A meadowlark and a corporal with PTSD form a friendship. What happens when the corporal is forced to confront his fears? Will his Christmas be ruined?

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Corporal Arturo Foster moaned and twisted in his sleep.

Thunderous explosions shook the ground. Bright flashes in the dark sky illuminated the faces of the dead and dying. Screams filled the night. Arturo choked on the pungent odors of gunpowder and the sickening sweetness of fresh blood.

In his dream, he tried to yell. It came out as a muffled whimper in the new light of dawn peeking into his bedroom.

He flinched awake. The veins in his neck pulsed, and his ears pounded in time with his heartbeat. Sweat trickled from his forehead. With a low groan, he threw off his blanket and hobbled to the bedroom window.

There, high in a tree across from him, sat his friend — a small bird with a bright yellow breast adorned by two black chevron stripes. According to Google, it was a western meadowlark, although Arturo hadn’t been able to find any images of meadowlarks with two chevrons. He opened the window, and the bird flitted onto the sill.

Still shaking from the adrenalin rush of his nightmare, Arturo grabbed an unsalted sunflower seed from the bag he kept on an accent table. “Here you go, buddy. Is that good?” He palmed more seeds onto the sill. “I should call you Corporal with that rank insignia on your chest.”

The meadowlark remained a handbreadth away from Arturo’s fingers while it hulled the seeds, keeping one watchful eye on the human, the other on the yard.

Arturo smiled.

His hands massaged the scars on his left leg and rekindled horrific memories, memories that barraged him night and day. Two of his buddies hit. Crawling toward them. An explosion. Blackness. Waking after surgery to discover he was the lone survivor of the ambush.

His chin quivered. “What do you think, Corporal? Will it snow some more today?”

The bird flew back to its tree and warbled as though it were inviting him to come out and play.

He sighed and stared through the neighbor’s curtains. Captain Campbell liked to do Christmas right. Red and green streamers hung in his living room. Multicolored lights twinkled from window, doorway, and tree. The large spruce in the old vet’s yard flaunted more colorful lights, off at this time of day, with a manger scene nestled at its base.

The captain was almost as big a Christmas fanatic as Arturo’s mom. She even decorated the fence and the tool shed in the back yard.

Guess I’d better call her.

The last time he had forgotten to phone, she cried and made such a fuss that he felt guilty for days.

He grabbed his cell phone from the table, and with elbows propped on the sill, watched the bird as he called his mom. But his fingers slipped, and the phone flew out the window, landing a few feet from the house.

The meadowlark fluttered to the ground and pecked at the screen. Arturo yelled, “Hey! Don’t break that.”

The bird looked up at him and tweeted a series of chirps before it continued its pecking.

Damn bird. He glared with set jaw at the annoying little creature, and even as he reached, he knew the phone was too far away. He’d have to go outside and fetch it.

Arturo hobbled to the front door and donned his winter gear. He edged the door open a crack. Several inches. Wide enough to squeeze through. The shrink said I’m ready for this.

He placed one foot outside, gripped the door jamb for moral support … and snapped his foot back into the foyer. Panting, he leaned against the wall for several minutes while the tears flowed.

Finally, he removed his coat and boots.

The swish of socks on the carpet was barely audible over his frenzied breathing as he made his way back to the bedroom window. The phone lay where it had fallen, mocking his cowardice.

The meadowlark swooped onto the sill and cocked its head.

“Yeah. I know. It’s right there. Mom’ll check in on me when I don’t call.”

The bird chirped. It sounded like anger, or perhaps a challenge.

“You still hungry? Here.” He scooped out another handful of sunflower seeds.

A gravelly voice sounded from somewhere above Arturo’s head. “Hi there. Feeding your friend again?”

He swiped at his eyes, wondering if they looked red and swollen, before he craned his neck. Captain Campbell was up on his roof stringing lights around the chimney. Arturo nodded. “Yes, sir. He and I are the best of buds now.”

“Why don’t you come over and join me for an egg nog? Too early for rum, but I just made up a fresh batch with lotsa nutmeg.”

“Sorry, sir. I …”

“I know, I know, you’re scared. Well, the invitation is open.”

“Sir, I dropped my cell phone. Do you think when you’re finished maybe you could pass it up to me?”

“I don’t know, Corporal. Seems like you should be able —”

The meadowlark dived at Captain Campbell’s head. The captain flinched and lost his hold on the chimney. He slipped and slid to the edge of the roof, scratching at shingles for a handhold. Within seconds he was dangling over the edge. “Help! I can’t hold on.”

Arturo’s heart pounded double-time in his chest. He gulped. Nausea threatened to overcome him. The bird trilled an abrupt series of alarm chirps.

The captain yelled, “Corporal! Double time. March. That’s an order!”

Arturo’s training triggered instant obedience. He vaulted out the window and up Captain Campbell’s ladder, ignoring the pain in his leg. Then he anchored one arm around the chimney and extended a hand. “Grab on, sir.”

The old captain, surprisingly strong for his advanced years, gripped Arturo’s wrist, first with one hand, then the other. He strained and grunted as he attempted to pull himself up … slipped … regained his handhold … slipped again. After what seemed like hours, he hitched one knee over the edge. With Arturo’s help, he was soon hugging the chimney and gasping to catch his breath.

Arturo scrunched his eyes closed. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Get all the air out. Inhale …

The captain laughed. “Will you look at that now?”

Arturo opened his eyes and frowned, thinking that the captain was making fun of him. But the vet was pointing at his spruce tree. It was full of meadowlarks, positioned on the branches in a perfect pattern. The lights switched on, and the birds trilled a tune that would rival the woodwinds section of the finest orchestra.

As though on command, the birds finished their song. They lifted into the air in a whirlwind of yellow breasts and grey wings, flying away in an undulating double-chevron formation.

The old vet shook his head. “Well I never saw anything like that before.”

Arturo gazed after the birds as they faded into the distance. He whispered, “Merry Christmas, little buddy.” Then he turned to Captain Campbell. “Merry Christmas, sir.”

The captain slapped him on the back. “Well, what do you say about that egg nog now?”

© Kathy Steinemann

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