The Turkey Hunt
(Page 2 of 3)
October/November 1996
By Edward Stern
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" "I am?" I said. He looked confused. Then he looked at Jen.
"Didn't you tell him?"
"Oh," Jen said, "I forgot.
" "Forgot what?" I asked.
"Well" said her father proudly, "every year I ask one of the boys to go and bring back the fresh turkey for the Thanksgiving meal." He paused. "This year I thought I'd ask you.
" Although I was flattered by Mr. Johnson's offer, I was also shocked. I mean, sure, I'd killed animals before—a frog here, a frog there, a few hundred ants underneath a magnifying glass. But I'd never actually stalked and killed wild game, and to be honest, I didn't think I particularly wanted to.
Her father just stood there waiting for a response. "That'd be great," I said.
"That a boy," he said smiling. He turned and went to bed. Jen smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I was going to explain to Jen's father that not only had I never really killed anything, but that I barely even knew how to shoot a gun. I could see the disappointment in his face. And her brothers—I'd never be able to look one of them in the eye. I didn't sleep a wink.
At the first sign of light I went out to the hunting shed. There I found camouflage vests, camouflage face paints, bright orange hats with ear flaps, crossbows, polarized glasses with yellow lenses, and of course, the gun rack. "I can't do it;" I thought to myself, "I'll just go back in, thank them for the offer, but tell them no."
