

“That bad? Ah, nothing’s that bad. Maybe I can help.”

“No,” I said. “I wanna see the boss.”

“Hmm. Tell you what I’ll do, then. I’ll talk to him when I get the chance.”

Thanksgiving was only six weeks away when Mr. Bartoli finally came through.

He pulled over to the sidewalk and honked. “Hey Jimmy. I bet you think I forgot. Mr. Calzone said you should come by his candy store. Over on Fifth Street. He’ll give you five minutes. I told him you’re a nice kid, so you go in there and show him respect.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Go there with your hands and face clean, and your hair combed. Go up to him and say, ‘Hello, Mr. Calzone. My name is Jimmy.’ Offer him your hand to shake. He’ll probably offer you a soda. And then invite you to sit. That’s if he likes you. If he don’t, he’ll just give you a soda to show his hospitality, but won’t sit down to talk. But let’s say he sizes you up and thinks you’re worth talking to. He’ll say, ‘What can I do for you?’ When he does, don’t waste words. Get to the point. Say something like, ‘I wanna borrow money.’ Or, ‘Can I deliver the newspaper here every day?’”

Looking clean as a whistle, I walked into Calzone’s candy store.

He looked like a gorilla. I’d seen him before. Maybe at the movies. I did exactly what Bartoli told me, and Calzone smiled, gave me a Coke and told me to sit.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I want my grandma killed.”

“That’s a big order,” he said, lighting a huge cigar. “Your grandma is family. You should show more respect.”

“I do respect her. But I hate her.”

He slapped my face so hard, and so suddenly, I peed my pants.

“Never hate any member of your Sicilian family,” he yelled. His cigar never left his mouth.

“She’s -- not -- Sicilian,” I said, choking back sobs, trying to act super tough.

“Oh,” he said, waving his hand. “Then hate her all you want.”

He drew on his cigar, knocked off some ashes, then added, “Why do you want her dead?”

I told him about her terrible cooking, especially for Thanksgiving. His eyes were intense as I explained. When I was finished, he rubbed his chin and looked into the distance.

A few seconds later, he said, “I suggest compromise. Do you know what that means? Be reasonable. Find something you can both agree on. She gives a little, you give a little. Avoid bloodshed.”

“You mean if she doesn’t make me eat her crummy buckwheat soup, then I’ll do something in return, like help her with the dishes?”

“Smart boy,” he said, patting my arm and inhaling from his cigar. “But I’m gonna arrange things personally. This is what I’ll say: ‘Grandma, Jimmy don’t wanna have Thanksgiving at your house, no more. But, he’ll buy a turkey for your table every year, until you die. I’ll give him work so he can earn the money. Meanwhile, from now on, he’ll have Thanksgiving at my house. I’m gonna adopt him as my godson for one day every year. That means I’m gonna be his Godfather every Thanksgiving. Any problems with that?’”

“What if she won’t do it?”

“She will.”

“It sounds, great. Thank you, Mr. Calzone. I knew I came to the right man.”

“Okay, now you work for me. I want you here every day after school for an hour to sweep the floor and clean the glass counters. Agreed?”

He shot his hand toward me. I shook it and left.

Not long after the funeral, I was sweeping the candy store when Calzone came over and grabbed my arm. Leaning close, he whispered, “She refused to compromise.”

I went back to sweeping. “For the rest of my life,” I told him, “I’ll never waste a dime on turkeys.”

Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. Since switching to fiction in 2003, he has placed first in six flash fiction contests and received honorable mentions in three others. His stories have appeared in sixty-seven online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and the United States.