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Birdie

KJ Renk

    “The funeral was the usual sort – I’ve been to so many – uninvited, of course. I always read the obituaries to see if I’ve died and when I don’t see my name – Birdie Finkbine, I look for some other poor soul, someone who doesn’t have as many friends as me, some lonesome, forgotten, solitary traveler in this world.
    You ask when I started attending strangers’ funerals. I dunno – can’t recall when, but I do remember why I started attending wakes. I lived next door to a funeral home. Heart Brothers’ Home. It was so grand, and I’d never been inside. Like most updated funeral homes, it had a drive-up window, but I didn’t own a car. Besides, what could you really see from the drive-up window? I wanted to see what that palace was like inside; I had never been in a mansion before. I was what you call from the wrong side of the tracks, know what I mean?
    Anyway, I decided to venture in and what better way to do it than to play act like I knew the deceased? I work as a hospital janitress and it is easy to fib and say I was acquainted and grew fond of the deceased, since most folks die in the hospital anyway, not at home anymore, where all of my relatives died, including my ma and pa. I’d tell the relations of the deceased that I had emptied the trash in their beloved’s room and that we would strike up a conversation.
    I’d say, ‘You sure don’t make much trash, do you?’
    Most of the time, I never got a reply, because the dying soul was hooked up to all sorts of contraptions. I sorta wished I could help them enter the next world and I almost did once by accidently unplugging one of the bleeping infernal machines.
    Anyways, I’d refrain from telling the relations this sort of stuff; only the conversations proved that I was a close, personal friend to their dead relative.
    The first time I went I was scared and felt like an Interleper; I think that’s the right word. I look up words that I don’t know, especially when I read the obituaries and they say someone was a financier or an influencer. Those are new words to me, and I write them down in a little book, so’s when I meet the stiff’s relatives, I can remark about what a stupendous financier-influencer the stiff was.
    Every time I go to a wake, it gets easier. I chat with the relatives and friends, just like I’m one of them. I weep over the stiff and blot my face with a hanky; I blow my nose because of all of my tears, but really I’m allergic to all of those darned roses and irises that surround the departed like he or she’s in the Garden of Eden. Even though roses make me sneeze, I often pluck one white rose from my neighbor’s yard and I leave my signature rose in the casket with the stiff. Most people, especially the departed, don’t care. I’m sure that everyone thinks I’m some mystery woman, a Matta Harry.”

    As the intake officer at the new Bedlam facility, I meet all kinds of odd balls, but she was one of the weirdest. She said that her name was Birdie Finkbine, but who names their kid Birdie, unless they are a golfer or a bird watcher? Oddly enough, she looked just like her name. Her legs were spindly and long, her nose peaked and straight, her hair stood up in tufts, just like bird feathers. Maybe she acquired her name from her physical being. Or perhaps she loved birds, a particular bird, a peacock, or a stork and so decided to become a bird in real life. I didn’t bother to ask the origin of her name. I only knew that she had been arrested for causing a disturbance at a funeral. She had jumped into a burial plot and did her best to pry open the casket, saying that she needed to retrieve a rose that she had placed in the coffin and that the deceased was her fiancé, a man that she had met on the internet, while playing Words with Friends.

    “Ms. Finkbine, do you understand why you’re here?”
    “Oh, you can call me Birdie, young man. I don’t mind. I never insist on formalities,” she said, as she adjusted her veiled hat on her head and straightened her gown, so it covered her stork-like legs. She may not have abided by formalities, but she had dressed for the funeral. I’d rightly say she was over-dressed. The gown, which she probably got at her local thrift store, was better suited for a 16-year-old going to the prom than for a 60-year-old going to a funeral. It had no decorum whatsoever. The ball gown had a plunging neckline, which showed her scalloped and sagging neck, and an enormous pink tutu-like skirt that puffed up like an open parachute. The black veil covered most of her face. She looked an odd mourner, more like a parody of a mourner, than a real one. She could have tried out for “Let’s Make a Deal” and probably won a spot on the stage to barter for a one-way trip to Death Valley.
    “Okay, Birdie, do you understand why you’re here?” I repeated.
    “Can’t say as I do. I told the nice police officer that I was hungry after the scuffle with that minister for my rose, and the officer said he’d take me somewhere so I could get a meal. I thought he’d take me to IHOP, like I asked, but he brought me here where I suppose there’s a cafeteria. Do they serve pancakes here?”
    I hesitated. This woman was not only an attempted grave robber, but clearly a wack job. She had no idea that her unruly behavior led to her arrest and forced mental evaluation. My job was to investigate the origins of her illness and to make a recommendation about placement. But first, I supposed we’d have to find her some pancakes to satiate her hunger.

    After she’d been fed – that woman practically inhaled the pancakes – I think she ate a dozen – she washed it all down with Mountain Dew and then stood up and announced, “Well, thank you kindly, but I have to go; I have an appointment with a dear friend who just passed away.”
    I paused, knowing her penchant for visiting corpses, but replied, “I’m sorry to hear that. Was this an old friend? Have they been sick for a while or was it sudden?”
    “Lemme see,” she said. “Do you happen to have today’s Star Tribune handy?”
    “Why do you need that?”
    “I gotta see what made them push up the daisies.” She spotted a newspaper on an adjacent table and pounced on it, quickly opening it to the obits.
    “Harold P. Jansen, age 58, passed on Th., Nov. 16^th, after an attack of yellow jaundice and gallstones. Memorials can be sent to the American Liver Association.”
    “So, did you know Mr. Jansen well?”
    “Heck, no, I’ve never met him. He and I will get acquainted at the funeral home.”
    “Is that the way you meet all your friends?”
    “Of course, I already told you that. You have a bad memory or something? Maybe you should see a doctor. Well, it was nice chatting with you but I gotta go or I’ll be late. Says here, visitation starts at 5 p.m. I like to be punctual and I need to catch the bus to get there on time.”
    “Miss Finkbine, Birdie, I’m sorry but you don’t understand. You have to stay here.”
    “Why? Am I a prisoner?”
    “Not really, but the nice police officer, Mr. Gently, who brought you here said it would be best if you rested here awhile.”
    “Oh, I see ... Well, then, if that’s the case, may I have more pancakes?”

    Once more she inhaled the pancakes. Twelve more, I think. Maybe the poor woman had a tapeworm? We need to do a physical exam on her, I thought, to see if there’s some physical reason she’s so birdlike.
    “So, young man,” she said. “What do we do now?”
    “I’d like to get to know you better. Tell me about your life.”
    “Where do you want me to start?”
    “Start at the beginning. Tell me about your mother and father.
     “Why do you want to know about them?”
    “Just curious.”
    “I ain’t talking about them. They’re dead to me.”
    “When did they pass on?” I asked, as I started to take notes.
    “Who said they passed on?”
    “You just did,” I replied, growing frustrated. Clearly, we were getting nowhere.
    “No, I said that they’re dead to me; that’s different. Not only is your memory bad but your hearing ain’t so good either. Looks to me like you need some doctoring.”
    “But earlier you said your ma and pa died at home.”
    “I did. Well, I misspoke.”
    I felt like we were going around in circles. Either she couldn’t remember what she had just said, or she fabricated stories, or she was delusional. What can you expect from someone who makes friends with the dead?
    I tried a new strategy. “Tell me about your friend you met the other day, the one whose rose you wanted to retrieve. Was he a new friend?”
    “Well, I met him differently than the usual way. He courted me via the computer. Do you ever play Words with Friends, young man? I play all the time, or I did until Mr. Bean took a fancy to me and monopolized all of my play. He told me that I had a great vocabulary and that he liked the way that I spelled. He was a real flatterer.”
    “Did you enjoy the attention?”
    “Of course, who wouldn’t? He was a handsome fella who reminded me of a night hawk, you know the pudgy bird with a tiny nose.”
    “Do you always equate people with birds?”
    “Sure. How do you think I got my name? I saw how people resembled birds and so people started calling me Bird Lady. I shortened it to Birdie.”
    “I thought your mother and father called you Birdie.”
    “Heck, no. They called me by my given name.”
    “Oh, what’s that?”
    “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
    Once again, we were getting nowhere fast.

    While Birdie continued to guzzle Mountain Dew, I repeated my question. I figured if I could get her to talk about the fellow she tried to dig up, we’d get somewhere and eventually I could get her to tell me about her upbringing, which could reveal why she exhibited such odd behavior. “Tell me again the name of the man whose funeral you attended recently? The one where you met Officer Gently?”
    “You mean my intended?”
    “Yes, your fiancé.”
    “It’s all in the report, isn’t it? Just look it up. The police officer surely gave you that info.”
    “I’d like to hear it from you,” I replied. I was checking her memory to see if maybe she had some short-term memory problems.
    “I never talk about my love life. That’s too personal. Suffice it to say, my beloved was a gentleman, but his relatives didn’t want my intended to be happy. And they wanted to keep all of his fortune for themselves.”
    “Oh, he possessed a fortune?”
    “Rightly so. And he intended to leave it all to me.”
    “How did he earn his money?”
    “He was a professional gambler. He bet on games like Words with Friends and Jeopardy. He liked me because I knew all sorts of fancy words, like influencer, Interleper, financier, and woke. I keep up on the latest lingo and know how to use it.”
    Once again, we were getting nowhere. I knew nothing new about Ms. Finkbine. She seemed to be a master of disguise or a master of dissembling. How could I get her to open up and reveal her psychological diseases? Maybe I’d have to try a different tactic.
     “Birdie, you said that you wanted to visit your new friend. How about I go with you?”
    “Why would you want to do that?”
    “I’d like to meet your friend too.”
    “Well, that’s ever so nice. Care if I stop by at home first to change my hat?”
    “Naturally. I want you to look your best.”

    I added the address of the funeral home to my GPS, and Birdie and I settled into my car. Her legs were so long that she had to sit sideways even with the seat pushed all the way back. She really was an odd bird.
    She directed me to her house, which was on the outskirts of town. When we pulled up in front of the house, I saw that it was in disrepair. Shingles were missing, the porch was collapsing, and the front screen door was askew. Several cats congregated on the porch and I saw more through the window as we stood on the porch. Birdie reached down and petted one of the felines. “Mama’s here,” she said. “I bet you’re hungry.”
     When she opened the door, I was hit with a strong scent of rancid cat urine and some other odd odor. I quickly covered my nose and tried not to gag. I looked around and saw cats everywhere, on the couch that had springs sticking out, on the refrigerator, on tables, in the windowsills. “You certainly have a lot of cats,” I remarked.
     “I take in strays. I’m a bird that likes cats. That’s odd, isn’t it? I like ‘em because my mama does.”
    “Is your mother here?”
    “She’s in the garden. Just wait here, while I get my bonnet.”
     I looked through the window, pulling the curtain back, while trying my best not to inhale. I couldn’t see anyone in the garden next to the house.
    “You’re sure that your mother’s here?”
    “Of course, she’s always in the yard.”

    Birdie came back into the room wearing an enormous black straw hat adorned with a plume. Now her get-up was really something.
    She said, “Let me feed my kitties before we go. They’re probably starving to death. Mama never feeds them like she ought, and Pa can’t be bothered with them. He’s always trying to kick them outside or off his chair. He don’t like my kitties.”
    I noticed a broken-down recliner with the stuffing coming out; it looked like it was well-worn, but I saw no further evidence that anyone had sat on it recently.
    “You say that this is your father’s chair. Is he around? I’d like to speak with him.”
    “Oh, he won’t talk to you. He don’t like strangers, like I do. He ain’t a friendly sort, like me. Plus, he’s as dull as an un-shined shoe. Never did have anything interesting to say. We best be going or will miss the festivities,” she said.
    “What festivities?”
    “Why the party at the funeral home. I really wonder about you, young man. After we’re done with our visit, I’ll introduce you to my favorite doctor at St. Agatha’s where I work. She’ll need to examine you from head to toe, especially your head, because it ain’t right.”

    I knew I was probably taking a chance by taking her to a funeral parlor, but I was eager to see how she introduced herself and how she approached the deceased.
    The funeral home was grand. I’d never been to a wake myself, for my folks thought that wakes were too morbid for children. I hadn’t attended any as an adult either because all my friends were just like me, mid-30s, active, diet-conscious, paleo-eaters with limited carb intake.
    Birdie escorted me into the foyer; it was obvious she was well-acquainted with the place. We followed a line of mourners into the room, which smelled powerfully like roses and gardenias.
    Birdie didn’t waste any time but marched forward to the casket. She got close enough to sniff the corpse and then she turned and said to me, “My goodness, don’t he look pretty? I never seen him look any bit better.” This, of course, wasn’t true, because he was a complete stranger to her. I didn’t say anything though. I waited to see what she did next.
    She blew her nose and then walked over to the mourners, in particular to a woman, weeping on what appeared to be her son’s shoulder.
    Birdie said to them, “I was a dear friend of Harold’s. I had to come to see him one last time.”
    “Oh, who are you?” the woman asked, looking rather startled at the bird woman who stood before her.
    “My name is Hortense,” Birdie said. “I’ve known Harold since I was child. I was his next-door neighbor. We were childhood playmates.”

    Birdie took a seat among the family and I sat next to her. She kept wiping her nose with a hanky and then blew into it, making a great honking sound, like a goose. She crumpled the wet hanky and shoved it back into her purse. She feigned crying, but I knew that the flowers were getting to her, so I offered her some Kleenex from my pocket.
    She waved my hand away and sat up taller as soon as the preacher stood to deliver the service. He read from Psalm 22, the scripture that attempts to get mourners to stay calm and believe that God is on their side, like a bodyguard, perennially protecting those who believe in Him.
    Once the preacher finished, he asked if anyone wished to speak about the departed.
    Birdie stood and marched forward. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m here today to reveal what most of you don’t know. I told the missus over there that I was Harold’s childhood playmate, which ain’t true. The truth is ...” she paused. “The truth is Harold was my husband. We eloped when we was sixteen years old. We got married by Elvis imitators in Las Vegas.”
     “Whatever do you mean? Harold was never married to anyone but me.“
     “I have proof. He was mine before he was yours.” Birdie opened her handbag and pulled out a picture. She walked over to Mrs. Jansen and showed her the photo. I stood up and looked too and by golly, the young woman resembled a young Birdie. Not knowing what Mr. Jansen looked like before he became a corpse, I couldn’t tell if the man in the photo was him. Behind them stood a clone of Elvis dressed in a sequined suit.
     Mrs. Jansen looked startled and tried to stand. Then she fainted into her son’s arms.
    At this point, I didn’t know what to believe. Did Birdie Finkbine, aka Mrs. Harold Jansen, actually know all the dead folks she’d visited at funeral parlors? Or did she concoct this story, an elaboration of her previous story about being the fiancé of the man she tried to crawl into the grave with? I was seriously becoming confused. I needed to look at that photo again.
    “Birdie, may I see your photo again?”
     “What for, young man?”
    “I’m curious to see what Mr. Jansen looked like in his youth.”
    “Well, okay, but don’t try to keep it. It’s my only photo of my beloved.”
     Sure enough, as I looked more closely, the woman that I thought resembled Birdie wasn’t Birdie. That woman wasn’t as tall, and she was actually quite pretty. Then I noticed that the photo wasn’t just a photo, but it had been cut out of the newspaper. Maybe Birdie kept a cache of photos from the newspaper and she adopted identities from each of the photos? Perhaps she was like a female Walter Mitty. That couldn’t be. Now I was verging on being delusional myself.
     “You done with that picture, young fella?”
    I handed the photo to her but, as she bent over to pick up her purse, she dropped its contents, spilling everything on the floor.
     “Now look what you made me do!” she said.
     I picked up one of the photos and saw that I was correct. Here she had a photo of a buxom blonde with another man, this time on the Creole Queen in New Orleans. And there was another photo of a woman with a mustached man standing in front of the Statue of Liberty.
    “Who are all of these people?”
    “Why don’t you recognize me? That’s me with all my husbands. I keep all the photos to remind myself of all of my beloveds.”

    Just then, Mrs. Jansen’s son approached Birdie and asked her to leave. She had upset his mother to no end and a photo was no proof that Birdie had been his father’s wife.
     “I have more proof. I’ll go home and fetch my photo album and I do have a marriage license in my old cedar chest. I’ll show you!” she declared. “Let’s go. I’m not a liar; my ma and pa taught me to always fess up.”
    Birdie stuffed all the photos back in her purse and she grabbed my hand and led me out of the funeral home.
    “Darn, it,” she said. “Now we’re going to miss the big spread that they have after the deceased is planted. Oh, well, you’ll surely make sure I have something to eat, won’t you?”

    When we pulled into Birdie’s driveway, Birdie cried out. “Goodness, Garfield’s been squished.”
    I looked ahead and there was one of her cats flattened like a pancake.
    Birdie hopped out of the car and ran to her cat. She picked it up and said, “We need to go to Saint Agatha’s right quick. I’ll talk to my favorite doctor and she’ll do something to bring Garfield back around. They got all kinds of tricks now. I read in the National Enquirer that you can clone your cat. Barbara Streisand did it with four of her dogs.”
    “But, Birdie, that costs lots of money.”
    “I got money. I ain’t poor. All of my beloved husbands left me heaps.” She continued to hold her flattened cat close, as she opened the door. Once inside, I was once again hit by an awful smell, more rancid than the earlier smell. I noticed that Birdie had opened a large cedar chest in the corner of the room. “This is where I keep my stash. I don’t trust banks, you know? Or the stock market. You gotta keep your money close by.”
    “What’s that smell, Birdie?”
    “Oh, it’s my pa. I told him to stop kicking my other favorite cat Sylvester or he’d be sorry.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “His kicking days were over,” she said, as she picked up a bag and placed it on the floor.
    “Is that your money?” I asked, as I started to open the bag.
    “Nope, my money’s right here. What you got there is the last of my pa.”
    I peered inside and nearly passed out because of the odor. Something was rotten inside.
    “What is this?”
     “I told ya. It’s the last of my pa. He got what he deserved,” she said, as she pulled out a decaying foot still in its boot. “The rest of him is out back with ma.”
    “I thought your ma is in the garden.”
     “Yep, just as I said. Ma and Pa’s together, just like I told ya. They always told me to fess up.”
     When she said that, I knew then that Birdie wasn’t going to the hospital with me, and she wasn’t ever going to get her cat cloned. Instead, she was going to see that nice police officer and his friends.
    “Birdie,” I said. “Remember Officer Gently? He’d like to visit with you again.”
    “Is that so? Okay, as long as he takes me to IHOP, like he promised.”

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