3. Chapter ThreeMINA
Chapter Three
MINA
The world could wait; today was mine. I stepped into the yard with my rake, where piles of red and gold leaves waited like heaps of treasure. For a fleeting moment, I was a child again, tempted to dive headfirst into their crunchy embrace.
Humming a tune, I gave in to a small flourish, spinning the rake like a baton. Just as I bent to rake more leaves, a cacophony of squawks and gobbles shattered the serene morning. I looked up, just in time to see a turkey plummet from the ridge above, somersaulting through branches and crashing into the leaves near my feet.
I dropped the rake and rushed over, my heart quickening with a mix of concern and curiosity. The turkey was a sorry sight, its feathers matted and drooping. With my elbows on my knees, I crouched down and studied the creature. It looked utterly disheveled, one leg held up at a pitiable angle. Its eyes had the glassy sheen of shock, its beak slightly ajar.
“Oh, you poor little thing!” Thoughts of popped into my head. How many of its kind were already in the deep freezer at the Corner Market?
I reached out my hand cautiously.
Just before my fingers could brush his feathers, the turkey puffed up. His beady eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw defiance in their black depths. I froze.
He held the pose, challenging me, and I almost laughed. Was he daring me to come closer?
“Hey, I won’t hurt you, promise,” I said, inching forward with what I hoped was a cheerful smile.
The turkey let out an indignant gobble, his feathers fluffing in irritation. He shuffled backward, his good leg working overtime to create distance. I couldn’t resist smiling. He had a lot of fight in him, I’ll give him that, but I wouldn’t give up so easily.
“Come with me. You won’t last long out here with a sprained leg,” I said, though I knew he couldn’t understand. “Let me help you. I’ve got a nice warm farmhouse and barn, plenty of grain. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
The turkey regarded me with what seemed like a mix of suspicion and contemplation.
I named the turkey Thomas, and he tried a graceful limp across the yard. But I was right behind him, chasing after him. No matter where he turned, I followed, unfazed, like a herding dog with a flock of sheep.
“Come on, let me help you.”
Thomas was unamused. He squawked and flapped his wings, hoping to get out of my reach.
I burst into laughter. The whole scenario was ridiculous. A grown woman chasing a wounded turkey around her yard as if it were some slapstick comedy routine. But beneath the humor, I was genuinely concerned for him. Why was he in the forest and what kind of trouble was he in?
Thomas swerved wildly toward the massive oak, hoping its thick trunk could shield him from me. Seeing his move coming, I cut him off, crouching low with my hands on my knees.
“Please, just let me look at your leg,” I said, trying to sound serious but unable to wipe the smile from my face. Thomas paused, considering his options. His little turkey brain must have been working overtime to come up with a new strategy.
He chose the classic one, run straight for the fence line. I let him waddle a few feet, not wanting to stress him more than necessary, but ready to pounce if he got too close to the road.
“You’re going to hurt yourself more if you keep this up!” He didn’t listen, of course, but I felt better having said it.
Right as he was about to escape, I lunged, my arms outstretched in a playful imitation of airplane wings.
At the last possible second, Thomas turned to face me, planting his good leg firmly and flaring his own wings wide. He let out a furious gobble that echoed off the trees, a sound so full of bravado that I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Was he trying to intimidate me? Poor thing.
I stopped short, studying him. His stance, his eyes... There was a ridiculous amount of pride in this turkey, an almost human arrogance.
“Back off,” his posture seemed to say. “This is your last warning.”
“You’ve got a lot of energy, don’t you?” My voice was so sugary sweet it almost came across as condescending. Another fierce gobble escaped him, this time shorter and sharper. His whole body vibrated with indignation.
He thoroughly charmed me. How could I not be? Thomas reminded me of the plucky heroes in Young Adult books, always fighting on, no matter how bad things got.
Before he could make another move, I sprang forward and scooped him up in my arms. He squawked in outrage, his wings beating against my chest, his leg kicking wildly. I held him close, adjusting my grip to keep him from wriggling free. His feathers were warmer than I’d expected, and his body was a solid mass of muscle and bone.
“Shhh,” I said, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay.”
Thomas was having none of it. He fought on, his movements awkward and frantic. But I clung to him, holding him like a huge, feathered toddler having a tantrum. Slowly, his flailing slowed down, his energy spent.
He let out an annoyed huff. I stroked his ruffled feathers, careful not to press too hard.
I shifted his weight in my arms, surprised at how heavy he was. His gaze seemed to drill holes into my skull. “Relax, silly. I just want to help.”
With Thomas secured in my arms, I headed toward the farmhouse. Every step was a careful balancing act. He was heavier and more unwieldy than I’d imagined. His body shifted with each movement, like a sack of potatoes with a mind of its own.
My farmhouse stood at the edge of the forest, its wooden beams weathered and stoic. A gust of wind whipped my hair and Thomas’ feathers, scattering leaves across the yard.
“I bet you’re hungry.” Though, in truth, I had no idea what turkeys ate. Grain? Corn? Bugs? The thought of digging up worms or finding crickets for him made me shudder.
Thomas responded with a low, grumbling gobble, as if to say, “You think?” He looked across the land, possibly figuring out a path to escape.
We reached the porch, and I braced Thomas against my hip like a mother with a cranky child. I fumbled with the door handle, opening it just enough to wedge us through.
Warmth enveloped us as we entered the kitchen.
The kitchen, the very soul of the farmhouse, overflowed with the warmth and memories of a life lived fully. Mismatched pots and pans hung on the rack. An old-fashioned oven, chipped but beloved, sat beside a crock filled with wooden spoons. Floral wallpaper, its colors faded to a soft, grandmotherly pastel, covered the walls.
I gently set Thomas down on the table, standing him on a thick, hand-knit potholder. He wobbled, his injured leg buckling, but stayed upright. For a moment, we just looked at each other. His eyes were like little black marbles, unblinking.
“Don’t go anywhere,” I said, knowing full well he wasn’t in any condition to make a run for it. I turned to the fridge, opening it more out of habit than purpose. What did I have that a turkey could eat? Leftover salad, half a loaf of bread, some cranberries...
I cringed at the sight of the cranberries. Feeding him those would be like serving up a side dish for himself. I pushed them to the back of the shelf.
Behind me, Thomas let out a soft cluck. Turning my head, I saw him attempting to tidy his ruffled feathers. His beak worked steadily despite his apparent tiredness. He had a charming way of trying to keep his dignity.
Closing the fridge, I returned to the table and leaned against its edge. “You know, you’re kind of beautiful in a scruffy, birdy way.”
Thomas paused his preening and looked at me, his eyes narrowing as if suspicious of the compliment.
“I’m serious. You’ve got character.”
Gently, I touched his breast feathers, and this time he didn’t move away. Thomas shut his eyes for a second, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he trusted me a little. Or maybe he was just too tired to care anymore.
I remembered the rake still lying in the yard, the leaves calling to me. But Thomas needed me more right now.
He eyed the door again. Thomas was still too fragile to leave on his own, and I wasn’t about to turn him out, injured and alone. I imagined him as part of my little household, strutting around the yard with the arrogance of a rooster. The thought made me smile.
“Let’s get you settled,” I said, moving toward the living room. The house was quiet except for the gentle ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. “I know you don’t think much of me right now, but you’re safe.”
My living room was my haven, a cozy mess of stacked books, a well-loved sofa with knitted blankets and trinkets from Grandpa’s travels. I grabbed a comfy old quilt from the linen closet and turned the sofa into a bed.
Thomas nestled onto the quilt, sinking into it. His injured leg jutted out at a strange angle, but he didn’t try to move it. He stared at me, his eyes narrow and wary, like he was sizing me up.
“You’re a lucky turkey,” I said, brushing a stray feather from my sweater. “If you’d ended up in anyone else’s yard, you might be in a roasting pan by now.”
Hesitantly, I turned away and walked to the kitchen to brew a pot of tea. The comfortable warmth of the farmhouse slowly seeped into my bones.
Steam rose from the teapot, swirling in lazy patterns as it met the cooler air above the stove. I poured myself a cup, inhaling the fragrant blend of chamomile and mint.
When I returned, Thomas had closed his eyes, but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. His beak occasionally tapped against his chest, his head bobbing. I sipped my tea and let the silence of the house wash over me.
My mind drifted back to the last time the house was packed. Six years have passed since then. We had a party that over half the town attended. The house burst at the seams with the joyful chaos of laughter, shouting, clattering dishes, and multiple conversations.
Now it was just me.
I sat in the armchair by the fire. Reaching for the stack of books on the side table, I chose one with a cracked leather spine. It was a collection of folktales, something Grandma had brought back from one of her trips. I opened it to the first story and traced my fingers over the yellow pages, the words swimming before my eyes.
“Hey, Thomas,” I said, and he opened one eye slowly. “Do you like stories? Maybe only the ones where the turkey survives, right?”
I flipped the book around to show him the illustration. It depicted a countryside scene, with a quaint farmhouse and rolling hills. A mother hen and her chicks pecked at the ground in the foreground, with a proud rooster standing watch.
“This one is about a rooster who thought he was a prince,” I said, reading aloud.
The sound of my voice surprised me. It filled the room with a soft, lyrical cadence and mingled with the crackle of the fire. Thomas didn’t move, but I imagined he was listening.
The tale was a simple one, full of rustic charm and old-world morals, and by the time I finished, I felt a pang of nostalgia for a past I’d never even lived. I closed the book and leaned back in the chair.
The old clock on the mantel chimed, marking nine o’clock. I rarely drifted off before ten these days, but I was exhausted.
Reaching for Grandma’s old quilt draped over the armchair, I pulled it up over myself. The wool, soft and fragrant, carried a subtle hint of lavender from sachets stored in the linen closet. It was a whisper of her that never truly left this house. Even though I told myself I didn’t mind living alone out here on the farm, moments like these reminded me how much I missed hearing her voice.
I looked over at Thomas.
“Goodnight.” Maybe with Thomas here, the silence wouldn’t feel so vast.