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Falling from Trees

Michael C. Keith

Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one
to whom the torture and death of his fellow-creatures
is amusing in itself.

–– J.A. Froude

    BB guns reached their peak of popularity in the 1950s. They were nearly every boy’s ultimate dream gift in the years that followed the war. A Daisy Golden Eagle was the foremost object of desire by legions of youngsters, and Kelly Tuttle was among them. He had asked––pleaded––for one since he was seven, but it wasn’t until he turned twelve that his parents gave in to his request.
    “Happy birthday, son. Just remember, it’s not a toy,” said his father.
    “I know. I know,” replied Kelly, as he tore the wrapping paper from the air rifle.
    “It can cause serious injury, so you need to be very careful how you use it.”
    “I will, Dad. I will . . . promise.”
    “First time I see or hear of you doing something you shouldn’t with it, I’ll take it back,” warned Mr. Tuttle, sternly.
    Kelly could not wait to try out his shiny new Daisy. To him it looked exactly like the Winchesters cowboys used in the movies and on TV. He was delighted by its authentic appearance and imagined himself shooting menacing Indians from a galloping horse. After unwrapping several less exciting gifts, mostly clothes, he asked to be excused to go play outside.
    “Of course,” said his mother. “Have fun.”
    “Just remember what I said, Kelly,” added his father.
    Without a further word, he ran to his room to dress for his first outing with his cherished firearm.

*        *        *

    “Hi Yo Silver!” shouted Kelly, holding his Daisy rifle high above his head in the middle of his backyard.
    He carefully loaded BBs into the specifically marked compartment and took aim at a wide range of objects, first among them the dandelions that covered the field behind his house. He pretended they were a wild band of Apaches attacking him. After a while, he took pleasure in shooting at the new leaves that hung from the trees at the field’s edge––lions’ claws, he imagined. As he was unloading a string of BBs at a tall oak, he noticed he had struck a large blue jay. While it surprised him, it also thrilled him to have shot something alive, as he thought of it. The bird flapped about on the ground; one of its wings spread in deformity.
    Finish it off so it won’t suffer, thought Kelly, taking aim at the injured fowl and shooting it. Kelly experienced a feeling of excitement and satisfaction as he pushed the bird’s corpse with his foot. He also felt pride in having shot his first wild animal. Maybe they ate them back in the olden days. Kelly’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of fluttering above his head. There on a limb were two more large blue jays. They must be new ones because they’re so fluffy, he reflected, staring up at them. Suddenly the urge to kill them took hold of him. He raised his gun and fired a volley of BBs at them. Both fell dead to the ground. Elated, he inspected their carcasses. He had never felt such a surge of pleasure, and he searched nearby trees for more potential prey. Within a few minutes, Kelly had shot three more young blue jays.
    Finding no other living targets for his Daisy, he started for home proud of his successful hunt.
    “You’re a sharpshooter,” muttered Kelly, boastfully. “You could shoot anything . . . anything.”
    As he left the site of his slaughter, he was unaware that his father had witnessed him shooting the last birds. Rather than confront his son on the spot, Mr. Tuttle decided on a course of action to teach him a lesson. He scooped up three of the bird carcasses, and while remaining at a safe distance, followed Kelly home. There he waited for his son to leave his bedroom. When he did, he placed one of the bloodied birds on his bed. Later when Kelly returned to his room, he was shocked to find the dead animal. He braced himself for trouble, believing that his father had found his handiwork. When he appeared for supper, he fully expected to encounter angry parents. He was surprised and relieved when nothing at all was said about his destructive outing with his Daisy. Instead, his parents mostly spoke between themselves, only occasionally acknowledging his presence with a word or two.
    After supper Kelly returned to his room and pondered how the dead bird got there. He was convinced his parents would have said something if they knew what he’d done. Satisfied that they clearly did not, he wrapped the carcass in an old shirt and slipped it out of the house, depositing it at the bottom of the trash barrel. How did it get in my room? he continued to ask himself, and the mystery kept him awake most of the night.

*        *        *

    Nothing about the shootings was said the next day, and Kelly went to school still wondering how his dead prey had appeared out of nowhere. Despite the inexplicable placement of the dead bird, Kelly felt little remorse over his deed. But he was spooked and genuinely perplexed by what had occurred afterwards. When he reached home, his mother greeted him cheerfully, asking him if he’d like a snack. Kelly declined the offer and went to his room eager to play with his BB gun. Better not shoot any more birds for a while, he told himself.
When he reached for his Daisy in the closet, his hand struck something unusual.
    “What the heck!” he shouted, when he realized it was another dead blue jay.
    What’s going on? Are the birds doing this? Are they getting even for my shooting them? Kelly reflected on this as he removed the second bird’s remains.
    “Hate you birds! Hate you!” he rumbled, preparing to get rid of his feathered victim before his parents discovered what had happened.
    Again, he placed the body in the trashcan, making certain to bury it out of sight. When he returned to his room, however, he found the third blue jay. No, he whimpered, not again. After finding still more dead birds in his room over the next two days, Kelly was convinced the new Daisy must be cursed. Thoroughly shaken by events, he realized to his surprise that he no longer even wanted it. He returned it to his father, saying he would rather have the pair of binoculars he had long fancied.

    “What do you mean you don’t want it?” asked his father, slyly.
    “I thought I did. But I don’t like it. I’d rather have the Gundlach field glasses, Dad. Can you exchange the gun for them? I only used it once.”
    “I guess,” frowned his father. “I still don’t know why you don’t want the rifle. You wanted it so much for so long.”
    “I know. It’s just that .... Well, ah, I guess I’d like the binoculars more.”
    “Okay, I’ll see if I can take the Daisy back.”
    “Thanks, Dad. Thanks.”
    Kelly then excused himself and went out to the porch and sat down looking out over the front yard. Someday I’ll get a real gun, he thought. As cars drove past, he shot at them with his index finger.

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