The boy looks behind him to make sure no one is watching. He can hear the clatter of silverware and the conversations. They’re all out on the deck, looking at the view, talking about whatever it is adults talk about. The things he’s not supposed to know. No one is watching him. He turns back to the base of the tree. Pulls the brim of his too big Mariners cap down far in a guise of secrecy.
This bird must have been here for a long time, he thinks. Laying at the base of the tree, a red-breasted robin is frozen in a crucified pose. One wing atwist, asymmetrical to the normal avion perfection. Yes, it must have been here a long time, he reaffirms, examining the flat needles from the cedar that have fallen on it, partially covering the body. And there’s something about the feathers, a loss of coloring, an absence of brightness–the difference between a book borrowed from the library and a book bought for him in a store. The boy sighs. No kidding, it’s been here awhile.
The boy looks behind him again. Still no one watching. He creeps closer to the bird in his squatting stance.
He’s never touched a dead thing before. Not something as real as a bird, at least. He’s been fishing before, touched fish. But those are food. They’re not really real. His neighbor’s dog got hit by a car once but he wasn’t allowed to go into the street to look at it. Just saw from the window; the white fur with red stains on it, it’s head all limp and funny. He’s scared to touch it, but he sticks his hand out anyway, brushing the cedar needles away with the grain of the feathers, petting the dead thing. It feels like he thought it would, and that seems wrong. He expected to be surprised. He hears a woman’s voice calling his name. Oh no: he’s caught. He stands up and turns to be ready. Where is he? the voice says, further away now. He has a little time.
Back in his squat, he reaches carefully under the bird, scooping it carefully like he’s about to lift water. Why is he so careful not to hurt it? He can’t break it can he? He’s gentle nevertheless as he slides his hands under, careful as if he were about to lift something he’d broken and just glued back together. He gets his small hands all the way under, cradling the bird now in his palms. It feels like nothing. He lifts a wing slightly with one hand, trying to remake its movement. He lifts it up and down, but it seems all wrong. He can feel the bone in it, unconnected to the rest of the body. The other wing seems fine, but with one broken it seems monstrous. Wrong. He is holding it close to his face to smell when he hears his name, sharp and loud, and right behind him. He drops the bird, sees it fall so unnaturally and ugly he wants to cry. And then he sees his mother’s face, jaw dropped with awe at such a disobedient child. He knows he’s not supposed to touch dead things. They carry diseases. He’s not supposed to know what a dead bird feels like. His mother grabs him by the arm and scolds him, drags him crying to the house where she scrubs his hands and then they go out on the deck. She tells him to stay where she can see him. To enjoy the beautiful day and the view.
A recent Pacific Northwest defector, Joseph Riippi was born and raised in Seattle but currently lives at 91st and 2nd in Manhattan. He is a staff writer at several magazines and newspapers, and the Arts & Opinions Editor at Beyond Race Magazine in New York. In 2007, he won the 2nd Annual Farmhouse Magazine Prize in Fiction.
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16 Responses to “VIEWS • by Joseph Riippi”
Comments
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November 8th, 2007 at 6:52 am
Very thoughtful and moving - excellent story!
November 8th, 2007 at 7:10 am
Thanks!
November 8th, 2007 at 7:46 am
Joe rules!!
November 8th, 2007 at 9:09 am
Absolutely a beautifully written story. The writing here is what sold us on the piece, but there’s also a lot going on behind the scenes.
November 8th, 2007 at 9:38 am
Reads like a sad memory–nice.
November 8th, 2007 at 10:03 am
A first-time moment in the boy’s life - part of growing up.
November 8th, 2007 at 1:44 pm
Great stuff. You had me wondering what the child would see, though I didn’t feel connected to the boy. I think that is a good thing, because my attention was drawn closer and closer to what the boy discovered, and what a dead bird might feel like.
November 8th, 2007 at 3:19 pm
Wow. I loved it.
November 8th, 2007 at 3:47 pm
Dear Joe,
How do you do it? So much emotion and effect but so few overtly descriptive words. I would like to take it apart to figure out what gives the scene such power. When you write, “It feels like nothing” the “nothing” is more descriptive than any amount of evotive vocabulary. You make the nothing more than any possible something.
All of which is to say congratulations! Your words build worlds.
Carolivia
11/8/2007
November 8th, 2007 at 9:08 pm
Kate, Jordan and Carolivia have already said all that I felt and wanted to say about “Views”. Thank you for the story, Joseph. Hope to read more from you.
Rumjhum
November 9th, 2007 at 7:32 am
Wow, I’m so glad everyone’s been enjoying this. Thanks for the kind words everyone!
In case anyone’s interested, a much longer piece of mine, “Flamingos (or, Reading Fuentes In Spanish)” was just published by Silenced Press.
You can view it online at http://silencedpress.com/prose/flamingos-or-reading-fuentes-in-spanish/
November 9th, 2007 at 5:28 pm
Joseph, I had that dead robin in my hand, so fascinated with it. I also was touched by the family interaction. It remind me of the story of the hopeless task of the Buddha’s parents, trying so hard to give him a life free from all suffering, and failing. But this child knows something now. And we know he does.
November 24th, 2007 at 9:36 am
Thanks to everyone who commented, and happy Thanksgiving!
January 16th, 2008 at 12:21 am
[...] most read story was “Views” by Joseph Riippi, but due to a hungry spam filter our interview questions never arrived in [...]
January 16th, 2008 at 10:12 am
Oh my, this is beautiful. So well told, so true. You’ve seen the importance in this seemingly small incident. Good luck and best wishes in your writing!
Hasmita Chander
January 16th, 2008 at 1:36 pm
Wow, Hasmita. Thank you so much!