They called to one another, each note higher than the last:
kee-kee-kee-kee
.
Back came my blue-sky day. It had alighted on earth in the slate-blue feathers of the male pigeons’ backs. The rose color on the males’ chests eased into the blue by turning green and gold. Long black tail feathers trailed behind.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I put the rifle in my left hand and rooted around in my coat pocket for a cartridge. Then I opened the trapdoor, slid the cartridge in, and closed it back up.
Most people shoot pigeons with a shotgun—No. 8 pellets. A single cartridge of pigeon shot is filled with hundreds of tiny balls. These pellets spray outward, so a single shot can garner several birds. But I wasn’t after a pigeon pie; I wantedsport, to show skill at shooting. Grandfather Bolte and I were keeping track of what I shot with the ammunition I used, and to shoot a bird with a single bullet is difficult—even a bird as large as the big male in front of me. I estimated that bird at a full seventeen inches head to tail.
He’ll do fine
, I thought.
The movement had captured the big male’s attention. He twisted his head this way and that, eyeing me. Several other birds flicked their heads side to side, and began to take a few tentative steps. I heard a low
twee
repeated among them. The wing feathers on one lifted a little. I think of wild pigeons as being bold, but I could see this group would bolt if I did anything sudden.
This is the moment where inexperienced hunters panic. They sense anxiety in their prey and jerk their rifle to get their shot. But I never panic. I let stillness seep through me while I line up my target.
Given my preoccupation with Agatha and Billy, achieving stillness that day was no small feat. But I did it. I leveled the rifle and concentrated on that big male. That bird and I existed in a tension, like a wire was pulled tight between us. I could hear him thinking:
What? What? What?
The big male twitched his head to look at me from one more angle. Then that male took a step toward me, his rosy red breast dead center. I squeezed the trigger.
Bang! The rifle butt jammed against my shoulder. A bird screeched. Wings clapped. A trail of smoke hung in the air.
I let the barrel drop. As I waited for the air to clear, I shook out the cartridge and loaded another one into the rifle. Maybe the birds hadn’t flown too far.
When the smoke cleared, the big male lay on the ground right where I expected him. The rest? Gone.
I walked over, picked the big male up, and ran my hands over his feathers. I flushed with pleasure imagining what Grandfather Bolte would say. I removed the unused cartridge from the rifle, pocketed it, and remembered Agatha and Billy.
Agatha was sitting on that split-rail fence alone.
“Where’s Billy?” I called out.
“I nearly went looking for you, but I didn’t know which way to go,” she said.
She hopped off the fence, came to me, and began to fuss. “You are covered in mud. Your shoes are barely recognizable,” she said. Agatha pushed me in a circle and tugged on my skirt. “Ma is going to have words with you!” Then she clutched my hand and held it up. “For heaven’s sake, hold that bird out from your coat. The blood, Georgie!”
I saw that the wool of my coat was soaking up the bird’s blood, red blossoming on the dark gray.
“What were you thinking? This is going to take a week of cleaning.” Then she looked at the bird. “What a beautiful pigeon!”
“February is early too. Where
is
Billy?” I said.
But Agatha wasn’t listening. She was pulling me toward a puddle. “We need to clean that coat before you go home,” she said.
So we splashed water all over me and my clothing, trying to remove the grime. My skin came clean, but any cloth with pigeon blood on it was a lost cause. Agatha kept fretting over the stains.
Finally, I shoved Agatha off me. “Did you tell Billy you’d marry him or not? I asked you about Billy twice,” I said.
That
kee-kee-kee-kee
.
Back came my blue-sky day. It had alighted on earth in the slate-blue feathers of the male pigeons’ backs. The rose color on the males’ chests eased into the blue by turning green and gold. Long black tail feathers trailed behind.
I couldn’t believe my luck. I put the rifle in my left hand and rooted around in my coat pocket for a cartridge. Then I opened the trapdoor, slid the cartridge in, and closed it back up.
Most people shoot pigeons with a shotgun—No. 8 pellets. A single cartridge of pigeon shot is filled with hundreds of tiny balls. These pellets spray outward, so a single shot can garner several birds. But I wasn’t after a pigeon pie; I wantedsport, to show skill at shooting. Grandfather Bolte and I were keeping track of what I shot with the ammunition I used, and to shoot a bird with a single bullet is difficult—even a bird as large as the big male in front of me. I estimated that bird at a full seventeen inches head to tail.
He’ll do fine
, I thought.
The movement had captured the big male’s attention. He twisted his head this way and that, eyeing me. Several other birds flicked their heads side to side, and began to take a few tentative steps. I heard a low
twee
repeated among them. The wing feathers on one lifted a little. I think of wild pigeons as being bold, but I could see this group would bolt if I did anything sudden.
This is the moment where inexperienced hunters panic. They sense anxiety in their prey and jerk their rifle to get their shot. But I never panic. I let stillness seep through me while I line up my target.
Given my preoccupation with Agatha and Billy, achieving stillness that day was no small feat. But I did it. I leveled the rifle and concentrated on that big male. That bird and I existed in a tension, like a wire was pulled tight between us. I could hear him thinking:
What? What? What?
The big male twitched his head to look at me from one more angle. Then that male took a step toward me, his rosy red breast dead center. I squeezed the trigger.
Bang! The rifle butt jammed against my shoulder. A bird screeched. Wings clapped. A trail of smoke hung in the air.
I let the barrel drop. As I waited for the air to clear, I shook out the cartridge and loaded another one into the rifle. Maybe the birds hadn’t flown too far.
When the smoke cleared, the big male lay on the ground right where I expected him. The rest? Gone.
I walked over, picked the big male up, and ran my hands over his feathers. I flushed with pleasure imagining what Grandfather Bolte would say. I removed the unused cartridge from the rifle, pocketed it, and remembered Agatha and Billy.
Agatha was sitting on that split-rail fence alone.
“Where’s Billy?” I called out.
“I nearly went looking for you, but I didn’t know which way to go,” she said.
She hopped off the fence, came to me, and began to fuss. “You are covered in mud. Your shoes are barely recognizable,” she said. Agatha pushed me in a circle and tugged on my skirt. “Ma is going to have words with you!” Then she clutched my hand and held it up. “For heaven’s sake, hold that bird out from your coat. The blood, Georgie!”
I saw that the wool of my coat was soaking up the bird’s blood, red blossoming on the dark gray.
“What were you thinking? This is going to take a week of cleaning.” Then she looked at the bird. “What a beautiful pigeon!”
“February is early too. Where
is
Billy?” I said.
But Agatha wasn’t listening. She was pulling me toward a puddle. “We need to clean that coat before you go home,” she said.
So we splashed water all over me and my clothing, trying to remove the grime. My skin came clean, but any cloth with pigeon blood on it was a lost cause. Agatha kept fretting over the stains.
Finally, I shoved Agatha off me. “Did you tell Billy you’d marry him or not? I asked you about Billy twice,” I said.
That
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