Wild Hearts

You won't even hear the shot.
There you were, sitting in your big over sized chair, feet up with your morning coffee. You were not even aware your baby was up, much less out side in the cold.
"Lynnie?", you hear your husbands voice full of fear come from the kitchen.
You pause, your favorite mug with the wide handle midway to your waiting mouth.
"LYNNIE BABE", he repeats louder but you hear the anxiety drip from every syllable anyway.
"What?", you holler kicking away your foot stool and spilling dark roast across your lap.
"Wolfy. Shot..", and the rest is drowned out by the thunder of your feet down the wooden floor on your way into the kitchen. You get to your husbands side at the kitchen window but his large frame is semi obstructing your view. You see your youngest son doubled over out in the back pasture.
"Wolfy shot a wild turkey. I'll be damned", Hubby finishes. You are remembering the lectures you have given him about the importance of complete sentences and uninterrupted thought. As you stand there and watch him continue to hoot and chortle in bizarre fragments you simply resign your self not to badger him and just psychically rebuff him. You hear your kids footfalls on the porch and walk over to the door.
"Let him in. Let him in quick." (See, You tell yourself. Two complete sentences in a row. So what if there are the same. He must have heard you in his head.)
You open the blind in the door's window and there is the boy holding up a very large black bird by the feet. The birds head will be hanging limp down by your son's knee's. You look at your mate with your eyes and mouth open in a perfect little 0 and your mate looks back at you with his eye's and mouth in the same letter.
"Open that door before anyone sees him out there", your husband will bark.
In comes the boy and dead animal dripping on your clean floor.
"What are we going to do with it?", the husband will ask the anxiety lingering in his voice. "I don't want to get caught and get in trouble with the game warden. They could come here and take everything", the fear in his voice mounting.
Scarty cat, you will think. Boy scout. Do gooder. Non poacher.
"I can burry him behind the pole barn." the Mr. Rodgers you married will come up with.
"Yeah. Could be the CSI from my department are watching me this weekend", you taunt him.
"Oh God! That's right" he will answer.
"Shut. Up.", you answer. Get the big pot in here. We are going to eat the evidence."
"NO! I will pluck it out in the barn. So if the DNR come. They can't take our house."
You go to mop the latte off the floor before your cat gets sick and the blood as well long as you are being domestic. Later as you are tearing bread for stuffing Wolfy will ask if his friend girl Vivica can come over. Your husband will over hear and yell, "Don't tell anyone about the bird."
You clean the organs and as you wash the heart you will tell your son who is standing at the sink waiting for you to pick up Viv, " Did you know some native Americans believe if you share the heart of an animal you killed, you will always be connected by that heart." He will listen and nod and tell you to hurry up.
Later when you are making the giblet gravy Wolfy will ask if his friend can stay for dinner. You will say yes.
"Are you going to use all the guts", he will ask.
"Yes."
"Can I have a taste of the heart?" He chews a large bite. Then he will ask Vivica to taste it. They will argue, but Vivica will succeed to his begging. She takes a nibble. "Ugh. I don't really like it." Wolfy will deflate before her eyes. (Viv of course knows where the bird came from. But she keeps her mouth shut.) Viv sees Wolfy's body curling in on it's self and ask for another taste. She likes it better this time.
They will turn to back to playing American Heart Association CPR on brown stained rug in the living room (Her mom is a nurse and all).
Lynnie chops the rest of the giblets up and adds them into the gravy. She likes this Vivica. She will get an extra big ladle. Viv makes the Dad say, "Please pass me the mashed potatoes", be fore she hands them over.