Thaddeus Littleman
The Feast of an Innocent
A satirical novel of a London lad in serialised form
I should have retreated, but irrational hope was always my cardinal vice. From the open Kia window, I heard familiar spirits — sprites even — woodland fairies, or just common Jersey birds.
They sounded lovely — birds scurrying and chipmunks chirping. I had already spotted so many deer. Did I already have Lyme disease?
With field guides, I had been studying the topography, the ecology of the Pine Barrens. If it had to be home, for now, I would learn all I could. Cranberries and blueberries. From a safe location, in the Sorento, an extension cord could provide light and privacy for reading and writing and munching all fruits local. And wasn’t there school to prep for? Were American schools more rigorous than British schools — even with something called the Grade 7?
But then The Cousin grabbed his BB gun. It was time to “lock and load.”
Still, in my seersucker jacket — The Father would just have to pay the dry cleaning — I found myself walking insensibly through the dappled woods.
After all, I didn’t want to kill anything.
The ground was dry and sandy. No tree grew closer than twenty feet apart. Many trees were infested with what I later discovered were bagworms. The terrain was not like the soggy green of England. If something moved, The Cousin shot. If something creaked, The Cousin shot. The backyard was full of shot-up Budweiser and Coke cans; a naked Barbie doll hung from a branch, shot through the vagina.
Was this symbolic of America’s treatment of women?
The Cousin called. In his Gunman Garb, he was underneath the weather-beaten picnic table. Half the seat was nibbled to extinction, the table a Space Raider Pickled Onion bag of crisps for termites.
“Up there!” my Cousin said. “Do you hear that?”
I nodded. The bird sounded lovely.
“Take a shot! ” my Cousin demanded, tossing me the gun. It wasn’t heavy. Not a proper gun at all. Couldn’t have much range. What did I know? The only thing I aimed for was the heart — with my poetry. For my Jewel — my Girl. And at times, the mind — with my essays and stories. I only played those carnival games with Mum and The Father in Brighton and Blackpool — when they were married — where squirted water moved the rabbit — or something like that.
Once, Mum’s family had a picnic, and Uncle Reginald brought Super Soakers for The Battle of Hampstead Heath. That was fun, but that family was back in England — no upper-class twits or lower-class twits at all. And what did The Father think, taking me away from everything? Did he not feel included? Worthy? Maybe The Father just made himself that way — a defense against what made him insecure.
As The Father, perhaps he had the right, but what about ethics?
Couldn’t The Father still reside, legally, as The Father in the States while I returned legally to Uncle Reggie in Hammersmith? There was always Venmo.
Was it my fault that this American Man — James “The Father” Littleman — married a British woman? He made the decision to move. His son — me — was British. It was a crime against sense and sensibility. Perhaps if things didn’t work out, my uncle would take me back. I could make things go wrong. It wasn’t in my nature. But maybe the environment could influence my untapped evil.
The Cousin commanded, “Fire! Fire.” I gripped the gun hard.
I raised the gun unconsciously, angry now — angry at everything taken from me. I aimed the gun in obeyance, and spotted the yellow bird in the pitch pine.
It was my first shot — and it was pitch-perfect — almost.
“Wow!” The Cousin declared. “You’re a dead-eye dick! Have you shot before? That was great!”
I lowered his gun, deflated. I shook my head. With my arm, I covered my tears.
The yellow bird twitched. Its wing dusted the sand. It wasn’t dead, but it should have been. Where was the blood? It wasn’t going to fly or sing again. Ahhh. So much for free will. If that bird would have landed in any other tree, it would still be singing, looking for thistle or another bird. So much for standing out! I felt that way.
Do animals feel pain? Fear the absence of life? Dread not having time to correct wrongs or finish symphonies? What did that bird want from life? Did two huge shadows hovering over him make the pain worse? Was this more painful than the BB in its gut?
I’m not even here a few hours, and already I’m a destroyer. But The Cousin was thinking none of this; on my arse, I watched the bird die, perplexed with death. Mum’s death. What does she look like now? I closed my eyes. I couldn’t see the black eyed-soul of the bird anymore. I was a softy. That was okay. Mum said it. Wrote about it. I had a soul, sensitive. It was not a world sensitive to sensitivity.
I lumped people into three categories: creators, guardians, and destroyers.
“What should we do?”
“It’s your kill,” The Destroyer Cousin said. “It’s your decision.”
“It’s horrible watching him die.”
“Then finish him off.”
“Do you ever wonder who will be hovering over you when you die?”
“No, that’s sick.”
The yellow bird stopped twitching.
“I shot it,” I said. “I should eat it.”
“What are you talking about?” The Cousin asked. “Are you sick or a future psycho killer or — ?”
With a rusted shovel, I placed the kill on a black plastic tray. As I walked inside, as slow as those who carried the remains of Mum, The Cousin called for me, but I insisted on researching before deciding anything with the victim.
I Googled “yellow bird New Jersey.” The Cornel Lab for Ornithology confirmed I killed a male yellow Goldfinch — the state bird of New Jersey. It was a crime. A crime?
A crime! Already I was committing great evil. I read about its habitat, its behavior, and color patterns and listened to its call on audio.
Irony rarely eluded me.
Outside, with The Cousin gone, I plucked out the feathers. Took out the micro bones. Quite the procedure.
Perhaps The Family will place me somewhere on the Scale of a Potential Psychopath and commit me to the peace and quiet of a cell where I can write and read and start “The Life and Times of Thaddeus Littleman: A Memoir.”
Then I thought: could the bird’s death teach a lesson? Cats kill how many birds a year? Do they weep over disrupting the universe?
I will never use a gun again — yes — unless — unless — absolutely necessary.
Once, my mum and I enjoyed Hamlet on audio. It was stormy. The living room was dark, but she cracked a window — the flat, an Elsinore. Mum lit candles. We were alone. And then Hamlet says, “Conscience doth make cowards of us all.”
Mum stopped the audio. “What do you think about that line?”
“But it’s that conscience that makes us human — feeling human,” I said, remembering the warmth of Mum’s hug and kiss on my ear that made me shiver. How many more died because of Hamlet’s conscience?
Inside the house, I asked The Aunt for a sauté pan, olive oil, and spices. She didn’t even ask what for. She didn’t have olive oil. Only off-brand vegetable oil. Ahhhh. It would have to do.
Oregano was the only spice. The kitchen was a disaster. How could we eat without spices and olive oil? I overheard I was a “venerable Betty Crocker in the kitchen.” Why not Julia Child — or Dominique Crenn?
“Thaddeus is used to a Mediterranean diet,” The Father said. “It’s gonna be a transition for the little man.”
Besides high cheekbones, straight teeth, an aquiline nose, and thick light hair, what in the bloody blazes did I get from The Father?
After five minutes, probably smelling the bird, The Father asked about the smell. “I shot a bird,” I said, “and now I’m cooking it.”
I brought the plate to The Cousin.
They had plastic forks and spoons. They didn’t like doing dishes. Everything was disposable. Everything also seemed inhaled in front of the tellie.
“I cooked the bird I shot. Let’s share it.”
“You’re nuts!”
“Hunters eat what they kill,” I said. “It’s the way of Nature.”
“It’s not my Nature,” my Cousin said, stuffing his face with a microwaved Hot Pocket and a can of Mountain Dew.
“The bird will haunt you. Trust me.”
“You eat it!”
“We’ll both eat it, okay?”
The Cousin refused. I sliced the splinter of meat with the edge of the plastic fork and ate the bird.
“You’re a madman!” The Cousin exclaimed. I saved the other half. Folded the meat into plastic wrap. And placed it next to the butter.
Dinner was frozen pizza followed by three hours of reality TV. Cousin Z stayed in her room. I started sleeping on the top bunk, but at midnight, unable to sleep while wanting to cry, I gathered my pillow and blankets and my stuffed Puddles the Porcupine and situated myself in the Sorento.
A cracked window allowed for air — the oxygen needed for confessions essential — a sliver to heaven. Privacy — how wonderful! Talking to Mum and Puddles without anyone thinking I was crazy! Such a glory, never before conceived! The crickets were my choir. The wind — piccolos and clarinets and flutes. The pine needles — the percussion — a snare atop the van.
No one would dare call me a baby — or tease me — or mock me — or make me kill — besides the deafening silence of my own insecurities. I cursed The Damn Father for taking me away.
In my journal, this budding memoir, I wrote: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that every boy has at least one dead bird story. So it was with me.” Thanks, Mum, for Jane Austen. And Puddles. She still smells like you.
Then, as I was drifting off, the night hiding the horror of the day, during this restless night of the soul, I thought of a devious plan.
