Brianna and the Owls

It was after midnight. Mom and Dad had finally settled down, passed out on the stained couch with beer cans littering the floor. The TV rattled on about some stupid ball game. Brianna held her breath and strained to hear sounds beneath the loud Yankee commentators. Yep, the snore symphony was in progress. Dad grunted and gurgled. Mom squeaked and hissed. They wouldn’t stir until late morning and would not miss her until afternoon the next day, if at all.

It was easy to remove the screen from her bedroom window when she wanted to leave. Dad never said anything after he crept into her room when she was not home. She could always tell he had been there because she left a small slip of paper between the top of the door and the frame. When she returned home in the daylight he was sarcastic and angry and beat her. A teacher at school asked about a bruise on her cheek. Brianna told her she had tripped and fallen against a table. It was almost true. Dad shoved her.

Brianna frequently stayed the night in a falling-down old barn in the weedy field behind the trailer. She had stashed U-Haul blankets, a pillow, and Granny’s crocheted afghan in a dry corner under the sagging roof. Her backpack held a flashlight, a couple of books found in a dumpster behind a thrift store, a change of clothing, a bottle of liquid soap, and a toothbrush. Sometimes she had snacks she stole from a convenience store. She skipped school many days and spent the day in her hideout, reading and daydreaming. Mom cussed the principal when he called to ask why Brianna missed so many classes.

She hated school. It was not her fault that tests were easy, and she liked to read. The other eighth-graders were mean, calling her names and telling her how weird she was, saying she was a teachers’ pet, and refusing to sit with her at lunch. The teasing increased when one of the popular girls caught her washing up and changing clothes in the bathroom when she was supposed to be in class. The English teacher watched her come and go, asking nosy questions.

One night in late spring, katydids chirped in the humid night air as Brianna scurried through tall grass and briars. A pale, swift shape flew low overhead, dove, and rose again, carrying a small, wiggling animal.

She settled into her nest of blankets and opened the book with the black cover. By the light of her small flashlight, she read about spirits that walked the world unseen by most but intervening in people’s lives when they needed them. Silly stuff, she thought, as she put the book away. That’s not real and lay down to daydream herself to sleep as she listened to the sounds of the hunting owls.

Scuffling overhead and a damp pellet falling on her face woke her. In the crooked rafters, a white heart-shaped face with intense eyes blinked in the beam of light from her flashlight. Brianna and the barn owl stared at each other until the bird fluffed her wings and retreated further into the shadows.

The next day Brianna braved the library in town. She had never been there and was mesmerized by the shelves of books.

“May I help you?” A kind voice spoke from behind her.

“I need a book about birds,” Brianna mumbled. She spent the day reading about barn owls. The friendly librarian let her use a computer and gave her a library card.

Her next stop was a hardware store for a small live trap. It was too large to steal, so she had to pay for it with money pilfered from Mom’s purse.

“Little bitch, what are you doing?” Dad came up behind her as she was setting the trap under the kitchen window on the outside of the trailer where the drainpipe leaked.

“Trying to catch a rat.” Unable to look up and meet Dad’s eyes, she remained hunched over her trap.

“I’ll catch you, you little rat!” He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her up to him. “I want to know where you go at night, you sneaky little bitch!” She flinched from his beery breath and did not answer as he shook her,

“You better be home tonight!” He hissed, then backhanded her right cheek before throwing her to the ground and stomping away.

I won’t cry, Brianna told herself as tears dripped off her chin. I can’t cry.

She stayed in her room that night, awake, afraid, and shaking, but Dad did not show up. Screeching cries echoed through the dark. Two owls, she thought, desperate for a distraction, two birds. Are they hunting?

Memories haunted her; she was in first grade, sitting on Dad’s lap as he combed her long hair. The next day Mom said her ponytail was too hard to manage and cut her hair short like a boy's. Whenever Dad was affectionate toward her, Mom pouted and slammed things around.

There were times when Mom was calm and happy, teaching Brianna to make chocolate chip cookies and talking about makeup. Most days, she refused to come out of the bedroom if Dad was home.

What happened? What did I do wrong? Is it my fault? She jerked her thoughts back to the owls. There they are. Two owls. I hear them hunting. Beautiful birds, her special secret.

When she wandered into the kitchen for breakfast after very little sleep. Mom was screaming into her cell phone." I don’t care about that son of a bitch. Let him rot! Don’t call me again!” She threw her phone across the room and chugged her Mountain Dew.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” Brianna was not quite awake.

Mom shrieked, “The bastard wrecked his truck last night, killed two people in a head-on. He's in ICU in Haywood. The cops found meth and weed in the truck.” Swearing and crying, she threw random things, the TV remote, beer cans, couch pillows, dirty dishes.

Brianna ran to the barn. She could not think, she could not feel, she could not cry. Huddled in her quilts, a pack of nabs and a candy bar from her backpack was breakfast as she stared into nothing.

The sound of talons on old wood drew her out of her fugue. Two barn owls peered at her from their perch on a rafter: two pale heart-shaped faces with bright eyes in round feathered saucers, long narrow beaks, russet backs, and spotted white breasts. The book in the library said they were only active at night, not during the day.

“Hey, birds!” she sniffled. They continued to watch her, not moving. “What do you want, birds?” No response.

She tossed a peanut butter cracker into the air. The owls did not move until it bounced and rolled along the dirt floor. The smaller one dove off his place, caught it, and flew back to his place. He dropped her offering onto her blanket before both retreated into their nest in a dark corner.

“Okay, birds. I’ll be back.” Brianna gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and returned to the trailer. She had lost track of time, and it was late afternoon.

Mom was in the bathroom applying makeup. She had on tight jeans and was wearing red lipstick. The strong scent of Lysol was in the air. The living area was tidy. Dad’s belongings sat by the door in garbage bags.

“Mom?”

“Hi, Baby! I’m going out tonight. There are pizzas in the freezer. Don’t mess up the kitchen.” Mom called over her shoulder as she fluffed her hair.

“What about Dad?” Brianna asked.

“I don’t care. I am done with him, that self-centered bastard drunk!!” Mom snapped, “He ain’t your daddy, anyway! We never got married!”

Mom left in a cloud of dollar store perfume. Brianna ate two small individual pizzas and checked her trap. There was an angry rat in it.

She went to the barn every evening at twilight with a full trap. She laughed as she watched the owls dive to catch the scrambling rats and eat them alive.

“That’s right, birds!” Brianna shouted, “Kill them! Kill them all! Eat them up!!”

Then she would cry, sobbing into her blankets until she was exhausted while the owls hunted the field, calling to each other through the night. She felt safe in the barn, her private place. No one would hurt her there. No one would hit her for crying.

Mom went out every night. Sometimes an unfamiliar man came out of her bedroom around lunchtime, but he never spoke to Brianna if she was home.

Mom was too busy doing whatever she was doing to pay much attention to her. The trailer was clean, and there was more food in the refrigerator.

Mom bought new clothes for Brianna, leaving the bags on her bed. They did not fit, and they were ugly. They were stuffed into the black garbage bags by the door where Dad’s things were as she wondered when Mom would take them away. Mom would snort and swear whenever she asked about Dad.

Brianna kept her head down at school and did not talk to anyone. She continued to dodge the teacher’s nosey questions and spent most of her free daylight hours in the town library. Greek mythology, especially stories about Athena and her association with owls, were her favorites. She daydreamed about being a goddess like her, wise and powerful, sure of herself, taking no shit from anyone.

The principal stopped calling about her absenteeism. She went to summer school to keep from failing her grade. The other kids were still mean, but she pictured them as rats eaten by the owls and was no longer upset by their cruel teasing.

One evening chirps and squawks in the owls’ corner pulled her attention from her book. The chicks were scrawny half-naked little things with sparse fluff and big beaks. Mama bird stayed close by, tearing up the rats Brianna and Papa bird brought to feed the babies. Brianna loved watching them attack the food. She rigged a stack of plastic milk crates into a sort of ladder so she could be at eye level with the nest, albeit it at a respectful distance.

The adult owls perched above her camp and watched her for a little while each visit before leaving to hunt. She stared back and talked to them. She spoke about their babies, how proud she was of them, how cute they were, how fast they grew. She told the owls how much she loved them and the chicks. She whispered about Mom and Dad, how she loved them too and how she wished they loved her, but she was too ashamed to tell them about what Dad did to her. She briefed them about the school, the mean kids, and the nosy teacher. She confessed to stealing food from the gas station and digging through dumpsters.

When the parent owls turned to other activities, Brianna snuggled into her blanket nest to read her purloined paperbacks. She liked hearing the soft sounds of the owls flying in and out of the barn. The dusty, bird smell of the barn was comforting and quite different from the cigarette smoke and chemical odors in the trailer.

The chicks grew rapidly and fledged. They made awkward flights around the barn and eventually caught their own food. They grew sleek and beautiful. One night they were gone. She wanted them to stay forever. Brianna searched the barn as the adult owls watched. Finally, she plopped onto her pile of blankets.

“Birds,” she sighed, “They could have said goodbye.” Her audience silently dove from their rafter and winged their way into the night.

Feeling abandoned, Brianna went back to her bedroom in the trailer and, as she did every night, listened to the owl’s hunting calls until she could sleep.

Two sheriff’s cars pulled into the drive early the next morning, parking in such a way as to block Mom’s old Camry.

“Ma’m,” the deputy said as Mom opened the door, “We have a warrant for your arrest. We are placing your daughter in protective custody.”

“I met you in the bar the other night, didn’t I?” Mom asked.

“Yes, Ma’m, you did. You sold me a gram of meth,” the deputy replied.

“Aw, shit!” Mom shook her head and held out her hands, “I’m not going to fight you. Things gotta change around here. My girl needs a better life.”

She did not resist as the deputy led her to the patrol car. She looked back at Brianna, “ ’ Bye, Baby. You take care of yourself.”

A woman in civilian clothes approached the terrified Brianna. “Hello,” her voice was controlled and level, “I am from the Department of Social Services. I want you to pack a few things and come with me, please.”

She was calm and pleasant, but her posture was erect and authoritative as she waited for Brianna to speak. She had rust-colored hair pulled back from her pale heart-shaped face. Two bright brown eyes regarded her through large round glasses perched on a long, pointed nose above a sharp chin. Scattered freckles contrasted with her light complexion. Small gold earrings with dangling owl charms winked in the morning light.

“You look like someone I know,” Brianna said, “What’s your name?”

“Athena,” the kind stranger replied, “My name is Athena Byrd.”