red maple leaf. No blood, not even a trickle, Malcolm told himself. I did not shoot that animal. But already Malcolm could sense that never again would those turkeys return. Slowly he put the gun back in the duffel. He walked to the dead being and picked it up by its neck, then brought it in close to his body. It was warm against his chest and for a moment he believed he could call it back to life. “Forgive me,” he whispered. He put his nose into the animal. It smelled of deep, untouched forest. He held his breath so as not to cry. As he walked toward his house, Mrs. Randolph stood and moved her head in a slow, womanly way. It was not a message of approval.
Sophie was inside, at the kitchen sink, that old cookbook Hjalmar had given her all those years ago open beside her. She had meant to choose something to cook for her son but had gotten caught up watching those turkeys instead. When the largest fell, Sophie squeezed the glass in her hand until it splintered into pieces.
“Mother,” Malcolm said when he found her. He had left the dead turkey in the woodshed. He had forfeited his own wool jacket for the bird, wrapped her up in it and placed her on top of the woodpile. Now his mother’s own blood painted the dishwater that filled the sink. He reached for her hand but she pulled it back. It was clear that a piece of glass was lodged deep in her finger. “Mother,” Malcolm said again. “We’ve got to get you to the doctor.”
“Call Signe,” Sophie said. Once more when he reached for her she flinched. “Don’t you come near me. Call Aunt Signe and don’t you ever come near me.”
In the years to come, Sophie would look at that clean, precise scar that ran the length of the pointer finger on her left hand and she would recall the words that she had said to her son. With the turkeys gone (because they did disappear, every last one of them, forever) Sophie wandered from room to room and eventually in her steps she turned that anger at her son inward; how terrible she had been. Had she been so terrible to Karl? She took the letter opener from Otto’s desk and ran it down the length of the box that sat on her hope chest, beneath a pile of fresh towels. The name split in half, KARL OT on one flap and TO WICKHOLM on the other. Carefully Sophie untwisted the top of the plastic bag and plunged her hand into the remains of her son. Like sand she let him fall through her fingers. She took up only one handfuland placed it in a tin. Her finger still had its stitches, six of them, and she had already removed the bandage, so Karl’s ashes stuck to that moist line of cut. She did not wash them away.
Sophie had not said as much, but the Swedish church in Boston that her aunt Signe used to take her to was the place where she had first come to God. She would like to take her son there. She placed the tin with her son’s ashes in her purse, along with a train schedule, and first thing Sunday morning Sophie tiptoed across the hall and opened Malcolm’s door and called his name to tell him she would take him on an adventure, they would go to Boston and they could go to lunch there and he could get a box of chocolates and they could even go visit that old Chinese street he liked, she would give him five dollars and he could spend it any old way.
“Malcolm?” she said. The harsh wind knocked at the storm windows. “Malcolm, honey, wake up. Malcolm?” She rushed across the room and tore off the covers though she knew already that her son was gone.
Jennifer in Oregon. That was Sophie’s first thought as she flung open his top drawer and reached in the back to just the place where she herself would hide something. There they were, those three opened letters. Like a beast she tore through them. Then she went to the window and threw it open. The lake rose up below and Sophie screamed her son’s name, knowing he would not hear.
“Over here, honey,” Mrs. Randolph had told Malcolm the day before. Winter was soon and she and
Sophie was inside, at the kitchen sink, that old cookbook Hjalmar had given her all those years ago open beside her. She had meant to choose something to cook for her son but had gotten caught up watching those turkeys instead. When the largest fell, Sophie squeezed the glass in her hand until it splintered into pieces.
“Mother,” Malcolm said when he found her. He had left the dead turkey in the woodshed. He had forfeited his own wool jacket for the bird, wrapped her up in it and placed her on top of the woodpile. Now his mother’s own blood painted the dishwater that filled the sink. He reached for her hand but she pulled it back. It was clear that a piece of glass was lodged deep in her finger. “Mother,” Malcolm said again. “We’ve got to get you to the doctor.”
“Call Signe,” Sophie said. Once more when he reached for her she flinched. “Don’t you come near me. Call Aunt Signe and don’t you ever come near me.”
In the years to come, Sophie would look at that clean, precise scar that ran the length of the pointer finger on her left hand and she would recall the words that she had said to her son. With the turkeys gone (because they did disappear, every last one of them, forever) Sophie wandered from room to room and eventually in her steps she turned that anger at her son inward; how terrible she had been. Had she been so terrible to Karl? She took the letter opener from Otto’s desk and ran it down the length of the box that sat on her hope chest, beneath a pile of fresh towels. The name split in half, KARL OT on one flap and TO WICKHOLM on the other. Carefully Sophie untwisted the top of the plastic bag and plunged her hand into the remains of her son. Like sand she let him fall through her fingers. She took up only one handfuland placed it in a tin. Her finger still had its stitches, six of them, and she had already removed the bandage, so Karl’s ashes stuck to that moist line of cut. She did not wash them away.
Sophie had not said as much, but the Swedish church in Boston that her aunt Signe used to take her to was the place where she had first come to God. She would like to take her son there. She placed the tin with her son’s ashes in her purse, along with a train schedule, and first thing Sunday morning Sophie tiptoed across the hall and opened Malcolm’s door and called his name to tell him she would take him on an adventure, they would go to Boston and they could go to lunch there and he could get a box of chocolates and they could even go visit that old Chinese street he liked, she would give him five dollars and he could spend it any old way.
“Malcolm?” she said. The harsh wind knocked at the storm windows. “Malcolm, honey, wake up. Malcolm?” She rushed across the room and tore off the covers though she knew already that her son was gone.
Jennifer in Oregon. That was Sophie’s first thought as she flung open his top drawer and reached in the back to just the place where she herself would hide something. There they were, those three opened letters. Like a beast she tore through them. Then she went to the window and threw it open. The lake rose up below and Sophie screamed her son’s name, knowing he would not hear.
“Over here, honey,” Mrs. Randolph had told Malcolm the day before. Winter was soon and she and
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