Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 10 of 13

The clapping faded. Thomas looked at the bare planks around him. The pans sat empty. His guests buttoned their coats for the dark climb home. He had thanked them with words. But words would not warm their walk, and nothing crafted or kept waited to send with them. By morning, he feared, their goodwill would thin like smoke. Then he remembered the shelf in the cottage. Back in summer, he had picked wild cranberries and cooked them down. He had filled jars and set them aside. He had forgotten them until now. He turned to Dorothy. "The preserves," he said. "In the cottage. How many are left?" Dorothy's eyes brightened. "A whole row," she said. "Enough for everyone." "Keep them here," Thomas told the guests. "Two minutes." He grabbed a lantern and climbed the slope. His legs burned. At the cottage he swung the door and found the shelf. The jars glowed ruby in the lantern light, glossy berries sealed under clear lids. He loaded them into a basket and carried it down the dark path, careful not to slip. Back under the pavilion roof, he set the basket on the table. He lifted one jar high so all could see. "These are for you," he said. "I picked the berries this summer and jarred them myself. A taste of this day to take home." He pressed a jar into each pair of hands. The woman who had closed her eyes at the crumble turned hers in the light and smiled. A man near the post thanked him twice. Quincey helped pass the jars down the line. Dorothy wiped a jar clean and handed it to the last guest. Soon every guest held something sealed and red, made by Thomas's own hands. The guests climbed the slope with their lanterns swinging and their jars tucked close. Their voices drifted back, warm and glad. Thomas stood at the pavilion rail and watched the lights rise up the dark hill. He had sent them off with more than thanks. He had sent them with something he made. Dorothy stood beside him. The basket on the table held two jars still. Thomas lifted one and turned it in his hand. He had given his guests a lasting token. But two jars would not feed the feast that still had to happen. The turkey was gone. The bowls were scraped clean. Tomorrow more mouths would come, and he had emptied his shelf to thank the ones leaving tonight.