LITMIR.BIZ

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lake, I opened the car door. “Come on, boy,” I said, then buckled him into his doggy seat belt and kissed his furry head.

      My melancholy returned as I started Lancelot and trundled down the dirt road away from Granite Lake. Work wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t the same. Last night, I’d scouted out Craigslist, but there’d been nothing, just a sales position for a dying newspaper in New Hamster. I’d be kind of dumb to quit in this economy, give up all those nice perks and bennies. “Maybe I’ll go into the family business,” I told Bowie. “Not that I want to be around dead people all day, but I would have job security.”

      Suddenly, a huge wild turkey came running out of the woods to my right. The thing was enormous, and it was sprinting as if being chased, its wings flapping, clearly preparing for takeoff. And on a collision course with my car! “Watch out!” I called, slamming on the brakes. I flung my arm protectively in front of Bowie, who barked in surprise, and we jerked to a stop, our seat belts locking.

      “Oh, shit,” I whispered. There’d been a thud. I was almost sure of it. Heart pounding sickly, I got out of the car, my hands over my mouth, prepared to see turkey carnage.

      There it was, lying on the side of the dirt road. One wing flapped weakly, then stopped.

      “No!” I cried. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” I wrung my hands as I approached. The turkey didn’t move again. I couldn’t tell if it was breathing. “Please don’t be dead,” I squeaked.

      Sobs jerking out of my chest, I went to the back of my car and opened the hatch. Stupid Lancelot! Why did I buy a Prius? If only it made some noise, the poor bird would’ve been warned. “Please don’t be dead,” I repeated.

      I grabbed the tarp I always kept in the car for my dripping paddles. Bowie whined in inquiry. “We hit it,” I said wetly, then returned to the turkey.

      It was horribly still. Like all turkeys, it was an ugly brute … a tom, a male. In the fading light, its feathers looked dull and black, the bald, rough-skinned head in shades of red and chalky blue. The bird’s legs were long and strong, with spurs on the back for defense. Not that it did much good against my car.

      My hands shaking with fear and adrenaline, I lay down the tarp next to the bird, then got the paddle from my car. Closing my eyes with the horror of the job, I used the paddle to gently push the huge bird onto the plastic, gagging at the flopping sound its body made. “I’m so sorry, so so sorry,” I wept, then gathered up the ends of the plastic, making a sling so I wouldn’t actually have to touch the bird. Half dragging it—it was heavier than I expected, maybe twenty pounds—half swinging it, I got it over to the trunk, still crying, then sort of swung it inside. One talon stuck out from the tarp, making me cringe. Poor, innocent thing. “Please don’t be dead,” I said, tears sluicing down my cheeks. Then I closed the hatch, ran to the driver’s seat, threw the car into Drive and floored it, my tires slipping on the rough road.

      In all my life, I’d never hit an animal before. Not even a squirrel. Not even a chipmunk! It was quite a feat, living up here in the boonies, and something I’d always been proud of. I could hear myself crying, a long, low whimper that caused my dog to howl softly as well. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead,” I chanted, ignoring Bowie, who tried to twist around to get a better sniff at our quiet passenger. We came onto pavement, and I pressed the accelerator harder, the trees whipping past in a blur of color. Bitter Creek Road, a hard left. “Don’t be dead, don’t be dead.”

      There. Number seventy-five, a black mailbox marking the nearly hidden driveway. I turned so hard and fast the car fishtailed, causing Bowie to yip and scrabble to keep his footing on the car seat.

      Thank God! There were lights on. He was home.

      I hurtled out of the car, popped open the trunk, grabbed the tarp edges and swung the package out, then ran awkwardly up the steps, cringing as my shins bumped the turkey.

      Ian was already opening the door. “Callie? What’s wrong?” he asked.

      “I killed it,” I blurted, my tears flowing anew. Pushing past him, I staggered through the great room and slung the tarp onto the table. “I killed a turkey.”

      “Callie, I eat there,” he said, eyeing the bundle. “And have you ever heard of avian flu?”

      “That was just a scare tactic used by the Bush admin—Ian, can you just check it? In case it’s maybe still alive? Or not quite dead? Please?” I took a shuddering breath, then ran to the sink to wash my hands. The bird might not have avian flu, and I didn’t actually touch it, but Ian had a point.

      “Sure,” he said, following me into the kitchen.

      “If it needs to … you know. To be put down, do you have the stuff here?” I said raggedly, wiping my hands.

      “Yes.” Opening a drawer, he took out a pair of latex gloves, then passed me a box of tissues. “If you hit it, Callie, it probably is dead,” he said gently, pulling on the gloves. “They don’t have much chance against a car.”

      I nodded, tears still leaking out of my eyes. I had no great love for turkeys, but I didn’t hate them, either. I certainly didn’t want to kill any. Even at Thanksgiving, I always felt a pang … sure, I ate heartily—I loved turkey—but … there’d always been that pang.

      Ian went over to the table and lifted the tarp-wrapped bird down onto the floor. He knelt beside it and pulled back the plastic. “Wow, this is a big one,” he murmured. I approached, standing just behind Ian, and without thinking, I reached out and gripped his shoulder, biting my lip hard. The bird’s eyes were open and unblinking, and it didn’t appear to be breathing.

      “Is it dead?” I whispered, tears dropping onto Ian’s shirt.

      He looked up at me. “It seems to be.”

      My face scrunched. “Oh, dammit,” I squeaked. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

      “Now, Callie, come on,” Ian said, rising. He took off his gloves and dropped them on the floor, then took my shoulders. “You couldn’t help it.” His eyes were kind. “It happens all the time.”

      “I never hit an animal before,” I whispered, fighting off sobs, though my breath still hitched in and out.

      “I’ll bury it,” he offered.

      “Oh, thank you, Ian,” I said.

      Suddenly, there was a great flutter and a scrabbling. Instinctively, I ducked, and Ian whirled around.

      The turkey wasn’t dead. No, it was quite alive. It flapped and heaved, then managed to get onto its huge taloned feet. It gave a weird sort of throaty growl … Goooorrr … Gooorrrr, and tilted its head suspiciously.

      “You said it was dead!” I hissed.

      “It must’ve been in shock,” he answered. “Don’t just stand there. Open the door so it can get out.”

      I backed away so as not to startle it, then opened the door through which I’d just come. Ian slowly approached the bird.

      “Easy, turkey,” Ian murmured. “Out you go.” He circled behind it, and the bird took a few steps toward the front … and me … “Good turkey,” Ian said soothingly. “Out the door with—”

      Suddenly the bird burst into another great flutter of wings and sprinted right at me. I screamed, the bird veered to the left, dodged around a chair, knocked into an end table, tipping it. There was a crash, and the bird went airborne. “Gloogloogloogloo!” it screeched. “Gloogloogloo!”

      From the den came a blur of red. Angie. “No, Angie!” Ian yelled, but Angie, after all, was an Irish setter, bred for just this thing, and she sped after the bird, which landed awkwardly on the kitchen table. Angie leaped, the bird flew, hitting the chandelier and causing it to sway crazily. The turkey tried to land on the bookcase, but there wasn’t enough room, and flapped toward me. “No! Get away!” I yelled, collapsing to my knees and covering my head. “Kill it, Ian! Kill

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