MY FIRST MURDER: PART II
Tears dropped from my eyes onto the small mound of dirt at my knee as I prayed and I offered my deepest and most sincere apologies to the bird for taking its life. It was a thoughtless act of stupidity on my part, and if I could only take it back I would. I had gathered wildflowers and placed them under a crude stick cross on a mound just a few yards from where the pigeon had spiraled from its perch, dead before it hit the ground. The ceremony was brief but only because Tim and Skip couldn’t stop laughing at me as I mourned.
My victim’s only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, sitting on a tree branch resting in the sun. Maybe the bird had been watching the three boys thirty feet below playing with the chubby boy’s new toy. The boys were chattering, unintelligible to the bird, but sounding much like young squabs waiting for a meal as mom and dad searched for fruit, worms, bugs, or any other food that could be regurgitated and shoved into their hungry mouths.
Earlier that day, Tim and I had raced up to Skip’s house upon learning that his mom had bought him a new archery set. Skip’s mom was a warm-hearted lovable lady and a child spoiler. She called her chubby little boy, Skippy, and insisted he play an instrument. She had bought him a gorgeous accordion—against his will because Skip wanted to be a bad boy, like Elvis. Regardless, his mom forced him to practice daily and occasionally perform at the Accordion Academy, or wherever kids are forced to play Lady of Spain, or Three Coins in The Fountain.
We first met Skip when he rode his bicycle with goose-neck riser handlebars and red streamers over to our school looking for the toughest kid at Thomas Edison Elementary. He boasted to us that he’d already been kicked out of Edison, which in his opinion was a punk school. He was now the toughest kid at the much larger, Roosevelt Elementary, and was itching for a fight to establish his reputation in two schools that he was a bad little dude. Skip didn’t have to look any further as my brother was the toughest kid at Edison. Tim ordered Skip to get off his bike so he could pound his fat ass and Skip looked Tim over for a second before extending his hand in friendship. And that was the end of the big showdown.
The archery set came with a beautiful wood bow, cardboard targets, and a quiver full of arrows sharp enough to pierce through the target. Skip’s dad had even purchased a bale of hay to mount the target onto.
While Tim and Skip set up the target, I grabbed the bow and took an arrow out of the canvas quiver and looked around for something to shoot at. When I spotted my target sitting on a branch about thirty feet up in a tree and yelled out, “Tim! Skip! Watch this! I’m gonna shoot that pigeon right through the middle of his neck!”
Of course, I knew there was no chance in hell I would be able to do such a thing—I had never even used a bow and arrow before.
I’ve often wondered what that pigeon might have been thinking at the time of its death. Was he laughing to himself while he watched me fumble with the bow and the arrow, already dropping it twice to the ground? Maybe he looked away briefly when he instinctively reacted to a large shadow flying past overhead. Or possibly, he was distracted by the older boys laughing and teasing me as I struggled with my weapon.
I eventually managed to slip the arrow’s nock onto the string and pulled back with all my strength. I’m sure the pigeon must have thought how cute I looked with my mouth tightly clenched, cheeks all puffed up, and my face turning red from the strain.
I’ll never understand why the pigeon didn’t see the arrow as it left the bow and headed straight toward him. A head bob to the right or left might have saved its life. Do pigeons play chicken?
All grief and tears aside, it was an incredible shot only an expert archer might be capable of. Although, once I saw the trajectory of the arrow’s path, I was heard to whimper out, “Oh, no!”
And even though I reached out and tried and stop it, I could only watch in horror as the arrow sailed through the air right to where I told Tim and Skip it would—clean through the middle of the pigeon’s neck.