Pelican
There was a pelican on top of Kilroy’s hardware store for three days before anyone noticed. The first to spy it was Jason, a boy who lived half the town over on McKinley Hill, only riding over to pick up a can of WD-40 for his father, who had been picking up the slack Jason’s mother left. Jason pedaled up and down the hill three times before coming down as fast as he could, the wind whipping his hair into wild blonde streaks. The hill was higher than the water tower beside the south side railroad tracks, and Jason could see every pointed roof as the town rolled down the big hill then spread out like forked fingers around the swampy marshlands. Without pedaling he zipped through the five-way intersection, past the howitzer gun WWII memorial, the Shriner’s temple, the Mexican grocery, and then still keeping speed, he caught glimpses of shining glass in Cecil’s lamp store, and glitters from Guthrie’s jewelry shop with the busted window, three bars with pink neon lights in their windows, and a unisex barber shop/loan agency. He skidded hard to a stop at the bottom. Kilroy’s was the last stop before the main road curved, avoiding the swamp. Jason got goose pimples thinking about the swamp, the moss like dead people’s hair hanging from the banyan trees making him wonder what could live in there. A throaty chirp made him look away and up, to the bird on the roof.
“There’s a pelican on your roof.” He told Old Kilroy.
“Huh?” sputtered Kilroy, “There’s what?”
“A pelican, a large aquatic bird with a sack for catching fish in its jaw. It’s pushing squatter’s rights on your roof,” Jason mumbled while snatching up a can.
“What? Really?” And Kilroy sidled himself around the counter, holding the door for the two to exit. They both stared at the unmoving bird.
“A pelican. Never seen one before, nothing ever came out of the swamp,” spoke Kilroy with hands on his hips as Jason shoved two-forty into his front apron and jumped onto his bike.
Three days later the bird had not moved. Its feathers were gray from sitting through two rainstorms and Kilroy was outside with Cecil and Guthrie, staring.
“Ya see it hasn’t moved, and I tried everything, throwing fish around, hollering at it. The thing won’t move.” Kilroy spat, rubbing the stubble around his chin.
Cecil spoke up.
“My mother told me a story once about a heron, that’s like a pelican. Way back, in a desert, to provide for its chicks a mother bird pecked a hole in a big vein so that her babies could drink. People saw and made the bird bleed more by throwing stones, and it bled out a river, which provided for everyone, but the bird died at the end.”
Cecil nodded and adjusted his hat. Jason thought about the story and about blood running down McKinley hill, rolling over the shops and bars and banks, all the way down to the swamp, filling it red-green. And how maybe, like a scab, clean streets would be underneath. Jason went inside and came back out with three rolls of duct tape for his dad, which he paid four-thirty-seven of his own allowance into Kilroy’s front pouch and pedaled away.
It was a week until Jason came back a third time. He didn’t have anything to buy, only wanting to see the bird. There was a crowd of business owners and those off work gathered outside. Jason saddled up by Kilroy. Everyone was quiet and staring, the Pelican’s body even grayer than before. Its head dipped down with one eye open, staring at the parking lot, away from everyone. And then a wind picked up from the swamp, knocking the limbs of the banyan trees against one another, rustling the moss, and scooping up the rotten smell. It hit the coarse ashy feathers of the pelican with enough force to raise a wing as it teetered to one side in a jostled dance. The bird’s eyes were wide open. There was a red mark there, beneath the wing, pulsing and leaking. Those who saw it well grimaced and covered their mouths. From the strained way it lulled its head back, the crowd understood.
Jason was the first one to throw a stone.
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