The Funeral

The river flowed by lazily as she stood watching the moonlight glint off the water’s rippling surface. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and let her shoulders drop. Her hands were still tightly clasped in front of her and a muscle twitched in her jaw.

The funeral had been nice. But not too nice. She nodded, satisfied, as she thought this. She had searched and searched for the cheapest flowers that didn’t look too cheap – just like the urn. She didn’t think anyone would notice that her own were exponentially more expensive.

Turning suddenly, she shook her head and walked through the damp grass in her heavy, black-soled shoes back to the farmhouse. Even though she always locked up all the cages after feedings, she walked through the rescue habitats and checked them all again. She then unlocked the slide lock on the barn and peeked inside. The familiar clacking could be heard from up in the rafters. No matter how many years passed, it remained an unnerving sound.

“Is everything okay?” a voice asked as she bolted the kitchen door behind her.

“Of course,” she replied evenly. The muscle in her jaw twitched again. She could almost hear the television blaring an old western or a rerun of a football game from the eighties that he was still angry about.

“I’m sorry I’m not able to help.”

She shook her head angrily. He never would have said that.

“Turn off the lights. I can't see my show.”

That was more like him. This time she would leave the lights on. She started down the long, narrow hallway to the bedroom. Her steps slowed until she came to a stop. Why not turn on all the lights? Five minutes later, every light from the farmhouse beamed out from the windows.

Her son’s voice roused her the next morning. He called out from the kitchen. Something about breakfast. She entered the living room to see him busy at the stove already scrambling eggs. They always made scrambled eggs for their dear father. No one ever bothered to find out that she couldn’t stand them. He looked over his shoulder to see her crossing the living room and tying her threadbare pink robe. His face paled as his eyes focused on something behind her.

“Is that…” he swallowed hard.

“What, Danny dear?” She turned around to follow her son’s gaze. “Oh, yes. That’s your father.” She said off-handedly.

He stuttered out something about their agreement to bury the urn. Nonsense, she thought. As if her children had any say in what to do with his ashes.

“Oh, dear. I just couldn’t stand the thought of parting with him.” She said quickly, waving off the look of pained frustration on his face.

Danny quickly turned back to his task and began talking about the funeral. He went on and on about how touching it was when cousin Betty had quoted from Dad’s favorite books and when the military men had performed their ceremony and presented her with the folded flag.

“Did you notice the pin that young man had on?”

“What’s that?” Danny asked with a raised eyebrow.

“The young man who gave me the flag. He had one of those ceremonial pins on his lapel. Your father had one just like it that he tried to donate. Can you imagine getting rid of something that precious? I told that young man all about it and told him what a good head he had on his shoulders and that he certainly knew how to appreciate things properly. Your father never did appreciate anything. I didn’t donate it, of course. It’s right up there with my thimbles.” She pointed to a printer’s drawer on the wall cluttered with thimbles, spoons, and other knick-knacks.

Danny did not reply, but surely he agreed. The children had to endure his insufferable tyranny every bit as much as she had.

Her son left after breakfast, and her daughter called shortly after. She decided not to answer. The message said that something about being worried and to please call. No need to call back. At least not until tomorrow. She wanted to take her time feeding the birds today.

She went to the shed and prepared some rats and mice. Some frozen, some live. The rescue habitats were alive with the sounds of birds of all species and sizes crying out. And as she passed the barn – the clacking. She shuddered. She talked to the raptors as she fed them the bits of rat that she had cut up. Finally, the owls.

The barn door creaked loudly as she opened it slowly. It was time for the live mice. These barn owls were almost fully rehabilitated and ready to hunt. They didn’t trust her. None of them ever had. They had never clacked at him this way. They seemed to be nocturnal when her husband was alive, but now they seemed to never sleep. She knew because of the incessant warning of their clacking beaks. When they heard her, when they saw her, and every night she could hear them when she was in her bed. They flapped their wings and clacked the beaks in their suspicious moon faces. In a hurry, she released the mice in the widest of the feeding tracks.

That night she stood by the river again.

“Wheel me closer,” he demanded.

“You know the doctor said you needed to at least try to wheel yourself.”

“I know thank you for looking after me all these years. I know it must be hard on you.” He wheeled closer and patted her arm.

She smirked at her own rose colored delusions and tossed the pin into the water.

As she lay in bed that night, she could hear the screech of the owls. She wandered through the house turning on lights and then, with all of the lights on, she found restless sleep.

In the morning, she could hear him yelling from down the hall in his room. He had fallen again. She got up and put on her robe before making her way down to his room. There he was next to the bed glaring up at her from a pile of books that he must have pushed off his nightstand when he fell or out of anger. She helped him up but left the books there. She gave him his insulin shots and went to feed the birds.

He complained about lunch. She made turkey and avocado sandwiches, both of which he hated. But things were different now. He wheeled himself out of the room and bumped into the wall as he turned the corner. The thimbles were knocked askew. She fumed and went to straighten them all.

That night she sat with her toes in the water. She held a book in her hands.

“Read louder! You know I can’t hear you!”

She sighed and placed the open book next to her on the dewy grass. She watched the edges of a few pages begin to soak up the moisture. She continued watching the pages turn dark as she put on her compression socks and heavy shoes. She threw the book into the river, turned on all the lights, and went to bed.

The next evening, Danny came for dinner. She met him in the kitchen. He asked how she had been sleeping.

“I slept well that first night, but those owls have kept me up every night since.”

“Owls? What owls, Mother?” He stopped what he was doing and looked at her.

“Those barn owls out there. I swear they never sleep. They were quiet for your father, but I just can’t seem to satisfy them. All of the other birds seem happy enough. I don’t know what they want.”

“Mother, there haven’t been any birds here for years. You and Dad shut down the rescue when his diabetes got so bad he couldn't walk, remember? What birds are you talking about?”

She looked back at him bewildered. “Can’t you hear them? Right now? Clack, clack, clack! It never stops. It’s worse than your father. He’s even needier now than before. I helped him up off the floor yesterday, and was there even a thank you? Of course not.”

She stirred the sugar into her tea and sat down at the table. The room fell silent. It was heavy. She looked up at him as he stared wide-eyed. He threatened to go get his sister and take her home with him. After convincing him she was fine, just confused, he agreed to come back in the morning to check on her again. She was worried that he seemed to be the one that was confused. Maybe he needed some help.

After Danny left, the yelling came from the bedroom again. She slammed her hands down on the table. She had finally had enough. The insulin bottles felt cold in her hands as she walked down to the river. The owls clacked and screeched when she passed the barn. The river seemed to be flowing faster than usual. The sound almost drowned out the owls. Nothing seemed to drown out his yelling. As the evening sun disappeared and the moon hung over her, the yelling slowed and then stopped. After a while, she realized that the owls were finally quiet too. She breathed a sigh of relief, tossed the bottles into the water, turned on all the lights in the house, and slept soundly for the first time in sixty years.