Birthday Wishes, Part One

The next day, Seamus awoke again before dawn, this time in quiet anticipation. His stomach had been turning somersaults all evening, his mind wondering with dreams of grandeur. Should he get all he wanted for his birthday he presumed, he would be the happiest boy in the world. Even if he didn’t, he realized, there would be very little to compete with the title "Best day of the year," unless you counted Christmas, of course – still, on Christmas you had to go to church and celebrate someone else’s birthday. This would be much better than that.

Lying in the quiet predawn, the boy had little to ponder except how the day would play out. His most looked-forward to gift would be that pack rifle from the general store. Just a little .22, he thought when he saw it in the window. His brothers three, Mack, William and Tristan, all received their first rifles at different times – Mack got his at eight, William at seven and Tristan not until this year, when he turned ten. All wanted something completely different for their first gun, but they all received something of similar import – a pack rifle, small enough to be broken down and carried on the trail, but of enough weight to build muscles in a boy.
Passing by the general store window five months ago, Seamus had seen the weapon and stopped dead in his tracks, lost in the wonderment at the idea that something of such magnitude might one day come to claim him, even as he would claim the firearm for his own.

"Pop," he said as he trudged along after Agnius. "Pop, I like that pack rifle in the window there." Agnius looked down at his youngest son, a gleam in his eye and a careful trod coming into his step.

"Oh, you do now son? What turned your face to that weapon? You were looking at the Springfield, I bet."

"No sir, not the Springfield."

"The Rossi, then?"

"No sir."

"Well, which was it?"

"The Winchester, sir. I was looking at the Winchester." Agnius chuckled to himself and swung his head as he was prone to do, like a horse. They walked on in silence a few more paces, each consumed by his own thoughts until Agnius broached the subject once more.

"You got strong taste, boy."

"Thank you, sir."

"How old are you now?"

"Six and a half, sir."

"Aye, six and a half. The half is for good measure, I reckon. OK, let’s do this. You want that weapon for your own?"

"Yes sir." The boy nodded sheepishly and his mind raced back to that store window with the Winchester hanging behind the pane of glass. He could feel the warm hickory stock in his hands, the weight of it becoming comfortable, the stock coming warm and familiar against his little shoulder, his eyes down the sights, the pull of the trigger … "Yessir. That’s what I want."

"What you want for … ?"

"For my birthday, sir. That’s what I want for my birthday."

"Ha, I see. Already planning ahead. That, I bet, is why that ‘and a half’ was thrown in there. Well, do you know how old Mack was when he got his first weapon?"

"Eight, sir. I remember the story."

"That’s right. He was eight and worth his weight in salt, that one. He knew the value and responsibility of such a weapon. And do you know how old William was?"

"Bill was seven, sir. Same age I’m turning." The two turned the corner and began the trek out of the township and into the country. Seamus was kept on the inside, away from the rutted road while Agnius walked nearest the center of the lane, one hand in his pocket, hand gripped loosely on his ever-present flask, and the other swinging freely.

"Indeed. Seven. And do you know why he got his at seven while my eldest, my pride and joy, got his at eight?"

"No sir. I sure don’t."

"Well, though Mack is the stronger and the faster of the two, William had him beat in the responsibility department by a full year. I never had to tell William when to pull the eggs, only showed him once how to milk the old cow. All of that. William took to manhood quicker than Mack did. And that’s something. You can’t count that sort of thing like you can with speed, or strength or intelligence. That’s right here." Agnius pointed to his heart with middle and index fingers and thumped heartily. "Can’t teach that. I’ll tell you what, dear lad, you prove to me that you’re as heartful and responsible as William when he was seven and I’ll be glad, more than glad, to get you that rifle. But if you don’t end up with it come September, we’ll both know it was no fault of mine. Deal?"

"Deal, sir."

"’Atta boy. Now, that doesn’t mean I can’t teach you a thing or two about shooting, regardless of what kind of man you turn out to be, does it?"

Seamus, a sure smile turning his face, went wide eyed. "No sir. Doesn’t mean nothing like that no how."

"Alright then. We’ll begin the lessons after chores tomorrow and I’ll take you with me, empty handed of course, when we go hunting. You won’t be one of us, you know as you’ll have no rifle, no bullets, no opinions on the going ons of we men, but you’ll be allowed to listen and, when we get home, ask questions."

"OK, sir. Thank you."

"You’re welcome. And son?"

"Yes sir."

"You don’t mention our deal to Tristan, you understand? He didn’t receive his first weapon until this year, just a few short months ago and I don’t … well, just don’t mention it to him. You hear?"

"Yes sir."

"Good."

Seamus lay back in his bed and put his arms behind his head, hoping he was actually coming as close to manhood as he hoped. If he received the Winchester, it would prove something to himself, deep down, that he wasn’t just the runt of the litter, that he was able to stand up in the same realm as his brothers. He understood that his father cast but a small shadow in the world of men, but he hoped to cast any shadow at this point, if only he might be included in their world, in their realm, in their ways. Tristan, turning over in his sleep, mumbled something unexplainable and Seamus looked over at him, happily content that his brother was not truly awake to ruin this little moment he was having with himself. He relived the lessons his father taught him about gun safety, how to hold the gun, where the safety would be, when and why to fire – even when and why not to fire. He thought this lesson one of the most important, Seamus recalled, and pounded it into his head.

"It’s a lot better for you to have a gun and not need it, son. The trigger’s an unsympathetic thing. Once you fire that shot, there’s no going back. You need to use your mind and your heart, knowing when to put a bullet in a thing – whether it be duck, deer or man, you fire no shot aimlessly, you hear?"

Three months into his training, he went on his first hunting trip. The boys tracked incredibly well and ended up with a deer – William had brought it down – but they all took part in the hunt in a manner Seamus had not understood, even as an outsider. They encouraged one another in ways that were foreign to him. Never during chores did Mack put a hand on William’s shoulder. Tristan was not usually treated with such respect for, though he was but ten years old, he was a dead eye with his pack rifle. You weren’t allowed to fire on a deer until you got your first shotgun, but Tristan came home with a couple of quail and an expression of triumph that Seamus knew too well; he saw it every time he was thrown from the bed. There was something in the lad that Seamus mistook for evil – perhaps it was arrogance or pride, but even when the boy should have been the most humble or the most reverent, he found a way to cast a shadow of hubris on the scene. When he got the quail, for instance, he yelped out like a puppy when all the other men, Seamus included, stalked up the kill quietly, joylessly, knowing they had taken a couple of perfectly good lives in the killing. This murdering, it seemed, came more naturally to Tristan than the rest of the O’Leary clan.

Seamus rose from the bed, unable to stay put any longer. He dressed quietly in the morning cold and went out to the hen house, the same route that he had taken the day before. Though today was not his day to pull the eggs, he did it anyway – Elizabeth was supposed to do it, but he thought the pancakes she would be making would be work enough. The pre-morning air was chilly but not uncomfortable. The frost lay helpless on the grass and he kicked at it as he came back toward the house. He wondered if this was still a sign of that lasting childhood, then shook the thought from him. He was seven, after all, and found that seven was a great number to be. He would still be able to play with Tristan, he realized – wouldn’t even begin taking up too many more chores outside of occasionally shoveling up the horse dung, or helping Bill bring hay down from the loft – but he would begin the process of inclusion, that slow and quiet welcome into the world of men.

But what if, he wondered? The thought of failure hadn’t even crossed his mind until this very moment and the boy stopped dead in his tracks, hands white knuckling the basket of eggs until the weave groaned under the pressure. What if he looked forward to such a moment as this only to have it pass him by, forcing him to wait another year? "No," he thought. "I’ve done right. Pa knows it. I’ve done right. I’ll have that rifle."

As he came back into the cabin, he stomped his feet as Mack taught him, getting all the mulch from his boots. The screen door came quietly to its hinges as he kept his fingertips against the frame, cradling it so that it wouldn’t bang as he entered. Elizabeth, sure enough, was already at the stove, mixing up a batter for pancakes.

"What’cha got there, birthday boy?"

"Present for you."

"Well, whose birthday is it again? Thought it was yours." She laughed a little loudly then, stifled it and took the basket from her youngest brother. "Thank you for getting the eggs this morning. You really did volunteer this time ‘round, didn’t you?"

Seamus smiled and looked down, aware that she knew all too well what happened the previous morning. "I volunteered yesterday, too. Just… today was a different kind of volunteering."

"O yeah? How so?"

"Well, today was real volunteering."

She chuckled again and looked at Seamus with semi-serious eyes. "And what was yesterday?"

"Yesterday was practice for today."

"OK, little brother. That’s good enough by me. Have a seat, the pancakes will be up shortly." Seamus drew up the same chair he had taken up the day before, eager to get his fork into the fluffy goodness of Elizabeth’s pancakes. She always made them a little better than anyone else, he realized – partly because she was his sister and she thought the world of him, but mainly because she used a little bit of cinnamon in the batter and tossed on some macerated apples for good measure. They continued talking for about 20 minutes while she worked and the remainder of the household woke up. On a day like this, when one of the clan had a birthday, everyone took half a day off. Chores got done later than normal, people got more rest and, by and large, everyone was a bit happier than they would normally be.

Everyone arose of their own accord and, as they came through the hallway, wished Seamus a happy birthday. Even Tristan, for all his salt, smiled encouragingly. When Agnius came out, he put a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes and smiled knowingly. Elated, Seamus hoped this was a sure confirmation of what was to come. "Pop is proud of me," he thought. "This has to be a good sign." The day passed like any other, except that the boy had an elated feeling throughout the majority of it. When he looked back on his birthday as an adult, nothing seemed out of the ordinary but for the continuous quick and heavy clip of his seven-year-old heart.