The new neighbors introduced themselves to everyone on the street. They had three children and ran an upholstery business that had been in their family for generations. If we ever have furniture that needs reupholstering, we should let them know. If they can’t do it for free, the cost will be next to nothing.
They also said they do a turkey giveaway every year, so we should keep them in mind if we know of anyone in need.
On Thanksgiving, they had fifty live turkeys in their driveway. One by one, they chopped the heads off against a stump, and laid the carcasses out on a tarp.
They did this until all the birds were dead, then sat in folding chairs, waiting to tell anyone who came by how grateful they were to be able to give, but no one did. We know this because we couldn’t stop watching. Not us, or any of the other neighbors, some of whom later said this act of giving ruined Thanksgiving altogether, as they couldn’t bear to eat their own brined, stuffed, basted, and roasted turkey with the sight of other dead turkeys right outside their window.
Days later, the dead birds were still in the yard. One of the old neighbors said they talked to the new neighbor. He said that once Thanksgiving was over, they weren’t his problem.
That neighbor talks shit about everyone, though, so we didn’t know what to believe.
One thing we do know is that an official complaint was made, and someone from the city came out and told the new neighbor that if he didn’t dispose of the bodies, he would be charged with a number of minor things that sound way worse than they actually are.
That evening, the whole family dug a giant hole in the front yard and buried the birds. The resulting mound is so high we can no longer see into their front windows behind it.
When we have people over, we sit in the nice chairs in the front room so we can point to the mound and tell them about the carcasses. We leave out the part about the giveaway and say there were more birds than there really were. We say there was so much blood it ran down the curb.
We run our fingers over the arm of the chair and act like this is our first time noticing how worn the fabric and cushions have become.
We tell the visitor that normally we’d just get new chairs, but these have been in our family for a long time. Generations we say, and the visitors tells us the chairs are still comfortable. They say they don’t even notice that the cushions are completely flattened.
We thank them and we agree and then we wait to see how long they will stay there with us. We pull threads from the fabric to mark time, and no matter how long they make it, it will never be long enough.
About the Author
Nathan Willis is a writer from Ohio. His work has appeared in Passages North, Split Lip, hex, matchbook, Swamp Pink, Moon City Review, and elsewhere. His stories have been nominated for Best Small Fictions and appeared in the Wigleaf Top 50 Longlist. He can be found online at nathan-willis.com.
