Chapter Eight #2
I jerk back at the gruesome sight as Jason stomps into the barn knocking snow off his boots in the process. He looks me dead in the eye as he steps in from the cold before gently lowering the elk head to the ground against the wall.
Dylan joins us with what looks like one fourth of the elk’s body slung over his shoulders.
The elk looked massive from the window. But up close, even in pieces, it’s ginormous.
I always pictured elk the same as deer, like Bambi.
Clearly, they are substantially bigger and entirely made of muscle.
Maybe that’s why everyone in Oregon goes nuts for them, the payoff of meat for one kill is exponentially higher than deer.
“Did you cut it up in the snow?” I ask with a sneer on my face. I don’t even want to look in that direction when I go back to the house. It’s probably a bloodbath amidst the pristine white.
“Had to,” Dylan explains, “those fuckers are too heavy to carry back in one piece.” Dylan swings the chunk of meat off his shoulders and onto the butcher block table with a huff of air. He certainly sounds like he exerted energy transporting it back.
Jason leaves, presumably to collect another piece of the elk carcass. But Dylan rummages through some tools laid out on a folding table instead of helping his brother. Pretty soon, he has an array of knives and tools laid out on the butcher block just as Jason returns with another hunk of elk meat.
“Why do I have to watch this?” I direct my question at Jason although I know he can’t answer. But I swear the way he looks at me is almost audible. I can almost hear him say because you need to learn. Though, I don’t know what it is I need to learn.
Dylan dons a pair of latex gloves before taking a knife in hand and starts cutting the fur away from the meat, skinning the poor beast to reveal the red meat beneath the surface.
Blood is everywhere, by now, and the sound of him tearing the skin away from the body is one I’ll never forget.
It’s akin to Velcro being ripped apart, but add a touch of slasher movie soundtrack to it.
I turn my head so I don’t have to watch but remain rooted to the spot I’ve been in since Jason returned with my arms banded across my chest. I’m too stunned to move, at this point.
Jason heads out to collect the rest. And by the time the entire elk is in the barn in pieces, Dylan has the first part free of skin and fur and Jason aids in cutting chunks off to freeze for later.
To my utter horror, Jason strides across the barn with an outstretched bloody, gloved hand and grabs my arm, careful not to get the blood on my skin. I’m logical enough to know the blood won’t hurt me, but the idea of it touching my skin still sends shivers up my spine.
With no room for argument, Jason yanks me toward the workstation and hands me a pair of gloves.
I stare at the gloves then at the butchered piece of elk I saw standing in the yard not that long ago.
After putting the gloves on, as directed, Jason hands me a knife and guides my hands to start cutting the meat away from the bone, pointing at fatty pieces we don’t want, and expertly slicing the proper shapes.
It’s disgusting. But I do it anyway. I’ve learned well enough that if Jason is insistent on something, there’s little room for protest. So I do my part to earn my keep here and help them cut up the poor animal.
It takes nearly the entire day, but together we get the bones clear of meat and save as much as we can. Dylan explained that the liver is a great vitamin replacement, and the bones make excellent broth. No part of this sacrifice was wasted.
And by the end of the process, that’s what this feels like, a sacrifice.
Dylan said the elk had lived a long life, he told me that once elk reach this age, they run the risk of impregnating their own daughters and creating genetic inbreeding that’s bad for the population.
This is all part of the wildlife dynamic that keeps the species going.
I saw the way the elk dropped in a heartbeat, it didn’t suffer, didn’t even know what was happening by the time it was over. That sounds like a peaceful way to go.
After an entire day of cutting up elk meat, vacuum sealing it, and storing it in the freezer, my body felt like I’d run a marathon. Processing an elk is way more strenuous than I imagined.
And that’s the reason I slept in this morning.
One of the boys had to bang on my door to finally pull me from my slumber.
The clock says eight in the morning when I roll over to see it.
Only an hour later than I normally get up.
But I’ve certainly started going to bed earlier with all the work I’ve been doing.
It’s Thanksgiving, which means both Jason and Dylan are putting their work aside for a day (aside from tending to the animals) to cook for the day. Dylan was raving about Jason’s grilling skills and stuffing while we butchered the elk. And he assigned me the task of making rolls today.
Seeing as it’s a holiday, I decide to wear the long dress from the trunk of clothes that belonged to Mrs. Alder.
It’s a sage green maxi dress speckled with little white flowers.
The top is smocked with long sleeves that bunch at the cuff so I can roll them to my elbows while I work.
Since I don’t have my usual styling products, my hair either hangs down my back or lives in a bun atop my head.
Occasionally I opt for a braid like I am today.
My hair isn’t exceptionally long but it’s long enough to hang over my shoulder, a nicer way to keep it out of my face without crinkling it into a mess.
When I land on the main level of the house, Jason is in the kitchen already at work smothering a huge chunk of elk meat in some sort of seasoning.
He pauses briefly to eye my attire, I’ve never considered how it would make them feel to see me in their mother’s clothes.
Logically, I know they willingly allowed me to wear them, but it was more out of necessity than generosity.
I don’t know how their parents died. Their father died during our senior year of high school.
I think I heard it was an accident or maybe he drank himself to death.
I don’t know. I didn’t really care enough to pay attention to the small town gossip.
Their mother must have passed away after I’d moved to California.
The dark gray color of his eyes flashes silver before he goes back to working on our dinner. Ignore it, he’s probably just not sure how to feel about someone wearing his mom’s clothes.
Giving myself a task takes my mind off the insecurity.
I start working on fried eggs for breakfast. I’ve come to learn that Jason prefers them medium while Dylan prefers his eggs runny.
I also unwrap ground sausage from the wax paper it’s stored in and pop it in the skillet with the eggs.
Paired with some toast, it’s a filling breakfast. Though I plan to save lots of room for dinner tonight.
I’ve never had a home cooked Thanksgiving before.
Come to think of it, I’ve only had a handful of home cooked meals in my life that didn’t come out of a microwave. I actually feel a little…excited, dare I say.
We each take turns in the kitchen working on our assigned dishes, since the kitchen isn’t big enough for more than two people and Jason is spending most of the day working on his respective sides when he’s not tending to the elk.
I asked if he wanted help so he wasn’t working all day but he adamantly shook his head no.
I guess he really loves to cook. Fine by me since I have little to no skills.
I’m a nervous wreck while the rolls are rising for fear I did something wrong.
I followed the directions precisely, I measured everything with obsessive accuracy.
They look normal, but that doesn’t mean they will rise and bake correctly.
“Do you want to play cribbage?” Dylan draws me out of the book I’m reading on my own, not the one I read aloud nearly every night.
“Cribbage?” I dig into the recesses of my brain for more information. “That’s a card game, right?” It sounds like something little old ladies get together once a week for and drink iced tea the whole time.
No wait, that’s bridge.
“Yeah,” Dylan replies, rising from the couch to collect something from a box beneath the coffee table, then sets it on the kitchen table. “Well, it combines cards and a board. I can explain.”
Dylan goes over all the pieces, the order of operations for each phase of the game, and the point system. It seems like a gentleman’s game with all the rules about the person who’s not dealing being the one to cut the deck, and whatnot. But I think I’ve got the hang of it.
He also explains the skunk line on the board and that if you lose behind that line, it’s basically humiliation. Good thing I don’t care what he thinks if I get skunked.
I do have a bit of a competitive streak, sometimes, but with Dylan I’m less worried.
Everything with him is so carefree and copacetic.
I never feel the distinct pruning of my soul like I do around others, no worry about what he thinks.
Mainly because Dylan wears his heart on his sleeve, and his opinions.
He’s so comfortable sharing his thoughts without oversharing.
And he genuinely seems to like…well…everyone. The same can’t be said for most people.
He’s the opposite of his silent and mysterious brother who conceals as much of himself as he can.
By the hair of my chinny chin chin, I don’t get skunked. I make it two points over the line when Dylan wins my first game of cribbage. I didn’t expect to win my first game, but it helps that Dylan is a gracious winner and I’m not a sore loser.
Maybe that’s why I was subpar at volleyball, I didn’t have the drive the coach was always preaching about.
I didn’t feel that competitive fire in my belly or the need to prove myself.
I was just existing and surviving, successful without being extraordinary.
I was a good teammate and volleyball player, but I never made any game changing plays.
Cribbage was fun, though, and I’d definitely enjoy playing again.
“That was fun,” I say as I stand to pop my rolls in the oven. “We should play again sometime.”
Thankfully, the rolls look like they inflated the proper amount which gives me hope I made them right. Now, all I have to do is bake them at the perfect temperature for the correct amount of time.
You can do this.
“Is the oven free?” I point to the appliance in question while looking to Jason for an answer, since I know it’s a visual, not an audible, reply.
He nods his head and I slide the rolls in, setting the already warm oven to the correct temperature and starting the timer.
I scan over the various pots and pans Jason has laid across the counter or stovetop. Yams topped with some sort of brown sugar crumble, green beans cooked with bacon, stuffing (or as my mom calls it, dressing). Everything smells incredible.
Dylan prepared the cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes with gravy.
It’s a traditional Thanksgiving feast. The only traditional part of Thanksgiving dinner at my parents house was the turkey.
The other courses were things like a pear and blue cheese salad or shrimp cocktail.
I don’t think I’d even had pumpkin pie in that house.
It never occurred to me how depressing the customs of my childhood home were until I was out of it.
I wonder what my parents are doing today. Do they miss me? Did they look for me?
Did anyone look for me?
I can’t believe I almost wasn’t here for this holiday.
Thanksgiving is about gratitude, and I guess I’m glad to be alive, even if this isn’t an ideal situation. I’m grateful Jason didn’t leave me to die in the snow, even if he did make me butcher an elk yesterday.
It makes me uneasy that he can hold the whole saving my life thing over my head the rest of my life, but I guess the alternative isn’t as ideal.
I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I’m alive.
I have to be.