US KIDS by Melinda Moustakis
Us kids are relieved when Fox and Uncle Sly roll out one way and we roll another, bruised butts in the seats. We’re piled into Big Mary, our station wagon that barely fits us all in and is a miracle for starting up. We’re packed in with a big pot full of frozen moose meat and whatever we have to eat in the back along with a jumbleball of afghans Polar Bear is always knitting. Fox and Uncle Sly go hunting at the homestead and Polar Bear drives us out of Anchorage to see Aunt Sheila and Jack and Gracie, our cousins, at their house that Uncle Sly built all googly-eyed drunk and has gone through a few names – Slack Shack, Plywood Palace, and the one we all remember and still use is The Tiltin’ Hilton.
Aunt Sheila has made gumdrop cookies and she sets a plate of them on the porch. We’re pressed to see or taste any gumdrops but Kitty holds up hers. “I see a green one,” she says.
Polar Bear takes the pot and afghans into the house and we know to stay put outside. Aunt Sheila draws the curtains but we know what they’re doing. Smoking and drinking homemade cranberry lick. We huddle near the side and listen through the cheap-cracked wood.
“The men are good and gone,” says Polar Bear.
Ben signs to Rias so he can hear too. Jack shushes Gracie.
“Maybe they’ll do us a favor and shoot themselves,” says Aunt Sheila.
“Maybe,” says Polar Bear. “I’ll drink to that.” There’s the clink of bottles.
J.J. crosses his eyes and raises an imaginary bottle to his lips. Colleen, who has Baby T on her hip, laughs into her hand.
“They talk stars and moonlight in the beginning,” says Aunt Sheila.
“And what we get is shit and moonshine,” says Polar Bear. Another clink. A smash of glass on the floor.
Kitty gives out a yelp.
“Goddamnit,” says Polar Bear.
We huddle closer against the house.
“I hear you out there,” Polar Bear says. “You leave us alone. Scram-ola. We’ll call you for dinner.”
So we scramola. In front of The Tiltin’ Hilton are two hills, one on each side because Uncle Sly had meant to put the house on one and the shitter on the other. “Nothing better than el-er-vation,” he said. But he never got to it, built the house so it was some wobbly Samson between two pillars of dirt. He didn’t let Fox help him with the house but he let Fox build the outhouse behind it, near the woods, and it’s the only thing that stands up straight. But the hills are perfect for a game of Red Rover and a rain has started up which puts the mosquitoes to bed for a bit.
“. . . we call J.J. over,” and he comes mud-slipping down the hill to arm-linked chain, but Rias and Colleen with Baby T on her hip keep hold. Gracie and Jack and Kitty come to the bottom and join J.J. and they make a wall. The others head up the hill.
“. . . we call Rias over,” and because he might not see to lipread with all the rain, J.J. draws an R in the air. Here slides Rias on his belly, and then he gets up and charges the line, breaking through the JackanGracie link. So he steals Kitty and now it’s RiasanKittyanBenanColleenanBabyT at the bottom of the hill.
“. . . we call Gracie over.”
Soon we’re all mud creatures which is good because the rain stops and the mosquitoes wake up and swarm around us and the sun streaks through the shiner-eyed clouds.
“Dinner,” yells Polar Bear and she sees us kids all covered and rolled in mud. “Stay off the porch,” she says. But she takes Baby T.
We settle on the gravel by the steps with our bowls of moose chili and for once there’s something moose about it.
“Colleen, you make sure . . . everyone gets hosed . . . off . . . after everyone eats,” says Polar Bear, swimming through her words.
A high-pitched-screaming-wail makes us all stop with our spoons. Aunt Sheila comes wobble-running around The Tiltin’ Hilton. She steadies herself on the steps and sits down.
“What is going on?” says Polar Bear.
“There’s a bird, or something, in the shitter,” Aunt Sheila says, boozy and soft. “And it’s trapped and it’s dying and I pissed on it.” She starts crying her face off. “We have to get it out. We just have to.”
“For godssake,” says Polar Bear. “It’s a bird. What’s it matter if the world’s shy one?” She waves away the mosquitoes near her face.
“But it’s alive,” says Aunt Sheila. She’s a crying mess.
“Okay. . . . Okay,” says Polar Bear. “Let’s go take a look at this bird you pissed on.”
“I didn’t know it was down there,” says Aunt Sheila.
We get up and follow Polar Bear, the whole mud-covered line of us. Aunt Sheila trails behind, walking zig-zag and Ben falls back to help her.
Polar Bear turns around. “Sheila, that smell.”
“I know,” says Aunt Sheila.
The shitter smells like a shitter, even from a way off, because of the rain and because they ran out of lye a couple of days before and Uncle Sly kept forgetting to buy some.
Polar Bear gives Baby T to Colleen and goes in to take a look. “It’s a dumb buzzard,” she says. “That’s all.”
We take turns, plug our noses, and look down the hole that’s surrounded in white styrofoam so it’s warm to sit on in winter. And because Fox made it, it’s deep like he made our outhouse at the homestead. There’s some flapping and some splashing and a hoarse-whistling-peep of a bird down there. But it’s hard to tell what it is because it’s dark in the shitter. We got a flashlight in Big Mary so Ben goes to get it and Polar Bear takes Baby T and Aunt Sheila back to the house.
“Promise me you’ll get it out,” Aunt Sheila says.
“They promise,” says Polar Bear.
Ben shines the flashlight and our dried mud faces must scare the bird because it starts squawking. Not that the bird is much to look at either – covered in a slop of years of dirt and piss and shit.
“Get me a shovel,” says Ben.
Jack goes to get one that’s under the house. By this time we’ve breathed enough of the smell to get used to it and we’ve stopped plugging our noses. Ben has J.J. hold the flashlight as he leans in the hole with the shovel, but comes up quick.
“That’s not going to do it,” he says. “We need something to reach farther.”
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” says Gracie.
Colleen takes her and Kitty into the woods. Then she goes into the house and brings out a broom and a colander. “Polar Bear and Aunt Sheila and the baby are lying down,” she says.
“We need tape,” says Ben. Jack shrugs his shoulders. Ben and Jack and J.J. and Rias crawl underneath The Tiltin’ Hilton to look for tape in the smattering of Uncle Sly’s tools. Colleen holds the flashlight so Gracie and Kitty can look down the hole.
“He’s crying,” says Gracie.
“Little bird, don’t you cry,” sings Kitty.
“He’s probably hungry,” says Colleen.
Ben comes back holding a dusty roll of duct tape. It’s late, but the sun just doesn’t quit in July. The mud dries pale and cracked on our skin.
We tape the broom handle to the shovel and Ben holds J.J.’s legs as J.J. goes into the hole and Jack holds the flashlight.
“Pull me out,” says J.J. “We need about this much more.” He taps the tips of his fingers, uses his arm as a measuring stick. The shovel had reached the bird’s head but we needed to scoop him out.
“Get that rake,” says Ben.
Rakebroomshovel is taped together.
J.J. goes in again, Ben has him by the ankles, and Rias funnels down the tool.
“Stop,” yells J.J. “We’re losing the shovel.”
Ben motions to Rias who brings up the rake.
“Hold right there,” says J.J. “I got to hold onto the shovel and you got to bring us both up.”
The tape on the joint has come loose.
“Thing about smacked the bird in the head and then got me with it.” There’s a spot on his forehead where the dried-cake mud is scraped away. “Goddamn shithole.”
We tape a stronger wrap.
“This is the last time I’m going,” says J.J.
We get J.J. in and then the shovel and the rest. “I got him,” says J.J. “Pull up. Pull up.” There’s a squawk and a splash. “He jumped,” says J.J. “The stupid bird jumped off.” He peers down the hole. “I’m just trying to help you, you piece of shit.”
“J.J. calm down,” says Colleen.
He slaps the side of the outhouse.
Rias raises his hand.
“Okay,” says Ben. “You try.”
We lower Rias, who is holding the end of the rakebroomshovel, into the hole. He gets the bird on, and we’re lifting up, and we hear a bigger squawk and then nothing. The bird’s not on the shovel because he’s holding it, shit and all, close to his chest, both of them upside down. Ben gets Rias up close to the top and then lifts him and the bird straight up out of the hole. Jack grabs the bird and it’s screaming and Rias stands up and takes the bird back, nesting him in the colander and cradling him in the crook of his arm, and pets it on the top of the head and if birds could smile, this bird would have been smiling you’re-a-saint lovebeams at Rias.
“That’s not a buzzard,” says Colleen. “Look at the beak. That’s an eagle. An eaglet.”
“Still ugly,” says J.J.
“Let’s wash him up,” says Colleen.
We get a bucket of water at the pump. As long as Rias pets his head, the eaglet sitting in the colander lets us pour small cups of water over him. He’s about the size of a chicken, with yellow feet, and yellow at the base of his hooked beak. With the slop off of him, his feathers are grays and browns with white spots on the fringe of his back. All in all, he could be mistaken for a scraggled patch of bear fur, and he wiggles off the water, ruffles up. We get a towel and Rias bundles him up. Colleen brings over a half-eaten bowl of moose chili and hands the spoon to Rias.
“See if he’s hungry,” she says.
He is. He opens up his beak and gobbles down the chili. Rias pets his head and then Kitty feeds the eaglet.
“Here you go little bird,” she says.
“Here you go, shitbird,” says J.J. His voice pure syrup.
“Shitbird. Shitbird,” chimes Jack.
And then Jack and J.J. chant together. “Shitbird. Shitbird. Shitbird.”
“That’s enough,” says Colleen.
“He doesn’t know what we’re saying,” says J.J. “Hey pretty,” he says. “Hey ugly shit. See.”
“Leave him alone,” says Kitty. “He’s just a baby.”
We count and the eaglet sits in the colander on Rias’ lap and eats eleven spoonfuls of chili.
“I want to keep him,” says Gracie.
“We can’t,” says Colleen.
“We could teach him to hunt rabbits for us,” says Jack.
“Or scratch people’s eyes out,” says J.J.
“What if he grew up big,” says Kitty, “and we could ride him?”
“We’d go up in the sky,” says Gracie. “To the mountains.”
“You’d still smell the shitter up there,” says J.J.
“We have to take him back,” says Colleen.
There’s a nest in the woods that’s been abandoned for three years, but we figure the eagles must have returned, even if Jack says they haven’t seen any flying over like they used to.
“Where else could this eagle have come from?” says Ben.
We march past the outhouse, into the woods, Rias carrying the eaglet and the colander. We stand at the base of a tall spruce tree, the tangled nest of branches up high, near the top.
“I see something,” says Jack,
And then we all see a white spot of a bald eagle.
“They must be flying in from a different direction,” says Ben.
There’s no way we can climb the tree and put the eaglet back in the nest. He must have fallen or tried to fly or gotten pushed out but how he got into the shitter, we don’t know.
“We’ll leave him here,” says Ben. “His parents will hear him.”
“But I wanted to keep him,” says Gracie and she buries her face against Rias.
“But he needs to be here, honey,” says Colleen.
“I wanted to keep him too,” says Kitty.
“But his family will miss him,” says Colleen.
Ben gives the signal and Rias unwraps the eaglet and places him on the ground.
“Shouldn’t we leave the colander?” says Colleen. “He seemed to like it.”
Rias puts the colander on the ground and the eaglet jumps back into it. Rias strokes the feathers on the eaglet’s chest.
“Say goodbye,” says Colleen.
Kitty and Gracie kneel down next to Rias. “Goodbye little bird,” they say.
J.J. shakes his head at their sniffling.
Colleen grabs his arm. “Hush,” she says.
We walk away, Rias the last one to leave. And when he does, the eaglet starts screeching and it’s a good thing Rias can’t hear him or anything for that matter or he’d turn back and we pick up the pace, the sky falling blue through the trees.
We’re all still a mudmess but we’re tired.
“We’ll sleep in Big Mary,” says Colleen, so we don’t get in trouble for being all mucked-up in The Tiltin’ Hilton. She sneaks inside and grabs the jumbleball of afghans. We put Gracie and Kitty in the front because they’re small and the rest of us cram on the car floor and the seats and the hatch in the back. We pull the afghans over our heads to block out the light that’s tricking us into staying awake.
In the late morning, maybe afternoon, we get up because Jack gets up to go to the outhouse. Big Mary smells like Big Shit. We crawl out of the car dusty and cricked and yawning. No one says anything about what’s in front of the porch. The house is quiet, except for the breeze of a snore we know is Polar Bear. What is there to say? J.J. throws a cup of water on Ben. And Ben chases after him. And we all get cups and throw water, splashing off the mud we’ve been wearing since the night before, dirty rivers trickling down to our toes. And what Polar Bear and Aunt Sheila see bleary-eyed, their hands raised against the glare of the sun, is us kids. Us kids laughing and running over a torn-to-pieces eaglet we bathed and fed and had found that morning, brought back to us by birds or dogs or the upside-down nest of the world, stomping what we saved into the ground, an eagle buried underfoot, a flurry of feathers rising up.
Melinda Moustakis’ short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Fourteen Hills, Cimarron Review, and The Massachusetts Review.