by Tom Birdseye
The smile had dropped from Duane’s face in an instant. His voice went flat as he turned to Livi. “It’s for you,” he said. “It’s your mother.”
Tucker and Duane had stood motionless and listened as Livi laughed and talked with a woman neither of them knew anymore. The joy of the music was gone. What had been left was a look of hurt in the eyes—the same look still there at breakfast.
Tucker went back to his seat and forked the last of his scrambled eggs into his mouth. I know I promised I’d try to be nice to her. And I have been. Well, OK, maybe not as nice as I could be. But I haven’t been rude. I’ve just avoided her as much as possible, that’s all. Please don’t make me be with her today, Dad. Joe Allen and I are supposed to test our bows and arrows. Deer season for bow hunters opens in just one week!
“Please help out, Tucker,” his father said. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving your sister here alone while I work. Besides, she wants to be your friend. She’s been telling me every day how wonderful she thinks you are. She’s been telling me how your mother wants to get the family back together.” He motioned with his hand toward the back porch where Livi sat writing another letter. “She wanted us to talk to your mother last night on the phone. I just didn’t know what to say … right then.” His voice trailed off unsteadily into silence.
Tucker looked down at his reflection in his breakfast plate. The white glaze was smeared with eggs and butter and dotted with toast crumbs. It made him look like an old man. He hadn’t known what to say on the phone, either. He had only looked at Livi when she held the receiver out to him, saying, “Here, talk to Mom.” He was at a loss for words now, too.
Duane Renfro stood and walked to the sink. He emptied the remainder of his coffee into it. “Please do this for me today,” he said, looking out the kitchen window to where Livi sat. “I’ll get a regular job soon, and you’ll have your Saturdays free. Everything will be better, you’ll see.”
Tucker reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over the carved Indian chief. A warrior of The Tribe always honors a promise made, no matter how hard to keep. I must think of this as a test of worthiness—just like the Mandan warriors. Joe Allen and I can practice with our bows later, I guess.
Tucker looked up at his father, who still stared out the window. A test of worthiness. “OK, Dad,” he said as cheerfully as possible, “I’ll stay here with Olivia.”
“I wish you’d remember to call me Livi,” she said, smiling. “Olivia sounds like you’re talking to the queen of England, or a movie star or something, don’t you think?”
Tucker watched as Livi opened the mailbox and put her new letter to Kentucky inside. Do you have to write every day? You talked to her last night on the phone. What are you telling her about us? It’s driving Dad nuts. His eyes quickly scanned the envelope before she shut the door. There was something added to the usual Kentucky address he knew so well. Ms. Kathy Hayden it said, then in big capital letters beside her name, ALSO KNOWN AS MY MOM!
The anger that rose in Tucker’s throat came as quick as it was unexpected. He balled his fists as if to fight it back. “ALSO KNOWN AS MY MOM,” it says. Well, she’s my mom, too! Why don’t I get letters addressed to “Tucker Renfro. ALSO KNOWN AS MY SON?” Why don’t I get letters every day that tell me about a great new book she’s reading, how the Cincinnati Bengals are doing, what the weather is like in Kentucky, how work is going? She’s my mom, and I hardly know what she looks like, how she smiles, what kind of ice cream she likes. All I’ve got is that one picture she sent two years ago; that and the letters I’ve saved. Why doesn’t she write ME and ask how I’m doing instead of writing OLIVIA to ask about me? Why wasn’t that phone call last night for ME? Why hasn’t she cared enough to come out here and—
“Or Olympian!” Livi said excitedly as she put the red flag up on the mailbox. “Get it? Instead of Olivia Hayden, what if Mom and Dad had named me Olympian Hayden! I’d probably be a great star of the Olympics!”
Tucker stuck his fists in his pockets, trying to relax them. I don’t need letters or phone calls from Kentucky. Dad and I get along OK by ourselves.
He looked at Livi. She was still smiling up at him. “Get it, Tucker? Olympian Hayden?”
He pushed a half smile onto his face. “Yeah, I get it,” he said.
Livi turned her feet back and forth in the gravel of Tamarack Road. “So what do you like to do on Saturdays?”
Tucker realized he had been holding his breath and let it out. He started to shrug. Livi interrupted. “Hey, let’s go look at the turkeys,” she said. “I really like the one that’s as big as a baby hippo—world-record size!”
Tucker looked down the driveway at the turkey pen. “You mean that dumb old turkey? Icarus?”
Livi looked puzzled. “Who?”
“Icarus,” Tucker said, impatience showing in his voice. “That’s what Dad named the fat turkey, because he thinks he’s a big shot now, but come Thanksgiving he’s going to lose all of his feathers, just like the kid in the Greek story who flew close to the sun wearing homemade wings. Dad’s into all that mythology. He studied it in college.”
Livi’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah? Mom likes it, too. She says the sun melted the wax that held the feathers on and Icarus fell into the ocean and drowned.” She looked back over at the turkey pen. “Do you have to kill Icarus for Thanksgiving? He’s so big! Let’s go watch him strut around the pen.”
Tucker scowled. “He’s just a dumb old—”
“We could go out in the woods, then,” Livi interrupted. “That’s what you do every day after school, isn’t it? I went on that path that goes down to that dried-up creek. Then it just seemed to disappear. Show me where you go!”
Tucker took a step back as if Livi had pushed him. She almost found the secret place of The Tribe! I can’t let her know! He took a deep breath and waved his hand toward the creek bed, trying to erase the path from Livi’s mind. “That trail you’re talking about doesn’t go anywhere, just to the creek,” he said as calmly as possible. “Your first idea was better. Let’s go watch that dumb tur—” He forced another smile. “Let’s go see what Icarus is doing.”
Icarus was staring through the fence of the turkey pen, making angry gobbling sounds at the dog. Maggie, not to be outdone, was looking into the turkey pen and making low growling sounds at Icarus.
“Quiet, Maggie, you’re making that big turkey mad,” Livi said with a grin, patting Maggie on the head.
Tucker walked idly over to the pen and poked his finger in at Icarus. The big turkey jabbed at it with his beak. Tucker jumped back. “Hey! What’s with you, bird?” he said angrily.
Livi laughed. “He must have gotten up on the wrong side of the turkey pen this morning.”
Tucker scowled. “Turkeys don’t get up on the wrong side of anything. They don’t have enough sense to know the difference between one day and the next.”
Maggie growled again. Icarus retreated a bit, but gobbled loud and long at her.
“Like to get in there, huh, Maggie?” Livi said. “I’ll bet Icarus would run you right out of there. He’s big enough.”
“No way,” Tucker said stiffly.
Livi turned to Tucker. “You think not?”
He looked down at her. “No way,” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” Livi said, “Icarus looks awful mean.”
Tucker looked back into the pen. The rest of the turkeys in the flock were in the far corner. Icarus was still eyeing Maggie and gobbling angrily. Tucker reached down and stroked the back of Maggie’s head again. Olivia is as dumb as Icarus. I guess I’ll have to prove it to her. Turkeys do NOT chase dogs.
This one did, though. As soon as Tucker let Maggie into the pen, Icarus came running right for her, wings spread like a banshee. Maggie growled and tried to look fierce. The rest of the dozen or so turkeys in the pen took note and flew up onto the roof of the coop to get away. But Icarus didn’t even break stride. Pecking and gobbling in a feathered fury, he kept on coming, and Ma
ggie—intelligent dog that she proved to be—decided to run.
Livi began to giggle. She reached over and nudged Tucker in the ribs. He was watching wide-eyed through the fence. Back and forth in the pen the two animals were going—Maggie with her tail tucked between her legs, the turkey acting as if death would surely come to any trespasser that messed with his flock.
Then the gate somehow got knocked open. Maggie ran into it, jarring it loose while dodging a particularly well-placed jab by Icarus. Both animals stopped and looked at the path to freedom. But it was Maggie who dashed for it first.
Icarus, however, wasn’t done with the canine intruder on his turf. With a wild series of gobbles, he sprung into the air, and before either Livi or Tucker could do anything to stop him, the huge bird was riding Maggie’s back out into the yard.
Livi squealed and jumped up and down in place, her arms looking a lot like the turkey’s wings. She whooped and shouted, “Ride ’em, Icarus! Ride ’em wild!” Tucker stood glued to the ground, blinking to convince himself that what he was seeing was not real.
Maggie knew it was real, though. She headed straight for an old sawhorse sitting by the garage with a bucket of old car parts hanging from one end. Ducking her head, under she went. Icarus caught the crossbeam of the sawhorse square in the chest. The bucket, car parts, and feathers flew everywhere. And Maggie—looking back over her shoulder to be sure the turkey wasn’t coming after her for more—careened off the garage, bumped into the old Volkswagen, and shot across the driveway, hurling herself onto the porch.
Tucker walked over to the dazed turkey and stared down at him. He shook his head, then stooped and tried to pick him up. Icarus was so round and fat there was little to get a good grip on, but in two tries Tucker finally heaved the bird off the ground and began staggering back toward the pen. Icarus gobbled once, struggled for a moment, then twisted his neck around and began to examine Tucker’s chin closely.
“I think Icarus likes you,” Livi said. She had stopped jumping up and down and flapping her arms, and now stood sporting a sly smile.
Tucker stopped and pulled his head back. Icarus followed Tucker’s movement, craning his neck forward. Tucker scowled. “Maybe,” he said, leaning back even farther, “but I’m pretty sure I don’t like him.”
Icarus gobbled.
“See?” Livi said. “He’s telling you all about it.”
Tucker looked at his sister, then back at Icarus. That was when the turkey reached right up and pecked Tucker on the cheek as gentle as a kiss.
“Aha!” Livi burst out. “It’s love! True honest-to-goodness turkey love!”
Despite obvious efforts to keep it back, a smile fought its way onto Tucker’s face. Livi giggled at the sight of it. To his surprise, Tucker couldn’t stop himself from doing the same. First her, then him, then her, then him. The giggling kept itself going like a ball down a hill, until they both gave way to the pull of it, brother and sister laughing, wrapped together in silliness for what may have been the first time in their lives.
10
Tucker smoothed the feathers of his first arrow, then fit the notch onto the bowstring. On opening day I will use this bow and this arrow to hunt with Dad. He shifted his feet slightly, making sure his body was turned at a right angle to his and Joe Allen’s target—a bale of hay propped against the big cedar in the clearing. They had gotten it from Mr. Eldridge when they dropped by to see how the barn roofing was going. Duane Renfro, working on Sunday to get the job done, had waved from thirty feet off the ground.
Taking a deep breath, Tucker raised the bow and pulled the string back to his chin. I will kill the deer with one shot to the chest. He sighted down the shaft of the arrow. It will be my final test of skill and worthiness. Then he released. The arrow blurred across the clearing in an instant and sunk half its length into the hay bale.
“Wow!” Joe Allen yelled. “It worked that time without wobbling back and forth in the air.”
Tucker nodded. I will become a hunter for The Tribe. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess straightening the feathers was the answer. Try yours.”
Joe Allen stepped up to the line they had drawn in the dirt. He fit his arrow to the string, raised the bow, pulled, and fired. The arrow flew across the clearing slowly, dragging itself through the air. It hit the big cedar instead of the hay bale and ricocheted off into the bushes. Joe Allen dropped his arms to his sides. “Aw, I give up,” he moaned. “I can’t get this thing to work right.”
Tucker walked over to the bushes and found the arrow. He sighted down the length of it. “I think the problem is in the shaft, not the feathers. It’s crooked. Must have warped on you. You’re probably going to have to redo it.”
“What about the other two?” Joe Allen asked in a tired voice. “None of them fly right.”
“You’ve got time,” Tucker said. “Work on them today and we’ll try again tomorrow. Just as long as you’ve got them fixed and have practiced by opening day is all that matters.”
Joe Allen walked over to the tipi and sat down on the old blanket. He blew out a puff of air. “I don’t know, Tucker, this is a lot of work. I thought this Indian stuff was supposed to be for fun.” He ran his fingers through his curly red hair.
Tucker picked up one of his own arrows and prepared to shoot again. “You can do it, Joe Allen,” he said. “Just find some straighter pieces of wood this time.”
Joe Allen looked at his arrows, then put them and his bow down. His face suddenly brightened. “Hey, did you know I get my clarinet tomorrow? We start sixth-grade band and I will get to sit by Jessica Wagner.”
Tucker’s arrow flew true, again burying itself halfway in the hay bale. He turned back to Joe Allen. “The main deer trail runs right alongside my house in the gully, then crosses Tamarack Road. I’ll bet we can find a good place somewhere in there for you to hunt from. You be sure and pick up the hunting licenses this week, OK?”
Joe Allen held up his hands and wiggled his fingers in front of his face. “These look like good clarinet fingers to me. I took your advice and stopped paying any attention to that crazy sister of yours. No more burping contests. No letting her talk me into ruler-balancing contests, either. I got back at her, too. Did she tell you?”
Tucker came over and sat down. I made a promise to Dad. I shouldn’t have told Joe Allen to ignore her. Tucker picked up Winter Count and started leafing through it. “Tell me what?”
Joe Allen laughed. “How she got her feet caught in the rings out on the playground at school. And she was just hanging there yelling for help.”
Tucker’s last entry in Winter Count still had the Xs where he had crossed out Olivia’s name. He stared at the writing.
“Except all of the kids were already going into the building and nobody heard her except me,” Joe Allen continued with a chuckle. “I got back at her. I just ignored her like you said. A teacher finally came out and got her down.” He laughed and slapped his knee. “What a snollygoster she is, huh?”
Tucker reached into his pocket and let the carved Indian chief slip into his palm. She’s not that bad. We actually had a good laugh together yesterday. And she covered for me today. She told Dad that she just wanted to stay home and watch the Cincinnati Bengals football game on TV; that I didn’t have to stay with her again like I did yesterday. She knew I wanted to do something special, but she didn’t get nosy and ask what. She’s really not so bad.
“Or maybe she’s worse than a snollygoster,” Joe Allen continued. He pulled out his dirty-word list and ran his finger down the page. “Yeah. Look at this one, number nine. How about that one for Olivia?”
Tucker looked at the word, then quickly closed Winter Count and stood. The anger that crept into his voice was a surprise to both him and Joe Allen. “Fix your arrows,” he said. “I’m going home.”
Joe Allen stood. “Hey, what’s the hurry?”
But Tucker had already picked up his bow and arrows and ducked into the tunnel leading out of the clearing—too far away for Joe A
llen to hear him mumble words neither of them would ever have predicted: “And don’t talk about my sister like that. She’s not that bad.”
11
It was Sunday, and yet the red flag on the mailbox was up again. Tucker saw it as he was crossing Tamarack Road. So that’s what Olivia really wanted to do—sit home and write another letter. She writes a letter no matter what day it is. Probably wanted to tell Mom about yesterday. He smiled. That was so funny—a turkey chasing a dog, then giving me a kiss.
Tucker stopped in the middle of the gravel road and looked at the mailbox. I wonder what she wrote. What did she say about me? He glanced over at his house. Other than a light on in the kitchen, there was no sign of anyone. Did she tell her that I’m wonderful like she told Dad? Did she say I’m a good brother? That I help Dad? That I do my best at school?
A car came around the curve on Tamarack Road. Tucker stepped back by the mailbox and covered his face with his hand so the dust wouldn’t get in his nose or mouth. The cloud of grit billowed up between him and the house. He looked again at the mailbox with the red flag up. What difference would it make if I readjust one letter? Just one? It wouldn’t be breaking my promise. And I could put it back and no one would ever know the difference. What did she say about me? He looked again toward his house, as if Olivia needed to hear what he was thinking. She’s my mother, too, you know. You wouldn’t mind, now that we’re kind of getting along, would you? Then he took the letter from the box, stuck it in his pocket, and ran into the woods.
Tucker sat down under a pine tree and opened the letter—carefully, hoping he could reseal the envelope. He unfolded the page and began to read.
