Dangling Modifiers in Honor of Christmas
Standing at the end of the table, the turkey was carved by my dad.
It was three feet tall and naked down to its skin, and had no head
and no feet and was standing on the brown nubs of its roasted ankles.
It was screaming in pain. I don't know. It had been screaming in
pain for the last six hours. Before, in the oven, the noise had been
muffled, I guess. Dad had said it would stop screaming when it was
carved. Then he had said it would stop screaming when we ate it.
It screamed that we would regret eating it. It screamed it would
stick in our throats and choke us. It screamed it would come back
from the dead.
By my count, that would make twice. I wondered, would that top Jesus's
feat? Who could forget about Jesus? I thought back to last Christmas.
Back then, Mom had been the cook and Dad had still been in prison.
Back then, we had plum pudding and Rudolph cookies; Mom had said
grace about how everyone carried a cross. Back then, I didn't have
to pretend everything was normal when the cops came around. Now I
had to keep the location of Mom's body a secret—or Dad said
he would bury me there as well. Screaming in pain, the turkey slid
down my gullet. Frowning, Dad saw that I was upset.