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  Tom Turkey Season Is On... and the Hunters Are Out In Force |
By RAY DREYFACK
of TheColumnists.com
It was an hour before dawn and Josh, 11, was lost in
dreams when he felt a hundred and thirty pound weight set down
hard on his head.
“Are you going or not?”
“Yeah, I’m going.”
His brother got off of him.
Josh leaped out of bed. Jeff, 15, had promised to take him turkey
shooting. It wasn’t just for the fun of it. They needed
the birds. Rations were tight since Pa had passed.
Mama and Aunt Joyce were still asleep in their beds in the ramshackle
gray house that had a BAIT AND TACKLE sign out front. Between
school and whatnot the boys did their best to keep the business
going.
They went downstairs to the kitchen and gulped down muffins slopped
with yellow cheese and hot chocolates Jeff had prepared. Then
they squirmed into boots, wiggled into gloves, slapped on their
knitted orange hunter caps, and shrugged into heavy mackinaws.
Jeff grabbed the 10-gauge shotgun and they were off.
A chill north wind whipped their faces when Jeff opened the door.
Their mouths puffed like steam kettles. The sky was bleak with
a somber hint of dawn filtering in. A pale gray mist shrouded
the tall pines and firs.
Tom turkey season was in full swing. The boys climbed into the
once blue ’69 Ford pickup that offered small relief from
the biting cold. Jeff slid behind the wheel and they headed out
toward Grant’s Cove.
“You cold?” Jeff asked.
“Naw.”
Jeff smiled. “Me neither.” They exchanged grins.
An owl hooted.
At the Cove Jeff parked off the edge of the dirt road. They heard
a shot in the distance, followed by another shot, the faint sound
of a shout.
Josh’s excitement was growing. Jeff had taught him to shoot
and said he might let him try a tom or two on his own. When Pa
was alive no one knew more about turkey shooting than he. Pa
taught Jeff everything he knew, and Jeff taught Josh.
Jeff had reduced wild turkey shooting to an art. Half the art
is locating the bird, which let off pent-up sexual steam by shock
gobbling at the sound of an owl’s hoot, a crow’s caw,
or a coyote’s howl. “Best locator call known,”
Jeff told him, “is a crow call. You blow it hard and loud
and you’ll get a turkey shock gobbling any day of the week.”
When Jeff blew a crow caw not even the crows knew the difference.
He showed Josh how, and Josh started getting it.
They scrambled over a low wire fence and trudged their way into
the marsh. The ground was soggy in spots. They moved several
yards through the weedy, scraggly growth. A chipmunk scooted
by.
“Look here,” Jeff said. He pointed to fresh deer tracks.
“Maybe we can get us a doe.”
“Hey, wow!”
Somewhere back off towards the road they thought they heard a
car backfire.
Suddenly Jeff buckled down and collapsed onto the ground as if
folded in half. He gazed up at Josh with green terror filled
eyes. Then, just like that, the intelligence flicked out of them.
Josh was puzzled at first. Moments passed before comprehension
set in.
It wasn’t a backfire they’d heard.
Jeff lay stone still on the ground.
Josh stared down at his brother. Blood gurgled up through the
mackinaw out of the hole in his chest.
“Jesus, God!” Josh started to tremble.
He stood there for several minutes staring down at his dead brother.
Finally, his face set with resolution.
Josh took the key to the pickup from Jeff’s pocket
and covered the body with a lot of branches and dirt to keep
animals from getting at it.
Suddenly Josh was no longer Josh. He transformed into Jeff. Grabbing
the shotgun, he moved on into the marsh.
"The best locator call is a crow call."
Josh tried it for sound. The croak was scrawny and weak. The
second time it was stronger.
‘Sometimes a series of three or four caws works best.’
Josh tried again and drew a gobble response.
It took him more than three hours to bag two bearded toms and
a hen. He loaded them into the pickup and got behind the wheel.
Josh was tall for his age. His foot just about reached the pedal.
Ma and Aunt Joyce were in the yard hanging clothes.
“Where’s Jeff?” Ma asked.
“He’s dead. He was shot by a hunter.”
Aunt Joyce looked at him hard. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Ain’t no joke.”
Ma looked hard into his face and her terrified eyes opened wide.
She started to moan, slowly at first, then it turned into a wail.
“Oh my God!” Aunt Joyce cried, and ran into the house.
Ma came down fast with one of her migraines so bad she had to
gulp down medication and take to her bed.
Aunt Joyce called their brother on the telephone. Uncle Bob lived
just down the road. His stomach was the size of a watermelon.
He waddled into the house on the run. His first call was to Sheriff
Glynn. The rail-thin cueball bald lawman appeared in 10 minutes.
Aunt Joyce was back on the phone. Minutes later the house was
crowded with neighbors, friends, relatives, and lawmen. Uncle
Bob carted the toms to the pantry.
Gently and softly the sheriff started questioning Josh. “What
happened, son?”
“A hunter’s stray bullet got Jeff.” His voice
sounded flat and matter-of-fact.
Sheriff Glynn gave him a look.
“Do you recall where this happened, where the body is?”
“Yes sir. It’s down by the Cove.”
“You could take us back to the spot?”
“Yes sir.”
Josh’s voice displayed no feeling of any kind. People were
looking at him funny.
“Son, did you happen to notice the time when, uh, this occurred?”
“Right about dawn. We had just started out.”
Sheriff Glynn frowned and glanced at his wrist. “Did you
understand my question, son?”
“Yes sir.”
The frown deepened. “The killing occurred at dawn, and you
didn’t rush back to report it?”
“No sir. I needed to shoot me some toms. That’s what
we went out for.”
Uncle Bob and a neighbor, Mr. Muhle, and others, exchanged puzzled
looks. Amos Garner was shaking his head. He muttered to his wife
out of earshot, “What’s wrong with the kid. It don’t
seem to faze him none. If a brother of mine was killed . . .”
Emma Garnet laid a hand on his arm. “Hush, dear.”
The sheriff sighed and blew out his cheeks. “Let’s
go, son.”
He and Josh and Uncle Bob climbed into the van. The sheriff took
a deputy along with them. They drove out to the scene. The body
was undisturbed. Sheriff Glynn and the deputy loaded Jeff into
the vehicle.
That night Josh was unable
to sleep. The luminescent digital clock on the nightstand read
3:15. He felt a burning compulsion to talk. There was stuff he
had to tell Ma.
The house was freezing. Josh wore flannel pajamas but the cold
air sliced right through them. He slipped out of bed and slid
into his slippers. He shuffled down the hall to Ma’s room.
“Ma?”
His mom didn’t stir.
“Ma?”
“It’s cold, Josh, go back to bed.
“Ma?”
“Go back to bed, Josh.”
He hesitated. His mother’s eyes were listless, more dead
than alive.
Josh shuffled back to his room--to their room. The room they
shared. He stared at the picture of Jeff that hung over his bed.
Jeff had on a blue sweater with the red soccer letter he had
won. His brother grinned down at him as if nothing had happened.
Josh stood there several minutes staring hard at the picture.
Josh shook his head as if to clear it. He shuffled across the
room and struck his head against the wall. He did it again and
again with increasing velocity. His eyes were dry as sand baked
in the scorching hot sun.
©2004 by Ray Dreyfack. The illustration is from IMSI's Master
Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506,
USA.
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