Nurit arranges a tomato rose surrounded by green pepper spirals on a small glass plate of tuna salad. She admires her masterpiece and sets it down next to the box of spelt crackers on the table set for one. She eats quietly. Slowly. She’s not in a hurry.
Nurit had always shared her vegetable creations with Aharon. He would tease her and say that such extravagant presentation must mean Elijah the Prophet was coming to visit their little yellow house. She would blush at the compliment.
They bought the house when Nurit noticed that Aharon was struggling to climb the stairs to their third-story apartment. She told him she wanted to move because she preferred a ranch, that people walking above her head suddenly began to make her nervous. They moved within weeks.
She had grown to love the house. It had odd stained glass gnomes in the living room windows. They were industrious little creatures, all carrying pickaxes or shovels, bearded faces glowing with determination and purpose. Nurit and Aaron would mock them together.
The sound of Aaron’s laughter had a calming effect on Nurit. He laughed generously at her jokes, and perhaps even more generously at his own. He loved puns, and being fluent in Hebrew, Yiddish and English gave him abundant material for bad jokes. He had a small frame and strong hands. His eyes were a piercing blue that softened when he laughed. Nurit was at ease when they were together.
Until Aharon left her alone. He faded slowly for a while and then was gone all at once.
The months of fading had been more than Nurit had thought any human could possibly bear. But she bore it. There was work to be done, bills to be paid, a husband that needed care.
His hands grew weak and muscle memory withered and Nurit found herself shaving her husband’s scruff every morning. She was gentle and cautious with the razor, and would run her fingers down the side of his face after each stroke to feel for stray hairs. It was quiet. Nurit could almost forget the loss that was at the core of these tender moments. But then he would look at her, puzzled, and introduce himself.
She bore it. Even when he would revert to speaking in Yiddish. When he began introducing himself to his daughters. When he called for his mother who had long been ashes. The shingles of the corner house were still yellow. The garden still flowered in the spring.
Nurit begins to cough. Some spelt crumbs have infiltrated her lungs. She continues coughing, uninterrupted.
“Why yes,” she gasps to no one in particular, “I would like a glass of water thank you very much.”
She pours herself a glass of water and moves to the living room couch. From this angle she can see the bird’s nest being constructed in her gutter. She has been carefully supervising the construction for some weeks now. She notes that the birds have introduced a red ribbon to their construction project. She approves.
A tiny head pokes up from the nest, and then another, and two more. She struggles to get a better look at the miracle occupying her gutter but her view is obstructed by a gnome, dutifully carrying a bucket.
Nurit steps outside and approaches her guests. Their powder pink skin is just visible in the sunlight beneath their newly-sprouted fuzzy grey feathers. She notices that hatchlings are squirming around playfully, tripping over each other to get to one side of the nest.
“What are you shmendricks up to?” She teases, using Aharon’s favorite Yiddish word for fool. There are many.
Nurit begins to notice that something is wrong. Their chirps sound dissonant, urgent. Their motions are frantic.
Nurit’s curiosity slowly crystallizes into panic as she notices that most of the base of the nest has collapsed. The birds are clambering over each other and calling out in fear. Nurit realizes the nest full of hatchlings is going to fall apart. The image of the inevitable turns Nurit’s breath ragged.
Nurit turns on her orthotic heel and shuffles past the stained glass window. Not inevitable.
She grabs her knitting box, takes four of her best knitting needles, and carefully inserts them in a grid at the base of the nest. She snatches a roll of royal blue yarn.
“Shh, settle down schmendricks. Your home is just being refurbished.”
The birds are making terrified squeaks and clambering for footholds.
“Oh, you’re being dramatic.” She has learned that projecting fearlessness is often what the terrified need.
She methodically weaves the yarn through her grid of needles. She makes sure the red ribbon is still secure. A gesture of respect for the original artist.
She takes a tentative step back. The bravest bird takes a tentative step forward. The patchwork nest holds its weight and the bird hops around, followed by its siblings, reveling in its sturdiness.
Nurit lets out a choked laugh of relief. She lets herself breathe. She looks down at her mottled fingers, now bathed in sunlight, dusted with splinters and bird related filth. She stands a little straighter. She stays outside until dark, listening. When she finally makes her way inside, she lingers by the window before washing her hands of the evidence.
_____
The phone is ringing shrilly in the next room. Nurit pulls herself up from the living room couch. It’s Talia.
They speak about the weather, about Talia’s work, about the kids. Talia usually calls on Fridays to wish her mother Shabbat Shalom. Nurit wonders why she is calling on a Tuesday.
“Listen Ma, I got a call from Sandburg next door. He says he saw you poking around in the gutter. Is everything ok?”
That nosy little shlemazel.
“I’m fine. It’s just a sweet little birds’ nest. You should bring the kids over to look at it sometime this week; they’ll love it.”
“Wait, I’m sorry, birds?”
“Yes.”
“Living in your gutter?”
“Yes.”
There are a few seconds of silence before Talia sighs audibly into the phone.
“Ma.” She sounds exasperated.
Silence.
“Birds are filthy. This isn’t a cute science experiment. It’s dangerous.”
“I never called it an experiment.”
“OK, well I’m calling it an exterminator.”
“Talia, don’t you dare.”
“Oh hold on, Jonathan just walked in. Let’s talk Friday.”
“Talia, please promise me you won’t.”
“OK, I’m hanging up on you now. Jonathan sends his love!”
Nurit is cut off by a click and a dial tone.
She wouldn’t dare call an exterminator without Nurit’s permission. Nurit repeats this like a mantra until she falls into restless sleep.
_____
Days pass and the birds’ nest remains untouched. She brings them spelt crackers every day and eats outside with them, wrapped in a wool blanket. Nurit hopes Talia has forgotten.
In the afternoon, she lifts bags of groceries from the car. There is a nondescript white van parked outside of her bright yellow house. In block print along the rear doors read the words, PEST-B-GONE. The bags fall to the ground, bleeding egg yolk.
Nurit hurries to the backyard, white knuckles clutching her purse. She turns the corner and locks eyes with a heavyset man wearing rubber gloves and a respiratory mask. He drops a cluster of twigs, blue yarn, and a single red ribbon from atop a ladder into a metal bin on the ground.
That sound. That horrible crunching sound. A few seconds of silence. And then something small that sounds like weeping.
The man removes his mask to reveal a reddish beard and shoots Nurit a friendly smile. “All done love!”
Nurit takes a step toward him, unsmiling. His friendly face falters.
“You alright miss?”
She smacks him with the purse.
He laughs with more confusion than humor.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes.” Smack. “You.” Smack. “Did.” Smack.
There are tears in Nurit’s eyes now and she is panting from the exertion.
“Get away from my house.”
She turns her back on the man and lowers herself to the cold wet ground. She carefully reaches into the bin and begins gently emptying its contents onto her lap.
The man hesitates a moment, opens and closes his mouth. He drops his mask to the ground by her feet. He mumbles something apologetic and walks away.
She sees Sandburg’s blinds snap shut and hears her phone ringing inside a moment later. She ignores both.
She looks down at the broken birds and the tangled mess on her lap. Three of the birds lie motionless. Nurit gently lays them on the damp grass beside her. The fourth is breathing in what sound like tiny sobs. It trembles in her hand as she strokes its fragile bleeding head. She sits for hours until the trembling stops. She rests it beside its siblings as the sun sets.
She sits alone on the cold dirt, closes her eyes, and dreams of Elijah the Prophet.
Adina Singer is a current student at the University of Pennsylvania, majoring in chemistry and minoring in English. She is a former chair of Shira Chadasha on campus and is committed to inclusivity in the Jewish legacy. When she isn’t writing or running chemical reactions, she enjoys painting and yoga.
Featured image credit: Pixabay.com/dennisflarsen.
