A twinge of guilt tried to cloud my euphoria. I pressed it down, determined not to allow my husband’s absence to bother me. For years, we had gotten caught up in the frenzy of shopping, baking, parties: all the trimmings that accompanied a happy holiday season. November and December we drove the credit cards to their limits, and then for the next ten months we worked feverishly to pay them off, just in time to begin shopping again.

Then one day I had a revelation about Christmas. It’s a pagan holiday, as my dad always told me. We shouldn’t be celebrating it; in fact, all Christians ought to boycott Christmas. My husband and I are united on one point: we don’t know exactly when Christ was born. The rest, he staunchly disagrees with me, ergo his absence when the cabin is cozy and inviting.

The whole business started back in the spring when Mr. Brett, our hired hand, came back from a trip into the farm supply store in Cedar Ridge. He brought back a baby turkey, gave it to me in a little cage, and said, “Happy Easter.”

Now I have to tell you, I have had more thrilling presents in my life. In fact, a gawky baby turkey was about number 2,963 on my list of favorite things to get for a gift.

“Thank you,” I said to Mr. Brett. I eyeballed that funny-looking bird, wondering if it was gonna bite. I am not a big scaredy-cat about most things like my sister, Myra Sue, is, who is afraid of ants, daddy longlegs, earthworms, cows, and goldfish. I’m afraid of mice and that’s it. Well, and snakes give me the willies. And Grandma’s cat, Queenie, makes me want to run screaming, but not because I’m afraid.

But anyway, I want to tell you about last Thanksgiving. Daddy and Mama laughed when they saw Mr. Brett’s present. “We’ll build you a pen for it,” Daddy said.

“Does it have a name?” Mama asked.

I looked at that bird and it looked back at me, sideways like birds do, with its eyes all bright and beady.