Read to the End

All That's Missing is a Pear Tree

December 22nd

The doorbell rings, gnawing on my ears. I just need to remove that thing. It's not like anyone comes to visit. Nor do I want them to.

Ring.

Who could that be? Mom and Dad? Doubtful. They've never come to visit. Jake? He's too busy with his new wife to even remember his younger brother. Friends? I'd need some first.

Ring.

I scramble my way out of the recliner. "Coming!" I yell.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Ring.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Ring.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Knock. Knock.

Is that Jingle Bells?

"I'm coming! Stop!"

I rip the door open, ready to chew out whoever's at the door. But no one's there. The sun blares off the days-old snow on the lawn. It's blinding.

I hate snow.

"Hello?"

But it's useless. Whoever was there is gone now.

"Thanks a lot!" I yell at no one in particular.

Chirp. Screech. Screech. Screech.

My heart races. I know that call. There's one thing I hate/fear more than anything in life: birds. Their creepy stick legs. Nasty feathers. Beady eyes. And their chirps, tweets, caws, screeches, squawks, whatever. They make my skin crawl.

Chirp. Screech.

The sound is too close.

It's at my feet! My eyes trail down and I see it. Devil eyes stare. Head tilted; wings tucked away. It perches on a tiny piece of wood inside a small spherical cage.

Chirp.

I jump back.

The red around its eyes blends into a black trail leading across its face and down its neck like a creepy ninja turtle mask. A bright, blood orange beak opens and closes, opens and closes as though it's a zombie and I'm prey.

The thing's wings expand, flapping up and down hiding zebra stripes down its rather plump belly.

Some would call it beautiful. I call it a winged pest. A fat freak.

"Get away!" I shout.

It glares back at me, but of course doesn't move; it's in a cage. I slam the door. But when I do, the screeching starts up again. Loud and obnoxious. The longer I leave the door shut, the worse it gets.

Exasperated, I swing the door open.

Silence.

The bird is motionless. I creep around it and off the porch. This must be a prank. Maybe a neighbor kid left it here. I scan the road. No one in sight. Christmas lights gleam and light up the snowpack on the ground, but other than a few parked cars, the street is empty.

"This isn't funny. Get your bird and leave me alone."

I wait for someone to respond.

Nothing.

The bird screeches behind me. Turning, I notice it's pushed itself up against the front of the cage, staring in my direction. Its tiny mouth opens slightly like it wants to talk, but then closes again.

It's a bird, I remind myself. It can't talk or think or do anything other than bother me.

That's when I notice a red tag hanging down from one of the bars. The bird follows my gaze, then places the paper between its beak and flings it toward me. It flops on the floor spreading open. Large, black flourishes are inked onto the page. Some kind of writing. Eyeing the creature, I bend over and pick up the tag. It reads: