{"id":7366,"date":"2016-11-09T11:45:06","date_gmt":"2016-11-09T18:45:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7366"},"modified":"2016-11-09T11:45:06","modified_gmt":"2016-11-09T18:45:06","slug":"the-fortissimo-peacock","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=7366","title":{"rendered":"The Fortissimo Peacock"},"content":{"rendered":"

Caleb Echterling<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It was 3:17 a.m. when the curtain fell on the peacock\u2019s nocturnal aria. After two minutes of silence, Hubert shifted his pillow from over his head to under his head, grumbled about ungrateful domestic fowl keeping him up all night, and fell asleep. He woke up at 9:30. Funny, he thought, I must have slept through my multi-colored alarm clock. He slid his feet into a ratty pair of all-terrain outdoor slippers.<\/p>\n

The feed bag fell from his shoulder as the screen door slammed shut behind him. A sheet of paper flapped on the gaping-open gate to the peacock pen. He ran inside, cradling the note so none of the letters — attached with used chewing gum — would fall off. \u201cMildred, Mildred. Someone\u2019s kidnapped Rupert.\u201d The note landed on his wife\u2019s arm with a soft squish.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhazzah?\u201d She rubbed her eyes and propped up on an elbow. \u201cWe have to find him. He\u2019s singing the lead in my barnyard animal production of The Barber of Seville<\/em>. Opening night is in two days. We have to find him. And why do I smell spearmint?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGum on the ransom note. Thought you\u2019d want to see it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mildred\u2019s arms flailed like she\u2019d been told to come on down for a confab with Bob Barker. The note skidded across the floor, leaving a wake of cut-out magazine letters and pre-owned Wrigley\u2019s. \u201cGaaa! Get it off me. Used chewing gum is a frat party for microbes. I can\u2019t get sick two days before open.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hubert worked at reassembling the note. \u201cWhy can\u2019t you have the understudy fill in?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause the understudy is a sheep,\u201d Mildred huffed. \u201cIt\u2019s vocal range is one note.\u201d She snapped her fingers. \u201cIt must have been the Stevensons that did it. They\u2019ve got La boheme<\/em> running opposite us, and they\u2019re afraid we\u2019ll cut into their ticket sales. Grab your bolt cutters.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Mildred hid behind a sapling on the hill overlooking the Stevensons\u2019 farm. A spyglass bore a ring into the skin around her eyesocket. \u201cHe\u2019s in that barn. I know it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hubert rubbed pebbles into the dirt with his belly. \u201cYou should find a better hiding place. That tiny thing\u2019s not giving you any cover.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mildred\u2019s hand channeled Richard Simmons and flapped three feet above Hubert\u2019s head. \u201cThose two are blind as bats. Did you see their costumes for Rigoletto? A mole could sew better than that. They must have Rupert in the barn. Let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n

A deep-throated click bubbled up behind them. Mildred turned to see the business end of a vintage shotgun. Hubert put his hands over his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou ain\u2019t going nowhere,\u201d Mr. Stevenson said from the non-business end of the gun. \u201cTil you return my chicken chorus. I know you\u2019re trying to undercut our production of La boheme<\/em>. With your terrible acoustics, cheatin\u2019s the only way to outdraw us.\u201d Mr. Stevenson jabbed the gun at Mildred.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe didn\u2019t take your damn chickens,\u201d Mildred said. \u201cWe don\u2019t want \u2018em. They can never hit the same note at the same time. Where\u2019s Rupert? He\u2019s late for his vocal tune-ups.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have your bird. I don\u2019t care that he is the finest tenor south of Boone Creek, I\u2019m not listening to that racket all night.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hubert eased off the ground while holding his hands high. \u201cIf I may interject, it appears to me that no one here has kidnapped any animals. Which means the culprit is still at large. Any idea who that might be?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Stevenson scratched his head with the shotgun barrel. \u201cCouldn\u2019t be Zeke. He\u2019s between shows.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Edna said they were closing up shop for good after Carmen<\/em> was such a flop,\u201d Mildred said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell I\u2019ll be plummed,\u201d Mr. Stevenson said. \u201cIt must have been them fellers from New York. Said they was prospecting for oil, but they weren\u2019t dressed like no oilmen.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe we need to piece together that ransom note,\u201d Hubert said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thirty-seven wads of gum, each topped with a cut-out letter, assembled on the kitchen table. The letters were what was left of the ransom note, which had once spelled out something intelligible, and might do so again with the application of enough brain power. Three sets of hands scrambled to form words, snatch letters from their neighbor, or hide letters under the table. \u201cEnough,\u201d Hubert yelled. \u201cWe\u2019ll take turns. Mr. Stevenson, you\u2019re the guest. You go first.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Stevenson cracked his knuckles. His fingers drummed on the table. Staccato blasts shot from his nose as letters danced around the table. A drawn out grumble mingled with mumbled swear words. \u201cI\u2019ve got it. Toot anarchy wait enjoyment. Did your peacock have problems with breaking wind?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mildred shoved him to the side. \u201cThat barely makes sense. Let the real detective have a shot.\u201d She lined the letters in alphabetical order. Her elbows propped on the table. For five minutes, she stared. A preemptive shush flew at Mr. Stevenson when he cleared his throat. A fluster of flashing fingers finished her arrangement. \u201cDone. Watchman eaten tiny joy root. Oh my god. He dug up the miniature hallucinogenic sweet potatoes and now he thinks he\u2019s a superhero.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hubert put his hand on Mildred\u2019s shoulder. \u201cWe don\u2019t grow hallucinogenic sweet potatoes any more. Our soil\u2019s too moist and they get the rot, remember? I believe it\u2019s my turn now.\u201d Mildred stomped to the living room. The couch springs announced the parking of her ass with a symphony of squeaks. Hubert tried pushing the letters to form words. After delving down the fifteenth dead end, he switched to making shapes. Circle, triangle, trapezoid, parallelogram. He was putting the finishing touch on a hexagon when Mildred smacked the back of his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf all you\u2019re going to do is doodle, you forfeit your turn.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHold on. This is an exercise to clear my mind. Like how you let your eyes go out of focus to find Waldo. Well look at this.\u201d Hubert slapped his knee. \u201cMom and dad, ran away to new york to join the met. That\u2019s what it says.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mildred sobbed. \u201cRupert wouldn\u2019t run off without saying goodbye. I know he wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe also can\u2019t spell,\u201d Hubert said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOr use scissors,\u201d Mr. Stevenson said. He popped two shells into his shotgun. \u201cRupert didn\u2019t write this note. I believe it\u2019s time for us to pay a visit to some bird-nappers.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Backstage at the Metropolitan Opera, Mildred, Hubert and Mr. Stevenson strutted through the hallways jammed with singers and crew for opening night of La boheme<\/em>. \u201cWe don\u2019t blend in at all,\u201d Mildred hissed. \u201cEveryone else looks like they\u2019re in an opera, and we have outfits that look like they were designed by blind, drunk labrador retrievers.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr. Stevenson swiveled around to face her. \u201cI\u2019ll thank you not to speak of my wife\u2019s La boheme<\/em> costumes that way. If we used your rags from The Barber of Seville<\/em>, we\u2019d stick out even worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

A man carrying a clipboard rushed down the hall. His eyes locked with Mildred\u2019s, and he skidded to a stop. Mildred ducked her head to fiddle with the pocket of her jacket. \u201cWhat are you doing here! All street vendors are on stage in two minutes.\u201d The man hooked a hand around Hubert\u2019s waist and shooed the group toward the sound of singing.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut we\u2019re not . . . \u201d<\/p>\n

Mildred clapped her hand over Hubert\u2019s mouth. \u201cWe don\u2019t want to be late, do we?\u201d They turned a corner and dove into a mob of 1830s Parisians. They wriggled free from the clipboard handler and moved through the crowd.<\/p>\n

Mr. Stevenson pulled a shotgun from his jacket and used it as a pointer. \u201cThat there\u2019s the man what stole my chickens. The tall one.\u201d A man stood between the scrum of actors and the stage, his upper torso protruding above the garden of heads.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not tall,\u201d Hubert said. \u201cHe\u2019s standing on a chair.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe so, but he done stole my chickens.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet him!\u201d screamed Mildred. Her elbows turned into crowd control weapons, clearing a path through the crowd. She tackled the man and pinned his shoulders to the floor. \u201cWhere\u2019s Rupert? You kidnapped my baby. You give him back right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

The man struggled against Mildred\u2019s grasp. When Mr. Stevenson arrived to model his vintage shotgun, the man went still. \u201cI can\u2019t give him back. He\u2019s on stage.\u201d The eardrum scraping sound of peacock cries reached Mildred. \u201cAnd I didn\u2019t kidnap him. He came of his own free will when I said our tenor sprained his pulmonary artery. Your bird has a remarkable voice, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

The shotgun scratched the man\u2019s nose. \u201cThen where\u2019s my chickens?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRupert insisted we bring them. We cast them as working girls. The free eggs almost make up for their inability to sing in tune.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s our cue,\u201d someone shouted. The mob lurched toward the stage, sweeping along everything in its path. Mildred caught one glimpse of Rupert before the stage lights blinded her. She staggered between street vendor props, swerved to avoid a tumble into the orchestra pit, and wrapped her arms around Rupert\u2019s neck. Rupert\u2019s tail feathers spread into a stained glass semicircle. Mildred burst into tears. The audience burst into applause. Rupert squawked.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Rupert,\u201d Mildred said. \u201cI always knew your voice was too good for our barnyard. You follow your dreams as far as you can. I\u2019ll miss you.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

CALEB ECHTERLING<\/strong> lives in Richmond, Virginia, where he fights with the squirrels over who gets to bury acorns in his yard. His short story \u201cHaikuzilla\u201d won first prize in the 8th Annual Bartleby Snopes Dialogue Contest. He tweets funny fiction using the clever handle @CalebEchterling. To find more of his writing, visit www.calebechterling.com.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Caleb Echterling   It was 3:17 a.m. when the curtain fell on the peacock\u2019s nocturnal aria. After two minutes of silence, Hubert shifted his pillow from over his head to under his head, grumbled about ungrateful domestic fowl keeping him … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":7364,"menu_order":2,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-7366","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-1UO","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7366","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7366"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7366\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7383,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7366\/revisions\/7383"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/7364"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7366"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}