THUMP!
Even though the noise had been happening all evening, Mona still jumps each time it comes. She holds the paint brush in her left hand, stroking lines of cloudy turpentine through her oil painting. She’s not left-handed, she remembers that much, but the arthritis—
Thump.
Mona’s hand jerks across the canvas.
“Those damned birds,” she says.
She sighs audibly, as if someone is around to hear, and continues her strokes on the canvas. But, ah yes, the arthritis. The arthritis came about just when Arthur finally—yes, when he was, gone? The petite cabin never felt roomier to her that night, except maybe after J.R. moved out. She loves her son, and hell, she had even loved Arthur many years ago, but he was just a pain in her—
Thump, thump.
“You stupid birds!” Mona says.
She groans and strokes a few lines of black paint, straight from the tube, onto the background of her painting. The reference picture she took herself has a cerulean background. But that isn’t her style. J.R. bought her a camera for her last birthday and she asked what the hell that was for. He said to take pictures. You know, of the birds. Of the cardinals. For your paintings. He smiled then.
She never once saw no cardinals here in the woods. Not in the forty years she’s lived here. A couple of blue jays, too many sparrows. All there is out here are those damned—
THUMP!
Mona throws her paint brush, packed to the tops of the bristles with oil paint, into a vat of turpentine. She grabs a cloth from her easel and wipes her paint smeared fingers on it. She knows there’s paint in her hair, too, but she doesn’t bother with it for now.
Thump!
“Ugh.”
She walks over to the window that faces the drive-in to the woods. It’s hidden, especially in the summertime when the overgrowth and bloomed trees cover the small log cabin up like a warm blanket. She loves the summertime most. The sun sets at nearly nine. Natural light is best for her paintings.
Thump.
And it’s usually quiet.
Headlights peak through the trees, come and go, as they grow closer. Mona’s heart drains all of its sorrow and fills up with rapture as she sees her son’s blue pickup. When he gets up to the cabin he parks it next to her truck. Its shiny, new paint looks absurd next to hers, rusted through in the wheel wells, front and back. As J.R. gets out of his truck, Mona rushes back over to her easel and grabs the soaked paint brush. She wipes it on her apron, grabs some red-heavy brown paint and swipes it next to the bird’s tail. A few more strokes and—
Knock.
“Come in,” Mona says. The door squeaks open.
“Hey ‘Ma,” J.R. says in his butter-sweet voice.
Mona sets the paint brush back into the turpentine and turns to him. He’s holding a couple of brown grocery bags, and he steps into the kitchen to set them down onto the table. His steel-toe work boots squeak on the clean, wood floor.
“Sorry to interrupt your painting,” he says.
“That’s alright. I’m happy you’re here. Did you find the JIF?”
“I did, this time.” He reaches into one of the bags, juggling its contents as she walks over. She holds out her hand and, in it, he places a jar of JIF chunky peanut butter.
“What is this?”
“Peanut butter?” He smiles. His two front teeth overlap each other just slightly, like his father’s once did.
“I said creamy, J.R.”
“All they had.” J.R. shrugs.
“I said JIF creamy peanut butter—,”
Thump.
“If they didn’t have that, you should’ve gotten any other brand, even the store brand. I can’t eat this.”
She holds the jar back out to him. He grabs it, rips it from her hand.
“I’m sorry ‘Ma. But I’ve got everything else you asked.”
“Thank you,” Mona says and steps close to him. She puts her hand on top of his and makes him set the peanut butter down on the table. She puts her hands up to his cheeks, even if she has to reach up almost a foot, and looks into his eyes. “You’re such a sweet boy always picking up things for me.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiles and puts his hands onto her arms, gently pushing them off. “Look, ‘Ma, I should get going.”
“Oh, you have time for one cup of tea!”
Mona rushes over to the stove and lights it. She lets the flames roar and grabs a tea kettle.
“I have green, mint, black,” she says.
“I really should be going,” J.R. says.
“What’s the rush?”
J.R. glances down to his feet. His jeans are covered in dirt. Maybe oil. Underneath his jacket she can see a buttoned-up work shirt. Pale blue. Maybe he’s gotten another job. She hardly knows anything about him anymore. He looks back to her, parts his lips—
THUMP!
“Hey, what’s that noise?” He points a thick finger up to the ceiling.
When his blue eyes fall onto hers, she only sees Arthur in them. His brown hair curls down into his eyes.
“Those damned nighthawks.”
“Are they okay?”
“The hell should I know.” She laughs.
She puts the tea kettle onto the roaring flame and turns it down just slightly. Maybe it will take even a minute longer to boil. He pulls out a chair and sits down. His leather jacket squeaks as he slouches.
“But the sun is still out,” J.R. says. “Aren’t them nocturnal?”
“They’re supposed to be.”
“What are you saying?”
“They’re out all the time, maybe they take shifts. How should I know?”
She smiles and gets two teacups down from the cabinet.
“They’re probably just regular hawks,” J.R. says.
“It doesn’t much matter to me,” Mona says as she walks over and takes a seat at the table with him.
“You still like the camera?”
“Oh yes, it’s lovely.”
J.R. clears his throat and shifts in the chair.
“Listen ‘Ma, if I’m staying for a few minutes—,”
Thump.
“—which I can’t stay much longer than that, I have something to tell you.”
“Hm? What’s that?”
J.R. clears his throat.
“I—um,” he looks into her eyes but immediately focuses them onto the stove on the opposite side of the room. “You’re a—,”
Thump!
J.R. winces. His eyes soften.
“Grandparent.”
Mona stares at him as her thin lips slowly part. She stops herself before she says anything she may regret. She opens her eyes wider, making sure the wrinkles on her face don’t suggest she’s upset. But her heart pounds. It gets louder and louder. She can hear it in her ears. She gets goosebumps and she’s starting to feel light-headed. And she needs to sit down—but she’s already sitting down and she holds her hand on her chest where her heart is and breathes through her mouth in large gasps of air.
J.R. shoves his chair aside as he comes over to her; she doesn’t know why. He grips onto her worn face, pressing her gray curls into her head and looks into her eyes. Those blue eyes that match Arthur’s. Her brown ones look back.
He makes her assure him that she’s alright. And, with him, she is. She can finally breathe again. The second his hands leave her face, the second he sits down again, she remembers what he just said. He doesn’t look her in the eyes.
“You,” she says. “You’ve had a bastard child, didn’t you?”
“No,” he says. “Not that—not—,”
Thump.
“Not what?”
“No. Not a goddamn bastard child. He’s my son. He’s two.”
“T—two?”
“Yeah, two fucking years old—,”
“When you speak like that you remind me of your father.”
J.R. looks into her eyes. His fist on the table clenches. His knuckles whiten.
“You wonder why I don’t tell you things.”
“How could I not be upset when you’ve hid this from me, for years?”
His eyes turn soft but he’s not sorry. He’s never sorry about anything. Except messing up her grocery list.
“Who’s the mother?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Her lips press into a firm line.
“I’d like to meet them.”
“I know you would.”
The tea kettle starts to whistle and she springs out of her chair to attend to it.
“What’ll it be?” she asks, her back turned to him. “Green, mint, black?”
“Black is fine.”
She plucks a bag of black tea into one cup and a bag of green tea into the other. When she puts the cup in front of J.R., he reaches out and touches her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Arthur’s eyes still shine into hers. At least J.R. can pretend to apologize.
She’s quiet as she sits down and they’re left looking at each other again.
“I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me,” she says.
She speaks so softly that she’s unsure whether he hears her or not. She finds it hard to care anymore. She steeps the teabag; it’s making little waves in the cup and the water nearly splashes over the brim.
“Look. ‘Ma,” he waits until their eyes meet again. “I have my own family now. And even though you aren’t part of it, that doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you.”
She looks to the bags of groceries beside her. Sees the jar of chunky JIF peanut butter. Wonders how she could’ve changed things. If there’s still time.
“What’s his name?”
“Evan.” J.R. smiles.
“Is there anything I can do? Anything at all.”
“What are you painting?”
She swallows as a tear escapes from her eye. She’s grateful he’s looking at the back of her easel in the next room.
“Never mind that,” she says.
He steeps his tea bag and then takes a small sip.
“I’m sorry, ‘Ma.”
“I don’t know why you even bothered to tell me.”
J.R. shakes his head at the teacup in front of him. Mona’s fingers play nervously on the handle of hers. Her heart cramps as she forces herself to not imagine what that kid must look like. Where he must be. What he might be doing.
His cup of tea is gone within minutes and not one more word is spoken. The moment he takes the last sip, he pushes the chair back as he stands up and starts toward the door.
“I gotta get going now, ‘Ma.”
“I know.”
Mona gets up, leaving her full cup of tea untouched, and walks with him the few steps to the front door.
“At least your nighthawks have given it a rest.” He smiles.
She wraps her arms around his torso, and he bends over a little as he hugs her back. She doesn’t want to let go. She fears he won’t come back.
“Do you have another list for me?” he asks.
“Oh, yes.”
She rushes back into the kitchen, grabs the grocery list, and shuffles back over to him just as the sun began playing peek-a-book for the night.
“I love you, J.R.,” she says as she hands him the list. “Take care of your family.”
“I love you too,” he says.
J.R. opens the door and immediately a hawk swoops out in front of him. Mona laughs a little and he glances back at her. He throws a quick smile at her before walking out the door. She holds the door open as she watches him leave. He stops about half way between his truck and the cabin.
“‘Ma!” he shouts.
“What?”
“There’s a hawk laying here, I think he’s hurt!”
“Ah, let me see it,” she says. She slips on her mud boots; grabs the LED flashlight she keeps beside the door. A hawk swoops out behind her as she walks toward J.R. She clicks on the flashlight and shines it toward him. “Are you crying?”
“I think he’s dying.”
Mona shines the flashlight on the hawk. It’s barely moving. She nudges it with her foot and its head wobbles all around like it’s already dead. But its tiny chest still rises.
“Let me grab your father’s twelve gauge.” Mona turns toward the house again but J.R. grabs her arm.
“‘Ma, no,” he says. “We need to help him.”
“You a bird doctor now too?”
“No, I mean, I’m sure there’s someplace I can take him. Someone can help.”
“Ah, hell,” she says and rips her arm from his grasp. She turns toward the house and gets inside.
Arthur’s shotgun, always fully loaded, was just inside the coat closet across the front door. She’s used it a couple of times, scaring off bears and whatever else lurks up here near the Canadian border. But this will be the first time she’s ever killed something, with the gun.
She steps back outside and J.R. is still beside the bird, kneeling down on the damp grass and sobbing.
“Why don’t you just go on home,” she says.
“I—I can’t.”
“What do you suggest? Letting the poor thing suffer to death?”
“I can make some calls.”
He pulls out his cell phone and holds it up. She already knows he won’t get any reception.
“Landline in the house,” she says.
He shakes his head. She knows he doesn’t know what number to dial. She hates the idea just as much as he does, but it’s dying. Right in front of their eyes. She shines the flashlight on the thing again, and it’s bleeding out of the tiny beak. One of the eyes is half gone. It’s little chest still moves up and down. Slowly. Poor little thing.
“Mama, he’s dyin’ on his own. Just let him be.”
“What if it takes hours?”
J.R. sobs again. She carefully sets the gun down and steps over to him. She puts her spotted, shaky hand on his back and rubs him like she used to when he was a little boy.
“My sweet boy,” she says, “go home, give your boy a hug. Forget this ever happened. No matter what, he’s dying. Even if those fancy doctors were right here, he’s too hurt.”
J.R. nods. He slowly stands up, his legs shake, and gives her another hug. This time, he holds onto her longer. He says I love you again. She takes in a deep breath of his scent, like it might heal everything she’s ever done to him. He smells faintly of motor oil and her nose wrinkles in response. He turns into his father more every day.
“I’ll see you next Friday,” he says.
He walks to his truck and climbs inside. Another hawk swoops past Mona and she whips the flashlight around above her head, trying to ward it off. J.R.’s headlights slowly fade into the trees and Mona feels her heart fill with pain.
He’s already well on his way back into town but the shotgun is loud as hell. She will wait a few minutes, not do anything for a while. She knows in her heart that this is the right thing to do, the only thing she can do. She wasn’t raised to let things suffer, and that’s not how she raised J.R. But maybe there was suffering after all.
While she waits, she thinks of Arthur. She hates to think about him, but holding his old shotgun and looking into his same eyes, J.R.’s eyes, how could she not? She thinks of the last time she saw him. He was dying of something for a long time, she guessed liver failure, with his yellowed skin and eyes. The case of beer he’d power through in a couple of days. He never once went to the doctor’s office for it; he knew damn well he was dying.
Mona didn’t want to care for him as he laid stuck up in their small bed. He couldn’t move and he smelled and she had to spoon feed him and she had to bathe him and do everything she had hated about raising a child. She resented him and still does. Then, one morning, she woke up and he didn’t. Simple as that. Whether or not she had anything to do with it wasn’t nobody’s business but the bruises he often left on her. And sometimes on her son.
She was thankful J.R. was already out of the house, or maybe she wouldn’t have had the courage to do it. She knew she should’ve done it earlier. And maybe if she had, things could’ve been different.
The last thing she even knew J.R. was up to was working at a university somewhere down in the cities. Somewhere fancy, a place her or Arthur had never even set foot in. He made a life for himself despite everything. Despite the drinking, the abuse, the neglect. He shed off as much about his life with Mona as he could. But he could never lose the stark teal in his eyes, his crooked teeth, and the way he talked, just like his father. They even shared a name.
But for now, the hawk is hers to care for. And maybe she can do right this time. Already cocked and loaded, she holds the shotgun up to the barely moving bird.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Her thin, bent finger rests on the trigger and she closes her eyes as she pulls it back. The sound cracks through the air, bounces off the trees, shakes the grass around her. Birds from up above in the trees swoop away. Her ears start to ring. She drops the gun and turns toward the cabin. Then she opens her eyes.
There’s the faintest glimmer of sun left in the sky and the moon is barely visible in the opposite direction. She looks up, hardly any of it visible through the tree tops, and shuts her eyes again while taking a deep breath. The air is fresh and newly cool. It feels like electricity when she breaths it in.
She envisions J.R. walking into a house she’s never been to in a town she doesn’t know the name of. Greeting a woman she’s never met. Picking up his small son and lifting him straight into the air. The child giggles and his dad spins him around. The woman calls that it’s time for dinner and oh, how was the trip to your mom’s? I made liver and onions, your childhood favorite. I knew you’d be upset after going over there again.
Mona feels the tears coming to her eyes again and opens them. It’s getting late. She needs to wake up early. Take advantage of the natural light in the morning. Finish her painting, clean up the—
Brussshswwwooshhhhhh!
A swooping, sweeping noise sounds from the treetops. Leaves rustle, branches squeak together, and a strong breeze blows down to her. It’s getting louder. Trees rustle like a storm is blowing in and she hears what sounds like soft pillows rubbing together. A feather floats down next to her. She looks up again, just as a kettle of nighthawks gracefully flap into her view from all directions. Through the breaks in the trees, she can see them forming in right above her. They form in a circle and then begin to lower, coming nearer.
Their black figures darken the sky as more come, forming the break of the evening into the dead of night. They’re getting closer and closer. More and more are coming. There’s at least a hundred. But why?
She squints up, marveling at the birds around her. Remembers the dead one just feet behind her. Are they coming at her? They can’t be—
VEER!!!
All the birds begin to dive down in her direction at once. The sound is thunderous and makes her cover her ears with her hands.
Veer! Veer!
She looks up one more time, they’re inside the woods now. Her feet start moving before her brain can even fathom what’s going on. She nearly trips over a divot in the grass but moves forward, her socks slip down in her boots as she gets steps away from the cabin. Twigs crunch under her as the veering chirps grow louder. They’re right behind her. She’s only feet away from the front door now. She walks up the two stairs, hand on the doorknob, just as a mass of the hawks throw themselves against her. Her body thuds against the door. The force of impact hurts her frail figure. They’re heavy even while flapping their wings.
Veer, veer! VEER!
At first, the feeling is soft, clad with feathers. But when she tries to move, they pin her up against the door; they scream and peck at her. They start at her neck, the only exposed skin besides her hands. The others tug at her jacket, claw against her pants, screech into the night. Then more come, they throw her against the door again and she moans in pain from the impact. A smear of blood is left on the brass door knob as she turns it; the force of the hawks push her inside. She collapses to the floor and the birds swarm in. The cabin fills with the nighthawks, taking their turns getting closer and closer to Mona. They seem to be fighting over who gets to peck at her next.
Her nose is pressed to the floor as she screams in pain. Blood trickles down her neck, bite marks form all over her back side. She turns over, trying to punch the hawks away from her, and strains to stand up. The weight and force of the hawks is beyond what she can handle. They pin her to the ground and now they’ve got her face. They peck and claw at her spotted, delicate cheeks. Her nose. Her feeble lips. She lifts her arms above her face, trying to ward them off and clamps her eyes shut.
The hawks claw and peck at her arms, digging holes and inviting blood to drip all around her. She wants to cry in desperation. She feels helpless. She wants to give up. Feathers are flying in all directions as Mona screams into the night. But nobody is around to hear. Nobody is around for miles.
More hawks continuously fly into the small cabin, nearly filled to the brim with them now. Her screams are muffled against their feathers, or they’re just growing quieter and quieter with each passing moment.
And then, all at once, the nighthawks pour out of the cabin and back into the night.
Silence.
***
“You ready to go, bud?” J.R. asks Evan.
“Yes, Daddy,” Evan says and smiles. His fat cheeks and dimples make J.R. smile back.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Rose says.
“I have to,” J.R. says.
He means it literally. He didn’t sleep at all last night. Each time he shut his eyes he couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if anything ever happened to his old mother who lives alone in that big woods. He wonders if he’d regret not letting her know her grandchild. Hell, let her know her own son.
“You should give her some time to adjust, she’s hardly found out about us. What if she’s angry? J.R., I can’t come along, you know I have work. I don’t want your mom to hate me.”
“If it’s any consolation, darlin’, she already probably does.” He smiles.
Rose gives him a playful slap on the arm. He double checks the seatbelt on the car seat one more time before closing the door. Evan stares and smiles at his father through the window.
“We won’t be gone late, but it’s a long drive,” he says.
“I know, baby. You two take your time. Tell her Rose says hello.”
J.R. nods, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her closely into him, giving her a light kiss. They both say I love you and Rose waves goodbye as they drive off. This time, there’s no groceries to bring. No dread in his mind. No secrets. He smiles. And he means it.
While he was up restless last night, he opened an old album of Polaroids. He stared at one picture of him and his mother, his tiny figure sitting on her soft, wide lap. He had the biggest smile on his face as his mother gave him a big kiss on the cheek. He could count the number of times he’s cried as an adult on one hand: three. Once when Evan was born. Once at the cabin last night. And a third time looking at that picture. He was glad he finally told her about his life.
He babbles to Evan on the way there about how much he’s going to love it at his grandma’s house. So much open, fresh air. So many trees, birds, dirt, bugs, everything a two-year-old boy dreams.
When he drives into the woods, everything is all the same as it was last night. The trees just as luscious, the breeze just as light. ‘Ma’s truck, well, Arthur’s old pile of crap, parked right where it always is. Except now the morning’s sun shines down through the treetops.
J.R. smiles as he unbuckles his seatbelt and goes to the back door to release his son from his car seat. Evan’s bright blue eyes shine at him as he picks up his son, dressed up in overalls and a red checkered flannel that Rose dressed him up in. He holds his son on his hip as he slams the door shut. He’s excited. He could almost cry. J.R. could get used to this feeling.
He looks into the windows of the cabin as they walk over, trying to spot ‘Ma behind her easel, but she’s not there. Arthur’s shotgun still lay on the ground, but J.R. thankfully sees no bird remains around. Large feathers are strewn all over and he brushes past them as he makes his way over to the cabin. Around the front, he can see that the front door is still open.
His eyebrows scrunch up as he approaches; she would never just leave the door open like that. But J.R. has also never come here, ever, if not to bring her groceries on a Friday night. For the past seven years, he’s never stopped by for a surprise visit.
J.R., Evan bouncing at his side, walks up the two steps to the cabin. As he reaches the second stair, he sees his mother. But she’s laying down, her easel to her right and the kitchen table to her left. Large tan and brown feathers lay all around her.
“‘Ma?” he asks.
Before he steps inside, he sets Evan down onto the step.
“You stay there, okay buddy?”
Evan nods at his father and J.R. steps inside the cabin.
“‘Ma?”
His eyes begin to swell as he steps closer to his mother, laying lifeless on the rug. As he gets closer, he can see that there’s hardly anything left of her. Her gray, curled hair, up in a bun, is streaked with blood and clumps of paint. Her eyes were shut, he thinks, but now they are gone. Her entire neck is covered in bloody marks. Down her chest are gaping holes of crimson, some dried and some fresh. Seas of blood cover her stomach. Down her legs the marks only continue and stop at her boots.
J.R. turns around, drops to his knees, and covers his eyes with his hands. He sobs and screams but it doesn’t make him feel any better. He cries out for his mother, something he hasn’t done since he was a child.
In the darkness of his mind, he sees a flash of bright blue eyes come into light. He focuses on them and a tall, dark figure forms. The figure is strong and begins to come closer to him. There’s a large bird on its shoulder, it’s bigger than the figure’s head. He would freak out right now if it didn’t look so much like—
“Daddy?” Evan’s light voice asks from the doorway.
J.R. opens his eyes and tries to take a deep breath. He turns around to face Evan and his heart sinks. Propped up in Evan’s tiny hands is a painting of a nighthawk. Streaks of blood drip all around the bird.
“Where did you get that?” J.R. asks.
Evan points toward Mona’s empty easel.
J.R. rushes over to Evan, nearly tripping over his heavy boots. He takes the painting from him, throws it aside, and scoops the boy up in his arms. He covers his son’s eyes with his hand. Arthur’s eyes flash into his mind again. He closes them quickly and opens them again, relieved when they go away.
“We have to go now, buddy,” he says as he carries Evan down the steps.
“Why?”
J.R. shakes his head and squeezes his son tighter against his body. As he walks toward the truck, his feet halt in place when he sees it.
His breathing starts to quicken again. He holds Evan even closer now and sprints to the truck. He doesn’t bother with the car seat for now, he throws open the driver’s door and brings his son inside. He sets him down onto the passenger’s seat and reaches for the ignition.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Evan asks.
J.R. throws the truck into reverse and backs up as fast as he can. He then shoves it into drive and high tails it out of the drive-in.
And, as they leave, Arthur’s shadowy figure and striking blue eyes watch them from inside the old pickup truck. His crooked front teeth show in an evil smile. On his shoulder sits a nighthawk; its dark, black eyes glimmer in the daylight. And maybe, somehow, its tight beak forms the beginning of a smile.