Thanksgiving Murder

Thanksgiving Murder
A short story by Diana Weeks

Mom told me not to name the turkey the church ladies gave us. It was my job to feed the bird corn to get her fat before she gets the ax on thanksgiving.

I named the fowl Jean Harlow after Pa's favorite movie star. I had noticed our scrawny turkey had a “sure” natural stride like Miss Harlow.

I started talking to her, assuring her that I would help her escape. Yes; I wasn't going to stand by and watch the murder of my new friend.

My folks had to send my twin brother Bubba to work on Uncle Al's farm. I'd been alone with 'them', our parents, who were both out of work and cranky. I had heard one of the church ladies call us 'the most pitiful family in the congregation, a pure insult.

Miss Harlow would strut around the empty chicken yard. Our flock of chickens had been sold the week before the early frost had killed ma's kitchen garden.

“Don't worry about a thing” I told Miss Harlow. “There's a bunch of wild turkeys in the woods. I'll take you there.”

“Hey kid, I like it here” she insisted.. “Food hand delivered.

“Are you crazy? They'll kill you!

“Of course…the way I taste…it thrills the tongue. Yum yum … eating a drum stick or thick slices of my breast. I makes people happy”

“For one day” I say.

I like your folks. I want them to get to keep their turkey eating tradition. Getting together to eat gives families comfort.

It's barbaric. I've got it; you could start laying eggs to earn your keep.”

“No, that hurts. I want to be a thanksgiving turkey. I'll get all the praise! I don’t have to compete with decorated trees or presents for attention. A turkey spirit never dies. I'll come back as. Santa’s elf, the Easter bunny…or the tooth ferry.

I don’t think…I'll be able to eat you. I threw Miss Harlow some more corn…from my apron pocket…and told her. I don’t thing I’ll be able to …eat you.

You must…you can’t ruin the balance of nature. While I’m being stuffed…I’ll find out what the children want for Christmas and be sure they get it.

I can till you right now…I told Miss Harlow… I want a bicycle. But I still won’t eat but maybe one drum stick.

“Gobble, gobble…enjoy me”…she shook her turkey tail feathers.. “Cheer up…a turkey’s spirit never
dies.

My brother made up a Thanksgiving poem last year…when he had to feed the Thanksgiving turkey.

A TURKEY NEVER DIES
Turkey dressing hotly roasted
Turkey sandwich lightly toasted
Turkey salad made of legs
Every meal it’s on your plate
I use mine for fishing bait
Two weeks past Thanksgiving Day
You may turn up in a soufflé
Enchiladas stew or hash
Even Turkey succotash
With imported caviar
Or a chocolate candy bar.
You can feed all the troops
On the Turkey carcass soup…on the Turkey carcass soup.
Miss Harlow flapped her wings, laughed loud and gobbled. Yes child, it’s true. …Turkeys never die…
Mom just doesn’t want you to land on her hips or Pa’s tummy.

THE END
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED