had turned to near-maniacal laughter.
Thirty-nine ninety-five, it had cost him, down the street at Ace Hardware, or Ferreteria, as it was known in this neighborhood. A bird feeder that looked just like every other bird feeder in the world except this one had a spring-loaded feeding ledge fitted below the trough. The last time Driscoll had gone in for another fifty-pound sack of birdseed, the clerk had taken him aside and explained to him—primarily in sign language, since Driscoll’s store of Spanish was limited to
cerveza
, which meant beer, and
una otra
, which was a vaguely redundant way of asking for more—that the delicate mechanism of this new feeder would support the weight of a bird (they had hollow bones, Driscoll had learned, since discovering this new and wholly unexpected passion, a sure sign of aging and the onset of Alzheimer’s, he was certain), but not the comparatively Jupiter-like mass of a squirrel. Let some creature of bulk climb—or leap—upon the ledge, and it would sink down an inch or so, bringing along a clear Plexiglas cover to slam on top of the birdseed trough itself.
Driscoll particularly liked the notion of the Plexiglas, that the squirrel would be able to
see
the birdseed it couldn’t get, claw as he might, maybe even suffer a nervous breakdown as a result, and even though this smacked of sadism, he thought it was a pretty mild case, given the fact that he’d spent twenty-five years as a cop and, for instance, wasn’t sure that capital punishment helped a goddamned thing.
Which was why he would never have used the air rifle he’d unearthed from the trunk that held a bunch of his boyhood items he’d brought down from Lakeland a couple of weeks ago. Just a couple of weeks now since his father had finally passed away in the nursing home and the attorney had called to tell him the house would go on the market at long last.
Driscoll shook his head. Ninety-five years of age, the old man made him promise not to sell the house even though he’d been in the home a dozen years, he was going to get better and move back home any day, if not this week, then the next, boy. That’s what he’d told the nurse who found him rolled out of his bed and onto the floor, in fact: “Tell Vernon I’m going home;” couple of minutes later he’d died.
Driscoll found that his view through the binoculars had blurred for some reason, though he could tell that the squirrel was in the midst of an absolute shit fit now, clawing and scratching, and the bird feeder dancing on its line like something alive. He put down the binoculars and blinked himself back into focus and unscrewed the cap end of the BB gun and tilted the barrel forward into the sink so that the shot could roll out and down the drain. Too late he realized he’d used the wrong side of the sink, but he supposed a disposal could probably eat up a little bit of copper shot in time.
He recapped the empty rifle and set it aside, then picked up the old bird feeder that he’d unhooked an hour before, and tucked it under his arm, and picked up the new sack of feed. The screen door slammed behind him on his way out to the yard, and he noted that the sound sent the squirrel diving to the ground. The creature was across the band of intervening St. Augustine grass, up and over the fence—exact same place it’d come in, Driscoll noticed—in moments.
Driscoll walked to the spot where the feeder hung, worked the hook off the chain, then out of the eyelet on its phony shingled top. He bent down, set the new feeder aside, rehooked the old one, stood and clipped it back on the chain. He scooped seed out of the bag until the old feeder was full again, then picked up the seed sack and his thirty-nine ninety-five squirrel-proof miracle and walked back to the house.
He thought he could hear the scratching of tiny claws on the fence top behind him, but he was okay with that. Little bastard can fly, then a person just ought to let him, Driscoll thought.
He
Thirty-nine ninety-five, it had cost him, down the street at Ace Hardware, or Ferreteria, as it was known in this neighborhood. A bird feeder that looked just like every other bird feeder in the world except this one had a spring-loaded feeding ledge fitted below the trough. The last time Driscoll had gone in for another fifty-pound sack of birdseed, the clerk had taken him aside and explained to him—primarily in sign language, since Driscoll’s store of Spanish was limited to
cerveza
, which meant beer, and
una otra
, which was a vaguely redundant way of asking for more—that the delicate mechanism of this new feeder would support the weight of a bird (they had hollow bones, Driscoll had learned, since discovering this new and wholly unexpected passion, a sure sign of aging and the onset of Alzheimer’s, he was certain), but not the comparatively Jupiter-like mass of a squirrel. Let some creature of bulk climb—or leap—upon the ledge, and it would sink down an inch or so, bringing along a clear Plexiglas cover to slam on top of the birdseed trough itself.
Driscoll particularly liked the notion of the Plexiglas, that the squirrel would be able to
see
the birdseed it couldn’t get, claw as he might, maybe even suffer a nervous breakdown as a result, and even though this smacked of sadism, he thought it was a pretty mild case, given the fact that he’d spent twenty-five years as a cop and, for instance, wasn’t sure that capital punishment helped a goddamned thing.
Which was why he would never have used the air rifle he’d unearthed from the trunk that held a bunch of his boyhood items he’d brought down from Lakeland a couple of weeks ago. Just a couple of weeks now since his father had finally passed away in the nursing home and the attorney had called to tell him the house would go on the market at long last.
Driscoll shook his head. Ninety-five years of age, the old man made him promise not to sell the house even though he’d been in the home a dozen years, he was going to get better and move back home any day, if not this week, then the next, boy. That’s what he’d told the nurse who found him rolled out of his bed and onto the floor, in fact: “Tell Vernon I’m going home;” couple of minutes later he’d died.
Driscoll found that his view through the binoculars had blurred for some reason, though he could tell that the squirrel was in the midst of an absolute shit fit now, clawing and scratching, and the bird feeder dancing on its line like something alive. He put down the binoculars and blinked himself back into focus and unscrewed the cap end of the BB gun and tilted the barrel forward into the sink so that the shot could roll out and down the drain. Too late he realized he’d used the wrong side of the sink, but he supposed a disposal could probably eat up a little bit of copper shot in time.
He recapped the empty rifle and set it aside, then picked up the old bird feeder that he’d unhooked an hour before, and tucked it under his arm, and picked up the new sack of feed. The screen door slammed behind him on his way out to the yard, and he noted that the sound sent the squirrel diving to the ground. The creature was across the band of intervening St. Augustine grass, up and over the fence—exact same place it’d come in, Driscoll noticed—in moments.
Driscoll walked to the spot where the feeder hung, worked the hook off the chain, then out of the eyelet on its phony shingled top. He bent down, set the new feeder aside, rehooked the old one, stood and clipped it back on the chain. He scooped seed out of the bag until the old feeder was full again, then picked up the seed sack and his thirty-nine ninety-five squirrel-proof miracle and walked back to the house.
He thought he could hear the scratching of tiny claws on the fence top behind him, but he was okay with that. Little bastard can fly, then a person just ought to let him, Driscoll thought.
He
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