Birds That Tappeth
Erin Douglass
For the last three days, I've woken to tapping on the bedroom window.
The first time, on Saturday, I ignored — or incorporated into a now-forgotten dream — the sharp, persistent noise. I'm not sure what I thought it was. The window is high enough that no human could've produced the sound unless he or she was using some sort of tool: a pointer or the edge of a hoe. Neither seemed plausible, particularly considering the state of our neglected, weedy front garden.
Later that afternoon, my husband Jon said, "Well, I finally scared off that bird."
"Bird?" I said, unbuckling our daughter Roxy from her swing.
"Yeah. The little brown bird that's been pecking on our window."
A bird which, true to form, showed up at six a.m.
Curious as to who would be trying to wake us so persistently at that hour, Jon apparently had approached the window and peered toward the porch. No one was there. The tapping continued. It wasn't until he'd glanced down at the ledge in the opposite direction that he'd spotted the bird at work on the glass. At that point, my husband, who is less sentimental than I about all creatures great and small, banged on the window and fell back into bed.
I was sorry that I'd missed the encounter.
For the last three and a half months, I've been on maternity leave from my job as a writer for a large downtown firm. The time away has been a heady stew of feelings and revelations: challenging (Roxy's birth), exhilarating (Roxy's actual arrival), overwhelming (the first few days with Roxy), inspiring (the very fact of Roxy), thrilling (the first outings with Roxy) and even relaxing (the many hours spent nursing Roxy).
I have loved being home, not only because Roxy has been here, kicking, yawning, observing and smiling, but because it's our home. Perched mid-hill in Los Angeles' quirky Mt. Washington neighborhood, it's a place Jon and I decorate, repair, scrub and, at 1400 square feet, thoroughly inhabit. But working fulltime, I spend too few waking hours in the house — an hour in the morning, then four or five hours at night, at best.
During my leave, I've noticed that the bedroom fills with light throughout the morning. The living room comes to breezy life in the late afternoon. The bright-blue backyard wall — originally, a depressing cement-block yawner that we painted last summer — glows whether it's sunny or rainy. I knew these facts from weekends, of course. But now I can picture the light, that glow, with my eyes closed.
The next morning, I heard the noise while lying half asleep in bed. Jon was in the kitchen making breakfast.
I disentangled myself from our daughter, who, at nine weeks, still sleeps with us for the entire night, and went to the window. Peeking behind the curtain, I saw a tiny bird no bigger than my fist standing on the ledge. The creature was striped in browns, with a brilliant patch of flame-colored orange on its chest and head.
I decided it was a finch. I know next to nothing about birds, so "finch" probably came to mind as the only small-bird name I've retained other than "wren." This bird was definitely not a wren.
While I watched, the bird proceeded to strike the window — a very cheap, old pane of glass set in the kind of metal frame (now rusted) that was popular in the 60s. The bird struck the glass head-on, tipped its head to the side and then struck several more times in quick succession. He didn't seem to notice me at all.
Nor did he notice Betty.
Betty is our 10-month-old black cat. She'd been watching the entire scene while balanced, a bit precariously, on the interior window ledge. A good-natured and fun-loving cat, she seemed piqued that this upstart bird wasn't flying away from her pointed stare.
I pulled open the curtains and returned to bed where I could watch the action.
The bird, undeterred, hopped a few inches to the left. Then, after a quick glance over the shoulder, it pecked the window rapidly, like a typist at deliberate work.
Trying to get closer, Betty picked her way forward on the narrow ledge, nose pressed to the glass. The bird stayed where it was and pecked a few more times. Lifting a paw, Betty chirped — that back-of-the-throat sound that cats make when faced with prey just out of reach.
At that moment, another bird — also a finch — landed on the outside ledge. This one seemed to be completely brown, but otherwise identical to its orange-chested friend. The newcomer peeped and cocked its head to one side in a "What could possibly be interesting up here?" kind of way.
At that point, Jon walked in bearing a tray crowded with plates, juice and a stack of pancakes.
"I think it's a finch," I declared, nodding at the window. "And now there's another one." I watched as he balanced the tray on a firm pillow. "Why aren't they scared of Betty?"
"It's that reflective film on the glass. I think the bird only sees itself." He passed a glass of juice over the expanse of white sheets.
With a loud peep, the all-brown bird fluffed its wings and flew away, followed shortly by the orange-brown bird. As Betty stared after them, we dug in to our blueberry pancakes.
Later that afternoon, returning from a baby shower with Roxy, I kissed Jon hello. "Did you miss us?"
He smiled. "That bird left about a half hour ago. It spent the whole day driving Betty crazy."
"I wonder what it thinks it's doing," I said, pulling Roxy from her car seat.
"Well, I did some reading on the Net..." — this is a familiar response in our household to unanswered questions of every kind — "...and usually when birds see their reflections they think they're facing a rival. This bird is trying to scare off the competition."
"Huh," I said and wondered how long the crappy window would withstand the finch.
Another plus during my maternity leave: getting to know the neighborhood.
In the last month before Roxy arrived, Jon and I spent countless hours walking the local hills. It was slow going and, for me at least, more internal and contemplative than external and social.
Now that Roxy is here and my body feels like moving again, the two of us go on almost daily neighborhood jaunts. Pushing the stroller up the windy, steep streets, I explore the "No outlets" and "Not a through streets." I notice gardens wild and pruned, watch the steady progress of home improvements, and wave at the regulars — old Gordon who's always out mowing or trimming his corner lot; the red-haired dog walker; the two guys building a foundation for a cliff-side home.
My daughter loves these walks. At first, the bouncing and noise lulled her to sleep. Now, with her eyesight stronger, she watches the passing scenery with fascination. Soon, I tell her, we'll stop at the park or to smell a flower. But for now, we're both just happy to move.
Monday morning, as I groggily came to, I heard the tapping. Betty, foiled from jumping up on the ledge by a pile of laundry, was sitting at the foot of the bed, staring at the curtains.
I rolled out of bed and pulled open the panels. The same brown-orange bird — at least I figured it was the same, although I guess it could have been a twin or even a close family member — stood there, pecking away at the glass.
"You're in for a long fight," I said, returning to the bed. The bird continued to peep and peck.
Soon after, Roxy woke up and quickly decided she was ravenous. After adjusting the pillows to nurse, I watched the defiant bird, which seemed as determined as ever to rid the neighborhood of this annoying rival.
"When do you think he'll figure it out?" I asked the top of Roxy's head.
The bird floofed its feathers and zipped away into the morning air. I heard some distant peeping and then, after a few minutes, a muffled tapping.
The bird had landed on the window ledge of Roxy's room down the hall.
I waited. Sure enough, it wasn't long before the bird gave up on the Roxy room rival and returned to the original problem outside our bedroom window.
And so it went, all morning long. I changed a few diapers. Ate granola while reading the Times. Played with Roxy on the couch. Sometimes I was aware of the tapping. Other times it was obscured by the weekday sounds outside the door: banging hammers, reversing trucks, gunning cars. By dinnertime, I realized the tapping was gone.
I wonder how long this bird will haunt our ledges. Will it grow frustrated and move on, defeated by its persistent competitor? Or will it enlist the help of other finches and form a gang, only to face an army of foes upon landing?
And what of Roxy, Jon and me? What will be the shape of our lives once my leave is over? Daycare awaits the little girl; will I be able to hand her over and walk away? Head back to my computer and deadlines? I think of our birds. How their first departure was straight down or flight.
Since then, the orange bird has been back every day. I can tell he's getting more annoyed. He flaps his wings at his rival and hops around more. He also seems to have taken up residence in our kumquat tree with a few friends. I can hear them chattering, as my daughter and I eat and play and work in these rooms, enjoying this time before moving into the world beyond our neighborhood.