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 it!”
“Callie, stop scaring it away from the door!” Ian barked. “And I’m not going to kill it! Weren’t you just bawling over this thing?”
The bird landed on the couch, then fluttered down and ran into the den. Angie lunged and Ian tackled her, managing to grab her collar. “No, girl! Stay! Callie, open the sliders, for God’s sake!”
I power-crawled across the floor and opened the sliders that led to the deck. Angie was whining, trying to get away from Ian, who was half lying across her. From in the den came some more crashing and turkey growls.
“Here, turkey, turkey, turkey,” I called. Laughter wriggled dangerously in my stomach.
Goooorr … gooorrr … “Go in there and flush it out,” Ian said.
“Yeah, right,” I snorted. “I’m not going in there. You go.” Goooorr …
“I’m holding the dog.”
“Well, I’ll hold the dog, then,” I said, crawling over to Ian and Angie. “I’m not going in there. It’s a man job. Testosterone required. Besides, it might peck me.”
“It should peck you. You’re the one who hit it,” Ian muttered, but once I had the dog by her collar, he stood up. “Don’t let go of Angie,” he warned.
“Yes, Doctor,” I said. “Now good luck in there. I’ll take a drumstick.” A wheezing laugh burst out of me.
“Great,” Ian muttered, giving me a look. He went in, and Angie wagged her tail, wishing her master luck. I waited, burying my face in Angie’s silky fur. One … two … three …
“Gloogloogloogloo!”
“Watch out, here it comes!” Ian yelled.
The bird came sprinting out, wings flapping, and Angie lunged again, barking for all she was worth. I caught a glimpse of hideous bird legs, felt the wind from its wings and couldn’t help but shrieking. “Ian! Get it out of here!”
“Easy for you to say!” he called, scrambling after the bird.
Then the bird must have finally smelled freedom, because it turned its ugly head, spotted the great outdoors and sprinted through the front door, down the porch steps. I heard Bowie’s explosion of barking. “Is it safe?” I called after a minute.
“Yes,” Ian answered, so I let his dog go. She immediately began sniffing all the good turkey smells. I hoisted myself onto my feet.
Ian stood in the great room, breathing hard. I went over and stood next to him.
“I don’t think it’s dead after all,” I said. Ian cut his gaze to me, and I doubled over with laughter, clutching the doorframe.
“Very funny,” he said drily. “Why don’t you let Bowie out of the car? He can go in the backyard with Angie. It’s fenced in.” He turned and went into the kitchen.
I
