Holiday of the Dead (15 page)

Although he could no more read what it said than read the entire works of William Shakespeare, he’d smoothed it out and had laid it safely under the lamp next to the sofa. His great grandfather, by all accounts, had been a frugal man of word and deed – much like himself – so if he had taken the time to write a note, it had been because he had something to say. Day after tomorrow, he’d ask Sheriff to read it to him. Sheriff was always early to pick up his bird, and he always sat for a short spell to sip on some coffee. But, in the meantime, he’d honour his great grandfather, and hopefully make amends for this disrespectful way the heirloom had been treated, by using it for the slaughter.

Emil sighed at the thought of the night’s work that lay ahead. Slaughtering one hundred turkeys, then cleaning and dressing them was tiring work. Often he wondered how his father had done twice that many at his age, and his grandfather three times as many before that. ’Course, he’d always been around to help. Well, maybe not always. When he was real young, maybe six or so, the sight of all that blood had turned his stomach, and he’d hide in the root cellar until it was over. His father used to laugh at his reaction and joke that, in the Larson household, the first turkey slaughter was a thing of beauty since it brought the colours of Christmas – the red blood meant green money.

But as he’d gotten older, he’d begun to appreciate his father’s trade, and had learned how to do it efficiently and economically. Everything was still done the old fashioned way. No fancy equipment or automated nonsense. Shakers Point had remained a small town, and many of the younger residents got their birds from the market, frozen like a brick and as tasteless as one, too. The older folks who knew how much better a fresh turkey tasted trusted him to supply their feast. It was time consuming, but with only a hundred birds for Thanksgiving and about seventy-five for Christmas, it was manageable. Besides, it was more of a hobby than as a means to make a living. At forty bucks a pop, though, it wasn’t too bad.

Emil gingerly placed the edge of the blade against the spinning wheel one last time. He winced at the shrill wail, then pulled it away and slid the knife back into its leather sheath. Stretching and yawning, he glanced at the clock above the work bench.

Almost 10:00pm

Time to get started.

If he waited too long, he’d run out of steam before the job was done. These birds were heavy buggers – ornery, too – and every year it was getting harder and harder to hoist them into the shackles. Tomorrow was Tuesday and he’d spend most of the day cleaning, dressing, and wrapping the birds for pick-up on Wednesday. Starting at 7:00am on Wednesday, one hundred lucky townsfolk would be coming one by one to pick up the grain fed, all natural star of their Thanksgiving celebration. And the birds had better be clean as a baby’s bottom by then. Heaven forbid there should be any gory reminders that their delicious meal had been alive and kicking only a short time before.

It would be a long night tonight, and an even longer day tomorrow.

Emil took his killing jacket from the hook in the workshop and shrugged it on. It carried the pungent odour of dried blood and turkey piss, but it was just too much trouble to get it to the dry cleaners. He didn’t leave the house much anymore, since the arthritis had settled into his hips. Frank down at the Mid Town Market sent his orders once a week, and his prescriptions came by mail. He had the occasional doctor’s appointment, but otherwise, he was pretty much a home-body. Gas cost too much and the old pick-up was on its last legs anyway, so what was the point of going anywhere?

He took the sheath from the workbench, clipped it onto the belt of jeans, and stepped into the brisk night. Breathing deeply, he filled up on the fresh air he wouldn’t smell again for hours, and admired the view. The farm wasn’t that big, but it always seemed more expansive at night. The hen barn was set off in the back, furthest away from the house. In there, he kept his hens and the toms used for mating. That’s where he raised the poults for next year. His father used to call it the “Happy Barn.” The slaughter barn was closest to the house, but at enough of a distance so that the odour and clamour of the turkeys didn’t drive him too crazy. His great grandfather had built both barns and, aside from a few modifications necessary to keep out predators in search of an easy meal, it was the same as it had been on the day he built it.

Sturdy and strong, tried and true.

Proof again that the old fashioned ways of doing things were still the best ways of doing things.

The light breeze was heavy with the scent of pine needles and the promise of rain—maybe even snow, depending upon how cold it got. It wasn’t that unusual to have snow on Thanksgiving in this part of Pennsylvania. Hell, it wasn’t unusual to have snow on Easter either. The cold made the birds sluggish, so it certainly wasn’t a bad thing, but the dampness made his hips ache, which slowed him down almost as much as it did the birds. This time of night, the turkeys were half asleep anyway, which made the whole process easier as well. Another trick he’d learned from his father. Still, despite the late hour, when he unlatched the door brace, tugged open the heavy barn door, and turned on the overhead light, the turkeys immediately began their incessant gobbling, as if sensing that there was something different about tonight.

Over the years, he’d grown accustomed to the racket they made, but as the holidays drew closer, and the flock was more mature, their voices were loud enough to grate the nerves. It was always a relief on Thanksgiving morning, and even more so on Christmas, when raucous gobbling of these birds was silenced.

“Good evening, you poor bastards.”

At the sound of his croaky voice, the flock quietened a bit. They knew his voice. He’d raised each and every one of them. They trusted him, as much as a turkey could trust anybody.

Emil patted the knife at his side. “Tonight’s your night boys. More than half of you are going to that great turkey pen in the sky.”

A row of twenty leg shackles hung against the side wall over several blood basins. The wall was indelibly stained with dried gore. Four rows of twenty inverted draining cones were lined up alongside the wall, each cone tucked securely, narrow side down, inside the wooden rack that his great grandfather father had built. The rack was on wheels, and resembled an oversized checkerboard, with plastic cones in place of red and black checkers. The cones had been replaced a few times over the years, but the wooden rack was as stable as ever. Good workmanship; another testament to doing things the old fashioned way.

The toms were bunched together in a large pen opposite the shackles and wooden checkerboard, a bobbling sea of white feathers. Tonight one hundred birds would be slaughtered for Thanksgiving, and the remaining seventy five would stay in the pen until Christmas week. Emil went to the pen and opened the gate, careful to block the exit so that he didn’t waste energy chasing any birds around the barn. The turkeys gobbled louder as they surrounded him, expecting a handout of grain or some other goody. He grabbed the nearest turkey, a nice plump tom that squawked in protest. Emil tucked the bird under his arm, holding the wings tightly. The wing muscles flexed as the bird struggled against his grip, and knew that by the end of the night, his arms would surely be aching. Hopefully, there’d be enough hot water for a nice bath to soothe his sore bones.

He carried the bird to the shackles and, with an ease that comes with years of practice, hoisted the bird upside down, clamping each leg firmly into the first set of shackles. The bird squawked and screeched, wings flailing, feathers flying. The other birds looked on, warbling softly, seemingly unaffected by the plight of their fellow pen-mate, oblivious to the fact that they would soon be in the same precarious position.

“Settle down, you damn stupid turkey. You’re only hurting yourself.”

Emil shook his head. These dumb birds didn’t even realize that the more they struggled the more painful the shackles would be. They were so heavy that the repeated struggling usually dislocated their hips and wings. And people wondered why it was so easy to get the leg sections off some turkeys but not others.

One by one, Emil grabbed a bird and hoisted it into the same position as the first, shackled firmly by its feet, hanging upside down. Each bird in turn squawked and complained until their wings tired from flailing and their tiny brains were about to burst from the blood rush. When each of the shackles held a plump turkey, Emil proceeded to the second step. He slipped his great grandfather’s knife out of its sheath. Starting with the first bird, with one quick swipe, he slit its throat.

The knife sliced through the thick skin efficiently and smoothly, and Emil could swear a pleasant tingle emanated from the handle as it slid effortlessly across the turkey’s gullet. It was as if the knife itself were expressing its gratitude for being used again after having laid dormant for so long. The noisy squawking of the bird abruptly ceased, while its beak opened and closed futilely. Its head waggled obscenely, still attached to the neck by a thick flap of skin and muscle, as blood poured into the basin. The turkey flapped its wings with renewed vigour, but couldn’t escape the inevitability of death.

Emil twisted the knife in his hand, admiring once again the way the blade caught the light on its edge, and then continued down the line, slitting the throat of each bird so that the blood could run out, marvelling all the while at the proficiency of his great grandfather’s knife. How fluently it cut through the necks of the birds, and with each use, the pleasant tingle became more electrifying, until the knife itself seemed to glow with invigorating energy, humming with the thrill of being valuable once again.

When Emil reached the end of the row, he slipped the knife back into its sheath for the time being and returned to the first bird, now limp and flaccid. He unshackled it and placed it head down inside the first cone, so that the rest of the blood could run out. He did the same with the other nineteen shackled birds, until twenty birds were arranged securely in the cones, head down, tail feathers up, feet still twitching. Satisfied with the first group, he returned to the pen, and one by one, started loading the shackles again. He’d have to repeat the process four more times, so that when he was done, he’d have eighty birds draining in the cones, and the remaining twenty draining in the shackles. Then he’d take a short break – maybe catch a twenty minute nap – allowing some time for all the blood to drain out, before carting them off to the cooler and dumping the blood in the stream out back. In the morning, he’d finish the job – gutting, plucking, trimming the wings and legs – so when his customers picked up their birds, they’d be perfect, no blood, no gore, not even a feather.

Emil’s arms burned more fitfully with each bird he hauled into and out of the shackles. Slitting their throats was actually the easiest part as it gave his aching muscles a rest. The strange, electric feel of the knife made it even better – enjoyable, even. When Emil finally sliced the gullet of the last turkey, he heaved a sigh of relief and squinted at his watch. 2:03am Not bad. Years ago, he’d been able to do this part of the job in three hours, tops. But age carried a price.

His bones throbbed and his arthritic hips were on fire. Still, the wonderful knife had made the job easier. He idly watched as the flailing of the last bird slowed and gradually stopped.

That was it. Break time.

He wiped the blade of his great grandfather’s knife on his slaughter jacket, placed it back in the sheath, and washed up in the basin. The rest of the birds watched him warily, their jabber quieting as the night’s excitement ebbed away. They’d been spared until the Christmas kill.

“Sleep tight, you lucky birds. You got a few weeks to go before it’s your turn.”

Emil glanced around the barn one more time, turned off the light, and latched the door. He’d be back in less than an hour, but it didn’t take long for predators in these mountains to catch the scent of fresh blood, and he’d worked too hard for some fox or bear to come along and enjoy the free fruit of his labours. He stopped at the tool shed, shrugged off the blood stained jacket, placed it back on the hook, and laid the knife next to the grinder. The chilly night air nipped at his flannel shirt as he dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He relished the silence as he made his way back to the house. The hens and mating toms were fast asleep in the back barn, and more than half the kill birds were done. For a while, the incessant racket the birds made would be dimmed considerably – a welcome respite. Without even turning on the lights, Emil sunk into the comfort of the well-worn arm chair across from the sofa and sighed. His great grandfather’s note was still tucked securely under the lamp, and he wondered what words of wisdom it might impart.

“Whatever you got to say in that note, Great Grandpop, I sure do appreciate your gift. It’s a superb knife. Real quality. Thank you.” His voice sounded groggy even to his own ears. Normally, he’d grab a snack in the kitchen, but tonight food took second seat to exhaustion. He shut his eyes and hoped a twenty minute nap would give him enough energy to lug the turkeys out to the cooler and empty the blood basins. Maybe he was just getting too old to keep this up anymore.

At 4:23am Emil’s eyes popped open.

Even before he saw the display on the cable box, he knew he had overslept.

Dread churned in his stomach. The birds had been left hanging in the barn too long. They should have been in the cooler by now. Not only would the stench attract unwelcome visitors, but one time his father had left a batch out too long, and a good number of folks got sick. Poultry was a fickle meat.

“Damn it! Don’t need no spoiled birds after all that work!” He pushed himself out of the armchair as quickly as his tight muscles would allow, and tried to stretch the soreness out of his back and hips.