The Red-Winged Blackbird
Once a week, for the month of June, I will share one of my flash fiction short stories in the genre of magical realism. I hope you enjoy!
The Red-Winged Blackbird
by Megan J. Wheless
The Red-Winged Blackbird
Perched on the side of a tall blade of grass, the blackbird scanned the field of corn pushing up from the darkened earth. Dried up land in other parts of the country stirred up windstorms laden with dust but here on the Merriweather’s farm high on the prairie the earth still produced vegetables to be sold at farmer’s markets or canned and put away for the upcoming winter.
The red and yellow patches on the bird’s wings looked like a royal vestige on the shiny black feathers. The bird spread its wings and flew a few feet away from the tall man walking down the white gravel lane. He wore a weathered black suit jacket faded by the sun and on his head rested a grayish-black felt bowler hat. It was late-summer and too hot in the middle of the day to be dressed like this, but the peculiar man showed no signs of discomfort. He hummed a tune and nodded in a gentlemanly way at the red-winged blackbird who was now perched atop the Merriweather’s white picket fence.
The man, named Davis, had been riding the rails for a few days now and hopped off the train earlier in the morning. The townspeople were used to hobos but not openly friendly or inviting to them. Women clutched their purses and pulled their children to their waists as Davis walked by. Farmers at the feed store stared at him. Grandmothers took their pies off the windowsills and shuttered their blinds. It wasn’t until he reached the Merriweather’s farm on the outskirts of town that Davis allowed himself to whistle a happy tune while sauntering with his hands in his pocket. The open sky and the hum of the insects in the fields were all he needed for companionship.
As he approached the Merriweather’s gate, he noticed a few rotted boards askew and the white paint peeling in many places. The old golden retriever in the front yard didn’t have the energy to bark but wagged his tail as Davis pulled open the squeaky gate and walked the few paces to the front porch which was painted a tidy light blue but sagging in the middle. Davis rapped at the front door and the dog came up and sniffed his legs and shoes. Pleased by whatever he found, the dog sat at Davis’s side and allowed the man to scratch the top of his head.
A woman with mousy brown hair tied back in a loose bun opened the door. Her eyes were the color of amber and shone out from a wrinkled face worn by hardship and hard work. She smiled pleasantly enough but firmly said, “We don’t have no need for salesmen here, mister.” She kept her hand on the screen door to hold it shut. A little girl around the age of seven rushed to her mother’s side. She bit her thumbnail nervously and looked up at Davis and then over to her mother, waiting to see what to do next.
“I’m no saleman, ma’am,” Davis replied, his hat now in his hands revealing sweaty black hair that was thinning at the top. “I’m a man down on his luck and I was wonderin’ if you needed some help at your farm? I’m hardworkin’ and don’t mean to be a burden. I will earn whatever you choose to give me or can spare.” He smiled kindly at the woman who was sizing him up and down. Something in his demeanor reminded her of a wise old man although he could be no more than around her age, somewhere in his thirties at the most. She looked past Davis and scanned the front yard for signs of her husband who was out fixing the well pump nearby. The red-winged blackbird had made its way to the feeder where it nibbled at last year’s dried corn she had put on a pie pan nailed to a post.
She looked back at Davis who now was making silly faces at her daughter causing her to giggle. “My husband’s down past the barn. You’ll find him at the well pump. Tell him I sent ya and to put you to work. Supper’s in an hour and I expect you to wash up and I don’t allow hats at the table.”
Davis nodded in agreement and looked her square in the eyes. “Thank you for your kindness, ma’am.”
“You can call me Mrs. Merriweather,” she said stoically, still unwilling to shower full on hospitality in case he got the idea that he was welcome to stay longer than she or her husband deemed necessary.
“Thank you, Mrs. Merriweather,” Davis replied. He put his bowler back on his head and headed down the rickety steps with the dog at his heels, his tongue lolling in happiness.
Mrs. Merriweather closed the door before she could see the most curious thing happen: a bucket that she and her daughter used to collect fallen hickory nuts near the creek began to overflow with the thick hulls.
Davis stayed with the Merriweather family for three full days, helping Mr. Merriweather mend the fence, muck the barn for their one horse and cow. He milked the cow and harvested some of the vegetables before they were eaten by grasshoppers that were now showing up more frequently. There was hay to bail, a tractor to fix, which Davis proved to be quite a clever mechanic, and other odds and ends that Mrs. Merriweather needed done around the house.
Each evening, after dinner, Davis would clear the table and insisted that Mrs. Merriweather rest while he did the dishes. She never could sit still long enough without fussing about how he didn’t wash the silverware correctly which made Davis and Mr. Merriweather laugh. He finally relinquished his role as their personal butler and instead played tunes for them on his harmonica that he kept in his back pocket. One night, after the musical treat, Mrs. Merriweather was surprised to find a plate, one she could have sworn was chipped and cracked when she served dessert, shiny and new like when she received it as a wedding present ten years ago.
That wasn’t the only curious happenings at the Merriweather’s farm. Mr. Merriweather found his tools were sharpened and cleaned only moments after Davis had used them. He couldn’t understand why the cow was giving an abundance of milk all of a sudden and Mrs. Merriweather was perplexed but delighted to be able to sell fresh cream at their farm stand down the road. Each time the daughter plucked a tomato off the vine, two more grew back in its spot. Of course, her parents didn’t believe her, but Davis would wink and laugh whenever she told him. “Bounty blooms where friendship and kindness are planted,” he would say to her whenever she reported back to him that the bush beans that she picked the day before were flush with a new crop.
One early morning, Mrs. Merriweather stepped out to pump a bucket of water for the morning’s eggs she planned to boil for everyone. She saw Davis standing at the pump with his back towards her. He was wearing his worn denim and suspenders and a white tank top. He was washing his face and she could see the scars on the tops of each shoulder. Though they were taught like thick ropes, they looked bright red against his pale skin and the dawning light. Mrs. Merriweather intuitively knew his scars were a sign the man had been burned in some way, somehow at one point in his life.
That day, she made sure that he had an extra slice of cheese in his lunch pail and insisted he take the biggest slice of pie that evening for dessert. She gave him a new down pillow to use, the very one she had been saving to rest her own weary head on when she finished it. Mr. Merriweather shoved an envelope in Davis’s hand with a few extra coins that they had earned from the sales at their farm stand. And even their daughter gave him her most prized possession: a sock puppet she had made to look like their golden retriever, Bud. Davis happily received their gifts and played an extra sweet song on his harmonica that night before heading out to the hayloft where he slept.
The next day, Davis was no where to be seen. Worried at first, a sense of peace overcame the Merriweathers, who were sitting on their new porch swing Davis had repaired, when they noticed a solitary red-winged blackbird whistle a familiar tune before flying off into the bright blue sky.