The Turkeys We Walked Home

The Elevator

I did not call Corey that weekend. I thought about it about a hundred times. I did not do it.

I did not have to.

On Monday morning, Halvard hauled a load of corn to the elevator in town, the way he does most weekdays in November. And Corey happened to be there, because one of the dealership’s customers had a dryer down and Corey was dropping off a part.

I was not there. But I heard about it from three people before supper, including Burton and the man who runs the scale, so I am fairly sure of how it went.

Halvard climbed down from his truck, walked over to where Corey was standing, and said good morning. Then, in front of the scale house and two other farmers, he told Corey exactly what he had seen at eight o’clock Saturday morning. Whose car. Who got out. Who opened the gate and drove off.

Then he told Corey that his kids and his ex-wife had walked three hundred turkeys home across a township road, and that his eight year old had carried the last one in her arms.

“Thought you’d want to know,” Halvard said. And then he got back in his truck and went to dump his corn.

The man at the scale told me Corey stood there for a long time without moving.