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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “a Finch in the Window” Down in the Dirt, v150 (the October 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

A Finch at the Window

Liz Betz

    The phone rings and Dora’s irritation rises like heartburn. She just knows it will be Old Gal with today’s issue, or as Dora privately calls it -the bane with the drain. The drain began the minute her and Freddie moved their prefab house into his parent’s farmyard. Even now, her mother-in-law, an elderly widow, insists on living out here when a move into town would provide her with company and things to do. She’d rather be their constant problem.
    Freddie is in the house so Dora answers the phone pleasantly. He can’t see her clenched lips as she stands in front of the kitchen window. But the view reminds her of how little privacy they have. No window treatment or dangling decoration is able to obscure her view of the main farm house. Her only relief is to drive out of the yard, away from Old Gal’s surveillance. She’s always worked off farm for the paycheck, but also so she didn’t go bonkers. Although right now Dora is between jobs.
    “Someone has to deal with this bird.” Old Gal said as her greeting. “It has been trying to get through the window, all day long.”
    Her mother-in-law frets over nothing, but Dora assures Old Gal that they will be over. Freddie has given himself the afternoon off from spraying the last field of grain, so he has no excuse, this time.
    The walk between the houses is a couple of hundred yards, but it seems to Dora that the journey comes from a shameful back corner to the main attraction. Old Gal’s tulip beds are splendid with Darwin hybrids and Triumphs; ready for the green thumbs and their tours. Each year when the horticulture group arrives, Dora suffers a little more. Her landscaping is one lilac bush. Her shabby house is likewise humbled by her mother-in-law’s perfectly maintained porches, shutters, a gingerbread trim and 100 year-old gracefulness.
    As Dora tells Freddie about his mother’s bird, only his expression prevents her fury from spilling out. Freddie thinks there are no concerns with his mother’s continuing presence, but there’s a disaster waiting to happen. The longer Old Gal is out here, the more likely she’s going to fall and break a hip. Or slip in the tub. Or eat something that’s she’s left out on the counter too long. Freddie thinks his mother is doing just fine, but a month ago, Old Gal wanted to hire a housekeeper. And Freddie said they certainly could afford it, and if that made her happy, then okay.
    Dora wanted to scream; her ideas never get his okay, even when she contributed a paycheck. She bit back her feelings and instead made an offer that came out of her mouth like magic. She could place the want ads, interview candidates and negotiate salaries. The look of gratitude on Freddie’s face was like a rain on her parched soul. He hadn’t called her his clever little wife in a long time but it is still true. Isn’t she as sweet as pie to help Old Gal? If Freddie knew how many times she’s been the daughter-in-law on call, he’d put her on a pedestal and bow down in front of her. Even express some appreciation. She didn’t need a pedestal. Just a word of thanks.
    More often his are words of rebuke. He’d been absolutely no comfort for her when she lost her job. She didn’t ask to be fired; in fact the firing is totally unjustified. But the way her idea of a union review is flatly vetoed proved Freddie didn’t believe what she said happened.
    Same thing, he doesn’t believe it is hard to find a housekeeper, so when he asks about her progress; she tells him that she found someone. To get him off her back. It isn’t a lie exactly; someone could be hired in the next few days. Then Dora got the flu. She was too sick to hire anyone, had there been anyone to interview. Of course, ever the watchdog, Freddie asks about the new housekeeper’s salary. Who should he make the check out to, and how much is it? Frick. That is the place to come clean, but Dora isn’t that stupid. She doesn’t need his inevitable lectures. She told Freddie the housekeeper wants cash payment, which she will deliver. Slick.
    It is the easiest $200 that she ever got out of Freddie. It is hers. Most of it went for odds and ends, but she did buy an upright steamer. And then hid it, because if she used it, Freddie would wonder where she got the money to buy it. But she has a plan for that. She will post it on Facebook from a second phony account and buy it from herself for dirt cheap.
    She can’t help but think of herself as clever little Dora, in the fresh spring air on a little stroll with Freddie, across to his mother’s place. She shuffles her feet through the cotton fluff shed from the poplars, then bends down to grab a handful and throws it in the air as though she were a girl again.
    “You’ll track dirt into Mom’s house.” Freddie says, with the briefest of glances in Dora’s direction.
    Dora would stick out her tongue, but is stopped in her tracks. Oh shit. Dirt. No housekeeper equals dirt.
    “Speaking of dirt, I’m not sure the housekeeper came to work last Thursday.” It’s not a perfect story, but she’s flying by the seat of her pants.
    “Mom will know.” Freddie veers slightly to avoid a puddle.
    His mother’s forgetfulness is on her lips until she notices his hard face. “I wonder what this bird thing is all about,” she said.
    “We’ll find out. Won’t we?”
    They enter Old Gal’s house and she calls them over to the window and the bird that flutters against it.
    “It’s been doing this for hours now. Up and down, up and down. The noise. Scratching and pecking.”
    Old Gal looks distressed. The rattle of a speckled bellied bird’s beak and feet along the window pane is harsh. The creature balances briefly on the window frame, flutters against the glass barrier only to rest again on the sill.
    Dora taps on the interior side of the glass but the bird, intent on its mission, continues. There must be insects, but even with her best squint she cannot see any. The Old Gal waves her hand towards the window to frighten the bird away.
    Freddie opens the large envelope that he brought, and pulls out a black hawk silhouette. One thing about Steady Freddie, no matter the situation, he has a plan. He applies tape and soon the cutout is in the window.
    “I can’t say I’m impressed with your housekeeper, Mom.” Freddie pulls his finger along the windowsill. “This is not only dusty, it’s gummy.”
    Dora nods to Freddie’s judgement. “I’ll make the housekeeper a list of duties. Like we had at the hospital, everything got cleaned by a schedule.”
    Freddie looks about to ridicule Dora’s work at the hospital. Perhaps ask her again, how someone so competent got canned. So what if he did? She could take that. At least, he’d be diverted from quizzing Old Gal and discovering the fib. She shoots her mother-in-law a warning look. Freddie is looking around now. Pretty soon he’ll be in full inspection mode. Good thing he doesn’t have Dora’s keen nose; that smell is either a dead mouse or a rotten potato.
    “I think we should have tea. Then we can see whether the bird comes back. What a clever idea to put the hawk cut out in the window, Freddie.” Dora’s words come quickly.
    Tea is a good idea. Freddie can visit, as he should more often, instead of expecting she do it all. Next thing will be to keep Old Gal quiet. But she might not say anything. Their talk about the housekeeper seems to have her confused. Which means that Dora can bamboozle Old Gal, and Freddie will be diverted if she implies that his mother is forgetful or crazy. Neither of them will know the truth. Unless. Freddie demands to meet the housekeeper. Well, Dora will say she’s fired her. If he trusts her to hire, then surely it is reasonable that she can fire.
    In the meantime, Old Gal begins her struggle to the kitchen. She’s barefoot, something that Dora might not have noticed, but her toenails click as they hit the floor. She shudders at the sight of Old Gal’s hammer toes and white, ugly bunions; she’d never go barefoot if her feet were so ugly. Freddie walks slowly with his mother, his hand on her elbow to steady her.
    In the kitchen, Dora follows instructions about tea and treats. Soon the tea brews in Old Gal’s everyday pot, the one with the chip in the lid, not something better from her collection. Dora captions the moment as ‘the frumpy old queen serves tea to her subjects who must behave in her regal presence’. The musty smell of rose petals, Old Gal’s signature perfume assaults everyone.
    Dora lifts her cup. A tea visit is so much better than being asked over for a meal of Old Gal’s famous heavy gravy and pork chop casserole. Some of Dora’s worst stomachaches have started right at this table. She politely helps herself to two biscuits.
    “Remember how your dad always talked about the bluebird of happiness.” There is a wistful tone in Old Gal’s words, a hope in her face.
    “Yes, he did.” Freddie says.
    “You used to think that if bluebirds were about happiness, then maybe every bird had a thing. Like crows could be hunger, or Canada Geese were patriotic.”
    “I was a kid. What can you expect?”
    “The bird reference was more about the flightiness and quickness of happiness.”
    Oh God. One of Old Gal’s rambles but at least Freddie is talking and not treating his mother like another chore.
    “What do you think the finch is about?” Dora asks. Both Freddie and his mother look at her. “The bird that’s been coming to your window. It’s a female purple finch.”
    “How do you know that?” Freddie never takes her word for anything.
    “Didn’t you see the male waiting for her? You can’t mistake him for anything else.” Dora might not know tulips, but she knows her birds. She continues. “So what do you think the Finch symbolizes? I only know the species; you have the special language about birds. Legends or old sayings or whatever you call it.”
    Dora focuses on Old Gal’s face but can hear her husband’s sigh that speaks of the tiresome burden of female conversation. She bites the biscuit and a cornstarch taste fills her mouth.
    “The finch has made the wrong connections.” Freddie says, another snide bait Dora wills herself to ignore.
    “I think I know what Dora means,” Old Gal says. “Let’s just wait and see what the message of the finch is. The day will show us.”
    Dora rolls her eyes. Now Old Gal thinks she’s a fortune-teller. So predict this – when will you leave the farm? Dora has often thought they would move into this house and then rent theirs out to a college student; or as a starter home for a nice young couple. It will be easy income and a bit of life in the farmyard, instead of this old woman, getting closer to death each day and needing more favors all the time.
    Dora pulls herself back from her daydream resolutions to the irritations she endures. She has to monitor this conversation. But it seems the visit is almost over as Freddie refuses more tea and he rises.
    “I hope that bird doesn’t come back, Mom, but it won’t break your window.”
    Perhaps that is what the Old Gal feared, or she’s just pleased to have tea with someone, because she seems content to let her hard working son return to his day. Dora too, has a genuine smile, as she rises to leave with her husband. Freddie dips to brush his mother’s cheek with his lips. In the entryway, as Freddie puts on his shoes, he speaks quietly to Dora.
    “Do me a favor?”
    “Of course.”
    “Could you do something with Mom’s toenails? I’m sure she’d appreciate a little help with them. Plus, find out if she has lost her slippers or needs some new ones.”
    Dora swallows. “I guess. If she’ll let me, that is.”
    “Give it a try, anyway. Thanks.”
    Fred leaves and Dora helps Old Gal return to her window seat. It isn’t long before the bird flutters against the window. Dora points out the second bird, definitely the rosy colored male partner.
    “He isn’t really purple.” Old Gal said, “More like he’s been dipped in raspberry juice.”
    They watch through the window as if it were a new television program. The male seems to wait patiently for his mate to come away from her human encounter. The female finch has a bit of nesting material in her beak. She is prepared to build.
    Dora too, makes preparations, while she engages in friendly chitchat. She fetches the basin close to the chair. Then she finds something for Old Gal to read and puts on soft music in the background. All the while she flatters her mother-in-law in ways that suggest a good heart.
    “Pedicures are so relaxing. You will enjoy it.”
    People forget her generous side. She deserves some appreciation and respect. Her dismissal, still the raw hurt in her life, comes to mind and her mouth twists. Under a hospital management microscope she is judged disposable. The others had networked and developed alliances. Connections she could have had too, if she weren’t looking after Old Gal. Simply put, she is singled out because they know they can get away with it.
    Her thoughts churn as she helps Old Gal get her feet into the basin. The finch returns to rattle at the window. Even the bird is out to irk her. It perches not two inches from the hawk cut-out, where it flutters up and down the window, able to see inside but unable to penetrate the glass.
    “Take that down. Would you? ” Old Gal points to the predator silhouette. “It spoils my view.”
    “I thought you want the bird to go away.”
    “It’s not working. And now there is tape glue to clean off the window.” The old woman’s voice hardens. “Something else that’ll have to wait for the housekeeper.”
    Dora’s throat closes out any air. Stumped for a cold moment, Dora finally turns the tables. Old Gal is the queen of manipulation. Today her little scheme involved the finch and within that lies her defense. If Freddie becomes aware of Dora’s lie than she’ll point out how Old Gal uses anything, even a bird to make them dance to her tune. ‘Is that totally honest?’ She imagines asking Freddie. This hastily prepared justification soothes her breath, while to bolster her position she will wow both Old Gal and Freddie with an outstanding, praise worthy pedicure.
    She begins to wash Old Gal’s feet, as water splashes onto the floor. Dora brings her extra towel into play, a shining example of efficiency. That’s what she did on the job too, but they saw only her failures. Her efficiencies, they call shortcuts. Her delegation of duties, they call shirking. It isn’t true. She’s better than that. Like here on the farm with Old Gal, she is the one that arranged for a housekeeper. And her self-praise squelches the inconsequential lie that a moment ago seemed close to exposure. That is behind her. She’ll tell Freddie that she fired the housekeeper and is taking the job over herself. Old Gal won’t say a word; she needs to keep her mouth shut, if she expects to keep living here. She’ll need them even more in the future. Dora is about to say just that but Old Gal clears her throat to speak.
    “The finch believes its own lie about getting through the window. That’s the message Dora. Lies will only complicate your life.”
    She’s only talking about the bird, Dora thinks as her mouth opens to ask, but there is no softening of Old Gal’s features. It has to be about the bird; no way does she know about the other things. Eventually Dora cannot hold up under the gaze. Her mouth closes and her head drops to her task. She brings out her files and the pumice stone. The clippers are ready. Soon the Old Gal’s toe nails won’t click on the floor; an uncanny echo of the finch at the window.
    Outside, the male bird approaches as if to lead its misguided mate to a better passage. He dances lightly around the female, quickly beating his wings as he softly lifts into the air.
    “The finch has to accept guidance.” Old Gal clears her throat and Dora looks up. Their eyes meet. “If, of course, she wants her nature to be true.”
    Does she want that? Dora wonders. The truth is just fine when people are on your side, but when does that ever happen? When will that happen for her?
    Dora massages more cream into Old Gal’s dry heels. They feel smoother than when she started and the pedicure wasn’t as disgusting a job as she’d feared. She’s about to stop when she feels something. The lightest of touches that caresses her hair. An accident? But her mother-in-law’s hand continues to stroke her, fluttering from the crown of her head and down to her neck. Again and again, so that Dora feels caught in a strange dream where all she feels is the rhythm and the warmth of another’s hand. It’s a trick, a trigger nerve activated in some way, but it continues until Dora knows she should pull away, because if she doesn’t, she will weep.

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