excerpt from "Jack's Christmas Dinner"
by Bill Gaston

A rare knock at the door let Dale stop mid-dial and not call his son. He’d call tomorrow. It was always awkward talking to Ben: there was never a good time. The call was to confirm what everyone already knew, that Dale wouldn’t be flying to Montreal for Christmas. He hadn’t flown back in years, but it was still hard announcing it, despite the relief that would radiate in all directions.

At the door Dale was surprised to see Old Jack with a huge, storm-coloured bird dangling dead from a hand. Jack, his tenant, had a favour to ask.

“Dale, the truck’s fine, no dent, but I killed this bird with it and I wonder if I can bleed it under your deck. Because, you know”—he gave the leg a shake that pulsed through the body and whipped the head—“why not eat it?”

 

 

 

From The Malahat Review's spring issue #226