open window
The day the Bird died,
Mairé was hanging wet laundry on the washing line in the far meadow. A
soft wind billowed the bed sheets, and grayed, lacy bloomers swayed
romantically on the line, having seen better days. Olivia, her neighbor from
across the road, made her way down the narrow path, waving her hands in the
air, making sure to avoid the nettles on either side.
“The Bird is
dead, isn't he,” Mairé said.
"How did you
know?" Olivia said, pulling the collar of her coat tight.
“Didn't a crow fly
into the upstairs bedroom last night at dusk.” She spoke through a mouthful of
clothespins, the words splintered, her tightly curled hair not moving in the
breeze.
flustered
He was the first man to
touch her that way. His breath beery, his hands warm,
the show-band playing a slow song, the bandleader combing his
brilliantine hair with a plastic comb, lisping the words onto
the dance-hall air. Later, in the back of the Bird's '38 Ford he
slipped his two ferret hands up her skirt and took what he wanted. The next
month she married the bugger who owned the bar and the Bird drank down the road
at Hourican's for a long while. When he finally returned to his familiar seat
he could see the swell of her belly under the apron. A lucky man, the bar
owner, the Bird thought, regretting his inaction at the wedding mass and how
when the priest had asked if any man present...
bantam
Three colorful bantam hens
pecked in the dirt in the narrow space behind the public house. One had
the bright, sharp eyes of a born killer. The Bird weighed the coins in his
pocket, doing the math as to how much it would cost to purchase the creature.
“I'll give you two
sovereigns for the bantam with the bright eyes,” he said to the man behind the
bar.
“I can't sell you that
bird. It's the lad's pet. His mother would have my guts if I sold the child's
pet for fighting.”
“Are you going to let a
woman tell you what you can, or cannot do in your own house?” the Bird said,
his left eyebrow raised.
“It's easy to see you're
a bachelor. If you had a wife of your own you'd be singing a different
tune.”
The Bird grunted, tipped
the glass and emptied the porter in one go. “You're a foolish man to turn down
two sovereigns,” he said, tipping his brim and heading for the door.
names
The doctor placed the tiny
baby in its mother's arms. Sure, it didn't weigh more than a bag of
flour, as fragile and ugly as a new-born bird.
When the bar owner saw the
little mite in his wife's arms, the sharp beak of a nose, the dark eyes, the
curl of matted hair, he recognized a family likeness not of his own.
“He's like a wee
bird,” he told her.
“Yes, but he's our little
bird,” the mother said, squeezing her husband's hand.
He was not so sure. Not so
sure at all.
nighttime
The bantams went wild when
the creature slipped in the shed door. Feathers and shit flew everywhere and
the fox, if it were a fox, grabbed one by the neck and blooded it out. All that
remained of the three birds was the pile of feathers on the ground, the blood
splattered all over the floor. A desperate thing, the Bird agreed with the bar
owner as he told him about the brazen fox that had savaged the child's pets.
The Bird fingered his winnings and thought about buying the man's lad a rabbit
instead.
sweet shop
In the line at the shop the
lad held his mother's hand and rubbed the back of his leg with the toe of his
shoe. from behind, the Bird recognized the shape of the earlobes and his heart
tightened.
“How's the Bird?” Mrs.
Flavin asked from the counter.
He reddened, coughed,
muttered, “Game ball, game ball.”
The mother turned around
and gave him a look that spoke volumes in its silence.
“How's the lad, Mairé?” he
asked.
She put the Woman's
Weekly and the boy's lucky bag on the counter and banged down her coins.
About the Author:
BIO: James
Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado
ranch in Carpinteria, CA, with his wife, the writer and artist, Maureen
Foley, their daughter, Maisie, and Australian cattle-dog, Rua. His work
appears in many places including Camroc Press, Elimae, Necessary
Fiction, and Word Riot. You can read more about him at www.jamesclaffey.com.
Photo (c) Nicolai Grut