First Kill
By Kimberly S Gregory
Jake slowed to look at the pink hued sunrise on the eastern horizon. He swished the milk pail as he carried it from the barn toward the house. His grandmother insisted on having a milk cow just like they had had in the old country, and that Jake do the milking. That suited him just fine. He enjoyed the peace and solitude.
His mother kissed him and grabbed the milk. Jake washed his hands and sat at the table. Pancakes steamed in front of him. Mother brought a platter of scrambled eggs. “Breakfast is ready,” she announced.
Jake’s sister, father, and grandmother all appeared and assumed their places. His mother filled the plates, beginning with Jake’s father.
“Delicious, Mom,” Jake said.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, boy,” said his father, “Woman, you know I like my eggs over easy! What is wrong with you?”
Jake’s mother lowered her eyes and got up. She walked slowly over to the stove and grabbed two fresh eggs.
“Forget it,” said his father, “Just bring me some whiskey for my coffee. You already ruined my breakfast. What kind of a wife forgets how her husband likes his eggs?”
Jake’s mother silently did what she was told. Jake noticed her lower lip trembling.
“Mom, my breakfast is good,” Jake said.
Everyone started as father’s fist slammed the table.
“Don’t contradict me, boy,” his father said. “When you start to contribute something of value to this family, then your opinion will matter.”
“Yes, father,” Jake said. He breathed faster, keeping his anger at bay. He flicked a glance at his mother. His heart turned. She sat still, staring at her food.
“What’s for dinner?” demanded father.
“Biscuits and cream gravy,” mother said.
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“When are we going to start having some meat on this table?”
“We can’t afford it.”
“Don’t be smart with me woman,” father yelled, “What do you spend all my hard-earned money on?”
Mother cupped her hand over her cheek and said nothing.
Father chugged his coffee and stomped out of the house.
“May I be excused, Mama?” asked Jake.
“Yes, son,” his mother said with a tender glance.
Jake jumped up, took his plate to the sink and ran outside. The old ford pick-up was already gone. He silently hoped his father had gone to work and not to the bar. Behind the barn, Jake pulled a bow and arrows out from behind the woodpile. He took off for the woods. Hank, the kind old man from the nearest farm had given him the old weapon in exchange for Jake’s help around his farm.
Jake ran for about half a mile, then slowed to a walk. He heard a squirrel chattering. Jake ducked behind a tree and positioned himself to strike. The arrow whirred past the squirrel, who scampered up a tree. Jake found and reclaimed the arrow and resumed his hunt.
He walked quietly through the dark wood. The large trees blocked out the sun. Several yards away he heard a familiar sound. A flock of wild turkeys were bunched together in a nearby clearing.
Jake approached stealthily. He hid behind a fallen log and aimed carefully this time. He breathed slowly, holding the arrow and bow taut. He released the arrow. It flew past the turkey he was aiming for and hit the one right behind it. The rest of the flock scattered. The struck turkey flailed around in a circle, then collapsed, motionless to the ground.
Jake exhaled forcefully and stood dumbfounded. He inhaled and ran to the turkey. His first kill! He picked up the turkey and ran for home. It felt to him like he was flying. He was carried home not by his own legs, but by the exhilaration of his triumph. All his hours of practice and failure were forgotten in this instant.
Jake arrived at the front porch and collapsed on the stairs, hugging his turkey with the arrow still in it.
“Jake, what’s wrong?” asked his mother, as she opened the front door.
“Mama, do you know how to clean a turkey?” Jake asked as he lifted the turkey up for her to see.
“Oh son, my sweet, sweet son,” his mother said. “Yes, I know how to pluck and clean a turkey.” She took the turkey up in her arms and smiled at Jake. She then put it down and hugged her son. She kissed him and cuddled him. “Well done my boy, well done.”
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