The Birds Came When He Called

2021 Write Now Winner - Grades 7 & 8

Mama gave me a wet kiss on the cheek and a paper bag soaked with grease. Leftovers from her late night shift: stale fries, fried chicken charred at the bottom of the fryer. "Home before dark," she said with a tight lipsticked smile. "Love you, baby."

"Course. Love you too, Mama."

The walk to the metro wasn't long, just a couple blocks. There was a bustle of people, the smell of petrol in the air and the flashing lights of a dive bar sign. It was a busy street corner, bridging the subway station and a shoddy convenience store. A flock of doves rested on the power lines above, staring with beady eyes at the traffic.

Fifteen minutes until the next shuttle. I propped up a foot and waited: the December air blew cold puffs of breath that tickled my nose. Should've brought a scarf.

That's about when I saw him.

On the sidewalk corner was a man with a case at his feet, sparsely picked with wrinkled bills and a spare quarter or two. He rested a violin on his left shoulder, tilting it beneath his chin.

Peeled toes pointed out from his worn shoes: his face was weathered and hollow, with a long unkempt beard coated in sticky crumbs. His lips were dry and whittled with scabs, the clothes which hung from his body scruffy and hand-sewn with unpracticed needlework.

I watched as he pressed a bow to the strings and began a lilting melody. The sound was soft, but piercing. The man pulled on the strings in yielding strokes, a sense of urgency to the music, which fell from distant rumbles to bright, sharp notes.

The doves swept in waves from the power lines and surrounded the man, answering the beckon of his music, how each note was drawn from the violin and played in a call to the little winged creatures which preened and nipped his hair. The bow crooned against the strings and gave a sharp, wailing sound until the melody became a slow rhythm, bittersweet and fading.

He gave a grin and blew on his fingers, a chilly fog of breath. I found my legs moving forward and reached into my pockets, shuffling through the lint until I produced a wadded five-dollar bill. I stooped down and placed the change in his violin case: as I stood, he nodded in my direction and said, "Thanks, son."

I started arriving at the subway earlier to watch the man. It wasn't long before I learned his name was Edmond. He frequented the street corner most days, and bought a pouch of birdseed from the convenience store every Sunday morning, with a 'thank you, miss' to the cashier and a crooked smile.

The street corner was the place where women read gossip magazines at the barbershop with curlers in their hair, where businessmen rolled cherry chewing tobacco between their teeth as skinny boys shined their shoes, where girls blew bubblegum and drank fizzy soda from long straws at the diner. Edmond smiled at them all, eating a wrapped cheese-and-bologna sandwich from the deli for breakfast, or a can of tuna and crackers.

He'd stand at the corner of the street and draw the pouch from his travel pack, sprinkling birdseed for the doves. He was their commander: the birds came when he called, when his violin cried out for them, and they'd coo in his ear while rustling their feathers against his skin.

When I took the metro home, I'd see Edmond loitering at the laundromat or in the library. He didn't play much in the afternoon. Snowflakes dotted his hair while sleet clung to the depths of his clothes, and when the cold was harsh he dozed on the benches in the subway station. The doves followed him, preening his hair and nestling into his chest.

When his fingers weren't too frostbitten, he'd play the violin, and the sad wailing music would echo through the metro. I listened to his melodies and dug into my pockets for spare change, tipped it into his case and gave a nod.

"Where's your metro fee?" Mama would say.

"I lost it, Mama," or, "I'm sorry, Mama, I spent it," I would say.

She would roll her newspaper and hit me upside the head. I didn't care much.

As winter passed, Edmond stopped playing. His fingers grew numb with cold, and the violin stayed locked up in its case. He spent his days slumped over in the metro, shivering: even then, he scraped up enough change to feed the doves, which seemed to always be swarming him.

It was snowing heavy one evening. I sat next to Edmond and handed him my lunch, hot biscuits and gravy Mama heated up for me. "You need to eat," was all I said.

Edmond turned to me. "Thank you," he said with a little nod. He unfurled the paper bag and ate the biscuits dredged in gravy: he didn't chew. His scabbed lips split into a smile.

He played for me, then, one last time: his music was a plea as the doves circled him, and in the beauty of it all he gave a choked sob and said, "Go on home now, boy. Pile your plate up high and don't go giving your lunch away. You're too thin. And give your mama a kiss for me."

I did. I went home that night and kissed her cheek, told her I was sorry about our fights, that I loved her good and proper and I'd be more careful about my money.

Edmond wasn't at the metro when I came the next day, or the next. The doves were circling, looking for him, listening for his music.

When I realized he wouldn't be coming back, I took a long walk.

I ended up at the street corner, and in the little convenience store.

There was a woman behind the counter.
"Hello, miss," I said. "How much for a pouch of birdseed?"