CHRISTMAS GOOSE

The two boys drifted toward each other as they hauled their geese to the truck. Their father had said that if they were old enough to shoot them, they were old enough to carry them. They barely noticed that he had all three cased shotguns in one hand and the bag of decoys over his opposite shoulder.

The boy noticed how his younger brother, Jon Jon, held his goose close to his chest. The boy held his by the neck, the way he’d seen his father and uncle do dozens of times before. This was not his first goose.

Their father hefted the decoys into the bed and slid the shotguns onto the floor behind the front seat. The boy was about to drop his goose beside the decoys when his father stopped him.

“You need to take those into the trees and pluck them.”

“Pluck em? Both of them? That’ll take forever.” The boy had helped his father and uncle pluck a goose the each of the previous two years—the Christmas goose—and even the men complained about it.

“You best get busy then.”

“Couldn’t we just skin them?” The boy almost never argued with his father and Jon Jon watched the exchange the same way he watched a spider wrap a new victim.

His father turned and stared, his eyes a mix of incredulity and irritation.

The boy lowered his chin, his defiance drained from that single look. “Yes, sir.”

Jon Jon warmed his fingers under his goose’s feathers as he watched his older brother yank and tear, mumbling about unfairness and making little progress despite the growing air of fine feathers. The goose convulsed with each violent rip and made a strange popping sound. The act of ripping feathers from his goose seemed less pure than the act of shooting the bird—at least the way his brother pulled at them like a starved coyote.

Jon Jon finally went to one knee and began to pull at the feathers. A moment later, his father knelt beside him to help. By the time they finished, the boy had calmed and even felt a sense of accomplishment for having plucked his bird without assistance.

On the way home, their father, turned down Bobby Unger’s driveway. A year ago, the boy’s father and Bobby’s father had argued almost to the point of litigation over fence that went over somebody’s property line. Six months ago, the Army deployed Bobby’s father overseas. While he was away fighting for his country, their stock contracted Johne’s disease. The boy’s dad said it was like chronic wasting. The boy only knew that was bad and that when folks started talking about “missing payments” and “significant losses” it often preceded lost farms and ranches.

“What are we doing here?” Jon Jon asked.

“He wants us to give up our geese,” the boy said.

“You boys worked hard to get them geese. You hunted like I told you. You shot like I taught you. And you froze your fingers getting all those feathers clear. I also believe I taught you boys about what it means to be neighbors.”

“This is my first goose ever,” Jon Jon said. “My only goose.” The last part came out in a whisper.

“I ain’t telling you. This is your choice. But just remember Bobby’s dad ain’t here to take him hunting or help with the cattle. He’s off doing the things nobody wants to talk about but that must be done. He’s fighting for us. What’re we going to do for him and his family? You decide.”

Their father’s implied disappointment left little choice, but they hesitated long enough for his father’s shoulders to slump. Both boys would always remember that.

Later, lying in bed, the boys stared at the darkness and tried to remember that moment between the blast and the folding wings. Jon Jon could still smell the goose’s cold flesh on his fingers. “Hey, Steve?” he said. “What are we going to have for Christmas dinner?”

The image of Bobby’s mother, reaching for the geese, her eyes clouded, held his response. Finally, he said, “We’ll have Dad.”