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 Weathered
Wells’ Snipes

Jim Meirose

    Wells held his hands up before his face.
    These hands will one day be neatly folded in a closed casket deep underground, he thought. Then, picking up the wide black-handled knife, he went back to carving the bird; the big twenty pound turkey for today. The others waited out in the dining room. The murmur of voices and rustle of movement could be heard through the brown door.
    The Gorla Snipe entered the kitchen where Wells sat and began laying down a bed of harsh branches. It intended to raise its young in this spot and laid a thick gnarled nest in place beneath the chair where Wells sat carving the turkey. A scrap of white meat fell to the ground and the Snipe gripped it in its long bill. It threw up its head and leaned back and opened its bill and the scrap of meat neatly flew into the air and went down its gut. It once more closed its bill and lowered its head, eyes half closed. Wells leaned his great bulk over.
    Shoo, he said to the Snipe, waving his hand down.
    Shoo!
    The Snipe stayed put on the nest and its eyes slowly moved watching Wells’ hand wave from side to side.
    I do not have to move, it said.
    Wells pushed back his chair with a loud scraping sound, rose and bent down toward the Snipe after plunging his carving knife into the flat white side of the turkey’s breast.
    You are not supposed to be able to talk, you are a mere bird.
    The Snipe’s eyebrows rose.
    A mere bird? it replied. I am no mere bird, I am me. Like you. I could say you are a mere you, could I not? How would you feel?
    Wells stepped back shuffling his loose brown shoes across the linoleum, his mouth gaping at the talking bird.
    What kind of bird are you, said Wells.
    A Gorla Snipe. Nesting.
    Nesting here.
    The turkey sat squat on the tabletop with the knife handle sticking out of its side. Before Wells could answer the Gorla Snipe spoke again.
    What is that up on the table?
    A turkey, said Wells, shuffling back.
    Why do you have a dead bird on the table and why are you carving slices off its side?
    The murmur of conversation rose and fell beyond the kitchen door as Wells answered.
    Because it’s Thanksgiving.
    Out the window to the side of the room golden brown and red leaves fluttered on a thick-limbed tree.
    And what is Thanksgiving, asked the Snipe, waving its head from side to side.
    Wells laid his hand on the edge of the table and leaned forward and said Thanksgiving is the day that we have a great feast to give thanks for all we have been given.
    Given by who?
    The Gorla Snipe squinted and lowered its head waiting for the answer.
    Given by God, of course.
    Who is God?
    The room stood squarely about them surrounded by the turning leaves around and the blue sky above and the deep dark damp black earth underneath stretching forever beyond the foundation of the house and the murmering rose and fell past the kitchen door as Wells answered.
    The one who made us, said Wells.
    Satisfied, the Snipe nodded. Wells sat back down and finished carving the turkey and took a steaming plate of meat through the kitchen door to the dining room. The kitchen door closed behind him and the murmering went on and the guests ate and left and days went on winding around and through Wells and the Snipe sat on its rough nest quietly until one day it raised its head. The nest sat in the living room and the Snipe blinked toward Wells trimming a tall deep green Christmas tree. As Wells trimmed the tree, from time to time he touched the tip of his nose and sniffed back loosely.
    Someday this nose will protrude from a face in a casket buried deeply underground, he thought, as he moved among the boxes of silver and red balls littering the room and the long shining strings of garland wound about the floor. Wells walked around the tree stringing the garland and stepped aside stumbling each time he passed the nest of the Gorla Snipe. Finally as he stumbled he dropped a red ball that rolled out of sight under a couch and he stopped, looked down, and spoke to the Snipe.
    You should not be here. You are in my way.
    The Gorla Snipe waved its bill before it and spoke in a low voice.
    I have a right to be here, I am nesting.
    But you should not be here because there should not be such a thing as a talking bird in a nest in the middle of my living room, in my way as I try to trim my tree. Many guests will be here tomorrow to celebrate, and this tree must be done, and done right.
    You trim your tree, I’ll nest, said the bird. Its grey feathers spread out from its side. One thing is just as important as the other, it continued—but why are you doing this? Trees grow outside, not inside. Why have you brought a tree inside and why are you putting all those things on and around it? And you’re not trimming, no you’re not trimming, if you were trimming you’d be cutting down the branches of the tree and you aren’t—and why will there be guests tomorrow and what is there to celebrate?
    Wells stood open mouthed, the silver garland hung in his hands, his eyes trained on the Snipe.
    Well—trimming is what we call decorating the tree, he said. And what’s being celebrated tomorrow is Christmas Day.
    The Gorla Snipe lowered its head and waved it from side to side, its black eyes sparkling.
    And what is Christmas day? it said.
    The anniversary of the birth of Jesus Christ.
    And who is Jesus Christ?
    The sparkling garland rustled in Wells’ hands.
    Jesus Christ is the son of God.
    The Gorla Snipe wriggled more deeply into its nest and narrowed its eyes.
    The son of God? Who is God—oh, I remember, I remember.
    Wells watched the Snipe sway from side to side, look down, then up, once more wide eyed.
    And why is it important to go to all this trouble to celebrate the birth of the son of God?
    Wells leaned his weight over on one leg and let the garland fall loosely down his leg to the side.
    Because God sent his son to earth to die for our sins.
    The Gorla Snipe cocked its head, eyes half closed, thinking. Wells looked away and stepped over and continued winding the garland about the tree and stepping clumsily over the nest each time he went around.
    And why should someone else have to die for your sins? asked the Gorla Snipe.
    Wells wrestled with a tangle of garland in the higher branches of the tree and snapped off a quick answer.
    Because he did—you ask too many questions.
    The Snipe scowled darkly and looked down as Wells won his battle with the garland in the tree and the lights in the tree shone red over the garland and the balls went up one by one all silver red and green until finally, Wells stepped back. The tree was done.
    The Snipe stepped off of the nest and stood squarely in Wells’ way, blocking his view of the tree.
    Look, said the Snipe, pointing its bill down to the nest.
    A large pure white egg lay in the nest. The snipe winked and stepped over the nest and settled onto the egg.
    You just laid that? asked Wells.
    Yes, said the Snipe. Now I need to sit on it.
    But where’s your mate, said Wells, looking around. To have made an egg you must have a mate—
    Never mind that, said the Snipe, in a low voice. That’s been taken care of. That’s all you need to know.
    The snipe gently settled onto the nest and closed down its black eyes. Wells shrugged and cleaned up the room and put away all the boxes and bags scattered around and the next day his home was full of guests all complimenting him on the look of the tree, its shining and shimmering ornaments sparkling in the light. No one said anything about the Snipe underneath, nesting. Then Christmas day went and the tree came down and everything on it went back into their boxes and the tree disappeared and the days wound forward spiraling Wells and the Gorla Snipe out past December into January and past late January into February. The clean white egg lay warm beneath the snipe day after day as a chill grew around the small square house and Wells stepped to the window and pulled back the grey curtain showing a barren dirt field stretching off into the distance, flecked with patches of snow, freezing under the weight of a grey streaked sky. The heater droned in the basement beneath the floorboards. Wells flexed his toes in the feet of his black slippers.
    Someday these toes will point upward in tight shoes in a casket of oak deep under the ground, he thought, as he held the curtain aside.
    Its cold in here, said the Snipe.
    That’s because it’s February, said Wells, letting the curtain fall back over and turning to the room, leaning to one side, tugging at the fingers of his gloves. He stepped up to the Snipe.
    And still you sit there, he said. In my way, as always.
    Yes of course I sit here. I have to hatch my egg. But you—why do you just pace the floor all the days and pull back the curtains and look out the windows and go to sleep and wake up and go to work and come home and go to sleep and wake up and go to work again day after day. There is no turkey, there is no tree. What kind of days are these?
    Wells turned fully to the Snipe and flexed a gloved hand.
    There are no holidays or special occasions from Christmas and New Year’s until late May.
    The Snipe’s head pulled back. Its eyes scowled.
    Why not?
    Wells looked around the empty room.
    I don’t know, said Wells. That’s just how it is.
    Isn’t there anything to celebrate or be thankful for? asked the Snipe, raising its bill. Is it just a time to pace and be cold go to work and stare out the window once in a while?
    Wells clasped his gloved hands together.
    There are always things to celebrate and be thankful for, he said.
    But then why are there no special days?
    Wells looked down, then up past the ceiling, then squarely at the Snipe.
    I suppose what God intends you to do, he said, is to treat each day as a special day on which you’ve been blessed by good health and good fortune and nothing bad happening.
    The Snipe wriggled its way deeper into the nest.
    So every day should be like Christmas day, or Thanksgiving day? So its really the most special time of the year because every day is a holiday—
    —well, said Wells, after coughing slightly. Every day is not a holiday—
    But every day is a special as a holiday. That’s what God wants, right? said the Snipe, tilting its head.
    Yes, said Wells, shuffling his boot on the wooden floor. The heater droned beneath them and outside past the walls around them the dirt field lay flecked with snowy patches and the wind silently moved the empty branches of the tree close by the house tapping the branches lightly on the window-sill.
    Well, said the Snipe. Soon there will be an extra special day for me.
    Why?
    My egg will soon hatch. I can feel it. Just look at it.
    The Snipe stood up and stepped aside and the egg lay warm in a single ray of sun come through the cold air from the slight part in the window curtains. Wells left the room and the Snipe sat on the nest and as the days flowed past the egg began gently moving beneath the Snipe. Day after day Wells complained of the nest and Snipe being in the way, no matter where he went they were in the way, but he put up with it. And each day as he sat in the seat of his car on the way to work he felt the seat pushing up from below and thought Someday I will feel the casket pushing up from below, as I lie pressed full length into the deep white pleated padding.
    And as Wells moved his legs using the pedals of the car he thought Someday these legs that move within these pants will be stretched out in dark trousers within a casket deep underground.
    The Snipe just sat.
    Suddenly the time of year came when buds pushed up from the damp ground and began appearing peppering the trees and the temperature came far up above freezing —and the Snipe awoke and jerked itself erect.
    The egg had broken open beneath it with a sharp crack.
    The Snipe rose and looked down and a small grey ball of fluff with black eyes and a short bill looked up.
    Cheep, it said.
    My child, said the Gorla Snipe.
    Cheep.
    The baby Snipe sat in the nest mouth open, hungry.
    I must feed my young, said the Gorla Snipe.
    I must feed my young.
    The Gorla Snipe fed the young one seeds and large black bugs and bits of meat it found here and there in the stubbly weeds lying about the house and Wells ignored it all just going through the warming days to work and home and back again. Spring began turning to Summer and warmer rays of light came in the window and the young Snipe filled more of the nest every day until its sides were pressed tight against the sides of the nest. One morning as the Gorla Snipe stood feeding the baby Wells came in wearing brown shoes brown shirt and brown pants and began walking past the Snipes on his way out but the Gorla Snipe stepped in front of him.
    Where are you going, said the Snipe. You are not dressed as you usually dress for work.
    I am going to the Memorial Day parade, said Wells.
    What is that, asked the Gorla Snipe.
    The young Snipe also tilted its head attentively.
    You stand on the curb of the road under trees full of new leaves with with lots of other people, and watch bands go by, and fire trucks, and floats. Some of the people wave flags.
    And what is the significance of this parade, asked the Gorla Snipe. The young snipe’s eyes widened.
    It marks what’s called Memorial day, a day on which we honor the memory of those who have fallen in the defense of our way of life.
    What do you mean those who have fallen? asked the Snipe.
    Those who have tripped and fallen?
    Wells smiled.
    No. Those who went and fought and died in wars against the oppressors who plot and scheme to take our freedom.
    The Snipe glanced to its young and back again.
    And what way of life? The way of life that says you must go to work every day?
    Wells lightly kicked the woodwork by the side of the room.
    No. The way of life that says we are free to do and say what we wish.
    You mean you are free to not go to work if you please?
    No, I must go to work because I need money—
    Then you are not free, said the Gorla Snipe strongly, folding its wings before it. The young Snipe fluffed out its feathers and laid the look of its black eyes straight into Wells’. Wells stood motionless for a moment, then stepped from the wall and pushed out a hand.
    But I am free to choose the manner of work that I do—and I may say anything I wish about whatever I wish. Money is different. Everybody always needs money—
    Then no one is free, said the Gorla Snipe.
    Wells stepped back.
    I am not free, the Gorla Snipe went on. I must gather nuts and seeds and bugs each day for my young one here. See, I have my money and you have your money. We’re not free. No one is free.
    The Gorla Snipe paused and lowered its head before continuing.
    Imagine, it said, what your God would think if he knew you thought you were free.
    What do you mean, said Wells. What’s God got to do with it—
    Think about it, said the Snipe, darkly. If you break your God’s laws, you will be punished. If you fail to go to work, you will starve. If I fail to feed my young, it will die. True freedom has consequences. Are you willing to face them head on, and really be free? I think not.
    The air about and between them grew thick with silence until Wells suddenly spoke.
    Well—think what you wish, said Wells, speaking lightly, slapping a white cap onto the top of his head. I need to get to the parade.
    Wells sidestepped the Snipe and left abruptly, anxious to get to the parade where there’d be people and noise and color and movement. His cap lay back on his head at a rakish angle and his shoes squeaked across the loose wooden floor and the brown door tapped shut behind him. The Gorla Snipe shrugged and scratched at the ground. The baby Snipe suddenly hopped from the nest and stood by its parent. They were already of the same height. The Gorla Snipe stepped back and looked its young up and down.
    You are as large as I am, it said.
    I know, said the youngster.
    And you speak.
    That’s true.
    They nodded and winked at each other and the nest was pushed into the corner of the room where from that point on it lay unused. Two months later Wells came from the kitchen into the living room wearing red shoes a white shirt and blue pants. He rubbed his hand on his ear as he looked down watching the floor go by and he thought, someday this ear will be on the side of the head of a corpse in a casket deep in the ground—but his thoughts abruptly dropped away as he stopped to let the Snipes finish crisscrossing the room which is what they spent most of their time doing when they were not out gathering bugs and seeds.
    And where are you going in that get-up, said the Gorla snipe to Wells. Its young one’s eyes bugged out.
    To the Fourth of July Parade, said Wells.
    What’s that?
    That’s where you go downtown and stand under the green trees with lots of other people and watch bands and fire trucks and floats go by—
    That’s just like the Memorial Day parade, said the older snipe.
    No it’s not, said Wells. It’s—
    What’s a float, interrupted the young snipe, scratching at the floor with the long claws of its right foot.
    Wells cleared his throat and rubbed his cheek.
    A float is a big truck, he said, all fixed up to look festive and containing a symbol celebrating some aspect of the holiday for which the parade is being given.
    And what are some of the aspects of this fourth of July parade that make it different from the Memorial Day parade, said the older Snipe, its grey feathers waving.
    Yes, said the young one. What are the aspects?
    Wells coughed lightly into one hand before speaking.
    The Fourth of July parade, he said, celebrates the founding of our country many many years ago—
    And how was the country founded, asked the young Snipe.
    The Declaration of Independence was signed, freeing us from England, said Wells.
    What is the Declaration of Independence.
    A document that says we are free.
    Rolling their eyes, the snipes looked at each other.
    But, said the young Snipe, we have already said that no one is free.
    Right, said the Gorla Snipe. Just because we write on a document that we are free that makes us free?
    Well it made us free from England—
    But you still need money—
    As we need bugs and seeds—
    England or no England—
    Why have your kind this big hangup with freedom? asked the older Snipe.
    Yes why this big hangup, intoned the younger.
    The room spun as the Snipes went on and Wells looked from one to the other until the young one asked a final question.
    And what symbol would be on a Fourth of July float?
    Wells was grateful to finally be asked so easy a question.
    Well—a float with a large eagle would be appropriate—
    An eagle? said the Gorla Snipe.
    Yes, said the young one. An eagle? Why an eagle?
    Because the eagle is the symbol of our country, said Wells, abruptly. Listen—I’m sorry, but I must go now. Or I will miss the parade.
    Lowering his head, Wells went around the Snipes carefully and went out the red white and blue draped door into the deep green yellow sunshine filled hot day.
    The Snipes looked at each other.
    Why would a Snipe not be the symbol of this country, said the young one.
    Apparently they think it appropriate for some reason to choose a large aggressive bird of prey.
    They looked at each other for the next several weeks until only the young one stood there. Wells came from the kitchen with a gold and green coat on and a sharp brimmed hat set sideways on his head. He felt around his teeth with his tongue and thought someday these teeth will be in the cold head of a corpse in a casket deep in the ground until he noticed it was surprisingly easier to cross from the kitchen through the living room to the front door because there was only one Snipe. Wells stopped.
    Where’s your parent, asked Wells.
    My parent died.
    That’s too bad—
    The bird saved Wells from having to find something comforting to say by asking him a question in a loud voice.
    Where are you going in that get-up?
    Wells stepped back and looked down at himself.
    Get-up? What do you mean, get-up—
    The funny hat and the funny colored coat. Where are you going?
    I’m going to the Labor Day parade. Its a small parade, but its still a parade.
    And what is labor day all about?
    Wells cleared his throat before answering.
    Its a day on which we celebrate the working man who’s sweaty labor built this country.
    Like the sweaty labor you do when you go to work every day?
    Yes. Like that.
    So you’re celebrating yourself.
    Wells bit his lip.
    Yes—I suppose.
    Never before had he thought of himself as being one of those who was building the country. So he stepped past the Snipe with a spring in his step and at the curb at the Labor Day parade he stood chest out wide eyed and proud among all the other people. He had the Snipe to thank for this and it felt good standing chest out wide eyed and proud in the lowering sun in this the first week of September and here and there brown leaves fell too few to be noticed but still there; coming.
    Unseen, the end was coming.
    Time passed.
    One day the young snipe pushed all the remnants of the nest in which it had been born into the corner of the kitchen up against the tall yellow garbage can with the flip-up lid.
    The Snipe stood tall and straight, straighter than its parent had. Younger, stronger, it stepped toward the door of the kitchen on its way to the hallway leading down through the foyer to the front door.
    Time to build my own nest now, it thought.
    But not here.
    Not here.
    Someplace else.
    Wells came in the kitchen wearing a white shirt and pants and with most of the hair of his head gone and with many wrinkles and blotches on his face and on his hands, years older than before.
    What’s wrong, he asked the Snipe.
    Its time for me to go build my own nest.
    Why can’t you build a new nest here?
    Wells himself was surprised that he had said this. The young snipe kicked out a leg.
    But you used to be very critical of the space my parent took up with its nest. Why would you invite me to build my nest here? Because it would be the same space taken and the bother and the being in the way of you as before.
    Wells stepped back, rubbing his face. Why had he said build the new nest here? Why had he said it? He struggled to know but the Snipe spoke up sharply.
    But if I go it means the end, said the Snipe. Do you understand that?
    What do you mean, it means the end—
    The young Snipe went through the door of the kitchen and down the stairs through the hall into the foyer and went through the front door and left. Wells’ eyes grew wide, he took a deep breath, threw out his arms and fell dead of a stroke. He was found by a neighbor and given a fine funeral with the space around the open casket piled high with flowers and with many crosses rosaries and bibles strewn around and the white lining of the casket gleamed like a halo all around him; and then he was put in the ground in the casket containing hands neatly folded and a nose on the face of a corpse and toes inside of tight burial shoes and a rear end pressing down in the padding of the casket and legs stretched out in black burial trousers and two ears on the sides of the cold head of a corpse and teeth in the cold mouth closed forever never to talk again eat again or argue or complain again. The Snipe ascended to the next house and kitchen. It was not the Gorla Snipe, it was similar, but different—but it still began laying down its bed of harsh branches beneath a chair where a man sat at a table looking deeply into his hands.



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