Herein and forthwith--the blood-curdling conclusion of our tale of a zombie cockatoo, an English teacher, and some really creepy music. If you missed Part I, scroll down to last week's blog entry--or Click here. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.
It should have come as no
surprise when later that night there was an eerie scraping at the window and a
scratching, scratching on the sill. As
if in a dream, Jeremiah went to the window and pulled back the curtain. What he saw there made his blood run
cold. For on the window ledge, only
inches away from his hand, perched a gruesome zombie‑like cockatoo. He was beginning to show signs of decay, and
his eyes shone like burning sulphur.
Jeremiah stood transfixed for he
knew not how long. He came to the next
morning on the floor. He did not
remember falling.
Throughout the spring, the bird
returned more and more frequently.
Jeremiah moved the cage back out of the garage and set it by the window. He left the window open all the time and put
fresh seeds on the sill every day. He
no longer got up to look at the bird when it came or took much notice of it. But there was some strange cold comfort in
its night visits. Especially since he no
longer had dinner with Philip and Bess or tea with any of their old friends.
One morning in June Jeremiah
looked at himself in the mirror. There
were deep circles under his eyes. He
hadn't shaved in a week. His nose was running and he had a cough--probably from leaving the window
open, even on cold nights. His skin was
sallow, and his eyes red. He had a
nervous twitch, and he had trouble looking himself in the eyes. He knew he needed help.
+ + + + +
And so it was that he found
himself sitting in a dark, smoke‑filled tent across a folding card‑table from
Madama Belusha, a black‑toothed gypsy with eyebrows so bushy she must have
moussed them--and makeup so thick that he
wondered what horrible secret it was hiding.
She looked strangely past him as
he poured out his long tale of terror.
When he had finished, he hung his head and began to cry. The smell of the dead bird hung all about
him.
She clapped her hands together
and shouted "Bl‑lyuck! That's
the most pathetic story I've
ever heard--and I thought I'd heard 'em all."
"Madama Belusha. . .you're my last hope. Can you help me?"
"I think so." Then to his amazement, she raised her wizened hand with the long black
nails and peeled off one of her eyebrows. "To start with, I'm not Madama Belusha."
"You're . . . not?"
She peeled off the other eyebrow
and pulled the black gum off her front teeth.
"I want my money back," demanded Jeremiah, rising from
his chair.
"Sit down. Do you want help, or don't you?"
"Well. . .I guess so." He sat down and watched an amazing transformation. Madama Belusha, by pulling off things that
were glued here and there and by wiping off the thick makeup, was changed from
a hideous hag into a rather attractive middle‑aged woman. Her short blonde hair turned under at the
neck. Even her voice was different. She no longer cackled when she talked.
"My name is Doris Murdock."
"Doris?"
"I teach English at the community
college."
"You're. . .a teacher?"
"Yes. But in the warmer months, I supplement my
income with this gig."
"Couldn't you just teach summer school?"
"Oh, sure. You've
never had to grade student themes. Run‑ons,
double negatives, misplaced modifiers--it's horrible. Horrible!"
"Okay, okay," said a confused Jeremiah. "Uh,
did you say you could help me?"
"Oh yeah, sorry. Let me ask you this. Why did you put birdseed on the windowsill?" Her new voice, though pleasant, had a hint of accusation.
"The birds are hungry. Have you no compassion for helpless little creatures?"
"Mr. Grosbeck--may I call you Jerry?--let's be honest, Jerry. Why did you put birdseed on the window? Why did you bring the cage back into the
house? Why tell your friend that you
forgive him and then go digging up the dead bird every chance you get?"
"I dig up the bird? It just comes. I have absolutely nothing to do with it."
"Sometimes when I'm angry at someone, it helps me
to remind myself that I'm
not perfect either. Haven't you ever done anything wrong--perhaps to Philip?"
"What kind of question is that?"
She looked at him
impatiently. "I have another appointment
soon. Can we hurry?"
"Well, once I borrowed his hunting
dog, and--look, this was a really long time
ago--it's not important."
"Just tell me," said Madama Belusha, aka Doris
Murdock.
"Well, the dog got caught in a
trap, and we had to shoot him. I guess
it was sort of my fault, I mean if you want to get nit‑picky about it, but that's been years ago."
"No matter. Just remember that we all need forgiveness
sometimes. Uh, now if you'll excuse me, my next client is
here."
"But you're not dressed."
She shrugged. "Theme conference."
"Oh. . ."
A gangly young man swinging a
nylon back‑pack entered through the beaded curtain. "Hi,
Mrs. Murdock."
When Jeremiah stepped out into
the night, he felt better for some reason. "We all need forgiveness
sometimes," Madama, uh--Doris--had said. He started walking toward Philip's house.
Philip didn't mean to let Bogart die. Of course, he was never that fond of the
bird. . .but, best not to think of that now.
He used to joke about making cockatoo stew. And what was the one about "Ring‑necked? I'll
wring his neck for you." Always joking, that Philip. I've
missed his sense of humor. . . .Not as much, of course, as I've missed Humphrey Bogart. He stopped in his tracks. I
wonder if Philip could have given him. . .bad liquor?
Jeremiah almost didn't notice when the hideous
creature fluttered down and landed on his shoulder. Except for the smell. The smell was stronger than ever.
He walked to Philip's house and went around to the
back porch where the light was on. I was
coming here to apologize, thought Jeremiah, but I may just give him a piece of
my mind instead.
He stopped again, just short of
the porch. That's odd. When did Philip get a dog? There's
a dog dish on the porch. And fresh meat
in it! He heard a strange sniffing and
scratching but saw nothing. Then
suddenly, before him stood the ghastly apparition of the dead hunting dog. When the dog saw Jeremiah, he began to bark,
and the barking brought a haggard‑looking Philip to the door.
"What do you want?" growled Philip.
"Friend," called Jeremiah desperately, "may I come in?"
"What for?"
"We've got to talk."
+ + + + +
A sorrowful wind moaned across
the moor. In the old church yard, dead
leaves rattled among the tombstones.
And the creaking organ continued to wheeze under the assault of Toccata
in D.
Outside the church, the parson
eventually erected a simple hand‑painted sign: "If you've come here to bury the past, we
recommend cremation."
Ah, it had a good ending! And I think I can sleep after this one! :) Donna
ReplyDeleteGreat read thankyouu
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