State Birds of the South
by Francee Covington
It was the slow, sneaky creak of the bottom step leading to the porch that woke her. She rolled over, grabbed the pistol under the opposite pillow, and quietly jumped out of bed. She hid close to the wall. Waiting.
The outside door opened a bit at a time. A knife blade of moonlight sliced through the crack in the door, briefly illuminating the couch and potbellied stove, then it was closed. The dogs hadn’t made a sound, and she hoped they weren’t lying on the lawn with their throats slit. She loved those dogs.
By the weight of the steps, she estimated it was a large man. Tall. She stepped behind the shadow of the intruder and cocked her pistol behind his ear when she heard,
“Whoa! Mom! Stop! It’s me!”
“Jesus Christ, Walton! I almost blew your fool head off!” She lowered the pistol, hit the light switch, and watched as her youngest child slumped onto the sofa. The cushions sagged with his weight. She planted her fist on one of her ample hips. “Whatsa matter with you?! Are you drunk?”
“I was,” he answered. “But I’m sober now!”
“You look like hell.”
“Well, this is what a man looks like when his mother’s almost shot him to kingdom come!”
She looked down at the tattered rug and shook her head. “My God. That woulda been horrible.”
He raised his head, “Worse for me than for you.”
“Don’t be so smart alecky.” He was always a pale child but now he looked like a ghost with eyes as red as his hair.
“Mama, could you turn out that light?” He shielded his eyes. “It’s awful bright.”
She let out a sibilant sigh, turned the lamp on at his end of the couch, causing him to flinch, then turned off the overhead.
“I didn’t even know you was in town tomcattin’.”
“I wasn’t tomcatting. I was drinking.”
“Tomcatttin’, drinkin’—it’s all the same.” She shrugged her shoulders. “One thing leads to the other.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She looked at him—brown corduroy jacket, jeans, his favorite cowboy boots, and asked softly by way of an apology, “You want sumthin’ to eat? I got some leftover pork chops.”
“What ya got to go with ‘em?”
“Mashed potatoes. String beans.”
“Gravy?” he asked hopefully.
“Naw. But I got butter. You can smother the potatoes with butter.”
“Yeah. That sounds real good.” His voice was weary, like a cowboy’s at the end of a long trail.
“Come on. Let’s get you fed.” She led the way to the kitchen in her faded flannel nightgown, the lace on one collar coming undone. All that remained of the gown’s once vibrant “Birds of the South” pattern were dozens of black scattered beaks. Walton followed her, weaving his way from side to side down the narrow hallway.
“Watch your eyes,” she shouted as she flipped on the kitchen light and placed the pistol on the table, its barrel pointed at the salt and pepper shakers. She crossed to the fridge, removing a plate of pork chops sealed in plastic wrap, and Tupperware filled with mashed potatoes and green beans. He slumped into the first chair he reached, instead of his usual seat closest to the stove. She piled the food into the microwave and set it on high. Within minutes the kitchen was filled with the false aroma of fresh food being prepared.
“Man, I need some water.” He took a paper napkin from the molded plastic caddy and wiped his mouth, crumbled the napkin in his fist and left the ball of paper on the table, while his mother filled a Big Gulp container with ice water.
She studied him. “You need to stay outta them bars before you forget you’re still married.”
“Marie don’t want me no more.” He examined his hands, picked at a cuticle.
“That’s not what I hear tell. Seems she’s been crying her eyes out, waitin’ for you to come back home.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure,” she confirmed. “That’s what I hear.”
He pondered this, and looked hopeful for a moment, then hope faded and his jaw slackened. The microwave dinged and she served him his food. He dived fork first into the potatoes, heaping butter that quickly melted into the crater he’d created.
“Momma, I have to ask,” he said between mouthfuls. “How come you sleep with a pistol, but leave your door unlocked?”
“It’s my damned house and I can leave the door wide open if I want to. That don’t give nobody the right to come in without a invite.” She reconsidered her words. “I mean, ‘cept you kids.”
“I hope,” he said licking his fingers, “Lil’ John don’t come stumbling home some night, drunk as a skunk.”
“He got better sense than that.” Immediately she regretted the sibling comparison. “I got first shift at the mill tomorrow, so I better get some sleep.”
He nodded his understanding and bit into the last pork chop. As she passed his chair, she placed a hand on his shoulder and kneaded the tight muscle there, then patted his upper arm. He lifted his free hand and placed it over hers for a brief moment, and all the love she had in her heart at that moment flowed from her to him.
“Don’t worry about the dishes,” she called behind her as she left the kitchen and climbed into bed. “I’ll get ‘em in the morning.”
She pulled the covers up to her chin, then threw them off and went outside to the porch where the dogs, tails wagging for a treat, immediately surrounded her. She petted and cooed at them, then went inside where she put a couple of blankets on the couch for Walton and the extra pillow from her bed. She placed the pistol in a dresser drawer, closed the door, then locked it, vowing to do so every evening, just in case any of her other children came wandering home in the middle of the night.
The outside door opened a bit at a time. A knife blade of moonlight sliced through the crack in the door, briefly illuminating the couch and potbellied stove, then it was closed. The dogs hadn’t made a sound, and she hoped they weren’t lying on the lawn with their throats slit. She loved those dogs.
By the weight of the steps, she estimated it was a large man. Tall. She stepped behind the shadow of the intruder and cocked her pistol behind his ear when she heard,
“Whoa! Mom! Stop! It’s me!”
“Jesus Christ, Walton! I almost blew your fool head off!” She lowered the pistol, hit the light switch, and watched as her youngest child slumped onto the sofa. The cushions sagged with his weight. She planted her fist on one of her ample hips. “Whatsa matter with you?! Are you drunk?”
“I was,” he answered. “But I’m sober now!”
“You look like hell.”
“Well, this is what a man looks like when his mother’s almost shot him to kingdom come!”
She looked down at the tattered rug and shook her head. “My God. That woulda been horrible.”
He raised his head, “Worse for me than for you.”
“Don’t be so smart alecky.” He was always a pale child but now he looked like a ghost with eyes as red as his hair.
“Mama, could you turn out that light?” He shielded his eyes. “It’s awful bright.”
She let out a sibilant sigh, turned the lamp on at his end of the couch, causing him to flinch, then turned off the overhead.
“I didn’t even know you was in town tomcattin’.”
“I wasn’t tomcatting. I was drinking.”
“Tomcatttin’, drinkin’—it’s all the same.” She shrugged her shoulders. “One thing leads to the other.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You wouldn’t.”
She looked at him—brown corduroy jacket, jeans, his favorite cowboy boots, and asked softly by way of an apology, “You want sumthin’ to eat? I got some leftover pork chops.”
“What ya got to go with ‘em?”
“Mashed potatoes. String beans.”
“Gravy?” he asked hopefully.
“Naw. But I got butter. You can smother the potatoes with butter.”
“Yeah. That sounds real good.” His voice was weary, like a cowboy’s at the end of a long trail.
“Come on. Let’s get you fed.” She led the way to the kitchen in her faded flannel nightgown, the lace on one collar coming undone. All that remained of the gown’s once vibrant “Birds of the South” pattern were dozens of black scattered beaks. Walton followed her, weaving his way from side to side down the narrow hallway.
“Watch your eyes,” she shouted as she flipped on the kitchen light and placed the pistol on the table, its barrel pointed at the salt and pepper shakers. She crossed to the fridge, removing a plate of pork chops sealed in plastic wrap, and Tupperware filled with mashed potatoes and green beans. He slumped into the first chair he reached, instead of his usual seat closest to the stove. She piled the food into the microwave and set it on high. Within minutes the kitchen was filled with the false aroma of fresh food being prepared.
“Man, I need some water.” He took a paper napkin from the molded plastic caddy and wiped his mouth, crumbled the napkin in his fist and left the ball of paper on the table, while his mother filled a Big Gulp container with ice water.
She studied him. “You need to stay outta them bars before you forget you’re still married.”
“Marie don’t want me no more.” He examined his hands, picked at a cuticle.
“That’s not what I hear tell. Seems she’s been crying her eyes out, waitin’ for you to come back home.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure,” she confirmed. “That’s what I hear.”
He pondered this, and looked hopeful for a moment, then hope faded and his jaw slackened. The microwave dinged and she served him his food. He dived fork first into the potatoes, heaping butter that quickly melted into the crater he’d created.
“Momma, I have to ask,” he said between mouthfuls. “How come you sleep with a pistol, but leave your door unlocked?”
“It’s my damned house and I can leave the door wide open if I want to. That don’t give nobody the right to come in without a invite.” She reconsidered her words. “I mean, ‘cept you kids.”
“I hope,” he said licking his fingers, “Lil’ John don’t come stumbling home some night, drunk as a skunk.”
“He got better sense than that.” Immediately she regretted the sibling comparison. “I got first shift at the mill tomorrow, so I better get some sleep.”
He nodded his understanding and bit into the last pork chop. As she passed his chair, she placed a hand on his shoulder and kneaded the tight muscle there, then patted his upper arm. He lifted his free hand and placed it over hers for a brief moment, and all the love she had in her heart at that moment flowed from her to him.
“Don’t worry about the dishes,” she called behind her as she left the kitchen and climbed into bed. “I’ll get ‘em in the morning.”
She pulled the covers up to her chin, then threw them off and went outside to the porch where the dogs, tails wagging for a treat, immediately surrounded her. She petted and cooed at them, then went inside where she put a couple of blankets on the couch for Walton and the extra pillow from her bed. She placed the pistol in a dresser drawer, closed the door, then locked it, vowing to do so every evening, just in case any of her other children came wandering home in the middle of the night.
