Christmas Goose (Part 5)

We sawed off the other wing, and turned our attention to the head and feet. I hoped filleting the bird would save some of the gore, but with limited counter space it was clear that the remaining appendages would need to be removed, and decapitation was in order. It would be for the best to bring inside as little of the bird as possible. The image of a bloodied, wingless goose complete with head and feet, sprawled across the counter in my well-lit kitchen was too surreal, and I brought the butcher knife down against the neck.

Parts thunked into the trashcan. I felt dirty. Granted, I was covered in goose bile and blood, but I felt dirty inside. And though I hadn’t killed the bird, and though its systematic mutilation seemed necessary to eat it, there was a depravity in the act, worsened by the sheer incompetence in accomplishing the job. These sick feelings heightened when Mark nodded toward the second bird, “I’m gonna let you handle that one yourself,” he said.

I paused, staring at its intact beauty. My hands had gone numb again, and the foul smell that had soaked into them kept me on the brink of gagging. I blinked, looked at Mark, and then slowly toward the trashcan.
He shook his head, “You shouldn’t have taken two.”
“I shouldn’t have taken one,” I added. “You want it?”
“Hell no,” he said without hesitation, and opened the second trash bag for our feathered friend.

We quickly swept up and sealed both bags. Mark grabbed the hacked bird torso and went inside to wash. I pulled my cap low to my eyes, scooped the hood of my parka over my head, and crept to the back alley to discard the incriminating evidence into an empty trashcan – an empty trashcan at the opposite end of the alley, that is. Though I wished no ill will upon my neighbor, the anxiety of waiting for garbage pickup for three days was more than I was prepared to cope with.

I turned the handle to the back door using my coat sleeves, and stepped in, realizing my face had gone numb from the cold as the 68-degree climate seared rosy life across it. The mutilated bird lay on my white countertop, awaiting surgery. Mark assisted in filleting the breasts, and we dropped them in a bowl of salted water, to help extract additional blood. I rooted around for the birdshot and extracted four pieces of lead.
Janie walked in, martini in hand, “Where’s the rest of it?”
Both Mark and I scowled at her, and she stepped back.
“Honey,” I calmly said, “Are you even going to eat it?”
She cocked an eyebrow, “Not after what I saw.” She jerked away from me in disgust, “Jesus, Brian. What’s that smell?”
“Me, apparently.” I had washed several times before filleting the breasts, but could not remove the thick stench from my hands.

Later, Janie gave me some of her best, most girlie-smelling hand cream to overpower the goose odor, and it did improve things -- my hands smelled like lilac manure, a solid step above the musky carcass stench. I wore the smell for three days before it began to fade.

On the long trip from the parking lot to my office building at Rocky Mountain Arsenal, I had to pass many clusters of geese, padding about on the faded winter lawn. They cocked their tiny heads toward me, and some even approached as I scurried for the safety of the building. I was sure that they knew and were plotting against me. Perhaps they were just confused, wondering why I smelled like a goose but didn’t look like one. “Odd bird. Smells of lilac. He’s probably gay,” they seemed to say.

I dropped the filets at my mother’s house, including three recipes I’d researched for their preparation. Still, I had no interest in eating them.

Christmas dinner came and the family gathered around the table. My mother proudly carried a covered platter into the dining room as we unfolded our napkins over our laps. I would make do with side dishes and salad, I thought. Even though I wasn’t going to partake in the dining experience, I felt excited for the unveiling, that the others might enjoy the fruit of my gruesome labor. My mother placed the platter in the center of the table and removed the lid with flair, to a swell of oohs and ahs and assorted high praise.
“That looks great, Gail,” my stepfather exclaimed.
“Oh Gail,” Janie nodded, “It smells absolutely delicious.”
“Good work, Gail,” and, “Beautiful,” and, “I can’t wait to taste it.”

I remained silent, and stared at the platter. It was beautiful. It smelled delicious. The thought of it warmed my belly with Christmas delight. From all around the table, I felt the eyes of family and guests upon me, as I hadn’t said anything, instead staring, unblinking at the piece de resistance. I leaned over to my mother and whispered, “Where’s the goose?”
“Oh, honey,” she shook her head, “That wouldn’t have been enough to feed all of us. So I made this turkey instead. I threw your little package in the freezer. Don’t forget to take it home later.”

I did take it home, and placed it in the freezer, thinking that as soon as the nightmares stopped, I would cook it up. But I had to face it every time I needed an ice cube, and eventually the filets worked their way to the back corner of the freezer, next to the frozen okra and below a stack of undated, foil-sheathed slabs of mystery meats.

I didn’t forget about them, though. And, one balmy summer evening that July, I reached into the back corner of the freezer, pulled them out, and promptly dropped them in the trash on top of three recipes for a perfect Christmas goose dinner.