The chock of the axe blow flew across the canyon and returned thinly to die at their feet. The jays stopped squawking for a breath as the sound shattered the air, then the net of screeches descended over the yard once more. The calls sounded like windup cars being jerked back.
“These goddamn blue jays won’t shut up,” Thomas said.
“They’re scrub jays, actually, Dad,” said Stevie, his lips pouting softly as he spoke. “We don’t have blue jays here where we live.”
“Gimme another log already, smart guy.”
Stevie pulled a log thicker than his leg off the pile. His father’s spare pair of work gloves slid around his hands and came halfway up to his elbows. Thomas sat the log on its end atop the stump, then brought the axe down with a grunt that sounded like “Ayeah.”
After each swing of the axe, the jays gasped in unison before starting up again. Their silences seemed more respectful than fearful.
“Come on, kiddo. You don’t have to stare at me chop the thing. Get another one. Takes you long enough to drag ‘em out of the pile and bring ‘em over to me.”
“Sorry, Dad.”
Thomas took some time lining the next log up. It had a jerky bend in the middle like a used staple, and it took him a while to get it to balance. Then just as he was about to swing the axe, the log tipped over and lay there with the bend pointing up. He staggered and tried to get control of the axe.
“Goddamn it! I told you to fucking step back when I’m using this thing! It’s not a goddamn toy, Stevie!”
“Sorry, Dad.”
His father searched the trees for the scrub jays. The outburst seemed to have riled them up even more.
“What the— What do you think they’re yapping about, anyway?”
“Sometimes when there are ravens in the yard, the jays get angry,” Stevie said. “But the ravens are bigger than they are, so they just squawk at them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sometimes maybe a hawk, too. They kind of like to make fun of him.”
“Who? The hawk? Birds are dumb, son. They can’t think well enough to make fun of something.” He tried again to set the bent log on its end.
“Scrub jays are really smart, actually, Dad. They can open peanuts.”
“That’s not saying much.”
Stevie drew a crooked line in the dirt with his toe.
Thomas got the log upright, but he hesitated with the axe. He held it with both hands across his chest, watching the log, daring it to fall over. When he finally did lift the axe and swing, the log split awkwardly into two uneven pieces, and the axe got wedged partway into the stump.
“You got another stupid log ready or what?” he demanded as he tugged on the handle. When it popped out, the blade rang for a precious moment.
“How much of this are we going to do?”
His father laughed suddenly. It sounded painful, like a scraping cough.
“You getting tired, kiddo? Just pulling those logs off the pile wearing you out? Think how I feel. You wanna hold this axe for a second? Imagine pulling it over your head and bashing it down hard enough to split these suckers in two. We haven’t even made a dent. Gonna need a lot more firewood than what we got over there already.”
“But it’s warm out.”
“People don’t build fires for warmth. This isn’t the goddamn eighteen hundreds. Where’s that log?”
Stevie offered the next victim with both hands. Thomas palmed it for show.
“No, your mother is gonna want a fire for the little parties she’s probably got going all winter long. Looks all nice and homey, I guess. She’s been on my ass about splitting the goddamn logs for weeks.” Thwack. “There you go. Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he said as he accepted the next log from Stevie. “Makes it a hell of a lot easier for me when you got the next one ready to go.”
As Thomas was about to bring the axe down again, Stevie shrieked and ran a few steps up the little embankment they were working against.
“What the fuck, Stevie? Scared the shit out of me. You want me to chop my fucking leg off or something?” his father bellowed.
“It just jumped out from under the log, Dad!”
“What did?”
“That! The lizard!”
Stevie was pointing to a grey shape on the ground in front of the woodpile. It was no longer than Thomas’ pinky.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Stevie. Look at that thing.” Thomas extended the toe of his boot and tapped the ground next to the motionless lizard. He bent over and reached out his hand.
“It’s dead, Stevie. Jesus. Must’ve been dead for a long time, kind of petrified, like a mummy there under the wood.”
“Are you sure?”
Holding the axe by the butt, Thomas gingerly cut the lizard in two. The insides were black, and it did not bleed.
They both started at what sounded like a man’s voice in the tree above them. An opalescent raven was perched there like a prophet. The jays had moved to one of the trees down the yard, but were still screeching.
Thomas got up and kicked the remains of the lizard away. Stevie kept his eyes on the raven. At the sound of the axe blow, the bird rolled its shoulders as if trying to maintain its balance on the branch.
“What? You afraid of the bird now? That why you can’t get another log?”
“I’m not afraid of him,” Stevie said. The raven had been silent apart from its initial cry. “I think he’s really cool.”
“Jesus Christ, Stevie! I ask you to help me chop the wood and you’re out here fucking around with the fucking birds!” Thomas picked up a piece of the last log he split and chucked it at the raven.
“Dad, no!”
It missed the branch by a good three feet. The bird stamped its feet a few times, then took off low over their heads and sailed across the fence to the top of the pine tree down the hill in the neighbor’s yard.
“Dad…”
“Log, please.”
“Dad?”
“Look, I don’t need your goddamn help, actually, Stevie. Go figure out what the fuck your mother’s doing. Maybe she needs someone to get in her way.” He grabbed a log off the pile, set it up, and split it in one swift motion.
Stevie took a few steps in the direction of the house, then sat down on the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees, holding his left wrist with his right hand. His father considered him, but he found another log and split it without a word. Stevie watched the stump studiously and blinked each time the axe came down. Something small twittered in the tree to his left. The jays were still at the other end of the yard where they had been driven by the raven.
After seven more logs, Thomas paused and leaned on the axe like a cane. “You just going to sit there? I told you to just go inside and bug your mother.”
“Mom’s not here, remember?” Stevie told the stump.
“Well, have you thought maybe she’s back? Maybe she needs some help with some stupid groceries or something, huh?”
“I didn’t hear the car.”
Thomas ran his gloved hand up and down the handle. Then he twirled the axe lazily and released it on the downward swing, so that it drifted off away from them and landed heavily in the bushes.
“You think you know when she’s coming back?” Thomas asked, his voice disarmed.
“Where did she go?” Stevie said. The words barely rose out of his chest, and Thomas appeared not to have heard him. He dragged his foot flat across the line Stevie had drawn earlier, smoothing the dirt over. There was a birdcall like a snare flam from the tree to Stevie’s right.
“Didn’t she say where she was going when she left, Dad?”
“Listen, kiddo, I think we got enough wood here.” Thomas pulled off his gloves and left them on top of the pile like an offering. “We’ll bring it up later.”
Stevie got up slowly and dragged his hands over his pants to wipe the dirt off.
“Stupid blue jays finally shut up,” said his father. “Think it was that raven?”
“Maybe. I don’t know, Dad. Ravens are smart, too. For birds, I mean.”
“So it’s like the blue jays and the ravens can’t stand to be in the same yard together? This town ain’t big enough for the two of us, eh?”
“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe.” The corners of Stevie’s mouth danced strangely.
“Too smart for their own good, that’s the problem. Smart enough to get jealous, but not smart enough to realize they’re still just dumb birds and they’re not worth shit.”
Stevie drifted to one side, head down and angled to the side, waiting for his father to go first towards the house.
“You probably shouldn’t tell your mother I’ve been talking like this. You know, when— when you see her. You know how it is when you’re out working hard. Sometimes bad words just pop out. Nothing you can do.”
They trudged back to the house. Thomas grabbed the back of Stevie’s shirt to keep the boy from walking inside with his shoes on. They stood at the edge of the deck and clapped the soles together. Thomas’ shoes went dock dock and Stevie’s shoes went dack dack.
“She said some pretty bad words this morning, too, you know,” Stevie offered when they reached the kitchen. His father’s head was buried in the refrigerator, and the boy could hear him rooting around, the crunch of lettuce bags and the chiming of bottles becoming more insistent as he journeyed deeper inside.
“You heard all that.” At the last moment, Thomas’ voice seemed to decide that it wasn’t a question.
Stevie ran his finger along the grout on the counter, jagging at the corner of each tile.
“Goddamn it, where are all the fucking beers?” He glared at the open refrigerator. “Sorry.” He took a Diet Coke from the door. “You gonna want some of this?” he asked, filling two short glasses with ice before Stevie could answer. He poured soda into each of them, then audibly sucked the last gulp from the can.
“Is she coming back?” Stevie asked.
“What do you mean?” Thomas challenged with a defiant finality.
He squeezed the empty Diet Coke can, and it bent in the middle, just like the crooked log. He went into the living room, and soon Stevie could hear the rumble of football coming through the surround sound. A pigeon was on the deck railing outside. Its gemlike eyes looked stuck on, like they couldn’t possibly be connected to its brain and capable of sight. Now this was a dumb bird, thought Stevie.
Connor Ferguson’s writing has appeared in The Rumpus, Gargoyle Magazine, Electric Literature, The Good Men Project, and other publications. He lives in Boston. Follow him on Twitter @csferguson.
