Squirrel Tail by Peter Burr

(photo credit: Ken Whytock)

The Butterfields arrived at the grand Monument Avenue Victorian as darkness was taking over. Nine-year-old Robin sat with his mother in the black Lincoln’s back seat during the long trip from Manhattan. Earlier that week, she fired the chauffer to spite her husband, Rink, who had driven them and then struggled, cursing, to carry their bags to the front door.

Inside the house, Abby Butterfield said, “I cannot believe you brought me to Richmond. It’s World War II and you’re one of the few men not fighting Nazis. Why can’t you find a job at home? Flat feet again? You took me from my mother.”

“Because I was booted again for pawing a secretary, and after seven agencies in ten years, I can’t get hired in New York anymore,” Rink would have said if he were honest. 

Instead, with prenuptial agreement held like a carving knife to his neck, he said, “I think it’s a good opportunity, and if you don’t like it you can shut up and let me retire. You’re an heiress for chrissake, but you make me work like an animal because you’re scared about money. I can barely stand the sight of you.” 

Outside, several trees dotted an expansive lawn killed off by the blazing summer sun. As he explored, Robin was dumbfounded to spy a squirrel’s round rump and stiff hind legs protruding from a brown rectangular birdhouse high up a scraggly oak. “What happened there?” he wondered. The squirrel’s full tail shifted in the breeze like a weathervane.

Abby was forced from the nest as a toddler following the deaths from consumption of her working class parents. Most of her life spent in a derelict orphanage, she was miraculously adopted at 13 by a wealthy New York widow. Nevertheless, the uncertainty of her youth prevented Abby from flying off, no matter how much Rink gnawed at her happiness.  

Despite lack of wherewithal, decade-older Rink had employed his charms while stalking Abby at Church of the Resurrection coffee hours. One morning after church, she acceded to his black-inked “Marry me?” bleeding on a swiped linen napkin. The stab was so audacious he could not give voice to the plea.

Abby married on her eighteenth birthday. That evening Rink greeted reception cocktails like house keys ending a long lock-out. “The battle is done,” he thought, as he blacked out, to Abby’s dismay, on their honeymoon bed. Robin arrived nine months after the eventual consummation, which was the last time Rink showed much interest in Abby. Except for corpulence shared with his mother, their son bore little resemblance to either of them and they largely ignored him.

Two weeks after their move to Richmond, an envelope was delivered to the house. Robin watched from the front hallway stairs as Abby opened it and said, “My mother’s friends, the Howells, have invited us to a party on Friday.” 

“Why would we want to get involved with those old dogs?” Rink said as Robin observed from the stairs.

“Because we never get out,” Abby said.   

Robin waddled silently to his room.

Friday evening arrived and Abby excitedly put on a black cocktail dress as thunder rumbled. A strand of pearls encircled her neck.

Robin struggled to button a white shirt over his beefy stomach and snapped a tan rubber band around each biceps to raise too-long sleeves before straining into his tight blue blazer. He rewarded his efforts with a green bag of candy corn hidden in the top drawer of his small dresser. After some pecking, Robin awaited his mother’s call. 

Rink admired his premature silver hair in the ornate hallway mirror. Around his neck hung a crimson silk tie to which he recently treated himself, and a white handkerchief, fastidiously arranged, peeked out of his tailored slate jacket’s chest pocket. “Mr. Butterfield has more clothing than his wife,” the housekeeper had observed after unpacking them. A handsome coat completed his look.

Rink gulped two vodkas, but before he could pour down a third, Abby came in with Robin in tow. “All hail the big hen,” Rink said. “Did you forget to put your face on, or is that what I’m stuck with tonight?”

Abby’s hopeful visage turned despondent. “It’s time to go,” she said. The sky was dark, and thunder cracked loudly as they started down the path to the car. Rink hurried to the driver’s door, letting Abby fend for herself as she got into the rear with Robin.

Rink turned the key. Grr-ray ray ray. Grr-ray ray ray. Grr-ray ray. The engine wouldn’t start. He paused and tried again. Grr-ray. Grr-ray. Grr-ray. 

It began to pour, heavy drops exploding on the sedan like shotguns on opening day. A flood sheeted the windshield, and Rink exited the car and slammed the door. Robin tried to disappear into the dark leather seat. 

After the requisite time with his chest under the automobile hood, Rink climbed back in for another try. The bottoms of his coat and trousers were splotched dark from the torrent. Grr-ray ray the engine said. Grr-ray.

After a few more tries Rink looked at Abby through the rearview mirror and said, “There is nothing I can do.” He pounded his pale hand on top of the dashboard, making her jump. “This is your fault. What were you thinking letting the driver go, you stingy bitch?” 

“Call a cab,” Abby said.

“I don’t have enough to cover a cab. How much do you have in your purse? Pull it out and look.”  

“I don’t need to look.  Small change--not enough to get us to Byrd Park. Where’s the allowance I gave you? If you move aside, I’ll start the car myself.”

“The hell you will,” Rink said, incisors bared.

Abby got out of the car and fluttered uncertainly up the walk through the downpour. She picked at the dirt in the terracotta planter for the spare key, shook it off, and unlocked the door. Once inside, she headed to her bedroom.

Rink chased after, scampering through the stream coursing down the flagstone and bursting into the house. At the musty living room bar littered with walnut shells and bottle stops, he lifted the Smirnoff bottle and expertly filled his tumbler to the brim over a fistful of ice. 

Alone in the car, Robin begged the tempest to end. He peered at the dead squirrel lodged in the birdhouse on the tree. Its tail snapped madly, back and forth, up and down. Robin jumped out into a puddle. “Stop it,” he shrieked at the squirrel, before staggering to the door.  

Robin entered the house soaking, a wet trail following him into the living room. 

“What are you doing here?” Rink said. 

“I live here,” Robin said through tears.

“Not for long,” said Rink, jabbing Robin in the shoulder.

Robin steadied himself and perched on a small, caned chair, indifferent to his dripping clothes. One weak sconce light was on, and his heart beat out of time.  

Abby came in just as Rink sat down with his drink. Tiny toes peeked underneath her dark robe, and her eyes were red from crying. Rink glared at Abby, daring her to chirp, and lit another Chesterfield.

“How are we going to eat?” she said. “I gave cook the night off.”

“Figure it out.  There must be something in the kitchen.” 

“There isn’t.”

“Cut the hatchling act, you featherhead. I won’t have it in my house.”

“But dear, that dinner party was going to be the first thing I didn’t have to pay for in months. And you don’t really think this house is yours, do you? Please call the Howells and tell them we won’t be coming because you don’t know how to start a car.”

Rink’s eyes bulged and his lips went tight around his clenched teeth as his chest seized up. Robin silently observed him as cigarette smoke filled the room. Two pans protested weakly in the kitchen where Abby had slouched. Staring at the wall ahead of him, Rink could neither retreat or go further.  

Peter Burr writes in South Florida, USA, and is a member of the Fishtown Writers’ Circle.  This is his fourteenth short story to be published. Peter has variously worked on a conservation project in the Olympic National Park rainforest in Port Angeles, WA; at a summer day camp connected to a Washington, D.C. inner city heroin clinic; on a ranch in La Madera (population 150), NM; and on a venture capital fund investing in Poland, to name a few of the jobs he’s had. Peter also studied in Bourges, France, and in La Jolla, CA, and one afternoon nearly hiked off a cliff in a blinding Rocky Mountains snowstorm.