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The Yard Birds
Robert Plant’s crooning emanated from the boom box on the kitchen table, you’re gonna
let your hair hang down. I’m satisfied to sit here working all day long; you’re in the darker side
of town. His lilt was welcome to the quintuple pierced ears of the woman at the sink. Mary’s
hands were scalded and her nail beds were stinging from the excess of Palmolive as she scrubbed
down one of the last frying pans. She had to clean all the dishes, pots and pans before she put
them away in the freshly polished kitchen cabinets. The task of scouring the kitchen had begun
around 9:30 that Thursday morning, interrupted only by a brief lunch break and a quick run to
Wal-Mart for more cleaning fluids. To appease her girls on the trip, she got them each a new
bottle of nail polish: “Disco Pink” for eight-year old Angie, “Luxurious Lavender” for her fiveyear old Iris. For most of the day, the girls played Beauty Shop in the back yard and steered
clear of the 600 Dawes Avenue Move-In Clean happening inside.
“Oh and those neighbors, you wouldn’t buh-lieve how messy their yard is. The boys,
Jimmy n’ Paul got sand all over their deck! If I was their mom I’d tan their hide, that’d teach
them to keep that sandbox straight. I wouldn’t even have a sandbox!” Angie said haughtily.
Mary listened through the open kitchen window, snickering. She had heard almost the exact
same rant the night before when her mother-in-law had been over for dinner
“Yeah,” Iris answered with a soft lisp. She was having difficulty with keeping the nail
color only on Angie’s big toe nail. Her pudgy little fingers moved as carefully as possible. “I
know whatcha mean Angie,”
“No, no! Iris,” The older sister whined and then whispered, a hand cupped around her
lips, “my name’s Sandra remember?”
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That scene took place a few hours before when Mary had a sense of humor left. After a
nasty splinter from the wooden cabinet, the peeling linoleum on the kitchen floor and a soapy
coating over her hands, she was at the short end of her fuse. The girls had since come inside and
were now glued to Nickelodeon in the living room—it was time for their favorite show, Aah!
Real Monsters. Mary turned up the stereo to drown out the television, but the kids followed her
lead and turned their volume up just a few notches higher. Just in time for one of the Monster’s
belches to be heard.
“Mom?” A pint-sized person called out to her over the battling noise. Mary brushed a
snatch of salt and pepper hair from her face and ran a sponge over the pan handle. When she
was twenty-one her first strands of gray hair had appeared, prematurely as they had done to her
father decades ago. At first she hated being the only co-ed with graying hair. But after a while,
it became Mary’s thing. It was her mark, a sign of individuality. But that was college; stuck in
her new housewife identity the grayness just made Mary feel older, out of sync. Her tape
clicked, it was at the end of its spool so she walked over and pressed rewind. She sang aloud to
herself to compete with the voices from the other room.
“And yesterday I saw you standing by the river, and weren’t those tears that filled your
eyes,”
“Mom?” The voice asked again.
Mary kept her focus on the words flowing out of her. “And all the fish that lay in dirty
water dyin’, had they got you hypnotized?” She heard feet marching toward her; she judged her
cassette to be far enough back and pressed play. The guitar started “That’s the Way” again and
Mary hurried the few steps back to the sink.
Maybe if I play the music loud enough they’ll leave me alone. She began her duet with
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Robert and the little feet entered the kitchen. She didn’t turn and acknowledge them.
“I don’t know how I’m gonna tell you,” Mary sang.
“Mom,” Angie sounded thoroughly appalled. “Can you stop singing please?” The little
girl began to smile. “Remember when we were in the car and Dad said your voice sounded like
a, a ‘broken bugle’?”
The little girl smiled at the memory, her mother however put a stern hand on her hip and
turned around swiftly.
“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, or you’ll be sorry.” Mary growled, “What do you
want?” She did remember the car incident of weeks ago. They were driving away from the final
walk-through of their new house. Mike tossed his menthol cigarette butt out the window and
giggled with the girls as Mary sat humiliated in the passenger seat, not finishing her rendition of
“Mona Lisas and Madhatters”.
Angie’s eyes widened and scrambled for words. “Uh, when’s dinner Mom?”
“Later.”
The brevity of her mother’s words sent Angie shuffling back into the living room, tail
between her legs. The cassette played on and Mary put away the frying pan. Her mind moved
on too; to her husband who wouldn’t be home for another few hours. This was their first house
together, a white split-level in the manicured, WASPy suburb of Valley Oak. On the cheaper
side of town, the side his sole salary could afford.
“We’ll have a big back yard for the kids, a garage we can put both cars in, more closet
space…” Mike had said promisingly the night before they closed escrow on the property. “It’s
exactly what you wanted—they can ride bikes, have a basketball hoop maybe. And you can
have that garden going that you’ve been planning for so long.” Mary’s thoughts turned to
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growing azalea bushes, snapdragons and kiddie pools. She could sit outside and enjoy a book
and a gin and tonic. Maybe they could get a puppy, a Labrador, let him roam free. Bye-bye
condo. Hello, family, she thought.
When the Girardi clan moved into the house however, Mike had been M.I.A. The call of
the office—extra hours here, corporate functions there had claimed her husband. It had rendered
Mary a kind of widow, putting the house together and raising their children by day. At night
waiting in bed for her husband-come-phantom, where their tense bodies only shared 300-count
sheets and a southwestern zephyr floating through the window overhead.
Mary wiped her brow, dripping with sweat after finishing the last of the dishes. August is
a bad month to move in, she thought.
Behind her were stacks of recently evacuated boxes; this was Mary’s favorite part of
unpacking—getting to break them down. She grabbed them up—three bigs and two littles and
went out the back screen door. It took a good yank on the garage door handle to pull it up and
open.
Once inside she set down the boxes in a neat row, parallel to her parked Buick. Mary
cracked her knuckles and stretched her neck before pouncing on a little box first to get her
started. Her size nine foot stamped down hard on the cardboard, squnching and flattening it
down in no time. Next came an old TV box, a big one but not the biggest yet. She turned it on
its side and read the words—Toshiba 18-inch screen television. She raised a foot over the brand
name and came down hard, punching a hole right through the center. Mary pulled her foot out
and went at it again. She hopped into the air and came down, crushing the structure from the
box. As she continued her smashing of the boxes, Mary’s thirty-four years diminished into a
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childhood trance. She was filled with pleasure from this simple exercise and her mind went
gratifyingly blank.
Sweat plopped down onto the shriveled corpses as she stood over them, mucus built up in
her mouth. She spat forcefully down then went to the car – she had an emergency pack of Kools
and a matchbook waiting in the glove compartment. She closed the door and lit up, leaning
against the driver side door. Mary admired her carnage. Pizza and a frosty soda, now that
sounds like dinner.
Mary set down her paperback, The Prince of Tides, and listened to Mike gargle in the
bathroom down the hallway. Though this house was much bigger than the condo, the upstairs
was pretty close quarters. Any errant child sneaking downstairs to the kitchen for a cookie or a
husband grumbling about undercooked meat loaf was easily detectable.
Mike had been an hour late, coming home at 9:30 that Thursday night. Leftover pizza
waited for him in the fridge but the kids were long asleep, unable to achieve their nightly,
ritualistic welcome once he got home. “Daddy!” They’d run to him and latch onto his legs.
Mike would pat their heads and a big cheesy grin would stick on his face. It was his only bright
spot. Tonight though, his feet dragged and he had duffel bags beneath his cloudy blue eyes.
Affording suburbia was already taking a visible toll.
“How was your day?” Mary asked, though she could see the drain behind his eyes. She
lit them a cigarette to share. Mike put out his hand and shook his head,
“No, no thanks. I just wanna eat and get into bed, I’m beat.” Mary put out the cigarette
to save it, having lost her appetite.
“Did Fleming ask you to stay late any other nights this week?” She probed.
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“Oh, the Phlegm? Nah, but next week I have to go to the city a couple days, have to meet
with the Cook County Recorder. They want to talk about the new charging system for deeds and
plats.” Mary’s attention waned.
The man before her waxing on about the latest in real estate, not too long ago would
crack out his guitar after dinner and sing “Hey Joe” or some Neil Young. Her honeyed brown
eyes roved over him, searching.
Where did you go?
Mike turned out the light and eased under the covers—pulling the comforter as usual all
the way up to his chin. Summer didn’t interfere with his procedure. Mary laid on her back with
a hand on her chest and the other over the pit of her stomach. She began her breathing exercises
to alleviate tension and insomnia.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Mary summoned the teachings of the yoga class she took
years ago with her sister Cathy: inhale and exhale all in one breath.
“Hey Mare? Can you scoot over a little, I’m on the edge, here, couldja gimme? Just a
little more room,”
Breathing interrupted, she moved over and he turned over. Again Mary took position;
inhale, exhale.
As her eyelids got heavy, a burbly fart sounded beneath the sheets. A gaggifying odor
zoomed right up Mary’s nostrils; she tried to pretend it wasn’t there, convince herself well, not
like I haven’t smelled this before when another noise sounded. This time, it came from the back
yard.
Mary’s eyes opened, her husband’s gas wafted far from her thoughts. Her ears perked—
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something was scratching on the garage. She turned and pulled up the blinds. The scratching
became urgent, now accompanied by rodent-sounding chatter. She squinted to get a good look;
the full moon gave the backyard ruffians no quarter. Two figures on the garage roof circled
around each other, sidestepping, advancing forward and falling back. The bandito looking
raccoon stuck out a paw and batted at his enemy menacingly.
“Michael? Mike!” Mary hissed. “Do you hear this?”
“I’m sorry Mare… it was the pepperoni, I can’t help it,” he muttered into his pillow.
“No, no look! There’s a raccoon and a possum. They’re, fighting! On the garage roof.
C’mon, look at this! I’ve never seen, have you ever?”
Mike struggled to sit up. He stared out into the darkness, “Where?”
“The garage, look, look up on the roof.” Mary pointed a long finger toward the animals.
Mike gave the garage a quick glance and then turned away.
“I don’t see anything… I dunno… I don’t see anything.” Mary looked at him, hurt. He
hadn’t even bothered to put his glasses on. Maybe he’s being sweet, pretending he’s interested.
But Jesus Michael, pretend a little better. She looked back out at the garage as he curled back up
under the sheets.
Mary leaned against the windowsill and fingered one of her piercings, a hole made in her
dorm room circa 1980; vodka and a joint had been involved. The possum now had the upper
hand. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
***
“Hey Mom?” A little girl asked from the kitchen upstairs.
“What?” Mary called back.
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She had chosen to spend Friday cloistered in the laundry room down in the basement.
Currently she was unpacking her cassette tape collection. The possum and raccoon began to
chatter away at each other again in Mary’s brain—swiping at each other and baring their teeth.
The two brutes had gone at it for a good half hour before retreating to opposite sides of the roof
and melting into their midnight surroundings.
Mike snored as Mary watched, riveted by the growling and scratching. It reminded her
of the boxes from earlier in the evening—the thrill of physicality. Not having to speak, not
having to explain – just raging it all out. Sweat would pour, blood would rush and she could feel
powerful. She could shed her compassion and responsibility by reverting down to meaningless
aggression. It was arousing.
When she finally slept, Mary dreamt she was sitting on the backyard fence. It was a tall,
wooden privacy fence the family cat, Sire, would troll, snooping in the neighbors yard and
watching for any viable prey. She was facing the house, but kept looking behind. Palm trees
waved at her, the grass had turned to sand and she was smoking from a wooden pipe. The weed
was strong, unlike the mids she used to smoke in college. Mary spread her body out in a strong
stretch and the pipe disappeared. She reclined back in mid-air, somehow not falling down from
her perch. She felt the need to put flowers in her hair—there were morning glories below her,
reaching up from their vines. She looked down and extended her hand but standing on top of the
now flattened flowers was Mike, about a foot tall, shouting up at her. His words were
inarticulate, hollow sounds as though from the other side of a long tunnel. He pointed back
toward the house vigorously. The girls were standing near the back door playing Miss Mary
Mack. Mary heard the tune of a carousel as Mike continued pointing toward their daughters and
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yelling. A bison-sized possum was advancing on Angie and Iris from behind, pointy teeth bared.
Mary closed her eyes and leaned backward toward the sand.
“We gotta show you something.” Iris and Angie said together, voices chiming together
in strange synchronicity.
Mary went to set her Hall & Oates Voices tape next to Elvis Costello’s Armed Forces but
stopped with cassette in hand. Angie and Iris were night and day, milk and apple juice, Ariel and
Snow White—never on the same page, never in agreement. When the two were able to agree
organically, Mary always seized the opportunity, or at least took notice of it.
She put the tape down on the dryer and walked toward the stairs. Slowly she ascended
into the kitchen, both kids were silent and staring out the screen door.
“What is it?” She wondered if one of the brawlers was in the yard again.
Angie looked back at her mother and pointed outside.
“Look over there.” Angie whispered.
Mary looked over at their side yard. On the other side of the short chain link fence stood
two large birds, staring back at the three girls. They had long, feathery necks cropping up from
bushy, stout bodies. They stood still as stone and were silent, but their orange eyes were
penetrating.
“What are those things Mom?”
“I think they’re, I mean they look a little young so I’m not sure but I think they’re…
emus.” Mary had only seen ostriches before at the Brookfield Zoo. They were regal, their
plumage soft looking and well kempt. These two in the Walkers’ yard seemed to be their
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shorter, rougher cousins. Their coloring was a mix of browns and grays, hanging off their bodies
like limp hay.
“Emus?” Angie held onto her long ponytail and looked up at her mother.
“They’re like ostriches, just smaller.” Mary turned the handle to go outside.
“Mom, are those like Big Bird?” Iris asked as she licked slowly at her popsicle.
“No, no. They’re, I don’t know.”
Iris and Angie looked at her as though she had spoken in tongues, mom always has the
answers. Mom was never a person who didn’t know or wasn’t in the process of knowing.
Mary pulled open the door and walked out onto the stoop. The girls followed—Iris
stayed safely behind her mother’s legs, Angie slowly advanced onto the driveway, closer to the
birds.
“Don’t get too close!” Mary whispered urgently, not wanting the emus to hear. Both birds
looked searingly at her though, and never before had she felt so exposed and understood.
“Daddy!” A blue, two-door sedan turned into the driveway and started toward them.
The girls stepped off the driveway and then followed the car to the garage, Mary stayed near the
stoop, watching the emus watch her. The one on the left whispered to its partner, little chattering
sounds. Mary knew they were talking about her; the emu listening kept an orange eyeball on her
the whole time, nodding as his partner jabbered. Laughter came from the garage as Mike and the
girls strolled up, he had his briefcase in one hand and Iris’ hand in the other.
“What’s going on here? Iris said you said these are,” Mike started with a rare ease in his
voice.
“Emus. Yeah.”
“Well, what are they doing here?”
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“I don’t know, it’s the Walkers ya know,”
“No I don’t.”
“Well you would if you ever paid attention to what goes on around here.” Mike’s blue
eyes widened behind his thick glasses and their little girls looked down at the ground, uneasy for
their father. Mary hadn’t intended to snap at her husband and immediately felt red in the face.
“They’re weird people. They put all their old bikes in a hole in the ground, right in the middle of
the lawn.” She pointed at the bike landfill next door. Mike didn’t look at the yard to confirm her
story; he took his bag inside and let the screen door snap back. Iris and Angie started inside too,
“Angie could we play Barbies?”
“Yeah, but I get to use the Barbie Dream House this time.”
“No, you used it last time!” The door closed finally. Mary pushed back a clump of gray
hair. She wanted to cry but didn’t have the energy, she had nowhere to go. She had no place to
escape from herself. Mike would go to the bathroom, turn on the fan and smoke a bowl every
night to unwind. The girls could sequester themselves in the basement and play with Barbie and
Ken. The orange eyes felt like they were everywhere on her, she resented them for knowing her
already, for making decisions about her. Mary reached into her shorts and pulled out a cigarette.
She walked as close as she felt safe to the emus and took a deep drag. She puckered up and blew
smoke in their faces.
R-E-P-U-B-L-I-C. Mary filled in the solution for 18 across of the Trib’s Sunday
crossword. And, done! Beating her previous personal record of 57 minutes, Mary had finished
this puzzle in a flash. She tossed the finished puzzle onto the tile floor of the bathroom and sat
up to readjust. She turned the bathtub faucet to the H to warm up the water and tucked stray
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hairs back into their banana clip. I hope Cathy’s not late again, she thought, I wanna get started
on this flower bed asap. Mary laid back in the tub and stretched out her shapely legs. She closed
her eyes as the bathwater pulsed from the hot jet. It was Sunday morning, no laundry to do, no
more cleaning or straightening or unpacking. And her husband had taken the kids out on his
errands for the day. The night before replayed in Mary’s mind.
Mike put his hand on Mary’s thigh, under the blankets, with the lights out. It was late;
drinks with Phlegm had lasted longer than anticipated. As he kissed his wife’s arm, shoulder up
to her throat, Mary could smell the eau de Vodka permeating his skinny body. Isn’t this what I
want? She thought. Mike reached under her nightgown and ran his fingers over the curves of
her belly, lightly pecking around her collar. Mary couldn’t breathe; his touch was so foreign. It
wasn’t a dust bunny or an old blazer to be packed up for the Salvation Army. It wasn’t a naked
Barbie doll or a Fuzz Buster. Mike touched her cotton underpants and quickly Mary shifted her
body away from him and inched closer to the edge of the bed.
Bold with liquor, Mike followed her and began fingering the elastic of her panties again,
his lips sloppily sucking at the nape of her neck. A finger toyed with her slit, without any sort of
romantic finesse. Mary’s eyes were fixed on the dream catcher hanging on the wall, unmoving
as her husband crawled on top of her, poised.
“Mare, you don’t hold my hand anymore.” Mike clasped her hand and pressed it into
the pillow. He forced his finger inside her.
“Why don’t you hold me?” Mary’s ring dug into her fingers as he pressed more firmly,
blood was rushing to her head. She felt it coming, she felt herself floating away. She had to stop
it. She shoved her husband off and rolled out of bed, “I can’t do this Michael. Don’t ask me
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to.” Her husband struggled for balance and his mouth was held open, disbelieving. Mary went
down to the basement and tossed and turned on the pull-out for the rest of the night.
Mike had only left a note the following morning, “Taking the girls out for the day, be
back late. Always, Mickey.” She hadn’t called him that in years. Mary turned the faucet all the
way, making the water as hot as possible. What was he saying? What did ‘Mickey’ mean?
Mary opened her eyes and watched the steam rise up from the basin as her creamy skin reddened
with the warmth. Just gotta turn up the heat, she thought. The phone rang from downstairs,
Mary turned off the water so she could hear the machine.
“Hey Mary it’s Cathy. Yeah, I’m gonna be a little late, I have to drop Jeremy off at
Voegtle’s to pick up his car before I come over. Anyway, see you in a bit. Bye.” Mary tried not
to get irritated, she’s always late Mare, just think of the flowers. It’ll all get done today. She
was going to have day lilies in the farthest corner of the yard, a big bush of color. Seedum for
ground cover, some lambs ear too. Mary’s mind drifted over the annuals and perennials,
columbine and her favorite, the morning glory.
I know where I’m gonna put ‘em too, right where those damn birds squawk. Right up
against that fence. It’s a dead area anyway, but I’m gonna put them there.
“Well, I should get out. Gotta find my trowels before Cathy gets here.” She said to Sire,
who had poked his head in to investigate. Mary pulled the plug and stepped out, toweling herself
off vigorously before the vanity mirror.
Sire whined at her, Put my dish down please.
“I know, I know beast. It’s not your time yet.”
Sire whined again, Okay but see, I’m hungry now.
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“When the clock says twelve p.m., then I’ll put your dish down. You still have a half an
hour to go, now go on! Beat it Sire.” And that was final. The cat turned haughtily and flicked
its tail as it strolled away, displeased.
Mary smiled at the black cat and then looked into the mirror. She put her hands on her
hips and took a deep breath, straightening her posture and sucking in her stomach. Her mirror
self put on her best glamorous pout and tried to pose away her age, try to change her body into
something she found more satisfying. Not such a bad suit, a little paunchy in spots but not too
bad. I still have my legs. Mary tossed back her hair with faux bravado and opened her towel. It
dropped to the tile and she gasped, mystified at her body. Across her stomach were two long,
angry red lines. She pulled at her skin to get a better look.
“What the fuck?” She asked aloud. Her caesarian scars had turned a bright, stinging
color. The two incisions, one for Angie and one for Iris, were inflamed with color. The stain of
her past pregnancies reared its ugly head, making a semicircle of redness around her belly. Mary
gazed at herself the mirror, I look like I was cut in half. She looked at the rest of her body for
more red—long legs, the plump Mount of Venus on her palms, breasts that had swelled with her
pregnancies, dark freckles on her shoulders. No other marks, no pain either. Just the belt of red.
Sire mewled loudly from the kitchen.
“I’m coming!” Mary snapped. Her body wasn’t warm anymore.
Cathy drove her digger into the wet dirt alongside the garage.
“Do you wanna see it again?” Mary asked; she lit her third cigarette in a row.
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“Yeah, show me.” Cathy put down her tool as Mary unzipped her blue jeans and pulled
her shirt up below her chest, the old scars still red from the bath. “Yeah… I dunno Mary, I don’t
get it.”
“I don’t either.”
“You were in the tub and this happened?” Cathy pushed her glasses up to the bridge of
her nose.
“No, well, I mean I got out of the tub and they were there.”
“Do they hurt?”
“No, no I can’t feel anything. I just, I don’t understand.” Mary watched as her older
sister inspected, putting an elegant finger to her sister’s stomach, tracing the lines. Cathy had
long legs too; it was a trait all the Murphy sisters shared.
“You can always tell a Murphy girl,” Tim Hamilton, a neighborhood boy used to say,
“legs up to their throats and big brown eyes.” Cathy had always been the hip one, always on the
cutting edge—former May Queen and head cheerleader of Saint Francis turned hippie who rode
around America ‘69 in her gold Volkswagen chariot. She had waves of hazelnut hair, not a stray
gray in sight, a tiger’s eye necklace around her neck and a knack for reading tarot. Cathy’s
mysticism and ease had always made her most attractive in Mary’s eyes. Cathy was the sister
she could confide in, ask things.
“Well what do you think?” Mary probed, anticipating.
“It’s so bright! I just don’t… I dunno. When did those emus get here did you say?”
Cathy asked.
“Friday.” Mary zipped up her pants.
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“Oh so they’ve only been here a few days.” Cathy borrowed her sister’s cigarette and
took a drag. Just then, Sire sauntered up to them after his daily patrol of the neighborhood.
“It seems longer.”
Cathy turned back to look at them, “Mary, Mary they just keep… watching.”
“I know.” Sire rubbed his head against Mary’s leg, she ran her hand over his neck and
back.
Whenever she went outside to go to the car or sneak a cigarette from her children, the
birds watched, craning their necks over the chain link fence. The sharp amber-colored eyes
always trained on Mary, poking her, wanting her to react. She had tried to refuse.
The day before, Mary had taken the afternoon to give her Buick, her kid-mobile, a good
scrub-down. She pulled the car out of the garage, set down her tub of sudsy water and started
with the hood. Back and forth, soap and rinse, she began. A few yards down the driveway,
closer to the house, the emus were watching. The taller one was the ringleader; his squat
counterpart always followed his lead. The taller came close to the fence, surveilling her long,
strong arm move over the metal, making it shine. The shorter emu of the two remained cloaked
behind an adolescent evergreen in the Walker’s yard that abutted their enclosure. Mary forced
herself not to look back, began humming a Joni Mitchell song to keep her focus elsewhere.
The emus would not lose; quiet at first, they let out little taunting twitters to get her
attention. Purposefully, Mary plunged her sponge into the soapy water and then wrung it out
over the pavement, excess water spattering over the sound of the emu ruckus. They were getting
louder. They kept pushing and prodding, calling out to her with their native tongue. They knew.
They saw the way she scurried to hide from her family in the garage, the anxiety that plagued her
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husband as he walked up to the screen door when he got home. They observed the family, their
vision pierced through the passive aggression and the unsaid. Chirping away, they were going to
get her to respond. Mary looked back at them. They stopped. The emus both stared, their
feathers twitching with sensitivity. The moment was ripe, its juices spilling down. Mary
clutched the sponge in her hand and faced her body toward the birds, wanting to make a stand.
"Say it to my face!" They pulled back slightly, Mary got angrier. "Come on! Out with
it! What I'm supposed to know, you fucking creeps? Just tell me!" She stalked toward them,
jabbing the sponge at them, yelling. “Tell me! You have my attention you fuckers, now what do
you want?” She walked right up to them and without hesitation squirted water in their faces.
She grinned smugly for a moment; the taller emu reached out and snapped his beak at her, inches
from her face. Mary gulped and staggered back. The emus kept a strong eye on her, not
dropping their gaze. She stiffened, her lips tight and her eyes not backing down. After a while,
Mary nodded her head respectfully at them, signaling the end of the communication.
“Mary, do you really want to do this?” Cathy reached a hand out to Sire to pet him.
“Do, what?” Mary asked.
“The gardening, today. I mean, half of the things you want to put in are out of season. I
think we should hold off,
“I want to put these in Cathy,”
“I know but let’s, okay. We can prepare the beds, but let’s not plant quite yet. Let’s
figure out what works,”
“No,” Mary wasn’t giving up. “I want to plant now.”
Cathy sighed. “But what if they all die? You don’t want to waste your,”
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“I don’t care. I want to put these in today.” Mary had never been so firm with her sister.
There was a long pause between the two before Cathy spoke, with new timidity.
“How does Mike feel about this?” She asked, starting her digging again.
“No, I haven’t seen him yet today. We haven’t talked about it.” Mary began digging
herself. She wasn’t sure if she’d meant the flowers or the emus or her stomach, but in the end it
didn’t matter. The answer for each was the same.
Mary sat at the kitchen table with nothing to do. Mike had brought home packages of
raw chicken to grill up for dinner; the girls were occupied outside at the emu fence. She and
Cathy had made a lot of progress that afternoon: every bulb and seed was planted in the front and
back yards save for the dead spot near the birds. Only the packages of morning glories were
unopened, still on the workbench in the garage. With no more crosswords to do and Prince of
Tides only pages from being finished, Mary felt empty; things were closing down. Right before
she’d left, Cathy and Mary had shared ice waters at the kitchen table.
“This table has seen better days Mare.” Cathy sipped, pointing at the Crayola markings
near the edge of the table. Mary felt the pangs of embarrassment.
“I know, we’re supposed to go to Dania, that new furniture superstore next weekend.
Man, if I was loaded I’d replace everything in this house, it all needs an update.” Mary ran her
finger around the top of the glass.
“You could use some renovation, that’s for sure.” Cathy looked innocently at her ice
cubes.
“Well now what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mary started.
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“Nothing! I’m just worried. The flowers, those birds out there,” Cathy pointed toward
the screen door, “Things just aren’t the same.”
“They aren’t supposed to be, Cathy. Who’d want that?” Mary’s voice was getting more
and more tense. Cathy wanted to avoid an argument,
“Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch Mary. I’m worried, can’t I be worried? I just want to
make sure that,”
“I just need some help.” Mary cut her sister off, “I want help. This fucking house, it’s
killing me Cathy. I’m trying to hang on but I’m losing my damn mind.”
“Well then, start asking for some.” Cathy offered.
“But Cathy, there’s nobody. There’s nothing, no one to ask. This is my life; I’m
supposed to enjoy this. There’s no escape.”
“You used to journal, write some of this down. You remember Marjana?” Cathy asked.
“Yeah, your neighbor back in Elburn.”
“Yeah. Well, when she couldn’t take anymore shit she’d take a shot of scotch, write
everything down, get in the car and drive to the park. She’d find a tree with a knot and then put
the note-thing inside. It was a purge for her, she could put it all away somewhere.” The older
sister finished, hoping for her sister. Mary didn’t answer; she was too busy thinking.
The little girls sat at the fence, each holding a toy. Angie had her white teddy bear; Iris
had her favorite bedtime story, Timid Timothy. They sat cross-legged at the foot of the emus,
soundlessly.
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“What’re you girls doin’ over there? You shouldn’t get so close.” Mike called from the
grill, no more than five feet away. He lit a match and dropped it onto the coals, causing a roaring
fire to shoot up.
“Nothin’,” Angie answered, not turning away from the emus.
“Then why’re you sitting there?” Mike asked, his interest piqued. His little girls weren’t
quiet by nature. Earlier in the afternoon, he had talked to Mary about the emus. She was
cleaning the meat he bought, preparing them for the grill. He sat at the table, watching her. He
didn’t want to bring up the night before, but he wanted to say something.
“Ya know Mary, I dunno about these birds now. These things, they’re, are they even
allowed to be here?” Mary didn’t stop cleaning as she answered,
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you know they aren’t supposed to be here. They shouldn’t be. This is the
suburbs, I mean it’s batty that these things are here.” Mike looked out the window at the birds,
they were busy grooming themselves. “I mean, who do I even call about them?”
“I don’t know Mike.” Mary was terse.
“I’m gonna call the cops on these, the Walkers right? They can handle it from there,”
“No!” Mary turned around, chicken breast in hand. “No, don’t do that.”
“Wha, why?”
“Because, they’re not doing anything wrong. And it’s none of our business.”
“None of our business?” Mike was incredulous. “We have little kids Mary, what the
hell, what if one of these buzzards tries to take a bite out of one of them?”
“They wouldn’t do that. Just let it go.” Mary turned back to the sink. Her husband
finished before going downstairs and rolling a joint.
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“We’re listening.” Iris looked back at her father solemnly. A serious ritual was taking
place and the man kept wouldn’t stop interrupting. Mike looked at the girls, then the birds.
“For what?”
“Whatever they have to say, Dad.” Angie tried to bring the conversation to a close.
Mary had gone to the basement. She had an old notebook from college on her lap and
her Richard Pryor Live in Concert record on the turntable. She listened for a while to the man’s
words and tone, soaking up his persona, “Mudbone”. She felt a wave of pleasure as the crowd
on the vinyl laughed, as Richard succeeded. She began to write on the paper, letting all words
rush out. Within herself, she allowed her feelings to take over and move her pencil in furious
scribbles over the page. It wasn’t time for her family, but it would come.
Baby steps, she thought.
“Girls, come inside a minute? I want you to set the table now.” A voice called from
inside.
“Coming Mom!” Angie called. “Okay Iris, I think we’re done now.”
“Are you sure? I dunno, I wanna sit here some more. I wanna ask ‘em somethin’,” Iris
pleaded.
“But we gotta go help Mom set the table. And besides, the emus know.” Angie assured
her little sister.
“Are you really sure?” Iris got up to follow her sister into the house.
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“They told me so.” Angie was certain. They walked into the kitchen as Mary was
getting out a Miller Light from the fridge. “Hi Mom.” Angie said hesitantly. Her mother had
been different lately, she wasn’t sure how to act around her.
“Can you girls just get out the silverware and plates? What do you want to drink?”
“Root beyuh!” Iris was excited. Mary smiled genuinely.
“Me too.” Angie said. “Hey Mom, so we talked to the emus out there.” She baited her
mother. Mary could see right through it, but continued with curiosity.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! They’re mean lookin’ Mom. But Angie says they know a lot of stuff.” Iris went
into the drawer for forks. Mary took a swig of her beer.
“Yes, they do.”
As the girls went inside, Mike turned over the meat slowly and kept an eye on the emus.
He had overheard their conversation and wanted in. Mary watched him from inside.
“Hey! Hey you ‘moos!” The emus looked at him surprised, they hadn’t expected this so
early.
Mike walked away from the grill. “Hey, ‘moos! Yeah, that’s right I’m talking to you.
What did you say to my girls? You know, Mary wants to keep you. She doesn’t want you to
leave. I don’t understand it; do you talk? Will you talk to me?” Mike didn’t give them a chance
to answer. He giggled to himself, still high. “Well, I’m ready. Say what you will, oh Great
Moos of Dawes Avenues! I hearken to your every call.” Mike flailed out his arms in a great
production.
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“I hope so.” Mary muttered. The girls went to the bathroom to wash their hands before
dinner; quickly Mary pulled up her shirt to see the red belt. It was fading.
At three in the morning, Mary took her slip of paper and went to the fence. She was
ready to talk. Barefoot and in her mint green nightgown, Mary sat cross-legged before the emus,
they were wide-eyed and eager.
“I need help; I need to be myself. I need to feel the magic again.” She folded up her slip
of paper and extended her arm toward the taller one’s mouth. “Please.” The emu paused a
moment, making sure. Quick as a flash, his beak snatched up the paper Mary had poured her
thoughts onto, and swallowed it up. She couldn’t help but smile, feeling the hope one feels after
throwing a penny into a wishing well. Mary was new again.
I’ll put in those morning glories first thing, right when I wake up. I want to get
something growing there. She didn’t sit out with the birds too much longer, her mind running
over a quote she had put at the end of her note:
“I’m going to go where the water tastes like wine, we can jump in the water, stay drunk
all the time.” When Mary did go back into the house, she left the door open.