Sitting Duck

I wake to her banging the window and shining a flashlight down on the pond next to the house where the ducks nested during the summer.

“God damn it, get away from those ducks!” She screamed loud enough to wake neighbors.

“Mom, what the fuck are you yelling at?” I shouted.

“That goddamn fox is stealing eggs from Emma!” she screeches, “Go down there and scare it!”

I didn’t argue. I knew that with Mom, it's best to do as your told. Walking down the stairs, clueless as to what scared hungry foxes, I grabbed a copy of the past due property tax bill that scared the hell out of Mom. I also grabbed a pot and wooden spoon and in my boxer briefs, I ran toward the pond, clanging the pot and yelling in chorus with Mom in the window, providing the only light.

The next day I came home to an unmarked van parked in the driveway. Inside I found Mom and a professional trapper. “Normally I’d set a few traps and catch the thing, but with kids in the neighborhood, I can’t,” he said, “What I can do is give you these,” and he handed Mom what looked like M80’s.

“These are quarter sticks,” he continued, “illegal without a permit, so you never got them from me. All you do is find the hole and chuck one in.”

Mom nodded. I'm sure she’ll throw the dynamite away and never give it a second thought. She paid the man for his time and for the quarter sticks. I waited patiently to laugh and make fun of him. Instead, Mom handed me the sticks without instructions since I already heard.

“You can’t be serious.” I said.

“I want you to find that hole and blow that thing straight to hell.” Her eyes flared.

“Mom, these are quarter sticks of dy-na-mite, you know, T-N-T.”

She raised an eyebrow. Admittedly, Mom couldn’t voluntarily raise an eyebrow; it was an involuntary response, a warning not to continue debating. “Do you know where the term sitting duck comes from? It’s because ducks on a nest never leave their eggs. They’ll die before they leave them and I’ll be damned if I’m going stand idly by while Emma gets devoured by that goddamn fox.”

She forced the sticks into my hand. I turned to go and she stopped me, “Wait, you’ll need this,” handing me a lighter.

I found the fox hole halfway between the house and the city dump. If I returned and feigned success she’d ask, in a voice I would only hear as Marvin the Martian’s, “Where’s the earth shattering kaboom, there was supposed to be an earth shattering kaboom.”

The earth shattering kaboom shook the forest floor, and no doubt, drew the attention of the fox safe in his hole. I possessed the intestinal fortitude to point a loaded gun at someone’s face, but lacked the callousness to toss a bomb into a foxhole. His only crime was to answer the call of his growling stomach and who was I to interrupt nature’s design?

“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Mom asked, sitting on the lawn chair, swinging.

“Nope.” I replied.

She smiled, “Good.”