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(back to page 6)
"Oh. Just someone from the school with a petition. They want to change the winter holiday so it's not about Christmas. She's coming back tomorrow so she can talk to you."
He leaned against the counter and dried his hands. "What the hell else would it be, but Christmas?"
"Just a holiday celebration...without the religious stuff. To include the families that aren't Christian." Mattie finished setting the table and opened the oven to check the potatoes.
"Sounds like a witch hunt to me."
"There're a lot of people who practice other religions. It makes 'em uncomfortable to have all this Christmas stuff going on."
"Well they shoulda thought of that before they moved to Sweetwater, where people celebrate Christmas." He threw the towel on the counter and sat down. "I suppose you signed it?"
"Just because you're Christian doesn't mean you have to force it down someone else's throat." She put the potatoes on the table next to a dish of steamed green beans and two cod filets and sat down.
Chas squinted at Mattie a moment, then dug into the food without waiting for her to offer it. "Who said I was Christian?"
They ate a while without speaking, Mattie wondering why he cared if he wasn't Christian. "You gonna get a Christmas tree?"
He held his gaze on her as he swallowed. "You're a bit
contradictory ain't ya? First you wanna wipe the holiday from
schools, then you turn right around and ask for a Christmas tree."
"It would be nice for your father. Give him something to look at."
Chas kept his eyes on his plate as he wolfed down the rest of his dinner.
"What kind of books does he like?"
He got up and dropped his dishes into the sink.
"How 'bout a clue? Give me something to work with here."
"Here's a clue: he was a Pentecostal minister for forty-five years." Chas pulled his coat on and headed for the door.
I guess that explains the Bible next to his bed," Mattie said. But he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him with a thud. "The only thing in the room."
It was the eve of Eid, and Chas still hadn't decided what to do with the extra lamb. He inspected the two he'd selected back in May--the ones he culled from the flock and grain fed since Halloween. He didn't really save out the best for the Teleghani family; it was the second best. He kept the best one for himself, and this year there was a clear difference. One had grown rapidly and put on good muscle, making Chas regret having castrated him--he would've made a nice breeding ram. But his stunted horns, which should've been a half turn in the first spiral by now, were simply two short spikes. Devil horns.
He wished he'd advertised the extra lamb in the paper. Now it was late in the season for that. The only people he knew who slaughtered an animal and ate its meat the very same day was the Muslim family. Everyone else would have a butcher hang the meat, let it cure for a week or two, then cut and wrap and freeze it. Too late for Christmas.
He backed his pickup into the barn, craning behind him to see through the darkness. He loaded the better of the two lambs into the bed. The metal gate on the stock rack slammed shut with a clang that made his head ache. He didn't tell the nurse he was leaving, but saw her standing in the window, so he knew she knew.
He parked on the road outside the Teleghanis' driveway. It was early yet; everyone would still be awake. But he hoped the darkness would allow him to slip in and out without being seen. The Teleghani clan lived on the outskirts of town on a small, one-acre lot. Just big enough to raise a few chickens and tend a garden that was the envy of every family in Sweetwater, with six-foot bean poles and straight, weedless rows of okra, cayenne peppers, eggplant--some of which the locals had never seen before. They were poor, with seven children. Middle-eastern, but he didn't know from what country. Had only wondered how they ended up in Idaho. He imagined sweltering sun, arid sand, and oppressive dictators might have brought them to this very different place.
He tied a rope around the lamb's neck and pulled it off the end of the lowered tailgate. The lamb struggled, pulling away from him until the noose was so tight Chas slid his hand under the creature to keep it from strangling. He finally carried it to the front steps where he tied the loose end to the Teleghani’s porch post, working quietly, hoping not to be heard. The house was as old as his own, and in no better condition. He hoped the animal wouldn’t rip the support out and collapse the porch roof during the night, but there was no place else to tie the lamb.
Chas ran the back of his fingers down the lamb’s nose trying to recall the words he’d heard Nuri Teleghani use before he slit the throat. A prayer. A statement of thanksgiving. Or was it a declaration of God’s oneness? He couldn’t recall – wasn’t sure he ever really knew. He turned his collar up against the chill wind and crunched back to his pickup in the hardened snow. As he pulled away, he looked back at the lamb again. And thought of his father, helpless and waiting for death.
(This text ends on page 25 of the hardcover book.)
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