Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

Thomas looked at the bare turkey bones. His guests sat full of talk but empty of food. He still had a pumpkin and a bowl of sliced apples in the cottage, enough for a quick bake. But the dishes needed heat, and fast. He left the table and walked up the dark slope to the old brick oven in the yard. He pulled open the chamber. Inside, the coals had gone gray. A few red spots glowed, no bigger than coins. He held his hand close. Only a weak warmth came back. These coals would not bake a thing before his guests gave up and went home. He needed a hot fire now. Thomas shoved the old ashes aside and thought. He kept kindling by the door, but kindling was slow. A fresh flame took an hour to settle into good baking heat. He did not have an hour. He had a table of hungry people and food going cold in their bellies. Then he remembered the sack in the corner of the yard. He crossed the dark ground and found it. His fingers closed on rough, sooty lumps. Lump charcoal. He had bought it in the summer and forgotten it. Charcoal caught fast and burned hot. It was exactly what he needed. He dumped a heap of black lumps onto the dying coals. He crouched and blew. The coins of red light spread. He blew again, steady, until the lumps caught. Smoke stung his eyes. Within minutes the chamber roared with heat. He held his hand to the mouth and felt it push him back. The oven was hot enough to bake. Thomas ran to the cottage. He split the pumpkin, scooped it into a pan, and filled a second pan with the apples. He slid both into the glowing chamber and shut it. He fed more charcoal underneath. The heat held strong and even. He stood in the yard and waited, arms crossed, watching smoke rise against the stars. When he opened the oven, the pumpkin had turned soft and gold. The apples bubbled brown and sweet. He carried both pans down the slope, hot through the cloth in his hands. The guests turned as he set the pans on the long table. A cheer went up. Dorothy reached for a spoon. Children leaned in. The bare platters filled again. Thomas sat and breathed. He had stretched the meal. The oven had done its work. But as he watched the apples and pumpkin pass hand to hand, he counted the pans and counted the faces. Two dishes would not fill a whole table twice. The charcoal had bought him one round, not a feast. He looked back up the dark slope. The turkey was gone, and no amount of charcoal could roast a bird he did not have.