The Sound in the Wall

This could all be my imagination. But, I don’t think so.

Some days, there is a slightly larger than usual blue-green bird perched in a tree, across Sleepy Hollow Road.

This bird is different from the rest of the other birds, never seeming to join in all their reindeer games. While the others birds are chirp incessantly and flit about, he remains quietly, stoically, watching over Fiona.

It If birds could talk, this bird seems to have something to say to little Fiona Marie.
 
Perhaps he is saying, “Thank you.”
 
Like I said, this is all probably my imagination. This is probably not even the same bird, the one whose life Fiona saved not too long ago.

Yet, as he watches me, I feel I know this bird, or at least one just like it.   
 
It happed in the early Spring, the week following a terribly nasty storm that hammered the entire New York Tri-state area—a one-hundred year storm some called it. Trees were uprooted all over the Island, and that week there were roofers dotting the homes all along Sleepy Hollow Road.

One morning, while the children were busy eating, there came a faint scratching, barely discernable. I thought nothing of it, as birds frequently congregated in the gutter alongside the roof right outside the kitchen window.
 
Yet, the next couple of days, the scratching persisted and intensified.
 
Saturday morning, like most Spring Saturday mornings before it, I took Fiona Marie down to the park to ride her bicycle with her cousin Bella. They so enjoy each other’s company.
 
A few hours later, when we returned, the house was in an uproar, with Mommy perched on the couch, her lips quivering. Mommy is a woman strong of heart, yet weak of nerves, and especially nervous and deathly afraid of rodents and pests in any form. 
 
It seemed the scratching was no longer distant and emanating from the roof, but now a loud and desperate clawing coming from through one of the living room walls. There was something definitely trapped in the wall and struggling to get out.
 
We called one exterminator after the next, only to be referred to pest control specialists. They charged $500 just to come on-site, and then various fees and surcharges tacked on from there.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. With Nonno and neighbor Paulie backing me up, I started to chase the women and children from the room, who either barricaded themselves downstairs or completely left the building. 

As I was shooing everyone out, a tiny defiant little fist struck me in the belly, startling me more from surprise than from pain.

It was Fiona, her face tight and determined. 

“Daddy, whatever you do, you better not kill it, whatever it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure honey, no go downst…

POW, another shot in the belly.

An even further determined Fiona.

“Daddy, I’m not playing with you. DO NOT KILL IT. Promise me.”

What could I say to that?

“Ok sweetie, I promise you.”

There goes Plan A. Time to come up with a Plan B.

I pulled out a punch saw and cut a partial hole in the wall, planning to tape a clear plastic bag around the hole and then punch the hole out, thereby releasing the animal.
 
However, as I cut halfway through, the hole gave way and the desperate, larger than usual blue-green bird, flew out as quickly as it could. I was barely able to quickly drop the saw and grab the clear-plastic bag, just in time to capture the bird.
 
“I got it Fiona. I caught the bird for you.”
 
With half the neighbors and family gathered around outside, eager to see what beast had invaded our Sleepy Hollow home, I then held the bird until Fiona could come and release it.
 
The bird did not fly away. I merely flew to a tree, just off in this distance.

My first reaction was to kill that which threatened my family. Yet, Fiona showed me that you need not always do harm, to protect you and yours from harm.     

Besides, looking into her deep brown eyes, I really had no choice but to obey.

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