Huddy's Little Feather

The boy found a feather resting on a heap of hay. He admired it. He cherished its rustic patterns of brown and white, like the earthy soil resting on the placated snow. He was fascinated with its size and its silky texture. The boy had never encountered such allure. He placed the feather in his little straw hat and gathered the firewood for his Pa and Momma.

The boy felt a certain pride with the feather. A pride only a child would have. A not so, in-your-face type of pride but a real honest and innocent one. It hung from the yellow ribbon that hugged the brim of his hat and as he moved it would swing and swoosh in the wind like a leaf shaking on a tree.

As he gathered the firewood, he made sure to carry it with two hands. But from time to time, or at least between each second of the walk, he’d have to tap his head every once in a blue moon to make sure the feather stayed in place. God forbid the little rascal lost his treasure.

He entered the kitchen through the screen door. He was greeted with the smell of strong coffee and grits. The boy loved Momma’s grits. She made a grits that would stick to your ribs. Pa always said it put hair on your chest and made a man strong. But despite all the grits the boy ate, it never seemed to be working. “You gotta give it time Huddy, it’ll come. Believe me boy, it’ll be growing on you like moss on a log.” The boy believed him, and held his patience. The boy believed in lots of things.

It was known that Momma had eyes in the back of her head. For instance, during that particular day, as soon as the boy entered and his little foot touched the wooden floorboard, Momma shouted “Place the wood right here by the fireplace Huddy, Pa will be handling them soon.” He was always fascinated by Momma’s abilities. One time he even tried to look with the back of his head, but still, he only saw the front. He wasn’t disappointed, just befuddled as all.

He placed the firewood by the fireplace and then sat with Pa at the table. The Boy was excited to show his father the feather he had found. He tried to grab his attention but Pa seemed busy. He was reading one of them grown-up newspapers, and on the front of it read “D-Day.” Pa looked real perplexed while reading. His eyes, the boy thought, looked like them eyes a wolf had when it was hungry. Looking to find that one detail or another. The boy felt perplexed too, as most boys do when they see their Pa in a different shade of mood.

“Pa? Look what I found!”

To no avail had he grabbed his father’s attention. He tried again.

“Pa? Look!”

The second one grabbed his father like a bull in a rodeo, and he placed the paper down and gave his kid the attention he had been yearning.

“Yeah Huddy, what is it bud?”

The boy was about to show his father the feather, but in a split-second decided to ask another question instead.

“Whatchu readin’?” That question caught his father off guard.

“Oh, this here, oh, I’m just reading the paper. You know that Pa reads the paper every morning.”

“What’s that there?” The boy was pointing to the big letters on the front page. He then sounded out the big letters like the way he was taught in school. “Dee – Day, – what’s that Pa.”

“This ain’t nothing, you just go on and eat your grits.”

The boy knew something wasn’t right. The tone didn’t feel right. He also noticed Pa never sipped his coffee and that it kind of sort of just sat there like a lonesome island. Pa would never let a cup of coffee get all cold like that. So, the boy asked the question that was on everyone’s mind:

“Does this have to do with Gus Pa?”

“Whatchu say son?”

“Gus, does this have to with him?”

“Huddy… what did I say about –”

“Huddy I want you to eat, go eat and leave your father be.” Momma abrupted.

There was silence for a while. The two at the table just sat there and pretended to be doing something. The boy was slopping the grits with his spoon making these hilly type things out if it and then flattening them out like pancakes. As for Pa, he was pretending to read. He tried real hard to focus on the words, but to him, the words became just words on a page. He was happy the Allies took Normandy but there was something else on his mind. He was too busy thinking other things. Momma too was thinking, as she pretended to clean dishes.

Gus was Huddy’s older brother and was drafted to fight the Krauts in the Atlantic. He was a tall lanky kid, with a smile so bright it can light a bear’s den. When the draft came in the mail, Momma couldn’t help but shed a tear. It was a letter that no Momma wanted to see, but was always expected at one time or another. What hurt most was probably the fact that Gus was only eighteen and a few months old when he received the draft card from Uncle Sam. Father felt just as bad if not worse, and when he learned that his oldest boy was going to see some action, it gave him an icy vexation. It was the fact that Pa knew what hell his boy was going to face. A few decades back, Pa had received the same letter, but this for was a different war – The Great War. It was known as the “war to end all wars” but what it gave us was the beginning of many. He thought that whole German crap was all said and done but apparently, it wasn’t. And with Japan joining the mix, the world seemed like a great big ball of confusion. Pa was more worried than scared. He knew his son could handle it. He taught his son how to shoot and how to take pain by walking it off. A real stoic type of thing. On the other hand, Momma was scared. She would never tell you, but she was scared. The boy knew how Momma felt, but he’d always keep his mouth shut. He would just kiss her before bedtime.

The boy missed Gus. He missed the conversations they’d have over a game of catch or a day out fishing. They’d talk about anything under the sun. From comic strips to Greek and Roman Mythology the two brothers would share a great conversation. The boy remembers the day Gus told him he was leaving. At first, Huddy thought it was something like a vacation. You know, what most folks do when they go yonder someplace. But this was different, and while the two boys fished by the pond, Gus had his brother know the truth.

“This is different Hud. I ain’t going nowhere pretty. I’m going off to fight.”

“Who you fighting? Momma don’t like it when we fight.”

“No this one’s different Huddy, I have to go.”

“Says who?”

“Says Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt, that’s who.”

“who’s that?”

“Boy, do they teach you in that school?”

“They still teaching me division, I ain’t learned that yet.”

“The president, Huddy. He needs me in Germany to fight.”

“How come he don’t need me?”

“Cus’ you still a kid. You see me, well, I’m a young man. And I got responsibilities. I need to take care of what needs caring.”

“Well, if this ain’t a vacation, what is it?”

“It’s… It’s.”

He wanted to say it but he couldn’t.

“What is it Gus!”

“It’s a war, Huddy. A war. You know what that means?”

The boy shook his head no.

“It means I may never come home Huddy.”

“You mean—”

“Yeah Huddy… that’s what it means… Now let's catch a big one to bring home.”

There was nothing else said after that. For the rest of the fishing trip, Gus left his hook in the water. He never reeled it in. Too much was on his mind.

When breakfast was over, and Huddy helped Momma clear the table. That’s when Pa noticed the feather in Huddy’s hat.

“Huddy, what’s that in your hat?”

“Oh, this is just some feather I found down at the barn.”

“Let me see.”

His father held the feather in his hand. Twisting it in with his fingers and giving in a real look. Momma joined in and the two observed.

“Honey,” Momma said, “What bird you think this came from?”

“I don’t know, maybe a hawk or something?”

“A hawk?”

“Or a pheasant, how would I know. It’s a damn feather. Makes no difference what bird it is.” Pa then got up and left. He slammed the screen door so hard on the way out, the knob fell off. Huddy was dumbfounded. He just stood there.

“Huddy, why don’t we wash you up.” Momma told him. And like that, he went to his room.

Pa knew what the feather meant. He knew because two nights ago, when he went to drop off some hay, he found an owl hooting in the barn. Pa was a superstitious man. It must have been because he’s got some Kiowa blood in him. You’d never recognize the complexion, because generation after generation the family bloodline got whiter and whiter. The only thing that seemed to stick around was the superstitions.

The Owl meant a bad omen.

Pa made his way inside the barn and plopped onto the heap of hay. He stared at the ceiling for a while. Then in a solemn voice he asked himself, “What now?” He took a deep breath and exhaled... “I guess we’ll find out.”

And so, they waited for the telegram from the war department.