Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

48 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Heather E. Goodman
over his mom’s cancer, washing her thin skin, dressing her in the dark,
demurring to her modesty. He whispered about the guilt of loving his
gained freedom when he no longer had to care for her and said he
would never sacrifice his life again for someone else’s. Later, when we
did nearly the same for Dad, Will’s words came back to me. By then it
was too late; my belly grew, as did our sacrifices.
Will is steady. With an instrument in each arm, he pierces
the turtle’s neck. I hear the meat fork sink into the plywood and the
turtle goes crazy, legs scratching, neck frozen. Will raises the knife high
overhead and slams it down, harder than he has to. Blood is oozing, and
the smell makes the humid air a foul oil. Will grasps the body by its sides
and turns it neck down over the trash can, letting the blood spill into it.
He has to be careful of the turtle’s legs, still violently swimming as the
blood drains from it. I can hear the drops hit the bottom of the can with
a dull ping, and I turn away.
But what I see is the turtle’s head, bodyless, pinned to the table and
snapping at the air, eyes bugged. It is desperate, and I am reminded of the
nights I sat with Dad as he choked on his lungs, working to breathe.
The turtle stretches its neck, gnashes its jaw, fights. I hear Dad.
“Turtles don’t die right away. Live long after you kill them.”
Tears bite at my eyes. My stomach turns over and kicks.
I check the fire. The coals glow hot, and I try to stand back from
the fire pit’s heat. I’m already sweating through my T-shirt and the
cut-offs I borrowed from Will since mine no longer fit. It has never
been so stinking hot. The fire smells like beers after hunting and
Dad’s stories, but everything is wrong and there’s no hunting season
or Dad, though a beer would be a damn good idea.
Will is busy tying the rope that hangs over the oak branch around
the turtle’s shell. With the other end of the rope, he raises the turtle
above the trash can to let the rest of the blood drain from its body.
Hanging, the body slowly twists, a child’s spinning top. There is no
breeze, and once the branch stills from Will’s movements, the carcass
only drips.
The head of the turtle is still at last, but now staring. I take a deep
breath and march to it, yank the steak fork from the plywood and
choke when I end up with turtle head on a stick. The neck drips blood
on me, and now it’s funny, a fancy cocktail party gone horribly wrong.
Behind Will, I extend the fork, “Lunch?”
He doesn’t flinch, instead studies the turtle’s eyes already hazing