Birds

Birds
Copyright © 2012  John Coultas


"He's doing it again." Mrs. Lester Howard shook her ladle, flecks of oatmeal flying about the kitchen. Mr. Howard, her husband was attempting to enjoy his last cup of coffee and finish the paper before going off to work. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the offending fowl.

"There's not a thing I can do, that's his property and God only knows who owns the birds in the sky." He lifted his paper, creating a thin barrier between himself and his wife as she stomped about the room cleaning oatmeal from cabinets and floor.

"A nuisance, that's what it is," as she straightened, "and I'm the one home all day, having to listen to the chatter, they swoop down over my head, no end to it." She was on a tear. "I'll phone the police, again." Ranting to her husbands unlistening ears.

Mr. Howard stood and escaped with, "Won't do any good." The slamming of the door was his final retort.

Going to her phone Mrs. Lester Howard dialed with care, waiting for her connection she wiped dust from the instrument. "This is Mrs. Lester Howard." Listening. "Yes, it is me again. He has no business feeding those filthy birds." Again she listened. "If there isn't a city ordinance, there most certainly should be. Nasty, dirty; if I had a gun I would go over there and shoot every last one of them. If I had a gun I would be tempted to shoot him." She pulled and twisted at the cord, at last shouting, "No, I do not own a gun. Mr. Lester does not either. But I could, I could go right down to the Western Auto and get a nice new gun." She frowned as she was interrupted. "Well I haven't shot him so I guess you just can't do a thing about it now can you. Hello, hello." To herself she mumbled. "How dare he, hang up on me. I'll have a word with his superiors." Placing the receiver back in the cradle, she walked to the window, squinting out she sniffed at the air, scrunching her face and slamming the window fast.



"Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith". Mrs. Lester Howard shouted to her neighbor across her freshly painted, white Pickett fence. Sitting in a unraveling rattan chair, Mr. Smith was tossing bird seed out onto his weed covered yard, although weeds were hardly visible for the hundreds of birds gathered about him, cooing and pecking. He did not respond to her entreaties. "The birds Mr. Smith, you have too many birds." Her shouts went unheeded. "That man!" She mumbled. She makes one last effort, "I have contacted the police, the authorities will take action!" She bluffs. Mr. Smith continues to throw seeds to his hungry wards. A beatific smile is welded to his face.

Standing over her Maytag, wringer washer she squeezed the last bit of water from her husband's white, long sleeve work shirt, tossing it into the laundry basket, she then peered out the service porch door, across the yard, and out to the clothes line. All was quiet, all was safe. Carrying her basket outside with cushioned footfalls, with purpose she avoided glances to the sky or over to Mr. Smith domain, not wanting to bring a curse upon her head or laundry. With skill and speed she pinned the laundry to the line; finishing she looked upon her work with satisfaction. Returning to the house the same way she had come, with equal silence, quietly closing the service porch door with a sigh and a smile.

Mrs. Lester Howard leaned back in her overstuffed chair, her feet on her footstool. On the radio she listened to "The Guiding Light." She sighed, then smiled, falling asleep. She wakes to a loud squawking sound. Jumping to her feet, she tripped over the footstool, breaking her fall with the arm of her couch. Running to the back porch door, looking out, her over- active fears were realized. Birds, hundreds of birds were hovering, hanging, dangling, clinging but most importantly, soiling her laundry. One large bird, a bird the size of a pelican was entangled in one of Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirts, ghostly arms flailing.

She was irate, grabbing her broom she ran, slipped, slided, and skided her way to what as left of her laundry. In a fit she began hitting at the birds foolish enough not to have departed. The large entangled bird as her focus, she beat and beat upon the trapped creature, blood began to stain Mr. Lester Howard's white, long sleeve work shirt. The apparition had gone limp. She screamed, roared and bellowed; tears streaking her contorted face.

Running to here freshly painted, white pickett fence she expressed her vehemence. "My laundry, you have ruined my laundry." She raged at Mr. Smith who sat in his chair, smiling, feeding his birds. "I will kill your birds, every last one." She screamed. "Do you hear me, Mr. Smith, I will kill your birds, if you get in my way I will kill you."



Mrs. Lester Howard was pelted by rain as she darted to the house, tossing her bloodied weapon to the side as she went. Several minutes later she reappeared, composed; she wore a jacket, a wide brimmed hat and white gloves. She started her car, driving off down Main Street. Next to the Piggly Wiggly she pulled in front of the Western Auto store.

As she approached the clerk at the sporting goods counter; she was greeted with an, "afternoon ma'am".

Mrs. Lester Howard responded with a glower.

"Raining outside?" The clerk continued with a smile.

"I hadn't noticed." Mrs. Lester Howard responded. She dropped her wet purse on the counter; he attempted to divert water off the counter with a swish of his hand..

"How may I help you?" The clerk was getting the sale back on track.

"A gun, I want a gun." She demanded.

He smiled, unsure what this lady would be doing with a gun. He interrogated further, "And for what purpose did you want a gun."

"Birds, I want to kill birds." Was her strong, reasoned response.

"Ah," he nodded, "birds, how many birds are we talking about." He inquired.

"Hundreds, I'm going to kill hundreds of birds."

His face creased with a wide grin, he was a happy man. "Right this way, that will be a double barrel shotgun and quite a few boxes of birdshot."

Mrs. Lester Howard pulled away from the Western Auto in a pouring rain. She attempted to view the road between the slow sweeps of the windshield wipers. Pulling into her driveway she saw that police cars and an ambulance were in front of Mr. Smith's house; lights were flashing, officials moving about the residence. She crouched low to protect her packages as she ran to the back door. Entering the house she heard a knocking at the front door.

Mrs. Lester Howard opened her door to a towering city policeman who looked down upon her. She was standing in a puddle of water on her highly polished hardwood floor. Strands of wet hair hung along the side of her face, below her wide brimmed hat. Her white gloved hands were holding the brand new, boxed, Western Auto, double barreled shotgun.

"Officer Blaine." He introduced himself as he flipped through a small note book. He began, "Mrs. Howard."

"Mrs. Lester Howard." She corrected.

He attempted to continue, "Yes, I see here you phoned our office, made complaints and threats concerning Mr. Smith, is that correct?"

"Well." She exhales. The weight of the gun began to weaken her arms, it dropped lower and lower.

He again paged through his notes, "A neighbor reports hearing you threaten Mr. Smith's life, in a rage, is that correct?"

She offered a fatigued smile as the the box slipped through her hands to the floor. The Western Auto, double barrel shot gun rolled from the box, through the puddle of water, resting at the feet of officer Blain. He rapidly flipped through more pages of notes.

He sighed, "You reported this morning that you didn't have a gun in the house." His statement was met with a dazed glare. "Your neighbor, Mr. Smith is dead, you have a gun you said you didn't have; we need to take you in for questioning."

A very limp Mrs. Lester Howard was walked through a now light rain and darkness to a waiting patrol car. She cast a somber look upon her home as she was driven away, on the clothesline the wing of the large, broken bird waved goodbye.


Chief Franklin called Patrolman Blaine into his office. "What ya got there Blaine." The chief croaked.

Blaine referred to his notes. "Neighbors say Smith spent most days and nights under that pergola, always feeding the birds. Most of the neighbors hated him, because of the birds, messing up everything, scaring kids and pets. Birds were always on the roof of that thing, the pergola. City engineer will have to look at it to be sure. It looks as though with all the rain and the bird buildup."

The Chief interrupted, "Bird shit, call it what it is Blain."

"Yes, sir; anyway it appears that with the rain, the accumulated weight brought the structure down on Mr. Smith." Blain relaxed.

The chief growled, "send the broad in, I'll explain the situation to her."

"Chief, it's Mrs. Lester Howard." Blaine inserted.