Thanksgiving is probably my favorite holiday. It’s not about anyone’s religion or birthday or nationalism or commercialism: it’s about family. And food. And being with your loved ones, and as many of them as possible.

That’s why it’s not a coincidence that there’s a scene in WHEN I GOT OUT that takes place at a Thanksgiving celebration.

It’s an important time in the book. Larry Ingber, the “Ivy League Killer,” is out of prison after 40 years, and things aren’t going so well. He’s working at a low-level job at the offices of Clemency USA, the organization that helped free him, but he’s far from happy. He can’t seem to adjust to life outside of prison walls and his lawyer has absconded with the money that his parents left him.

Here’s some of WHEN I GOT OUT --

The best thing that happened was that Kelly’s Thanksgiving dinner rolled around. I’ll admit that I had concerns. Kelly was nice, but how would I fit in with her family and friends? I’d been doing OK with the people at Clemency, but it was a humanitarian organization dedicated to fairness for prisoners, so they had to be nice to me, at least on the surface. But how would I do in a family situation? In someone’s home? I hadn’t been in someone’s home with regular people since I was a kid. Would Kelly tell them about me? And would some of them object to having the Ivy League Killer at their Thanksgiving celebration? I could totally understand that.

The day before, we were standing in the Clemency kitchen. Kelly offered to have me picked up at my apartment, but I told her it was OK. The No. 7 bus went right to Pelham, where she lived, and it was a short walk from Lincoln Avenue to her place.

“One more thing, Kelly.” I stopped her. “Will these people know about me?”

“‘These people’ are my family, Larry,” she replied patiently, “and yes, some of them know about you. They know what I do, so they know who you are.”

I wanted to say, “They might think they know who I am, but they don’t.” But by then she had turned away with her yogurt.

“Wait! Can I bring anything?”

“Just your appetite,” she said, walking away before I could say anything else.

I wound up bringing flowers. Nice, fall-looking chrysanthemums: yellow and rust-colored. It was a safe choice and only a couple of bucks. I had to bring something, right? I think my mother would have approved.

The day before, I had checked with the bus service and, as I expected, they were running an abbreviated schedule for the holiday. I wanted to make sure that I would not be late. Kelly told me “around one o’clock,” and that’s when I was going to get there. Kelly’s house was in Pelham, down by the Bronx border, on Long Island Sound. I really didn’t know too much about Westchester, but I was learning. The years in Sing Sing don’t count.

I decided to wear a blue blazer, some nice chinos, and a light blue Oxford shirt. Sort of what I wore for work, but I didn’t want to look like a bum at Kelly’s—make that I didn’t want to look like a convict. Better to dress too nice than not nice enough. That’s probably a good rule of thumb for life.

But despite all my plans and preparation, all my rationalizing and self-protecting in advance, I just couldn’t fall asleep the night before. I kept thinking and trying not to think about being among people again, about being exposed to public eyes and private whispers. I know what it’s like to be looked at as a monster, a deviant, an “other”—and it kills your soul. I remember when they started calling me the Ivy League Killer in the papers so long ago. I tried to sleep, but I kept falling into memories of my arrest and trial…

People hated me, but then again, I did a hateful thing. They put me in a cage, to protect society. And to punish me. I deserved punishment. People took my picture and stared at me. They yelled my name, and they yelled curses. I was manhandled by cops and transported places, in chains. Chains. I sat mute during my trial—“on advice of counsel”—and I was judged guilty. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I tried to somehow live “above” my life, observing it intellectually while having to defend it physically every day. What I wanted to do was disappear. I see why guys in jail commit suicide: to disappear. To relieve the pain. To get it over with.

I woke up in the middle of night, sweating and alive, my mind flashing with old visions of cracked walls and unmovable bars. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and sat up, catching my breath, remembering where I was. I was out, I was free, and yet…

Sometimes I honestly don’t know why I’m still alive. There must a reason, I tell myself. I’ve been through so much hell to get here.

SIX

Thanksgiving arrived on a cold, clear perfect-for-football Thursday. The bus was almost empty, but the female bus driver said, “Happy Thanksgiving!” with such enthusiasm that it made me smile. Here was a woman having to work on a big national holiday, away from her family, and she was trying to be cheerful and upbeat, wearing a big turkey pin on the front pocket of her uniform. I was slowly but surely getting over my reflexive hatred for anyone in a uniform.

I got to Pelham super early, so I killed time walking around. It was only in the mid-40s, so it wasn’t too bad. Kelly’s house was just a few blocks off Lincoln, the bus route, so I was OK on time. Nice little houses in this neighborhood, very close together. I shouldn’t say little; they were bigger than the house I grew up in. Someone had a fire going. I couldn’t see which chimney was smoking, but it was a great pure autumn smell. I saw a family getting out of a minivan at one house where they were all greeted by their laughing, delighted, hello-shouting relatives. One young woman was carrying a baby who they made a fuss over. It was like a scene out of some TV commercial for soup or insurance, but the people really seemed to mean it. I stood there watching them until they all walked into the house, this sweet little brick house with dark green shutters and a slate roof. What a nice scene: just regular people enjoying one another and the holiday. Nothing threatening or complicated or unusual, just normal human life. How strange. I think I could live around here. Maybe not every place was poisoned to me, as Long Island was. For me, it was another Moment of Grace and Thanks under the open, blue sky, and I hadn’t even gone to the party yet.

“What lovely flowers!” said Kelly as she opened her front door the moment after I rang the bell. I could tell she wanted to be the first one to welcome me. (I had killed enough time in her neighborhood so that I rang her bell at exactly 1:05. I figured five minutes late was just about right.)

“Happy Thanksgiving, Kel’,” I said, handing her the flowers as I walked in. “You have a beautiful house.”

And I meant it. She had one of those little brick cuties. It could’ve used some maintenance—some paint on the trim and a shutter on the second-floor dormer needed replacing—but it seemed like a pretty sweet place to live.

“Hey, everyone!” Kelly shouted as we walked into the living room filled with people, some on the couch, some in chairs, watching football. “This is Larry Ingber. From work.”

The room was dark except for the big glowing TV. I smiled and gave a friendly wave to everyone, trying to take in the whole scene.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

I knew instantly from a few blank/hostile looks that Kelly had told them who I was.

I think a couple of people said, “Happy Thanksgiving” back to me, but I wasn’t sure. The football game was on pretty loud.

“Everything smells so good,” I said enthusiastically. “I love turkey.”

It was warm in her house, and the air was filled with thick cooking smells. Good smells, but they were strong, almost overpowering.

Kelly quickly introduced the people in the room, but it was a blur for me, and I’m very bad with people’s names anyway. “These are my neighbors Bob and Eileen Selwyn, my cousins Carl and Donnie, my brother Jimmy—”

“The man with the truck,” I said, acknowledging the husky, goateed guy in the middle of the sofa, straight in front of the TV.

“His wife, Jean, is somewhere,” Kelly continued, “and there are a whole bunch of kids out back.”

“Great,” I said.

“Come on,” Kelly said to me, seeing that the TV watchers were basically ignoring us, “let’s find a vase.”

I followed Kelly and my flowers as she led me though the living room, past the TV. I mumbled “Bye” and hustled past the screen through the big sun-filled dining room with the long table fully laid out with white tablecloth, silverware, glistening plates, and twinkly glassware, and into the kitchen, which was in a state of high activity.

Four women were busily at work: one at the sink, one chopping, one carrying a stack of dishes, and the other with her back to me doing something I couldn’t see.

“Hey, everyone,” said Kelly, holding the flowers high. “This is Larry. He brought these beautiful flowers.”

“Hi, Larry,” said voices in chorus.

I watched as Kelly went to a cupboard and took down a large, cut-glass vase.

“I was going to bring something to eat,” I said, standing back from the action, “but I’m not a very good cook. The best thing I cook is leftovers.”

One woman—stout, curly-haired, and serious—whizzed by me, saying sarcastically, “I think we have enough food.”

Kelly cut in front of a little blond woman who was standing at the sink, saying, “Can I get in here?”

The little blond woman in yellow rubber gloves stepped back, wiping a wisp of hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist. “Kelly, I’m moving. Can’t you wait a minute? Everyone’s in such a rush!”

The little blond woman smiled at me.

“Those are lovely,” she said. “Flowers are always correct.”

“Larry, this is my aunt Betsy,” said Kelly, as she turned from the sink with the vase filled with water. “My mother’s little sister.”

“Nice to meet you, Aunt Betsy,” I said with a smile and a nod. “And where’s your mother?”

“I’m afraid she passed away, what, six years ago.” Kelly sighed and I saw Aunt Betsy’s pert smile suddenly fade.

“Oh!” I said. “Sorry.”

I winced inside. Great, I told myself. I hadn’t been in the house five minutes before I said something wrong.

“That’s OK,” said Aunt Betsy. “It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t—” She stopped herself with a slight pause while her unsaid words—“kill her”—hung in the air and rang in my ears.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. “I know.”

“And just Betsy is fine,” she said. “I’m not your aunt. At least, I don’t think I am.”

She looked at me with lively greenish eyes and a kind attitude. I could tell she definitely knew who I was.

“No,” I said, standing back as Kelly cut between us carrying away the vase of flowers, “I think I would remember if you were.”

I watched Aunt Betsy go back to washing the dishes in the sink, with a bounce in her step. She had on these long, colorful socks and chunky shoes below her short black skirt that made her look like a large elf.

“Just Betsy” is fine with me too, I told myself, cementing her name in my mind.

For more of what happens to Larry, you can buy the whole book – in cloth or ebook – at

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