Peacocks

THE EYES HAVE IT

I love peacocks.  Except for their cries which are a cross between the love-call of a banshee and a child suffering in damnation, who couldn’t love a creature with the iridescent colors of every crayon in God’s paintbox?  Beautiful?  The word needs an update.

In Ft. Pierce, Florida, there was a hopeful area optimistically called the Arts District.  I don’t know that local governance ever managed to get it beyond the Haitian restaurants and voodoo shops that populated the neighborhood when we lived there, but for some reason, hundreds of peacocks called it home, too.  Wild and loud they went where they pleased, roosting in trees and surveying the world from rooflines, their cries freezing the blood when they rang out.  Normally, folks drove fast through the neighborhood, windows up and doors locked, but when the birds crossed the two-lane artery running through it, cars would stop and every drug-dealer and soccer mom paused in mute reverence as the stately birds passed by.

Funny.  A flock of crows is called a “murder” while a flock of peacocks is called a “comfort.”  You might find that useful if you’re ever a contestant on Jeopardy.  Evidently, crows will murder you and peacocks comfort you.  As Alfred Hitchcock says, that’s for The Birds.

A note about the following story.  I chose to write it in dialect and verbiage of its time and place. Time - the memory of the whip and the Civil War are still alive.  Place - a southern Barrier island. I mention this and ask the reader to kindly remember time and place when the “n” word pops up.  It is not to shock or disrespect. It is not gratuitous. Please, I beg you, dear reader, soften your ear and let the language, the rhythm and the patois serve the story and carry you along.

A COMFORT OF PEACOCKS 

“Watch where yo’ steppin’ now, Coriander. It bad luck to walk over da dead.” 

I did. I watched where I was steppin’. I didn’t need no shade gettin’ upset wit me. I didn’t want hear no boogie- man creepin’ up the noisy stairs in mah house, da house we all lived in. Dat ol’ house already made ‘nuf noise to wake da dead widdout mah help. 

Da thing is, it hard to watch where you steppin’ and to watch dem birds too. What wid dem watchin’ you, watchin’ dem, well, it hard, dat’s all I’m sayin’. 

I nevah was too sure what my real purposes was in comin’ to dis ol’ graveyard anyways. Was it fo’ da birds o’ appeasin’ da spirits? Truth is, it don’ really matter to me. I likes goin’ anywheres wid my granddaddy. Fishin’. Gatherin’. Cho’s. He’s mah fav’rite. He’s mah only. An’ uh’m his only too. 

“Look, Papi! Dere’s a feather!” I ran to reach for it, but he pull me back. 

“No, chil’, you leave dat alone.” 

“Why, Papi, why? Dat bird done shed it. He ain’t usin’ it no mo’.” 

“If it on dat side o’ da fence, it your’n. But evahthin’ on dis side o’ da fence? Dat belong to da dead. Dey’s livin’ here, youse jes’ visitin’.” 

I thought abou’ dat. I wanted to axe him about da fine points o’ da law, how could dey be dead but livin’ here, too? I let it go, jes like mos’ things, but I sure wanted dat feather, yessuh. It was blue an’ green and shine like da night, an’ it had a big ol’ eye on one end of it, too. When dese big ol’ pokey Mistuh birds git scared, dey like to fan dem tails out. Spread ‘em wide so it make ‘em look bigger, make ‘em feels bigger, too, so youse stay away from ‘em. Dey open up dat fantail you can see all dey eyes, a hunnerd of ‘em all lookin’ straight at’chou, but not blinkin’. You wanna see a bird wink at’chou you got to see Mistuh Tom Tuhkey! He’ll sneak a wink yo’ way jes hopin’ you remembah dat come Thanksgivin’ Day. Dey don’t mean nuttin’ by it. Dey jes tryin’ to save dey neck. 

It was quiet heah. I like ‘dat. If dey was talkin’ to each other undergroun, dey was doin’ it so’s I couldn’ heah it. Eithuh dat, or dey talkin’ when nobody else aroun’. Not like in mah house. In mah house evahbody talkin’ loud and laughin’ loud and jes bein’ loud. Sometimes yo’ ain’t sure if dey’s mad at’chou or lovin’ you. Mah granddaddy tho’ – he ain’t loud. He mos’ly quiet. He so quiet, he da loudes’ one of all. 

I axed my granddaddy one time where all dese birds, dese peacocks come from. Mus’ be a hunnerd of ‘em, mebbe mo’. He say dat after da war, dere was a big ol’ blow come through and knock evahthing and evahbody down. Da niggah houses was nevuh too much to look at anyways, but after da war, when we was free to go stahve anywheres we wanted to, most of da darkies jes’ stay right here. Dis was home, an’ bein’ free didn’t change dat. Da Outah Banks, dis where we belong. We knows where da sweetes’ oysters be. Da clams too. Where da mudbass hide in da brack- water, da perch when it hot. We know where dem possum likes to dance in da yellow moonlight. Anyways, granddaddy say dis’ big ol’ blow come through and knock evahthing down includin’ da bird house o’ Mistuh Cletis Quo Vadis Lonestreet Chabloine, dat meanest ol’ sumbitch who own all dese barrier islands an’ all da niggahs on ‘em, ev’ry tan mammy and pappy and chillun’ too. Dis big ol’ bird house is what’chou call a a-vee-airy an’ it got all kinds o’ ‘zotic birds in it. Dat big ol’ blow come through and all dems birds is scattered to heaven and hell. I thinks mebbe peeples eatin’ good too, leas’ fo’ a little while, but nobody touch dem peacocks. It like dey holy or somethin’. C’ose dis was all way befo’ I was bone. Granddaddy say, ol’ Mistuh Chabloine, he tell da darkeys, go git my birds! You niggahs git ‘em all up and bring ‘em home to me! But da funny thing is, dem birds, dey go straight to da graveyard, like dey knows nobody gonna touch ‘em dere. Mistuh Chabloine, he mad as da devil when peeples tell him, no- suh Mistuh Chabloine, you go gets dem birds yo’self. We ain’t-cho niggahs no mo’. But he cain’t do nuthin’ about dat. He ol’ and he gots no power no mo’. All his fo’mens gone. He outnumbered. So dem birds, dey stay right where dey are. Dey like it. Dey home. 

Dese peacocks so beautiful. Dese peacocks shine like da night, jes like I says befo’. Dey blues an’ greens, dey swallow da sun and t’row it back in yo’ face, multiply. Dey dark as da grave and lighter den a rainbow. Dey so beautiful, God don’ let ‘em fly no mo’, jes a little bit so’s dey can git up in a tree or leap up top of a gravestone befo’ settlin’ down like yo’ granny’s comforter. Like cuhtains of color, droppin’ down sad an’ proud coverin’ da mem’ries o’ da dead.

Dere lots o’ Johnnie Rebs buried heah. Deah’s lots mo’ up north, jes’ parts of ‘em left to fertilize doze fields, not enuf of ‘em to sen’ back. But some of ‘em did. Some of ‘em walk back after Mistuh Lee say ‘no mo,’ already dead, jes’ waitin’ to lie down. 

“Whoa!” I cries. I’m lookin’ at one o’ dem ol’ gravestones when I almos’ step on Tom himself. Dis boy lowered so deep in da grass I ‘bout to mash ‘em. My granddaddy laugh thinkin’ dat pretty funny seein’ me jump a dance step. “Why he gotta do that?” I say. “Why he settin’ in dere so deep? He keepin’ dat body from comin’ up outta da groun’?” 

Granddaddy laugh some mo’, like dat’s da funniest thing he evah heard. “Now why would a body wish such a thing, Coriander, hunh, why? He already home, his sufferin’ ovah. You think he wanna come out in dis sorrowful worl’ do it agin?” He laugh some mo’ an’ walk on ahead not even waitin’ fo’ an ansuh. Dat mebbe what I like best about mah granddaddy. He leave me to figure things out fo’ muhself. He know I git there ‘ventually. Even if he ain’t aroun’ to see it, he know I git dere. 

I know what he mean though. My granddaddy seen a parcel o’ troubles. He feel da whip in his life. He lose muh granma’ to a plague dat carry away lot o’ souls from dis island. He know what it feel like to survive one curse, den anothuh, an anothuh after dat. Den when you think da devil git bored wit you an’ take his leave come sumptin’ else. I knows dat, but still, I like dis worl’ okay. I ain’t no rush to git nowhere. But when dat golden chariot come to carry me home I hope dey leave mah bones heah. It pretty. It peaceful. I wants dem peabird draperies on mah stone, coverin’ up mah name. Wid mah bruthahs and mah sistahs an’ my mammy and pappy, too. I don’t even min’ dem Johnnie Rebs bein’ here so long as bein’ dead knock some sense in dey stupid heads. I guess dey was jes doin’ what dey was tol’ to do. Lots o’ peeples jes’ doin’ what dey tol’. 

Look at dis one. He so pretty an’ plump an’ proud. He thinkin’ his clothes so pretty he can even dress up death. Hah! I like dat. Dress up death. Yeah, you dat pretty. 

Muh granddaddy off in da corner, in a cool shady spot, where da sun come in, in spots through da holes in da leaves. Dere’s a hen bird dere, all folded up on a tiny grave like she ‘bout to hatch a egg. She brown. She look weary. She look tired, hunkerin’ down like she losin’ air. 

“Why dey girl birds brown, Papi? Why ain’t dey got da colors?” 

“Cuz dey don’ need ‘em, Coriander. Only da mens need he’p” 

I looks at da marker, but she hidin’ it, coverin’ it, protectin’ it. I can’ts see da name, but I can see da dates. Dey smooth where dat hen been wearin’ ‘em down. March Eighteen seventy-two to January eighteen seventy-fo’. Jes’ a baby when da Lord call dat chil’ home. 

Jes’ den dat ol’ hen let out a cry dat make even my Papi do a jump step. It cry like a baby, da saddest lonesomest cry I evah needs to heah in dis life. It cry to make da hair stan’ up an’ look aroun’. But I knows bettuh. Dat ain’t da hen cryin’. She speakin’ fo’ dat chil’. She its voice. Lawdie. 

“It time to go, Coriander. Reckon dat’s enuf quiet fo’ today.” Den he do sumpin’ strange. My granddaddy, he walk back ovah an’ he reach ‘cross dat grave where dat feather still settin’, teasin’ me. An’ he pick it up and drop it ovah da’ fence. 

“What’chou do dat fo, Papi?” I axe him.

“Now it on yo’ side o’ da’ fence, pumpkin. Now it your’n.” 

For Greg E., who introduced me to the Peacocks of Ft. Pierce, and for Karen H., who told me of the Peacocks of Dunedin. 

THE DESPERATE ONES

In keeping with the quiet nature of this week’s piece, the bittersweet sadness, the juxtaposition of beauty and mortality, I close with one of the most beautiful, poignant songs I know, THE DESPERATE ONES, from Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living In Paris. The power of singers singing in unison as one single voice, breathing as one, brings the skin to attention.

I served as the last musical director of the masterpiece, Jacques Brel, in its 25th Anniversary at the Village Gate in NYC’s Greenwich Village. BREL made its American debut there. It was the last show ever produced there. The hallowed venue closed its doors forever soon after our run. It remains one of my favorite memories in my musical career. Until next week, I am Alki

PS - Last minute newsflash. Just came from hearing Mahler’s Fifth Symphony in C# minor played by the Pittsburgh Symphony in Heinz Hall; one of the top ten orchestras in the world, I reckon, in one of the best places to hear music like this in the world.  It was nothing short of thrilling.  I urge you to find it on some musical platform and give it a listen.  I mean, really give it a listen.  Sit comfortably with a  beverage of your choice in a place where you can close your eyes; especially the 3rd movement.  You might thank me.