Chapter Twenty-Two

Mason

By the time I arrive on the scene, the birthday bonanza is in full swing at Benny’s. I slip in, unnoticed, and follow the smell of pizza and sweaty children to the cafetorium, hanging back to get the lay of the land.

There’s a young woman—clearly an employee of the establishment—directing the kids to their seats in front of the stage. Off to one side, Hennessy and a tall guy who must be her husband, are working to gather and stack an obscene number of presents. When she looks up, I manage to catch her eye, and she surreptitiously points to the other end of the room. My gaze swings slowly, almost afraid to look, but eventually I get there and I see her.

Walker O’Halloran is squatting down on her haunches interacting with two blond little boys. Based on their identical features, they could only be the birthday twins. What were their names again? Sam Adams and Yeung Ling? Miller maybe? No, no—Bud and Michelob. Right, right. Bud and Mick, for short. Whatever their names are, they’re watching their aunt with rapt attention as she speaks. I don’t blame them. She has that effect on me, too.

“All right, everyone! Eyes up here!” the younger woman calls out over the din while clapping her hands loudly. I see now that her name tag reads “Kyndall.” In a matter of moments, she’s attracted the gaze of everyone in the room. “Is everybody ready for Benny?”

An excited chorus of affirmatives rises from the children, several of whom can’t seem to control themselves as they jump up and down excitedly. It reminds me of the last time I walked a red carpet with my mother. One of the Hemsworth brothers was just ahead of us, and he got a similar response from the crowd.

“Okay, so Benny and the Chickadees will come out only if you yell ‘tweet, tweet, tweet!’ Are you ready?”

A cacophony of affirmatives commences.

“Here we go! Tweet, tweet, tweet! Tweet, tweet, tweeeeeet!”

The sound of four dozen toddlers tweeting at the top of their little lungs is enough to give anyone a migraine, and it makes me wonder if Miss Kyndall wears protective earwear. The tweeting continues until the curtain starts to roll up, exposing the star attraction, reaching a fever pitch when the curtain raises completely to expose the animatronic bird band.

Benny Bird who is, apparently, the love child of Elvis and a goldfinch, is stuffed into a leather biker jacket, bright yellow feathers sticking out of the collar, sleeves, and waist. He’s wearing sunglasses and sports a jet-black pompadour. He’s already started singing “Rockin’ Robin” as he twists from side to side—more, I have to note, like Chubby Checker doing The Twist than Elvis doing…well…whatever it is that Elvis did. Singing backup to his smarmy warbling are three “chicks” wearing poodle skirts and bobby socks with long ponytails sprouting out of their fine-feathered heads.

I’m absolutely baffled as to why these small children—not one of them over the age of five—are so enamored of a giant bird singing tunes circa 1955. It simply defies logic.

Walker has straightened up and is hanging off to the side of the room, scanning the tiny sea of toddlers, presumably for any untoward hair-pulling, biting, or nose-picking. All at once memories of being with her flood back into my mind, and I have to physically shake my head to dispel them. I have to pay attention here. It’s crucial that I approach her at exactly the right moment, and I can’t have her spotting me too soon. I’m about to move farther back into the shadows when something on stage catches my eye. And my ear.

“R-Rockin’ R-Rockin’ R-Rockin’ R-Rockin’ R-Rockin’…”

Benny appears to be stuttering. And stuck in a loop that has him swinging his shoulders back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Behind him, the three chickadees have frozen in place, silent and slumped slightly forward.

“What the…” I mutter to myself, watching as Walker starts to make her way toward the front of the room.

“Sit tight, boys and girls!” Kyndall calls out, trying to be heard above the relentless canned chorus of “Rockin’ Robin.”

That’s when Walker’s brother-in-law—and father of the twin birthday boys—appears, chest puffed out and clearly ready to save the day.

“Don’t worry! I’ve got this!” he yells, loping toward the stage and then catapulting himself up among the birds.

I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying, but Kyndall is down on the floor, looking up the three feet to where Bryan stands, shaking her head and gesturing for him to come down. But if he had any notion of listening to her, it’s squelched when his sons climb up onto one of the tables and start to yell.

“Daddy!” one of them hollers.

“Daddy’s gonna fix Benny!” adds the other.

We get to the front of the room, and I look out over the crowd of kids who are, so far, not freaked out. Jameson, Hennessy, Scott, and Father Romance are making the rounds, assuring them all that Benny just isn’t feeling very well.

Even from this distance, I can see the corners of Walker’s mouth have tipped up into a delighted little grin. She’s apparently very amused by this “bonus” entertainment.

I follow her gaze to where Bryan is now wrapping his hands around Benny’s upper wings and giving him a good hard twist.

And, while his actions do succeed in freeing the bird, they also manage to wrench his head right off.

Now, perhaps this could have been mitigated…had the head not then gone airborne. But it has, and there’s a collective gasp around the room as every eye follows the head’s progress as it sails above the crowd, slams onto one of the long cafeteria tables, rolls through a pizza, off the edge and onto the floor before finally coming to a rest in a corner.

This, too, might have been mitigated, had Benny’s lower extremities not continued to gyrate and sway in time to the music that’s still playing.

Several children have started to point and cry.

The unflappable Kyndall is on her feet, trying to get to the rogue head, but Bryan—still determined to save the day—beats her to it as he drops down onto his belly between the tables, using his elbows to crawl along as if he’s training for the Navy Seals. An instant later, he pops up again, a triumphant look on his face as he holds the pizza-sauce-smattered, still-singing bird head aloft in victory. It’s like something out of Game of Thrones a la “The Red Wedding.” The Red Beheading? Maybe the Yellow Plucking…

While a few of the children are laughing and pointing, others are wailing and crying for their parents.

“Wait!” Bryan is calling out, coming closer to the kids, no clue how ghoulish he looks with the bird head still in hand. Still singing. “Wait! Don’t be scared!”

At last, Kyndall intervenes forcefully, grabbing him by the arm to stop him in his tracks. He’s a good bit taller than she is, but that’s of little consequence as she looks up at him, speaking animatedly and gesturing to the head now hanging at the side of his body. Without warning, she spins around, scans the room, her eyes gliding right past me before doubling back and stopping. They narrow as she sizes me up.

“Uh-oh,” I mumble softly, stepping back, out of the line of sight. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I know it’s not going to be good. I came here with a a heart-felt speech meant to win over Walker, but I have a feeling that plan just flew to coop. And I’m right.

“You!” Kyndall yells, leveling a finger at me and stalking in our direction.

A quick glance around tells me that Walker is too busy dealing with shrieking toddlers to even notice me back here.

“Uh…yeah?”

“What are you, like six-one?” she asks.

“Six-two,” I correct her.

“That’s perfect. Come with me!”

“Uhh…wait…what’s—”

“Right. Now.” She demands with a confidence I would’ve expected from a woman twice her age. “You’ve got a job to do.”

“I…do?”