Short Story by Kelly Piner
A light snow had blanketed the nearby trees and hillside where radiant cardinals and house sparrows fluttered from limb to limb, filling the woods with song. The couple stood at the edge of the cobblestone walkway facing Traditions, the country retreat where they’d spent the Thanksgiving holiday for the past ten years. Decorated in strands of white and pink lights, a towering Blue Spruce sparkled and shimmered in the front yard near the wrap-around porch. She tightened her wool scarf and hooked arms with her best friend of twenty years as they approached the historic building. Two-story and brick, it resembled an antebellum home from the old south. She gripped his arm more tightly. The highlight of her year, she never tired of the same menu and the same routine. It was their tradition.
Inside the foyer, she inhaled the aroma of sage and roasted turkey, then stopped and warmed her hands in front of the heat lamp.
A pretty young hostess behind an oak desk smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving. Name?”
“Frances George. Party of two.” She wrapped her arm around Dale’s shoulder, and they exchanged knowing looks.
The hostess tapped a touch screen and then lifted two menus. “Follow me.” Past several families sipping cocktails, she motioned to their usual table, a roomy back booth next to a roaring stone fireplace. “Your waiter will be right with you.”
Classical music played softly in the background as they slid into the booth. Fran pointed to the mantle, adorned in festive wreaths covered in silver and blue bows. “The decorations are even more spectacular this year.”
Dale adjusted his eye patch. “They never disappoint. Champagne?”
“Of course. We’re not driving.” She recognized an elderly couple at the next table who she’d seen the year before. The old man reclined in a wheelchair. A faint red tinge indicated a blood stain that threatened to seep through the gauze bandage covering a stump where his leg had been only last year. Fran averted her gaze and turned back to Dale.
A server approached and introduced himself as Alex. He rattled off the menu, exactly the same as it had been for the past ten years. “What can I start you with today?” Dark circles rimmed his bloodshot eyes, suggesting either poor sleep or too many holiday cocktails. Incredible, Dale thought, how lifelike the robots had become.
Dale reached out and shook Alex’s hand. “Hi, Alex. I believe you waited on us last year. We’ll start with a bottle of your best champagne.”
“Very good, sir.” He retreated.
“I can’t believe it, our 11th year. I wonder how many more…” She stopped herself.
From across the table, Dale grasped her hand. “God willing, the rest of our lives.”
She swiped a tear from her cheek. “I didn’t mean to get emotional.”
“Don’t apologize. Every year that we return is a gift.”
“You’ve sacrificed so much for this.” She stared pointedly at his eye patch and flinched when Alex returned and popped the champagne cork.
He filled two crystal flutes and placed the remainder in a nearby chilled ice bucket. “Enjoy.”
“Let’s toast.” Fran lifted her glass. “To another ten years.”
They clinked their glasses together.
While they ordered she-crab soup followed by the turkey entrée, voices rose in the nearby dining room. When a smartly dressed woman in her mid-thirties pushed away from the table, an envelope dropped from her lap. She fled the room, sobbing, and disappeared into a nearby ladies’ room.
Fran pressed her hands over her face.
Dale leaned toward her, and in a hushed tone said, “Don’t worry about it. This is bound to happen.”
“But how can I not worry about it?”
“It’s all part of the agreement, the price we pay.”
Fran stirred her crab soup in silence when it came. A reddish fluid floated to the surface.
No one spoke until Dale finished and laid down his spoon. “What’s wrong?”
She shrugged. “I don’t want to put a damper on our big day. I just keep thinking of the past, all the trips here, and what the future holds. But look.” She moved their glasses aside. “Here’s the meal already.”
A kitchen staffer with a faraway gaze said, “Traditional turkey with oyster dressing. He motioned to their plates. “Complimented by baked yams and French style green beans.”
When he refilled their glasses, his limbs moved stiffly, like a modern-day Frankenstein. A chill ran down Fran’s spine as she recalled recent discussions with Dale about Artificial Intelligence.
Following the meal, Alex ushered them into a stately drawing room with red leather furniture and two additional stone fireplaces. “I’ll have your dessert right out.”
Fran gazed into the fire. “Just think. Our only real meal for the year, almost over.”
“We’ve always got next year.”
On the round antique oak table, their waiter placed two slices of cinnamon pumpkin pie served on delicate rose-colored china. Next to it, he set a percolator of freshly brewed coffee.
They savored the dessert and washed it down with the English roast. Dale lifted his brandy snifter. “To next year.”
“To next year.” Fran took a sip. Her mood turned serious when she looked into Dale’s un-bandaged eye. In a strained voice, she said, “It’s time.”
Dale nodded and motioned to Alex.
Alex returned and handed them each a cream-colored envelope. “Good luck. Until next year?”
Dale shook his hand. “Absolutely.”
Fran’s envelope trembled in her hands.
“Go ahead,” Dale said. “I’m right here.”
She tore it open, and silently read the contents. Tears of relief coursed down her cheeks.
Dale squeezed her arm. “Congratulations.”
“Your turn.”
But when Dale read his letter, his face turned pale. He leaned his head back against the high-back chair.
“Oh, God! No.” Fran placed her hand on his leg. “It’s so unfair. It’s just not fair.”
Ten minutes later, they stood in the parking lot where three inches of snow had already accumulated. Without speaking, they awaited their ride. The wind had whipped to over twenty mph, and Dale tightened his ascot. He grasped Fran’s hand, ready for the long ride home.
An older model gray bus pulled up, and the driver slid open the door. Dale, Fran and thirty other diners all boarded. Dale and Fran sat up front behind the driver, as they always did.
The picturesque countryside filled with horse farms and rustic cabins stood in eerie contrast to the couple’s home for the past twenty years. Neither spoke during the 50-mile journey.
The bus pulled up to a fenced-in compound, and a gate swung open. To the side, a worn sign read: Wood View Maximum Security Correctional Institute. Coed Unit.
An armed guard in the rear of the bus stood. “Ladies, form a line and exit to the left.” Fran squeezed Dale’s hand one last time and stood. A second guard herded Dale and the male prisoners to a dismal concrete building to the right.
Inside, staff processed Dale as they had for the past ten years. He removed his suit and patterned ascot, which a guard tossed into a dirty laundry bin. He handed Dale a generic orange jumpsuit.
It’s a crying shame, Dale thought. But it was the only way he and Fran could ever make it to the outside world, where they were treated like human beings and fed a real meal for a day. He’d known the risks when they had first volunteered for the Artificial Intelligence study sponsored by Traditions. But the outing meant so much to Fran. It was all she had. They’d been lucky up until last year when he opened the cream-colored envelope and realized he’d sacrificed his vision. He pressed his hand over his left eye patch. And now…He understood that the robots needed body parts. But given the chance, he’d do it all again for Fran.
The couple stood at the edge of the grass facing Traditions. A light snow covered the ground, and Dale clutched Fran’s arm. Now, in total darkness, he wore dark glasses and grasped a white cane.
“Does it still look the same?” he asked. “Is it still as beautiful?”
Fran kissed his cheek. “It’s as beautiful as ever. A family of squirrels are chasing one another around the porch.” She fought back tears. “Our 12th year. Can you believe it?”
“Seems impossible.”
The hostess ushered them to their favorite booth by the old stone fireplace, where Fran helped Dale slip off his jacket.
“The fire feels good,” he said. “Tell me where everything is or I’ll knock things over. I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“You could never embarrass me.”
Before she could say more, a robot waiter appeared who introduced himself as Alex. When Fran looked up at him, Dale’s pale blue eyes stared back at her.
