I woke up late Saturday to go work on the Murden’s fence and the bird was still fluttering behind the heavy iron plate over the fireplace. Mary and the kid’s were gone to Providence to visit her nintey-five year old grandfather. Laundry lay in large drifts in the kitchen, ashtrays were spilling over. I’d hoped whatever was in the fireplace had managed to make it back up the chimney, but the two cats had gathered and the thing didn't sound like it was dying.
Years ago I’d read that to remove a bird or bat from your home, one throws a heavy sheet over it and gingerly carries it outside. I went to the bathroom and fetched my son’s towel, his name Henry embroidered on one edge. I got Henry’s towel for good luck.
The thing had been busy, soot had been pushed out from the edges of the iron plate, the cats had nosed the red pillows that Baby May plays on out of the way, the pillows had got black around the edges. I fiddled with the plate, hoping it was an adolescent sparrow or something, cats hovering behind.
The plate fell out, a full grown starling burst forth, cats scattered. More soot. I hurled my lucky towel, scattering an ashtray, my house of soot and ashes. The three windows facing the street had the blinds drawn; above them is one long narrow pane. The bird went for this, steadily knocking down the glass items we’d placed there onto the couch below. I bugged out and decided to regroup.
The cats were under the bed in the next room; I shut their door, opened the front to the morning outside. The starling wasn’t going for it, he hopped and fluttered back and forth against the glass, his wings ragged with filth, the blue morning light glinting off the purple along his back. He lighted atop the heavy urn that held our dog Cleatus’s ashes, his beak open as if he were panting. I thought Aw, Christ he’s gonna go “Nevermore” on me. My friend Jay later told me that he’d learned in his African-American Women’s Folklore class that a bird in the house means death is afoot, or some other bad omen, and you should get out. I’m glad I wasn’t aware of this, I needed to go build a damn fence in Church Hill.
I got the last vase down and finally gathered the stones to get up on the couch and catch the thing. It flapped wildly into a corner, I could see the black sheen of him under the ash, I got the towel over him, gently as I could, and he went mostly still. I think I could feel his wings thrashing, I wish I could remember feeling his bird’s heart in my hands. I hurried to the door and flung the towel open, he burst from it, a fierce explosion of soot and bird, shot through the trees and into the sky.
I still haven’t cleaned it all up.
