By Brandon Figliolino
A young boy of seven sits
cross-legged on the deck in his family’s backyard. The sky is cloudless and the
weather warm, the way it should be on summer vacation. Flowers bloom in pots
and winding gardens, islands of color in the sea of lush lawn. The backyard is
absent of any birds; only the occasional rustle of the trees in the wind and
the steady stream of water from the fish pond make any discernible noise.
In the boy’s hand is a large Captain America
action figure. The doll, dressed in a denim superhero outfit like his namesake,
is dusted with a layer of dirt. Clasped in Captain’s right hand just above his
holster is a Colt 1911. Slung across its left arm is a circular shield with red
bands and a white star in the center. It’s once shiny paint is faded and
scratched. Faint wrinkles line the space on the corners of Captain’s brown
eyes. His pursed lips show neither a chance for smile or growl.
“Who’s strong and brave, here to
save the American way?” the boy sings quietly to himself, clipping Captain
America’s shield to the latch on the doll’s back. He tugs the Colt from Captain
America’s hand and sticks it in its holster. “Who vows to fight like a man for
what’s right night and day?”
He
stands up, puts both of the doll’s hands up over his head, and starts running
around the deck. He weaves through the wrought-iron chairs around the dining
table. Laughing, he takes a step down to the whicker seating area near the small
pond. He hops onto the loveseat, swooshing Captain over the water. The fish
remain uninterested and continue swimming as normal.
The
boy bounces once on the thick cushion and hops off, nearly tripping on the rug
on his way back up to the dining table.
“Who will campaign door-to-door for
America?” he calls, hurrying past an open window where a fat brown tabby sits
licking its paw. “Carry the flag shore to shore for America?”
The boy goes towards rail on the
opposite side of the window and pauses. He lays Captain on top of it. He tries
to hoist himself up over it, but it’s too tall. He shrugs, grabs Captain, and
jumps down the three steps near the rail onto the grass.
“From Hoboken to Spokane, the Star
Spangled Man with a Plan can!” he belts out. On the last word, he splays
himself across the grass. Laughing, he lowers one of Captain’s hands to his
side. With the remaining one, he drops it a fraction. The doll salutes him. The
boy grins and salutes back. He presses Captain America close to his heart and
closes his eyes.
A voice breaks the quiet. It’s
husky, and tinged with sarcasm.
“Nice
dolly you’ve got there.”
The boy sits up. He rests the hand
holding Captain America in the grass. Glancing around the vast yard, he sees no
one amongst the full trees and blooming flowers. He rises from the grass, which
has flattened where he laid. With Captain America in one hand, he tries looking
over the tall fence at the edge of the large lawn. No one’s there. He walks off
into a corner of the yard by his father’s gardening shed and gate to the front
yard, but finds no one there either.
“It’s rude to ignore someone when
they’re talking to you.” Diving down to the boy’s eye level is a pigeon. The
slender bird flutters in motion, its grey-black speckled wings beating in the
sunlight.
“You can talk?” the boy says,
squinting.
“Of course I can,” the pigeon says,
a bit disgruntled.
“My cat can’t do anything but meow.”
The boy points to the window. “What makes you more special?”
“Your cat’s dumb, that’s why.”
“You’re not very nice.” The boy
walks over and sits on one of the steps to the deck. He pulls Captain America’s
hands down to his side.
The pigeon flutters to him. “I’m
sorry, it’s just I get angry when I’m upset and need help.” He dips down and
rests on a lamppost on the stair.
“You need help?” the boy asks.
“Let
me show you.”
The
bird takes off across the yard back towards the fish pond. The boy runs to
follow, Captain in hand. He passes a circular patch of excavated dirt, blocked
off with wooden stakes and string. The bird stops at a large oak tree with a
knotty trunk and long, robust branches. Its crown sprawls out in the sky, part
of it shading the pond nearby. Below it is a small pile of bricks that the
boy’s father plans on using to create a fire pit.
Glinting
on one of the upper branches is a stained glass bird feeder. It’s hexagonal in
shape and colored in green, blue, and yellow hues. The pieces, melded against
frail pieces of copper, together look like a field on a sunny day.
“I
need you to take the feeder down and fill it with seed,” the pigeon explains,
sitting on a limb high enough that Will has to look up to see it. “It’s stored
in that shed over there; I’ve seen your old man fill it before.”
The
boy tilts his head up. “That’s pretty high. I don’t think I can reach it. How
about I wait until Dad gets home and I’ll ask him to fill it for you?”
The
pigeon shakes its head. “That won’t do.”
"I can't reach," Will says, beginning to walk away. "Sorry."
.
“My children are dying! There hasn’t been food for days. You don’t want to
watch little birds suffer, do you, Captain America?”
Will stops.
“I’m
not Captain America; I’m Will.”
“Your
shirt says otherwise.”
“Oh.”
“But
you’re still a good guy, aren’t you, Will? Will you save a small bird family
from death?”
Will
looks down at Captain America. Rubbing his thumb across the star stitched on
the doll’s chest. He nods.
“Okay,
we’ll help you.”
"Thanks, Captain Will. Whatever you do, stay away from that nest. Got it?"
Will
thinks on the situation. A patio chair could get him up high enough to reach
the bird feeder, but it’s heavy and could tear at the grass when dragged. He’d
get in trouble for sure. The pallet of bricks could work, if they were
underneath the bird feeder. Pushing them over was not an option.
He
settles on climbing the tree. Will isn’t athletic, but he’s lean. It won’t be
too difficult to scale the tree, especially since the asymmetrical growth
pattern of the tree has left lots of jutting limbs he can climb. He stuffs
Captain America into the back of his jeans so its torso sits above his
waistline.
He
begins the ascent by sticking his foot in between the trunk and the lowest limb.
Once his foot is secure, he pulls the other leg up. He reaches for another
above him. He isn’t good in gym class, is never picked to be on teams or
anything like that, but at that moment, he feels like a man. He’ll reach that
bird feeder and be a hero. If only the others could see him do it!
“What
are you doing?” the pigeon asks, flying off the limb when Will’s hand grabs it.
“Going
to get the bird feeder,” he tells the inquiring bird. “I told you I can’t reach
it from the ground.”
“Don't go near that nest!"
Will
doesn’t respond. Instead, he focuses on pulling himself up onto the next limb.
He’s about two feet off the ground. Several branches up and out towards the
grass is the bird’s nest the pigeon mentioned.
The
tree rustles with every maneuver, but steadfast in its roots, it doesn’t fall.
He’s
nearing the bird feeder at the end of the branch, but feels the weight of him
pulling the branch downward. He retreats to the center of the tree.
“What
are you doing? Get the bird feeder!”
“I
need to get higher; that one is too weak.” Will pulls himself up to the branch
above him, which he thinks is thick enough to hold him.
“Don’t
do that!” The pigeon flies into the tree and flutters by his head. “Stop!
You’ll disturb my nest!”
“Stop
shouting at me!” Will says, pushing forward. The bird starts flapping its wings
in Will’s face. With one hand on the branch, Will waves the other at the
pigeon.
“Why are you doing this? What's so special about your nest?”
He looks over at the nest and answers his question.
........To be Continued?
