Chapter Twenty-Three

Walker

Apparently, back in the low-tech days, Benny and the chickadees were actual, real-life people who dressed in costumes—performing live and mingling with the kids. But, after an unfortunate incident involving Benny, one of the divorced mothers, and the ball pit, the company invested in the animatronic show used today. When it works, that is. For now, though, it’s back to basics.

I don’t know how long it’s been since someone put on the Benny Bird costume, but the thing looks as if it’s been around the block more than a few times. Where the feathers aren’t hanging on by a thread—literally—they’re flattened…and a little greasy. The rubber feet and beak are kind of dingy and when he walks passed, I get a whiff of eau d’ashtray. And I’m guessing it’s ten times worse for the poor schmuck who’s inside the costume at the moment. He definitely drew the short straw. Still, he’s pleasant enough, giving me a little wave as he heads into the main entryway, where all the children have been corralled.

“Look!” Kyndall yells excitedly. “Look everyone! It’s Bennnnnnny Biiiiirrrrrd! Benny is back, and he’s okay!”

Teary-eyed, sniffling children turn their damp and snotty little faces toward the tattered bird and it’s like he’s a rainbow, a unicorn, and a giant candy bar all rolled into one.

“Benny’s alive!” one girl screams.

“Benny’s got his head!” a little boy adds.

Before I know it, Kyndall is leading them all in a chant.

“Ben-ny! Ben-ny, Ben-ny, Ben-ny!”

The tiny people start to swarm him, grabbing the orange rubber legs of his costume and tugging at the hideous yellow feathers that cover it. Benny drops down onto his haunches and spreads his wings so they can wrap their tiny little arms around him.

I can’t help but smile. This guy’s good. I hope Henny and Bryan are going to slip him a little something extra for his trouble. He’s probably a busboy or dishwasher who just happened to be the right size for the costume and somehow got suckered into pulling Benny duty.

This goes on for the better part of an hour as I mingle among the kids, handing out goody bags and helping the birthday boys tackle the present pile. I have to admit this party has gone a lot better than I anticipated. When I left the house this morning I was feeling sorry for myself. Wishing I could just call Mason. Tempted to do exactly that. But talking myself down from the ledge. I have got to stop doing this to myself.

We all breathe a huge sigh of relief as the doors swing open and Baily rushes in with Donovan. They flank a large rolling cart with a monstrous Trevor-Train-shaped cake.

“Out of the way!” Bailey yells.

It’s like watching the ER docs rush a critical patient into surgery.

A round of cheers goes up as they get to the cafetorium, where the kids have just decimated twin piñatas—both in the shape of beer cans. One Michelob, one Budweiser. And where the adults in the room have started to look a little worse for the wear.

Bailey and Henny fuss over the setup of the giant confection, getting candles into place as the twins try to scale the cart so they can get a better look. I note the fact that their father is hanging back, trying to make himself scarce since the great bird head debacle. Poor Bryan, always trying to save the day. Well, today, the big hero was Benny Bird.

I see him standing off to the side, now that the kids’ attention is focused on the cake, and seize the quiet moment to pay my respects. He seems a little startled when I tap him on the shoulder and has to turn his entire body to face me. Apparently Benny’s head doesn’t move independently from the rest of his body. As Bryan found out earlier.

“You saved the day, Benny,” I say with a gentle slap to his wing. “Good job, man.”

He ducks his head down in some cross between a nod and a bow. Then, he takes my hand in his giant wing and brings it to his beak, where he pecks—yes, actually pecks—the back of it.

“My, my, Benny, aren’t you the gentleman,” I say with a chuckle. “You got plans tonight? ‘Cause I’m flying solo right now,” I tease with a wink and a nudge.

His wings open and he beckons me to come into them.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I say. This is starting to get a little weird.

“Auntie Walker! Benny wants a hug!” my little niece Maggie says, having witnessed Benny’s gesture.

“Fine, fine,” I mutter, inching closer to our faux-feathered friend.

But, when I try to give him a quick squeeze, the cheeky bird uses his wings to fold me into him, pulling me right up against his chest and patting my back. Maggie is doing that deep belly laugh/chortle thing that she’s been doing since she was old enough to laugh. So, while I curb my impulse to knee Benny in his nether regions, I do lean in close enough so that only he can hear me and I drop my voice down into a menacing hiss.

“Benny, I suggest you get your feathers off my posterior before I pluck you, twist your head off, and hang you up to drain the blood.”

He lets go. Fast. In fact, Benny Bird practically pushes me out of the nest.

Smart bird.

…

It takes another two hours to get the presents opened, pass out the goody bags, and debrief the parents on the erstwhile headless Benny, who may or may not surface in their kids’ nightmares tonight. Jameson and Scott are helping Henny and Bryan tote all the gifts to the car while Bailey watches the twins and Maggie.

Big Bird Kyndall is packing up the cake—with the help of my oldest nephew, Jackson, who clearly has a crush on the young woman. The fact that she’s easily twelve years his senior doesn’t seem to detract him in the least. It makes me smile to see him experience his first pangs of romantic attraction. Not that he’s going to act on them anytime soon, he’s only seven. There’s plenty of time for love pangs. For him, anyway.

I sigh and look around to find Benny Bird watching me from his perch against the wall.

“Yo, Benny, I think it’s safe to lose the head,” I inform him.

There’s just something about this guy that’s off. Not bad or creepy…just…not quite right. And the fact that he’s still wearing the hundred-pound suit when the heat’s up to about eighty in here has me a little suspicious.

I stroll in his general direction, but he doesn’t move, except to tilt his head to one side, like a puppy trying to decipher a new sound.

“Aren’t you hot in that thing?” I ask.

He nods, then points to the clasps that hold his head on.

“Do you need help getting out of there?”

He nods again. Of course he does. He’s got freakin’ wings. No fingers. No opposable thumbs.

“Fine, let me help you,” I murmur, standing on tiptoes so I can reach the hardware affixed to the suit and unclasp it.

There are four of them altogether, and I have to do a complete orbit around him before the head is in position to be removed. He tries to lift it off himself but can’t quite grasp it in his wings. I roll my eyes and stretch to assist him once more.

“Your head’s not gonna pop off and go flying like the one on the stage, is it?” I ask, pausing for a moment.

He shakes his head no and I resume the task—which isn’t as easy as you might think. The bird head is oddly shaped and unwieldy, the feathers making it hard to get a good grip. Finally I manage to get a hold of it and I pull up slowly, careful not to remove anyone’s actual flesh and hair with this thing. Whoever he is, this guy is tall. Inch by inch, I expose his neck, then his chin. His mouth…

Hey, wait a second…

His nose.

I know that nose.

And finally, his eyes.

Mother. Trucker.