Sacred Time by Ursula Hegi Page B

olive, slowly, rolling her eyes sideways, just as she always did when she concentrated on tasting. Then she nodded and bought half a pound of those olives, broccoli rabe, tomatoes, and a tall can of olive oil.
    At the dirty-feet shop—that’s how it smelled—I pinched my nostrils while Riptide bought fresh mozzarella and chose one of the round provolones that swung from the beams above us.
    Next we went to the poultry market, where chickens and turkeys watched me from inside their cages. Riptide told the poultry man she needed a turkey big enough for her family. “Everyone’s coming over Christmas Day.”
    He took a turkey from its cage and hung it from the scale by its feet.
    â€œNo. I want a bigger one.”
    But when the poultry man brought a larger turkey, Riptide said it wouldn’t fit in her oven.
    As he opened the fifth cage, he whispered to me, “Last time I showed your grandmother seven.”
    The fifth turkey was dangling upside down from the scale, twisting its head as it watched the people in the market. Its face was right next to mine, and all at once it noticed me. Its eyes were curious and shy, and I thought it was a nice turkey.
    â€œLook at that turkey looking at that little boy,” someone said.
    The poultry man laughed. “That turkey is looking at you, Antonio.”
    â€œGobobobob…”
    â€œNice turkey,” I told the turkey. “Nice—”
    â€œAntonio has decided. Questo.” My grandmother nodded.
    â€œNo,” I said. “Not this turkey.”
    But my grandmother decided this was the turkey I wanted, and when the poultry man took it from the scale and carried it behind the counter, I heard it go “Gobobobob.” The counter was too high for me to see what was happening to my turkey, but I knew because I could hear something turning—it sounded like a wheel—and my turkey screamed so hard I got hiccups and I was sure they were plucking its feathers and when it quit screaming quit making any sound altogether I knew they’d plucked my turkey bare and chopped off its head.

    â€œThis is much harder for her than for you, Leonora,” my father said.
    â€œMy soul bleeds for her.”
    â€œIt’s humiliating for her, needing our help like this.”
    â€œOh, but she is so very fortunate to have your understanding. It’s certainly more than I get from you.” My mother sat up against the maple headboard. “More than Anthony gets from you. Let me tell you, having those girls in his room is miserable for him.”
    â€œLet me tell you then that staying in bed is not fighting fair.”
    â€œOh…but I am not fighting, Victor.” Her chapped lips stretched into a weak smile.
    â€œI wish you were.”
    She didn’t answer.
    He touched her shoulder. “Are you quite settled?”
    â€œI may never feel settled again.”
    He glanced at the stack of magazines on the dresser, Life and Look and Good Housekeeping. “Do you want something to read?”
    When she didn’t answer, I said, “Life. She likes it better than Look because it has more pictures.”
    â€œI don’t want a magazine. Is that all right?”
    â€œHey,” my father said, “I have work to do.”
    And he was gone, leaving his night socks on the floor where he’d tossed them. My mother made him wear those to bed because he rubbed the bottoms of his feet with sticky ointment.
    I sat on the floor next to my mother’s side of the bed and started a drawing of the zoo for her. I colored the gate red for her, with yellow and brown, so it was like copper. On top of the gate, I drew the lion, king of beasts. Then bears on top of one arch and deer on the other. The post on one side had a monkey sitting on it, the other a leopard. Tortoises supported the weight of my gate and all its animals, including the owls and cranes. Around the gate, I colored a halo of smoke. A path led