Everyone smiles when the prayin’s over, and Ma says, “Now Judd, you just help yourself to whatever you see before you, and we’ll start the platters around. I’ve sliced some white meat and dark meat both.” And the eatin’ begins.
With all that food coming at me, I almost forget for a time that we got Judd to look at across the table, but once we get a little in our bellies, I can see the conversation isn’t going very far.
First off, Judd’s embarrassed. I think he likes the food, all right, but he don’t especially like being at our table. It’s like he owes us somethin’ for finding him after his accident, and Judd don’t like to owe nobody nothing. Guess he figured if he was to refuse our invitation, though, it’d be like a slap in the face. And bad as he is, even he’s got a limit to rudeness. I look across at him, shoveling that food in like the sooner he gets it down the sooner he can leave, and I’m tryin’ to think of a question to ask that’ll give everybody a chance to say somethin’.
But right that minute Becky says, “What was the turkey’s name?”
We all look at her.
“Only pet turkeys have names, Becky,” Dad says. “We bought this turkey at the store.”
That gives Judd something to talk about. “I got me a fine wild turkey last year. Bought one of those turkey callers, and after I got the hang of it, I bagged a thirteen-pounder.”
Dara Lynn’s thinkin’ that over. “You make a call like a turkey, and when a real one shows up, you blow its head off?”
“That’s about it,” says Judd.
Ma never looks up—just goes on cutting her meat, her cheeks pink—but Becky stops chewing her turkey wing and she is glaring at Judd something awful. Boy, you get a three-year-old girl lookin’ at you that way, she’s got a scowl would stop a clock.
I’m just about to ask Ma to pass the sweet potatoes when I hear Becky say, “We’ll blow your head off!” and suddenly there is quiet around that table you wouldn’t believe.
Three
Well, Thanksgiving sure went downhill after that. You wouldn’t think a three-year-old could say anything that would cause much trouble, but it just seemed to put into words the feeling we had about Judd Travers.
Judd looks over at Becky and says, a little sharp-like, “Hey, little gal, you ain’t havin’ much trouble eatin’ that turkey, I see. Somebody had to kill that.”
Becky looks at the turkey wing and slowly lowers it onto her plate, then turns her scowl toward Judd again, her bottom lip stickin’ out so far you could hang a bucket on it.
Everybody starts talkin’ at once. Ma asks wouldn’t Judd like some more gravy, and Dad wants to know if he’s going to watch the football game that afternoon, but their voices seem too loud and high. By the time Ma cuts the pie, we don’t have much taste for it. I don’t, anyway. Judd eats one piece of pumpkin, and Ma says she’ll send a piece of the walnut home with him. Then her cheeks turn pink again, ’cause it sounds like maybe she can’t wait for him to go, and she says, “But of course you’re staying to watch the game, aren’t you?”
Judd don’t say yes or no, but when Dad turns on the TV, the picture’s fuzzy on account of we don’t have us a satellite dish. Judd’s got one in his yard that’s bigger’n his trailer, almost. And that gives him a real fine excuse to say no, he thinks he’ll go on home, prop up his leg, and watch the game there.
Now that he’s leavin’, we’re all smiles and politeness, standing around waiting for Judd to get his jacket on.
“Where’s that dog of yours?” Judd says to me, pulling his sleeve down over the cuff of his shirt. That’s about the first time he ever admitted that Shiloh was really mine.
I decide Shiloh’s gonna say good-bye if I have to drag him out, and I do. I go behind the couch where he’s lyin’, about as far back in the corner as he can get, and I have to take two of his paws and tug. He’s shaking already, but I hold him tight so he’ll know he belongs to me.
Judd looks him over. “Shyest dog I ever seen,” he says. But again, just like he did when we went to visit him after the accident, Judd puts out his hand and strokes Shiloh on the head. He’s still awkward about it, but he’s learnin’. It was Shiloh who barked when Judd’s pickup rolled down the bank, really Shiloh who saved his life, and Judd knows that. And once more, Shiloh licks his hand. It’s a feeble sort of lick, but Judd likes it, I can tell. I figure Judd’s a person who don’t get no kisses and hugs from anyone.
After Dad and Judd get in the Jeep, Ma moves about the kitchen, her lips pressed together like she’s seen better Thanksgivings, so Becky and Dara Lynn make themselves scarce. They go in the next room and gather up all the Thanksgiving cutouts Dara Lynn brought home from school. They make like they’re paper dolls, the Pilgrims riding around on the big cardboard turkey, and the Indians sittin’ on this pumpkin.
When Dad gets back, though, he takes out after me! I can’t believe it!
“Marty, you didn’t say more’n five words to Judd the whole time he was here.”
I bet I said fifty, maybe, but I’ll admit, I didn’t say a whole lot. “What’re you yellin’ at me for?” I ask. “It’s Becky you should be scolding for sayin’ too much.”
He knows it and I know it, but truth is, you can’t hardly scold a three-year-old girl for anything, and Dad would rather cut off his thumb than make Becky cry.
Then Ma chimes in: “Marty’s right, Ray. Don’t take it out on him.”
Dad turns on her then: “Why do you always side with Marty? We have a guest for dinner, I expect everyone to pitch in and be sociable. Can’t me be doing all the talking.”
I know he’s not really mad at Ma, either. He just wishes the day had gone better—we was all so stiff.
But that’s enough to set Ma off. “Well, if you want to stand out here in the kitchen and do all the cooking next time, I’ll sit in the other room and talk. How about that?”
Oh boy, this is the worst Thanksgiving I can remember. Dad turns on the TV to watch the game, then turns it off again, picture’s so bad. Becky’s leaning over a sofa cushion, sucking her thumb and twisting a lock of hair—ready for a nap.
And then I realize that not a single word’s been aimed at Dara Lynn. If she had opened her mouth, no telling what would’ve come out; she can sass the ears off a mule. How come she got through Thanksgiving without even a look? I find myself gettin’ all churned up inside, and when she comes out of the kitchen with the wishbone—the Thanksgiving turkey wishbone—and asks Becky to pull it with her, it’s all I can do not to reach out and sock her arm.
“Make a wish, Becky, then pull,” she says.
This ain’t no fair contest, ’cause Dara Lynn’s holding that wishbone right close to the top, and Becky’s little hand hardly has a grip on it. Guess who wins.
“I got the center, so now you got to tell your wish,” Dara Lynn crows.
Becky stands there looking at the broken wishbone in her hand and starts to cry.
“It’s supposed to break, Becky!” Dara Lynn says, but Becky goes on bawling, and finally Dad snaps at Dara Lynn. Nicest thing that’s happened all day.
I hate it when Ma and Dad aren’t talking, though—feel all tight inside. Shiloh feels the same way, I can tell. Lies down on his belly with his head on his paws, his big brown eyes travelin’ back and forth from Ma to Dad. Every so often, when their voices get extra sharp, his ears will twitch. But that evening, after we have us some turkey sandwiches, Dad says to Ma, “Why don’t you go put your feet up, and Marty and I will make stew out of that squirrel meat.”
Last thing in this world I want to do, but I put on my jacket and go out on the porch with Dad. He shows me how you skin a squirrel by cutting a ring around the back legs at the feet, then around the top of the base of the tail. He lays the squirrel on its back, puts his foot on its tail, grabs its back legs and pulls, and the skin comes off like a jacket, right up to the neck. I think I am going to throw up.
“You get the other two done, you call me,” I say, and go back inside. Why Judd Travers would bring
over three dead squirrels as a present to my ma, I don’t have a clue. But the thing is, Dad’s a hunter, too, so I got to be real careful what I say. When he comes back in, he’s cut off the heads, the back feet, and the tails of those squirrels, he’s gutted them, and now we got to soak them. I fill a pan with water.
It’s later, after Ma’s put Becky to bed and is reading a story to Dara Lynn, that Dad and me cut up the squirrel meat. I feel like a murderer.
“I don’t think I want any of this after it’s cooked,” I say finally.
“Nobody’s going to make you eat it,” says Dad.
“Bet I could be a vegetarian,” I say. “I could live just fine on corn and beans and potatoes.”
“For about a week, maybe,” Dad tells me. “You’d be first to complain.”
“Would not!” I say. “I just can’t see going hunting. I can’t see how you can shoot a deer or a rabbit or anything.” I sure am getting smart in the mouth, I know that.
Dad’s voice has an edge to it. “You like fried chicken, don’t you? Like a good piece of pot roast now and then?”
I think about all I’d have to give up if I gave up meat. Forgot about fried chicken.
“Judd was right about one thing,” Dad goes on. “Just because we didn’t kill the meat we get from the store don’t mean it died a natural death. The hamburger you eat was once a steer, don’t forget. Somebody had to raise that steer, send it to market, and someone else had to slaughter it—just so’s you could have a hamburger.”
I’d have to give up hamburgers, too? I’m quiet a long time trying to figure things out. “Well, if I wanted to be a vegetarian, could I?”
Dad thinks on this awhile as he drops the meat in a pot of water he’s got boiling on the back of the stove. “Suppose you could. But of course you’d have to get rid of that cowboy hat I bought you at the rodeo. Your belt, too.”
“Why?” I say.
“They’re leather; it’s only fair. You don’t want animals killed for their meat, then I figure you don’t want ’em killed for their hide, either. And you know those boots you had your eye on over in Middlebourne? You can forget those, too. Same as that vest you got last year at Christmas, the suede one with the fringe around the bottom.”
Man oh man, life is more complicated than I thought. One decision after another, and no matter which way you lean, there’s an argument against it. What it comes down to is that I like to eat meat if I don’t have to know how the animal died. And I sure don’t want to give up my rodeo hat.
“Well, one thing I know,” I tell my dad as we set to work cutting up the potatoes and carrots, “I don’t want Shiloh turned into a hunting dog.”
Dad don’t answer right off, but I can tell by the way he’s chopping that I struck a nerve. “He was already a hunting dog before you got him,” he says. “I was hoping I could take him coon hunting with me some night.”
“He’s not going to be no hunting dog!” I say louder.
“Well, he belongs to you, Marty. You got the right to say no, I guess.” And then, after we put the vegetables in the fridge, waiting to go in the pot when the meat’s tender, Dad says, “Tomorrow, I want you to take some of this stew over to Judd, and thank him for the squirrels.”
I figure this is my punishment, and maybe I had it coming.
Four
When I get up next morning, Ma’s got this big waffle sittin’ on my plate, a sausage alongside it, little pools of yellow margarine melting in the squares. Syrup’s hot, too.
Still, a waffle can’t make up for the fact that on a day off school, wind blowin’ like crazy, I got to hike over to Judd’s place and give him the remains of what I wish he hadn’t shot in the first place.
To make things worse, Dara Lynn’s sittin’ across from me in her Minnie Mouse pajamas and, knowin’ I got to go to Judd’s, crows, “I’m not gonna go outside alllll day! I’m just gonna sit in this warm house and play with my paper dolls.” And when that don’t get a rise out of me, she adds, “Alllll day! I don’t have to go nowhere.”
I asked Ma once if Dara Lynn had been born into our family by accident or on purpose, and she said that wasn’t the kind of question you should ask about anyone. Accident, I’m thinkin’, looking at her now. Nobody’d have a daughter like that on purpose.
Shiloh starts dancin’ around when I put on my jacket and cap. He thinks we’re going to take a run down to Doc Murphy’s or somethin’, but I know that as soon as I turn right at the end of the lane, he’ll start to whine and go back. Surprises me, though. This time he goes halfway across the bridge before he stops. I finish the rest of the trip alone.
I’m thinkin’ how when a man wrecks his truck and his leg both, and almost loses his job—his life, even—he’s sunk about as low as he can get. Dad says either he’ll hate himself so much he’ll decide to change, or he’ll hate the way other folks feel about him, and turn that hating onto them. Sure hope he don’t turn his hating onto me.
I’m passing by the house of one of Judd’s neighbors, the family that took two of his dogs to care for till Judd’s better. I see the smaller one at their window now, barkin’ at me, but his tail’s wagging. Never saw any of Judd’s dogs wag their tails before.
I get to Judd’s and have to knock three times before he comes to the door, and then I see I woke him up.
“What you doin’ out this early?” he asks, hair hangin’ down over his face, his pants pulled on over a pair of boxer shorts bunched up above his waistband.
“Dad wanted me to bring over this squirrel stew,” I tell him, handing him the jar. “Thought you ought to have a share of it.”
That pleases him then—as much as you can please a man you just woke up. “Can get some more squirrels where those come from—pick ’em right off the tree,” he says, and laughs.
It’s then I know this is one big mistake.
“Well,” I say, “actually, we don’t eat all that much meat. But Ma didn’t want the stew to go to waste.” Trying to be polite and honest at the same time is hard work.
Judd quits smilin’. “She didn’t like it then, so you’re giving it to me?”
Uh-oh. “No! She likes it fine. Just wanted you to have some.” Right this minute I am wondering what the difference is between a fib and a lie. Last summer, when Shiloh run away from Judd and come to me, and I hid him up in our woods, I told Judd Travers I hadn’t seen his dog. Didn’t tell my folks I had Shiloh, neither, and they claim I lied. What am I doing now? I’d like to know. Ma don’t appreciate those dead squirrels any more than I do. If I stand here and tell Judd Travers the naked truth, though, I’ll get my britches warmed pretty quick when I get home, you can bet.
“Well, you tell your ma that anytime she wants some more, let me know. I can’t hunt nothing else, I can at least shoot squirrel.”
“I’ll tell her,” I say. And I head back home.
There’s somethin’ good waiting for me when I get there. Ma says David Howard called and wants to know can I spend the day at his place. His ma will be picking me up about eleven.
“Ya-hoo!” I say, throwing my jacket in the air, and Shiloh dances around, too; if there’s any happiness going on, he’s a part of it.
“Change your shirt and comb your hair,” says Ma.
I go into the girls’ bedroom where I got a bureau in the corner, all my clothes in it. I get out a sweatshirt with BLACKWATER FALLS on it, and put it on.
Dara Lynn’s still in her pajamas—she and Becky. Got their paper dolls spread all over the bed.
“Where you goin’?” Dara Lynn asks.
“Over to David’s,” I say. And then, not even looking at her, “Can’t wait to have lunch at David Howard’s: chicken salad with pineapple in it, pickles and potato chips, and a big old fudge brownie covered with coffee ice cream and chocolate sauce.” Truth is, I don’t know what we’re havin’ for lunch, but figure that’s close.
Now I done it. Dara Lynn slides off the bed and goes hollerin’ out to the kitchen to ask why don’t we nev
er have fudge brownies and chocolate sauce, and I get away just in time.
David’s in the car with his mother when they pull in. For the second time that day, Shiloh thinks he’s going somewhere, but don’t even get out of the house. I give him a hug and tell him we’ll have a run when I get home, and then I slide in the backseat beside David. Since we usually play up in David’s room, his ma don’t appreciate a dog runnin’ around inside the house.
“How was Thanksgiving, Marty?” she asks. Mrs. Howard’s got blond hair, and she’s wearin’ a heavy white sweater. She teaches high school. David’s dad works for the Tyler Star-News.
“Yeah,” says David. “How was dinner with Judd?”
“Nothing special,” I say. “It was okay.”
“Was he drunk?”
“ ’Course not, but he’s still banged up pretty bad. He’ll be wearing that cast another month, at least.”
“Do you see any change in him, Marty?” asks Mrs. Howard, and I can tell by her voice she don’t expect much.
“Not a lot, but Dad says he’s tryin’,” I answer.
David and me each tell what all we ate on Thanksgiving—how many rolls and helpings of stuffing, and after the car goes back down the winding road, through Little, and past the post office in Friendly, we get to David’s house, which is two stories high (four, counting the attic and basement), and has a porch that wraps around three sides of it.
David whispers he has a secret but won’t tell me till we’re in his room, so while his mom gets lunch, we go upstairs. David’s room has a map of the universe on one wall and a globe on his bookcase. Except for the bunk beds, David Howard’s bedroom looks like a school. Got his own desk and chair, bulletin board, and encyclopedias.
As soon as we’re alone, he closes the door. “Guess what? You know that fight Judd Travers was in, back before his accident?”
“Yeah?” I say. “With the guy from Bens Run?”
“Yes,” says David. “Well, the man’s missing. It’s going to be in the newspaper this week.”
“So?” I say. “What’s Judd got to do with it? He’s been laid up for weeks now with that broken leg.”