archive:stories:blh
THE BIRDLOVER'S HOLIDAY
Copyright 1991, Andrew P. Varga
It was just before dawn. Tom began another vigil,
staring through the snowstorm at the dark shape in his
back yard.
It had been a pleasant morning ritual for a year, give or
take a few days. He smiled, remembering his delight at
unwrapping the package from Alice and the kids. It was
the biggest bird feeder he'd ever seen. He'd chipped the
hole and forced the post into the frozen earth that very
day.
Every morning since, he'd come down to the den extra
early, before Alice and the kids got up. He'd sit in his
favorite chair, sip the day's first cup of coffee, and
wake up to the variety of birds that came to feed.
There were many sparrows, of course. A small group
that seemed to keep pretty much to itself consisted
entirely of a rare English variety. There were two
regular pairs of bright red cardinals. One pair Tom had
traced to their nest in the big oak that grew in the
Burke's front lawn, three houses down. A family of
nuthatches had made a home in a small hollow in the old
maple out behind the garage. Numerous robins and
red-winged blackbirds had come and gone throughout the
summer.
His favorite had been a big old bluejay he'd
affectionately named Sam. Sam came to the feeder
regularly twice a week, Monday and Thursday mornings
between six and six-thirty.
But something changed. For nearly two weeks the feeder
sat, full and untouched. Winter had come early and with
enthusiasm. He could think of no reason other than maybe
squirrels were trying to help themselves to the seeds.
Tom wallowed through the drifts to check the feeder every
morning as he left for work. If there had been any
tracks, he hadn't seen them.
He'd found a clue the morning before. A frozen drop
of blood and a blue feather lay in the snow at the base of
the post.
That very evening, after the children had been put to
bed, he loaded his .22 caliber rifle and carefully hid it
in the closet by the back door.
Suddenly, Tom stiffened in his chair. Something moved
out there in the morning twilight!
There it was again! Something was moving in the
shadow under the bush by the bird feeder!
Hurrying through the kitchen and into the back room,
Tom yanked his boots on over his bare feet and hurried
into his coat. He felt in the pocket for the flashlight
he'd tucked away there to keep the kids from swiping its
batteries. Taking the rifle from the closet, he snuck out
the back door.
The snow was drifted deep and billowed over the tops of
his boots, melting against his thin pajamas. The icy wind
made his eyes water.
Crouching, he searched for a sign of the concrete
walk. He slapped the flashlight against the side of his
leg a few times before it came on. Someone had traded
batteries. He made a mental note to have a talk with Tom
junior.
Tom pointed the yellowing beam toward the bush. He
thought he could just make out a shape underneath.
Suddenly there were two glowing reflections shining back
at him.
As he raised the rifle, the flashlight went dead and
the reflections disappeared.
Tom took aim in the general direction of where they
had been a moment ago. The rifle made a soft "Putt," the
sound muffled in the wind.
He wallowed toward it through the drifts. He squinted
hard as he crouched low beneath the winter-burdened
branches.
Tom's face was only inches away from it when a violent
sneeze sent him reeling back into the snowbank. He knew
what it was. Crawling back under the bush, he felt around
for something that resembled fur.
It was Puffy, the next door neighbor's white Angora.
Puffy had a dark wet spot just over one eye. "Glad the
Randolfs are visiting her parents for the holidays," he
muttered.
As he stood and turned toward the house, he saw his
bedroom light go on. "Damn!" he said to himself. "Alice
is up. Now what am I going to do?"
Tom hurried through the snow toward the garage holding
Puffy at arms length before him. Under different
circumstances, Tom would probably have missed the bulge in
the snow that hid son Randy's neglected skateboard.
Puffy flew one way and the rifle the other as Tom
landed. He wallowed among the drifts on all fours,
searching. Finding both with numbing fingers, he slogged
his way to the garage.
He grabbed the handle to the overhead door. Locked.
His keys were in the pocket of his pants, upstairs in his
bedroom.
Kicking a small grave in the snowdrift by the garage,
he dashed as best as he could back into the house. Yanking
off his boots, he returned the rifle to the closet and ran
through the kitchen and around to the stairs. He listened
carefully as he snuck up them.
Peeking around the corner at the top, he smiled to
himself. The bathroom light squinted around the closed
door. He tiptoed past it and down the hall to their
bedroom. Finding his pants on the chair, he silently
withdrew his keys.
Turning to go, he stubbed his toe hard on the edge of
the dresser that he'd helped Alice move the day before.
Fighting against the need to scream in pain, Tom limped
back along the hallway and down the stairs.
Returning to the back room, he gingerly stepped into
his house slippers. His toes had already swollen too much
to fit into his boots.
Again outdoors, he hurried to the garage. The snow
stuck to his already wet pajamas and started to freeze.
It was a few long minutes before he found Puffy. He
opened the garage door, slung the dead cat inside, closed
it, and hurried back to the house. Alice was waiting for
him in the back room.
"Your face is flushed, Tom. Are you coming down with
something?."
He got as far as, "No, I'm fi . . . fi . . ." before
a sneeze seemed to shake the house.
"You've got a cold. I'll make some hot lemonade."
Tom flinched. He hated hot lemonade.
"And what did you expect, running around out there in
your pajamas. Did you stoke the furnace?"
"I was just about to, Dear." Tom replied, his mind
scrambling for a plausible excuse. "Coal! We're running
low on coal. I thought I'd get some firewood, to sort of
stretch it out."
Alice's eyes widened. "Okay, so where is it?"
"Oh, I forgot," He quickly turned to the door.
"Tom!" she called after him. "What were you doing in
the garage?"
Tom slowly turned to her and forced a smile, again
scrambling for an answer. "It's too close to Christmas to
ask."
"Oh, okay," she smiled. "Well hurry up with the
furnace, the children will be up soon. Breakfast will be
ready when you're done."
Tom had a little trouble bringing in the wood. The
legs of his pajamas had frozen stiff, making it difficult
to bend his knees. He had even more trouble getting the
furnace going, there were no embers left from the night
before.
Mid-morning found him breakfasted, bathed, and
relaxing in his favorite chair to the morning newspaper.
"Hey Dad," Tom Jr. asked as he and his brothers and
sisters filed into the den, "can I have the keys to the
garage?"
Tom didn't look up. Nothing could budge him from his
paper. If he had looked, he would have seen five large
bundles of clothing. At a glance, it was impossible to
tell that each held a now sweating child.
We're going sledding," eleven year old Stacy
announced.
"Yeah, Dad," Tom Jr. said, talking louder with each
word. "And the sleds are in the GARAGE - "
Tom was halfway through the kitchen before his paper
hit the floor. "I'll get them, kids," he called back over
his shouldering. "Its cold outside. You all stay right
here."
He dashed into the garage and began a desperate search
for Puffy's remains. Just as he pulled the stiffening
form from where it had landed in the corner behind Alice's
stack of planting pots, he heard a voice call from the
house, "Having trouble Dad?"
Desperately searching for a way to dispose of Puffy,
Tom jammed it into one of the plastic ice cream tubs that
Alice always saved.
"Yeah, I'm having a problem," he said to himself as he
fought to snap the stiff plastic lid.
Hearing the back door slam, he just managed to tuck
the frozen container inside his shirt as all five children
waddled into the garage.
"Whatcha got, Daddy?" four year old Jenny asked.
Tom stood in the corner, trapped.
"Don't ask!" Tom Jr hushed his sister.
Tom's face turned stern as he fought to collect his
dignity. He slowly walked toward the door, and his five
children. He heard "Christmas presents!" whispered among
them as he passed and sighed with relief.
Once inside, Tom ran in circles through the kitchen,
searching for a safe place to hide the tub.
"Creak" went the floorboard in the living room. Alice
was coming.
Tom put Puffy in the only place he could find, the
freezer. He'd just closed the door as Alice entered.
"Stay out of the goodies," she smilingly scolded.
"All that stuff is for tomorrow's Christmas dinner."
At lunch all the children were excitedly chattering
about what they'd seen in the back yard. The boys decided
that pirates had come in the night to dig up their
treasure chest, uncovered Randy's skateboard instead, and
got into a sword fight. Tom Junior had found frozen drops
of blood as proof.
Tom noticed oldest daughter Julie frowning.
"Hey, Jewel," he said, "looks like something's
bothering you, yes?"
She nodded in affirmation.
"Well out with it, Honey. I can't help if I don't
know what it is."
"She can't talk," Stacy explained.
"Whatsa matter," Randy teased, "cat got your tongue?"
Tom flinched.
"Shut up, Randy," Julie told her brother, "or else."
Randy fell silent, not from his sister's threat but
because of the look Tom shot at him.
"It's the Randolfs," she told her father.
"But they're not even home," Tom replied. "How can
they be a problem?"
"You like the Randolfs," Alice added. "They're very
nice people."
"I know they are, Mommy," Julie replied. "That's why
I offered to feed Puffy for them while they're gone."
Tom gulped.
Julie continued, "I went over to feed her a little
while ago but I can't find her anywhere. And her food
dish is still full from yesterday."
"Don't worry, Dear," Alice comforted. "I'm sure
Puffy's around somewhere. Right Tom?"
"Ugh, yes, yes, I'm sure." Tom started to sweat.
"Cats like to wander around, Jewel. But I'm sure that
little Puffy hasn't gotten very far away."
"Promise, Daddy?" Julie's worry started to dissipate.
"I promise."
The rest of the day went well with everyone laughingly
wrapping presents and whispering Christmas secrets.
Evening found the family happily relaxing in the
living room.
"Mommy," Stacy asked, "can we have some ice cream
before we go to bed?"
"Yeah! Please? Can we?" the others chimed in.
Tom was in the kitchen before Alice could answer.
"I'll get it," he called.
He quickly reached into the freezer and, grabbing the
plastic tub, dashed to the basement. He tossed it into
the coal bin before running back upstairs.
Alice was in the kitchen when he returned. "Since
when do we keep ice cream in the basement?" she asked.
All Tom could do was put on his `I don't know what
you're talking about' smile and shrug his shoulders.
Alice went to the freezer and removed a plastic tub
identical to the one Tom had just disposed of. He gasped
as she pried open the lid.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked, scooping vanilla
ice cream into the dishes. Tom only sneezed, and was
given another dose of hot lemonade.
It took longer than usual for the children to get to
sleep, what with it being Christmas eve. It was almost
four in the morning by the time Tom and Alice, having
finished their Christmas preparations, trudged wearily
upstairs for bed.
Alice stopped at the top of the stairs. "Oh darn, I
forgot to put the turkey in the oven."
"Can't it wait?"
"It can if you don't want Christmas dinner until seven
thirty at night."
"I get your point."
"It won't take but a couple of minutes. Why don't you
stoke the furnace while I'm putting it in? That way the
house will be warm when the children get up."
Tom trudged to the basement. He opened the door to
the coal bin and jumped in fright as the white container
rolled out.
"Damned cats are more trouble," he muttered as he
stoked the furnace.
"I'll fix you," He threw the tub on top of the pile
of coal and slammed the heavy furnace door. He waited to
be sure he wasn't going to sneeze before going upstairs.
The next thing Tom remembered was Alice shaking him.
"Come on, Tom," she was saying, "the children are up."
"What time is it?"
"A little after six."
"Tell them to wait."
"Come on, Tom, its Christmas morning!"
"All right, all right."
"I'll get them to wait until you've got a fire started
in the fireplace."
"The fireplace?"
"It looks so Christmassy with a fire in the fireplace.
We do it every year."
Tom stumbled downstairs and got the fire going.
"All right," he called. "Its all ready. Merry . . .
ah-CHOO . . . Christmas!"
The children bounded down the stairs, followed closely
by Alice.
Packages were excitedly ripped open amid peals of
laughter and joy.
"What's that funny smell?" Randy asked. Everyone
paused.
"Smells like something's burning!" Tom Jr. exclaimed.
"Oh my, the turkey!" Alice raced to the kitchen.
"Sure is a funny smell," Julie said.
"I don't smell anything," Tom said, searching faces
for support.
Alice came back from the kitchen with a puzzled look
on her face. "Its not the turkey."
"Smells like burning hair," Stacy said seriously.
Jenny began to cry.
"What's wrong, Jen?" Tom asked.
Jenny sobbed something to Randy, whose face instantly
took on a most serious, worried look. "She thinks that
Santa Clause got stuck in the chimney and Dad put him on
fire."
"That's impossible," Tom Jr. scoffed. "Santa Clause
is . . . "
"Santa is magic," Alice interrupted. "And because
he's magic, its absolutely impossible for him to get stuck
in a chimney."
Jenny gradually stopped crying.
"Okay," Stacy agreed, "so what's that smell?"
"I don't sbell anything," Tom stifled a sneeze.
"You need some more hot lemonade," Alice told him.
"Please no, Honey. I don't need any bore lemonade.
Please Alice, it's Christbus. I just deed a kleedex."
Tom stood slowly and shuffled into the den. Slumping
into his favorite chair, he held a tissue to his nose.
He smiled as he turned to see the birds flocking to
his feeder.
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