Engaging Voices: Tales of Morality and Meaning in an Age of Global Warming

4. Pass the Turkey

91 Bright November sunshine flooded into the Bertrams’ living room as Kate entered, mumbling Thanksgiving greetings to her family: parents, two brothers, and, straight out of central casting , a gentle, alcoholic uncle. Her withdrawn, downcast hellos surprised her brother Ned, who looked up from his copy of Mother Jones. “What’s up, sis?” he asked. “I just saw the most horrible thing. There was this truck stopped at an intersection near 54th Street. On the outside it had signs about how fur is the look that kills and animals have rights. I’ve seen that sort of thing before. But then there was something different. The back of the truck was open, and inside was a huge screen showing these awful film clips: cows being clubbed to death, foxes gnawing their legs off to get out of traps, chickens all stuffed together in some huge industrial henhouse. The looks in their eyes were just. . . .” Her voice trailed off. Ned saw the tears at the corners of Kate’s eyes. He ran his hand through his sandy hair in a nervous gesture, straightened 4 Pass the Turkey 92 * Engaging Voices his painfully thin body, and tried to comfort her the only way he knew how. “Well, what can you expect? In this society everything is treated like a commodity. People’s labor, fish, forests—all of it. As long as the means of production are owned by a conscienceless class of rapacious bastards, that’s the way it will be. We’ll only have kindness when capitalism is replaced by socialism.” Ned patted Kate on the back and tried to change the tone. “Hey Mom,” he shouted playfully, “how’s the turkey doing? I’m starving!” Danny, the baby of the family but now nineteen, had been hoping in vain to soothe an upset stomach by massaging the reflexology points on his left foot. He looked much younger than his age, with innocent eyes and thick black hair reaching to his shoulders. If it were possible, he would have gotten more bored with Ned’s endless Marxist sloganeering, but he’d reached his boredom limit years ago. “I can see you’re right in tune with history Ned,” he chuckled. “The capitalists are rapacious, but you’re going to enjoy your dead bird just like the head guys at Citibank.” Ned sighed. He knew that younger brothers were like that, but had hoped that on a family day Danny would give it a rest. “If,” he answered with a fair imitation of patience, “you really care about moral values, what you have to do is change social institutions. If I don’t eat meat, everyone else will, and nothing will change. Besides,” he grinned with just a hint of mischief, “and don’t tell my sensitive vegan sister, there’s nothing quite as good as roast turkey with all the trimmings.” “I’m surprised how little you get this,” Kate murmured. And when Ned glanced at her quizzically, she elaborated more firmly. “It’s not about some future time when capitalism and all the other isms you talk about so endlessly are overcome. It’s about what happened to me when I looked at those images. I felt something wrench me deep inside, like a cry for help at night. I wasn’t thinking about society or moral values or aren’t people and animals different or Pass the Turkey * 93 aren’t they really the same. I just felt sick, and wanted it all to stop. And I was so ashamed for all of us, I felt a little like killing myself.” Ned had hoped to make her feel better, but the depth of her emotions scared him a little. “Once when I was about seven,” mused their already somewhat tipsy uncle Isaac, lifting his glass with one hand and pulling on his rumpled gray sweater with the other, “your grandfather and I woke up in the middle of the night because we heard something crying out. It was high-pitched, desperate, and it made us very upset. Off we went at two in the morning, searching suburban streets with a huge flashlight. We had no idea what it was. We just felt how scared and lonely it was. And we wanted to help.” His voice trailed off and his eyes returned to the glassy stare he cultivated, while his fingers tightened on the whiskey glass. “Well,” broke...