The kitchen was small and steamy and painted the pale green of every institutional kitchen in America, with a big black six-burner stove and a deep enamel sink and a long window over it that looked out on the drill yard, where snow lay over a stack of old tires and a rusting practice tower. The turkey — the turkey, her turkey, his turkey, the turkey that had brought them both here — sat on the counter under a tent of tinfoil, resting, golden and enormous and glistening. It was, Nora had to admit, the most beautiful turkey she had ever seen.
"I put it in at five this morning," said Mrs. Pruitt, following her gaze. "Thawed it in the bathtub overnight in cold water, changing it every half hour, which is what you do when some fool waits till the last minute to buy a frozen bird, which is what I had to do because Leo Ruddock had already cancelled my order at Kessler's and put his own in its place." She sniffed. "Under the name of Dombrowski."
Nora turned to stare at Cal, who had come in behind her with an armful of serving bowls.
"Wait," she said. "Wait. That turkey — Mr. Kessler was holding a turkey for me. Two weeks ago. Twenty pounds. Haverty."
"Art Kessler," said Mrs. Pruitt, "has the handwriting of a drunken chicken, God love him. I imagine your order and Leo's order and my cancelled order all got muddled up together in that book, and when he went home, poor man, that boy with the mop just put the first bird he found in the freezer case. I imagine it was all of ours and none of ours." She turned back to the stove with a small, satisfied smile. "I imagine it went to the one who wanted it most."
"You wanted it most?" Cal said.
"I was the one who picked it up," said Mrs. Pruitt serenely. "You two were busy."