from the thermos, and we passed it around, heading up the highway.
We turned onto a narrow rutted road, which ended in a blinding expanse of white. A dirty beige Pontiac was parked next to a rotted fence—dark leaning posts from which coils of rusted barbed wire ran like stitching through the quilted fields of snow. We got out of the truck.
“Hey, Tennessee,” Mr. Jansen said. The man in the car rolled down his window. A cigarette hung from his lip and toast crumbs flecked his beard. He had hard blue eyes and a red scar along the side of his nose. A little girl slept next to him, wrapped in a blanket.
“Boys,” he said, with a faint nod. He gazed through the windshield, his eyes fixed on something distant and still. “Cleared off a patch in the snow and put down corn.”
Steve reached for his wallet. It was fat with credit cards, and an accordion of brittle plastic held photos of his wife and two kids. He leaned through the window.
“C-note?” he said.
Tennessee nodded.
“That’s a costly turkey,” Steve said.
Tennessee swallowed. “You only get one, I guess it might be.” He continued to stare through the windshield. He didn’t seem unfriendly, just far away, preserving his distance, as if he weren’t really a party to this. Next to him, his little girl turned in her sleep, and he adjusted the blanket over her bare legs. Steve handed him the money. Tennessee put the folded bill in his shirt pocket without looking at it and slipped the car into gear, easing through the dry snow.
When he was gone, Steve said, “Hard-up fucking hillbilly.”
Mr. Jansen was unracking the guns and gathering our packs. We wore bulky camouflage snowsuits, each the same pattern—dark branches on a white background. We had only three guns, and so I carried the decoy, a brown plastic hen with galvanized-steel legs. Thinking of Tennessee, I wondered if we were trespassing. I guessed that baiting was illegal but kept quiet. Despite myself, I was looking forward to the hunt, and I hurried along in step with the others, through the deep drifted snow until, at the edge of the field, we came to the blind.
“Jesus,” Steve said, after we’d crowded in. He pulled out a monogrammed silver flask and poured us each a jigger of Scotch, as “an eye-opener,” he said. He winked at me, and said, “Sitting all day in a blind with a bunch of liberals.”
“I think you’ll survive,” Mr. Jansen told him.
“If we got stuck here, I’d eat you. I’d have no problem with that.”
The blind was a small dark hut with a flat tarpaper roof and a packed-dirt floor and two rectangular holes cut in the weathered boards. It sheltered us from the wind, and our huddled bodies seemed to warm it somewhat.
“Ben Franklin wanted the turkey for the national symbol,” Lindy said.
“Smart birds, no doubt about that,” Steve said. “Wily.”
Mr. Jansen brought out the thermos of coffee.
“How about a toast?” he said.
My own silence was making me increasingly self-conscious, and I felt an old inadequacy, not joining in on the banter.
“Whose property is this?” I asked.
“Some union big shot in Detroit,” Mr. Jansen said. “Tennessee’s the caretaker.”
“You wouldn’t think a couple of Democrats would go in for poaching,” Steve said. “But I guess turkey hunts make for strange bedfellows. Like politics.”
I couldn’t follow the drift of his political beliefs, the precise arrangement of bigotries that he used to sort the world, but I raised my cup with everyone else.
Lindy said, “To a big fat tom.”
The coffee and the Scotch parted ways immediately, one warming my stomach, the other rising in a vapor to my head.
“Daly,” Mr. Jansen said, “why don’t you set the decoy?”
“Sure,” I said, glad for something to do, a small role.
Outside the blind, the snow spun like shifting sand. I planted the decoy off to the left of the corn, driving the steel legs into the frozen ground. I squinted across the white
We turned onto a narrow rutted road, which ended in a blinding expanse of white. A dirty beige Pontiac was parked next to a rotted fence—dark leaning posts from which coils of rusted barbed wire ran like stitching through the quilted fields of snow. We got out of the truck.
“Hey, Tennessee,” Mr. Jansen said. The man in the car rolled down his window. A cigarette hung from his lip and toast crumbs flecked his beard. He had hard blue eyes and a red scar along the side of his nose. A little girl slept next to him, wrapped in a blanket.
“Boys,” he said, with a faint nod. He gazed through the windshield, his eyes fixed on something distant and still. “Cleared off a patch in the snow and put down corn.”
Steve reached for his wallet. It was fat with credit cards, and an accordion of brittle plastic held photos of his wife and two kids. He leaned through the window.
“C-note?” he said.
Tennessee nodded.
“That’s a costly turkey,” Steve said.
Tennessee swallowed. “You only get one, I guess it might be.” He continued to stare through the windshield. He didn’t seem unfriendly, just far away, preserving his distance, as if he weren’t really a party to this. Next to him, his little girl turned in her sleep, and he adjusted the blanket over her bare legs. Steve handed him the money. Tennessee put the folded bill in his shirt pocket without looking at it and slipped the car into gear, easing through the dry snow.
When he was gone, Steve said, “Hard-up fucking hillbilly.”
Mr. Jansen was unracking the guns and gathering our packs. We wore bulky camouflage snowsuits, each the same pattern—dark branches on a white background. We had only three guns, and so I carried the decoy, a brown plastic hen with galvanized-steel legs. Thinking of Tennessee, I wondered if we were trespassing. I guessed that baiting was illegal but kept quiet. Despite myself, I was looking forward to the hunt, and I hurried along in step with the others, through the deep drifted snow until, at the edge of the field, we came to the blind.
“Jesus,” Steve said, after we’d crowded in. He pulled out a monogrammed silver flask and poured us each a jigger of Scotch, as “an eye-opener,” he said. He winked at me, and said, “Sitting all day in a blind with a bunch of liberals.”
“I think you’ll survive,” Mr. Jansen told him.
“If we got stuck here, I’d eat you. I’d have no problem with that.”
The blind was a small dark hut with a flat tarpaper roof and a packed-dirt floor and two rectangular holes cut in the weathered boards. It sheltered us from the wind, and our huddled bodies seemed to warm it somewhat.
“Ben Franklin wanted the turkey for the national symbol,” Lindy said.
“Smart birds, no doubt about that,” Steve said. “Wily.”
Mr. Jansen brought out the thermos of coffee.
“How about a toast?” he said.
My own silence was making me increasingly self-conscious, and I felt an old inadequacy, not joining in on the banter.
“Whose property is this?” I asked.
“Some union big shot in Detroit,” Mr. Jansen said. “Tennessee’s the caretaker.”
“You wouldn’t think a couple of Democrats would go in for poaching,” Steve said. “But I guess turkey hunts make for strange bedfellows. Like politics.”
I couldn’t follow the drift of his political beliefs, the precise arrangement of bigotries that he used to sort the world, but I raised my cup with everyone else.
Lindy said, “To a big fat tom.”
The coffee and the Scotch parted ways immediately, one warming my stomach, the other rising in a vapor to my head.
“Daly,” Mr. Jansen said, “why don’t you set the decoy?”
“Sure,” I said, glad for something to do, a small role.
Outside the blind, the snow spun like shifting sand. I planted the decoy off to the left of the corn, driving the steel legs into the frozen ground. I squinted across the white
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