Greg turned in the direction of Petey's gaze and his heart began to race. A crow, wings spread, mouth open, glared down at them from on top of a rustic grandfather clock. It looked like it had been stuffed and put on display . . . That is, until it crescendoed a vulgar squeal. Petey fired out a sharp cry.
Greg took a tall desk lamp nearby. He clenched the metal stem and rammed it upward. "Leave!" he yelled, thrusting it closer. It hopped to the side and soared into the kitchen.
Greg heard an army of tapping around him. Fluttering crows shrouded the windows from outside, darkening the room. "They're watching me," Greg whispered, clutching the lamppost with both hands.
"Where are you, birdie?" He tiptoed into the dark kitchen. He saw nothing but the fluttering crows glaring at him through the window.
Without warning, the black bird swooped down and scratched Greg's bald head. "Damn it!" He closed his eyes and waved the lamp in all directions, hoping by chance it would strike the bird dead. He lost control and released it across the room. It knocked over a rusty birdcage. Greg darted to the bedroom and slammed the door shut.
"Got to be quick, need to catch the bastard," he murmured, now thinking of Petey's welfare. The bird tapped at the door in odd patterns. "This will do," he said, picking up the bedspread. He held it in front of him and edged open the door, trying to stand back as far as his reach would let him.
The bird screeched around the corner. Greg held up the sheet in time, smothering the feathered beast. "Gotcha." He tightened the bedspread around it, restricting all movement. He walked into the living room. Petey was untouched, yet continued crying.
Greg picked up the cage. With his free hand, he flushed the crow out into the rusted prison, making sure all fingers were far away from the snapping brute.
He fastened a small lock on the cage door and held it up to the crows, who still fluttered in the window. "See this, your friend? Take a good look, you bastards!" He turned his head toward the living room and yelled, "Petey, looks like you got your first pet." Greg threw the cage to the ground and lit a cigarette.
* * *
That night, with jagged beaks and claws overflowing with loose twigs, the crows took apart the barren nest.
Inside, however, the house was filled with an irritable squawking, making sleep impossible. At one point, although the memory was foggy, Greg took the cage and threw it out into the dead of night. Only then were they able to sleep.
The next day, Greg was awakened by a scruffy voice. "You two fell asleep on the couch again?" It was Greg's niece, Celia. She promised to babysit Petey on weekdays while he was at work.
"How'd you get in here?" He half opened his eyes and brushed away drool from his cheek.
"What do you mean, how'd I get in here? I've got a key!"
"No. I mean the birds. They didn't attack?"
She looked at him with eyes crossed.
"The birds attacked us yesterday. They got mad cuz I beat up their tree—" He yawned and continued, "I trapped one of um in the old bird cage and threw it out in the middle of the night. Kept yapping."
"Alright, well, I didn't see any angry birds. You're gonna be late for work if you don't head out soon." She opened her arms. "My munchkin," she cooed at Petey. Greg handed him over. She kissed him on the forehead.
The sun twinkled through the windows; not a crow in sight. Was it a dream? he thought, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He continued gazing outside in a sleepy stare. The coffee overflowed and dripped down the counter; not a single crow in sight.
Greg kissed Petey goodbye and hesitated at the door. What if they're still waiting for me?
He cracked the door open, then a little more, until he could fit through and darted for his car. Past the rusted cage, it was empty. He didn't stop to take a closer look before throwing himself in the car. Nothing attacked him. He could see the cage from where he sat. He adjusted his glasses. The cage was mangled, as though something clawed it apart; maybe a bear.
Frightened, he put his car in reverse and drove off.
* * *
It had been fifteen days since the encounter with the crows, yet Greg couldn't pry the event from his mind. He grew bitter toward the sight of any bird.
"Get!" he yelled and waved his arms out at a chickadee scouring the ground for bugs. "Vermin!"
Every now and then he saw a crow wandering about in the yard, scavenging for food. On occasion, he'd caught one peeking in the windows. But it was rare.
After work one day, Greg arrived home to find a familiar feathered varmint perched upon the porch railing. Its head twitched and followed Greg’s every move.
"GET!" Greg yelled, charging forward, his arms flailing about. The bird bent down to get better momentum and pounced up, taking flight. It disappeared into distant treetops where leaves danced through hot beams of sunlight.
At that moment, laughter arose from somewhere out back. Greg meandered around the side of the house. Sun scorched the top of his already sunburned head and sweat dripped from his forehead, down his cheeks to the corner of his mouth.
Celia sat outside an inflatable baby pool, cooing at Petey, who floated on his back, wearing a red life jacket. She splashed water over the front of him. Under a blue wide brimmed hat, Petey’s face looked stunned, unsure of what to make of it all.
"He looks excited," Greg said, amused at Petey's unresponsiveness. He walked closer, kneeling beside Celia.
"He should be," she said, splashing water onto his chest. "Oh boy, oh boy," she said in a sugary voice, "so much fun."
“Only you’d find a preemie life jacket to fit this little guy,” Greg said, examining Petey as he swayed with the delicate waves.
“Was on sale. Got the pool twenty percent off, too,” Celia said, returning her attention to Petey.
Greg inched Petey closer and squeaked a rubber duck in his face. "Man, wish I could relax in a pool. Lucky guy." Petey jerked his arm out and hit the toy.
"Look at the little frog belly you have." Celia tickled Petey with two fingers. "And such charming green eyes, like your momma." She jiggled his hands up and down with a two-finger grip.
"Mona never got to do this with him," Greg said, staring at the glittering pool water.
"No, she didn't, but she's watching over us now." Celia looked up at Greg.
"It kills me. I could see her in him," he said, pushing Petey away with one finger.
"That's cool, though. She's still alive—in him," she said, her voice optimistic.
"She's not him, not at all. I'd give anything—"
Celia's phone interrupted. She slid it out of her pocket and started talking, "Hey . . . yeah . . . okay, I'm leaving soon. He got home a bit ago . . . alright, bye." She slid the phone back into her pocket and said to Greg, "Well, I'm going to head out." She gave Petey a peck on the forehead, stood, and waved her hand. "Bye-bye, have a good weekend, cutie."
"Have a good one," Greg said, handing over a mound of dollar bills to Celia. He turned to Petey. On one knee, he unfolded Petey's delicate fingers. Blood vessels and veins were clearly visible through his transparent skin. Petey held onto his father's finger.
With Celia gone, Greg's mind helplessly returned to Mona. He didn't know if it was his imagination, but Greg saw a resemblance, even in the slightest of Petey's behaviors; the way he opened his mouth or refused to open his mouth to eat, and the way his eyes squinted half open all the time, like Mona had done in the morning, and even how the tip of his nose pointed upward, like Mona's.
Greg wiped off hot sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his button up shirt and lit a cigarette. A racket of vicious tapping sounded in the direction of the house, catching Greg's attention. He shaded his eyes from the beating sun and peered at the house, where a crow banged its beak off a metal rain gutter. "Hey!" Greg yelled. "Hey, get out!" He threw his hands up and stood.
The crow glided over to the patio and perched on a small stone statue of a cherub with hands clasped in deep prayer, one of Mona's favorite antiques.
&n
bsp; "Get off!" Greg stomped closer to the bird.
The crow cawed defiantly, thrusting the statue forward and taking flight. As if in slow motion, the statue smashed onto the patio bricks. Greg cursed at the bird with incoherent screams.
He began picking up the beloved pieces of stone, placing them each in a delicate pile. Petey began to cry. "Okay, alright," Greg shouted. He continued organizing the pieces until the cry pivoted to a bone-chilling squeal.
Without delay, Greg leaped up. Four birds were perched on the sides of the pool, encircling Petey. With the blast of synchronized shrieks, they rocketed forward, clenching onto Petey's frail body and life jacket. They thrashed him upward in awkward thrusts, beyond Greg's reach.
"What the fuck! What the fuck!" Greg's cigarette dropped from his mouth as he galloped as fast as his bloated legs carried him through the field and into the forest. He tried hard to keep his eyes on the dark winged savages.
After only a short time, Greg began to wheeze, his lungs sore. His throat burned. Leaves and branches crunched and snapped under his heavy feet, making it impossible to hear. They flew too fast for Greg to keep up and he lost sight of them. He limped to a halt and listened.
Greg heaved up the mountainous forest. Between heavy gasps, he heard a faint cry and a murder of noisy caws. He moved onward. The caws became louder and louder the farther he ran.
Most of the time his eyes were fixated above, scouring the treetops and beyond. Greg lost all sense of direction at this point, and his heart palpitated with attacking punches. But he wasn’t hopeless.
"There!" His eyes darted to a dark blue object on one the trees. He bolted over—a wide brimmed hat. He was on the right track!
Within minutes, he saw two crows fluttering above. Gotta be around here, he thought, following the birds, trying to deaden the sound of crunching earth beneath his feet. He slowed to a standstill.
What if I turn back? I could say I looked for hours but couldn't find him, he thought. Never again will I have to look at him and see Mona—never again. I'll be free from her ghost. He shook his head. Why am I thinking like this? What's wrong with me?
He reached the top of the mountain and before him stood a giant skeletal oak, brimming with countless crooked limbs twisting outward in all directions. Birds swooped in and out of a monstrous nest which umbrellaed the entire top of the tree, making it impossible to see inside. Greg lit another cigarette.
A sudden bloodcurdling shriek resonated from above, and the a red object dropped out of the nest. Greg held his breath as the object fell lower, flicking off the spidery branches.
Greg opened his arms wide waiting for the catch when he realized it was only the life jacket. He let it thump to the ground. The red material was shredded where the birds had grasped it. Petey’s head must’ve slipped through the collar. His head was just too small. He must still be up there.
Greg mounted the tree with a firm grip. "Petey! Petey, I'm . . . coming . . . I am!" Greg yelled out one side of his mouth, his voice quivering. He vaulted upward, staying as close to the trunk as he could. With each step, the branches bowed downward, and he felt like was walking on a tightrope.
The crows spotted him and thrashed down at him from every direction. They attacked his entire backside, clawing into his back. He clung to the trunk. His mouth clenched the cigarette and he swatted at the birds with one arm. He continued climbing until he was close enough to reach the bottom of the nest. The flying devils became more aggressive, scratching away at Greg's bare neck.
Petey bawled somewhere above. His cries were much louder now and, from the amount of cawing and restless crunching above, it sounded like there was an auditorium or birds threshing about. Greg's heart raced. He held himself steady on a thick branch and began battering the bottom of the nest with his free hand. He chucked down prickly twigs, parts of clothing, twine, and branches to the ground in a crazed fury. The nest was thick, but he tore it apart like it was birthday wrapping paper.
Birds yanked at Greg's clothing in an attempt to knock him off balance. He was too heavy to budge. He reached up, right through the nest, and began hauling his upper body through the crevice. At once, more crows charged, their beaks gaping open in anger. As the crows attacked him, Greg could've sworn the crows shrieked out, "This is our goddamn tree!"
The cigarette flopped out his mouth and landed on the nest. At that instant, a cloth-bound twig ignited and spread outward.
The angry crows tore away at the flesh on his naked head. Greg swatted with all his strength and knocked off his glasses. It tumbled down past the nest, hitting off limb after limb.
With a few sharp punches, the crows began to subside and Greg saw his son, mutilated beyond recognition. Petey continued wailing and thrashing his blood soaked arms in unsteady jerks. A crow, seated on Petey's chest, pecked at one of his eyes.
Greg lifted himself higher. The fragile nest started to break apart before he was able to reach Petey. The bird plucked Petey's fragile eye from its socket and flew off with it.
Greg paused. The nest was too fragile to hold his weight, and the fire was spreading. The heat became unbearable. Greg wheezed and thrashed his fist out in an aimless attempt to guard himself. It was getting harder to fight off the crows.
At this point, Greg had to make a decision. Good or bad, it would change his life forever.
With one final swat, he retreated down the gap of the smoldering nest. His eyes burned from the heat. Fiery ash plummeted from the nest, scorching his bare head and limbs.
The cries from baby Petey grew louder, which enticed Greg to move faster than he’d ever moved before. It was like Greg went into automatic. He didn't know if there were birds clawing away at his head or if his clothes had caught on fire. He didn't know. He wanted down from the tree. He wanted to never hear Petey's crying again.
Greg's steps became less careful. He miss-stepped twice and fell hard onto a lower branch.
He neared the center of the tree. A few more limbs and he could run back to his house, safe from the birds and the cries. He'd never again have to see Mona's reflection in Petey's eyes. He'd move away and leave all the antiques behind. Mona would never haunt him again—he'd be free!
Another burst of energy overwhelmed him. He trekked downward at a careless pace. A crow thrashed its beak into his right eye and he lost balance. He jerked backward, his feet slipped off the branches, and he lost grip, which triggered his body on a downward collision. Branches sliced at his skin like knives on the way down. He hit the ground like an asteroid colliding with earth.
An hour had passed when Greg regained consciousness. His mind was foggy, and he felt burning stabs of pressure all over his body. He opened his eyes at once and lifted his head, squinting. Greg's plump belly was filled with boisterous black crows, feasting away at disassembled flesh. Satisfied with the feast, the crows clawed at him. Greg listened closer. Petey's cries were no more—he was free at last!
END
Under the Thorns
Quentin cycled down the dreary hill, weaving past the polished tombstones and mausoleums. He skidded to a stop on dense turf, unbuckled a dented helmet, and hopped off his path racer bicycle. He knelt in the damp grass and raised his head. A granite tombstone stood before him with dark etched letters.
"Dad," he said, closing his eyes, "I say this every time, but I wish I could've given you more of my time, especially while you were sick. I wish I could make it all up to you. I—" He opened his eyes to a trail of vehicles creeping past him on a narrow dirt road leading away from a maroon tent in the distance.
He closed his eyes again and began to speak. "Trish will be back from her trip in a couple days. I'm gonna spend more time with her. Not gonna let this happen again, nope—" A car door slammed shut, interrupting his thoughts again. The remaining vehicles began driving by. The last one, an oversized black SUV, edged closer, its back seat window open. Inside, a young brunette peered out at him with a half smile, her eyes bloodshot and bloated.
Quentin part
ed back his long, golden blond hair and returned a dry smile until the vehicle was out of sight. He scanned the cemetery grounds. "I'll be right back with a present," he said, prowling toward the distant maroon tent.
Rows of arranged flowers arched both sides of the tent's opening. Most of the bouquets had been picked through and were bare, others untouched. The sweet smell festered within his nose, reminding him of every funeral he'd ever attended. He plucked a handful of white roses from a freestanding wreath and walked back to his father's grave.
He knelt and lowered the stolen flowers.
"Damn it," he yelled, dropping the roses onto the dense grass. He squeezed his thumb. A bubble of blood emerged from his skin. "What the—" He shook his hand and sucked the wound. It was bitter. His mouth salivated. He wiped his thumb on the grass. "Shit hurts."
He tried to close his eyes and concentrate, but the pain was too much, like last summer when he was stung by a hornet. Only this time, it was as though a hornet stung him over and over inside the same blood-soaked gash.
Blood dripped down his clasped hands. He stood and mounted his bike. "Sorry, dad, love you," he said and rode off.
* * *
A week went by, yet the pain lingered like a bruise and his entire hand became itchy. He squeezed his thumb until blood seeped out. This time, the bubble was brown. Infected?
Quentin picked up his bike and began carrying it upstairs to his apartment building, which was decorated with only the finest dollar store framed pictures, and the wallpaper looked like a cat had used it as a scratching post.
"Watch it, watch your step," someone above him yelled in a deep, brash voice.
Quentin looked up over the banister. Three floors above him roared two fat men heaving a dark brown couch. "Watch the sides. Watch the front," they said to each other.