Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Talked Turkey

An athletic-looking man of middle age jogged down the side aisle of the hall and leaped to the low platform. “Greetings, friends! Any friend of wildlife is a friend of mine.”

(Loud response)

The room darkened, and a large screen at the back of the platform filled with a portrait of a long-necked bird with beard, wattles, dewlaps, and saucer eyes.

“This odd-looking creature is the wild turkey. There were flocks of them in the woods when the Pilgrim Fathers landed here, and there are probably millions of them today. Benjamin Franklin suggested making it the national bird, but the old boy had a sense of humor, and I think he was kidding. It would hardly seem appropriate for half the population to be shooting the national bird to put food on the table.

“In many states it is still the chief game bird, with an estimated hundred thousand in some states. Ordinances regulate open seasons, hunting weapons, and even methods of luring the prey. It makes one curious to know more about this remarkable species.

“Most of you (like myself) are nature lovers and not game hunters, so let me tell you some interesting facts about this unusual species. First of all, did you ever see such a funny-looking geezer? His neck’s too long, his head’s too small, his eyes are too big, his body is out of proportion! He looks as if he was designed by a committee.”

(Laughter)

“But they must have plenty of sex appeal, because they’re among the most prolific wildlife. The female lays fifteen eggs. The baby turkeys are called poults.”

Qwilleran thought, That’s what I saw—a mother turkey with her fifteen poults.

There followed the kind of statistics the audience liked. The wild turkey can run twenty miles an hour and fly fifty miles an hour. The birds roost in the branches of oak and pine trees. They feed on grasses, nuts, berries, and insects. They communicate with clucks, gobbles, yelps, cackles, and purrs.

Qwilleran thought, Ye gods! These are the noises Koko has been making! . . . Where did he learn the language? . . . Has he been luring turkeys back to Moose County after a thirty-year absence? . . . Impossible!

Qwilleran slipped out of the meeting hall. At least it was a comfort to know that the odd-looking creatures in the bird garden were real and not a hallucination.

In the lobby, a pleasant-looking woman was sitting at a long table with stacks of what resembled chocolate brownies in individual plastic sacks.

“Good evening,” he said in the musical voice he reserved for such occasions.

“Is the program over?” she asked.

“Not quite. He’s showing slides. But I have another appointment.”

She saw him staring hungrily at the stack of small bundles on the table. “These are turkey calls,” she said. “Harry makes them as a hobby. I’m his wife, Jackie.”

He took her extended hand and pressed it warmly. “Your husband is an excellent speaker, and he really knows his subject. You say, Harry makes these?”

“Out of fine hardwood. It’s quite an art. It’s also therapeutic, too. We lost our two sons in a boating accident at summer camp . . .”

Why, Qwilleran wondered, was she telling him these tragic intimacies? It was, of course, because his sympathetic mien led strangers to unburden themselves.

“Harry channels his emotions into something worthwhile. He sells them at cost to raise money for summer camps for physically challenged children. He donates the total proceeds. There’s a wonderful crowd here tonight. I think he’ll sell them all.”

Jackie was reciting her story so bravely that Qwilleran was moved to say, “How much are they? I’ll take three.”

“Shall I show you how they work? You don’t have to be a hunter, you know, to call turkeys. You can just go out in the woods and hold conversations with the birds, simply by scratching the striker on the hardwood block in different ways.”

She demonstrated and gave Qwilleran one to try. It was simple—even primitive. He produced purrs and gobbles and clucks and yelps.

He took the turkey calls home and locked them in a desk drawer and tried not to think about them. He had other things to do. The dress rehearsal was Wednesday night, the Scots were gathering in their tartans on Thursday evening, and he was still collecting material for his column on Agatha Burns. As for Koko, he knew there was something significant in that drawer, and he hung around the desk.

It was unfortunate that Qwilleran had been unable to tape Harry’s lecture—the way he described the iridescent plumage of the species, the fanning of the tail with its white stripe, the reddish head of the male and bluish head of the female, and their remarkable field of vision and acute hearing. The ones who visited the barn had apparently heard Koko’s clucking and gobbling from the woods where they resided. And since Moose County was said to have no turkeys, they might even have come from the adjoining county!

Then Qwilleran asked himself, Why am I wasting my time on the turkey situation? I have a show to rehearse and a column to write!

On Wednesday at seven P.M., Qwilleran reported to the Hotel Booze with his script, costume, and props, plus a professional-quality recorder and its two satellite speakers, all for the dress rehearsal.

Maxine looked prim in a high-necked short-waist and a puffy brown wig over her short hair. “It’s the Gibson Girl look,” she said. “All the rage before World War One. My hairdresser looked it up. The wig just arrived air express.”

Qwilleran could not help comparing Maxine’s enthusiasm and attention to detail to Lish’s cold efficiency and her concern with “What does it pay?”

In the meeting hall, the rows of chairs had been straightened; the platform was equipped with two tables, two chairs, and an old office hall tree on which the newscaster would hang his jacket and hat, after shaking off the fake snow.

“Okay if I watch?” Gary Pratt asked.

Qwilleran stood in the rear hall with door ajar and awaited his cue. The house lights dimmed, the stage lights came up, and Maxine stepped to the front of the stage to deliver her welcoming remarks. Then she sat down at the sound machine, and the WPKX musical signature filled the hall for a minute or two, interrupted by the taped voice of the station announcer reading commercials about fifteen-cent pineapples and motorcars complete with windshields and headlights.

Then, as the music resumed, Qwilleran rushed onstage, throwing off his snow-covered outerwear and glancing anxiously at his watch. Maxine waited for his signal, the music faded, and for the next half hour the newscaster spoke directly to the audience over his fake mike and interviewed eyewitnesses on his fake telephone.

At the end of the rehearsal, Gary rushed to the stage, bellowing, “Bravo!” He clapped the newscaster on the back and hugged the studio engineer. “Come to my office, Qwill, when you’ve packed your gear. I’ve got important news for you.”

“Good or bad?”

“Both!”

TWELVE

When Qwilleran reported to the hotel office after the dress rehearsal, Gary said, “Your throat must be dry after all that nonstop talking. What’ll it be?”

“Squunk water, please. What’s the bad news?”

“Lish and Lush are on the way here from Wisconsin!”

“Did she get the letter from the attorney?”

“Apparently, because she wanted to reserve a couple of rooms here. I told her we were sold out for the holiday weekend. She asked if they could park in the lot and sleep in the car. I told her our license doesn’t cover campouts. Then she asked for your phone number, Qwill. I thought fast. I told her it had been changed and your number was unlisted.”