Drucilla hid behind the shed with her hands clamped firmly on the hose. The damned blackbirds were gathering in the cottonwood branches again, preparing to feast on her blue-ribbon strawberries. The large berries were nearly in peak condition for picking. No one in the county matched her whole strawberry preserves. She proudly displayed her ribbons, but her most prized possession was a framed thank-you note from Mamie Eisenhower. It was for the jar of preserves she sent to her husband, the President. Even though it was over forty years ago, Drucilla bragged about it as if it happened yesterday.
Age was catching up to Drucilla. She promised herself this would be the last year she would enter her preserves in the fair. Ever since the blackbirds moved onto her acreage two years ago, it had been a constant battle to keep them from destroying her berries. She tried everything she could think of to drive them away. Just two weeks ago, she put a sheer net across the strawberries and managed to snare almost sixty of them. She hauled them away from the patch and smashed them with a sledgehammer while those in the trees shrieked in protest. They always came in early morning and late afternoon. She tethered a dog nearby, and at first the birds flew off when he barked, but they soon ignored his barking, and the dog began ignoring them as well. Drucilla took the dog out behind the shed and shot it.
She whispered to herself; Keep coming you little demons. She had the hose connected to her water heater. Four minutes later, she stepped round the shed, twisted the nozzle, and fired a hot stream of water up into the branches of the trees. She waved her arms back and forth while dozens of birds fell to the ground flapping their wings and moving their beaks. She dropped the hose and grabbed the spade.
By the time she finished smashing them all, she was exhausted. Her oversized cotton smock hung limply from her shoulders. Beads of perspiration slid through the wrinkles that curved around her eyes and mouth. Her heartbeat pounded, and she felt pressure in her chest as she made her way slowly to the house. She plopped in her easy chair. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t even take a shower because I have no hot water. She sat slumped, her mind plotting a final revenge on her feathered foes.
The next morning, Drucilla ran a long extension cord from her house to the strawberry patch. Then she plugged in her portable radio, tuned to an acid rock station, and turned the volume as loud as it would go. She climbed into her old Pontiac station wagon, pulled the plugs from her ears, dropped them into her purse, and drove into town.
Bonnie Madison waddled up to Drucilla in the grocery store. Her voice had an irritating high-pitched whine to it. “Dru, it's so good to see you.” Her dimples were prominent on her pudgy face when she asked, “Have you harvested that fabulous strawberry crop yet?”
Drucilla gave her a sideways glance. “No, this year it's for the birds”
Bonnie’s eyes widened. “You can’t mean that,” she whined. “They didn’t grow as big? I’m so sorry.”
Like hell you are. “They're bigger than usual. This year I'm not going to pick them. They're for the birds to eat.” She walked off leaving Bonnie staring in disbelief.
Drucilla stuffed the earplugs in her ears when she drove up into her yard. She set the large white bag on the ground and carried her groceries into the house. She unplugged the extension cord, donned a sunbonnet, and put on plastic gloves before emerging from the house. She picked up the white bag and headed for the strawberry patch. For the next three hours, she crawled on her knees and carefully sprinkled a light diaphanous powder on every strawberry.
When she finished, she treated herself to a long hot soak in the tub. She felt a little sad about the demise of her stellar reign as strawberry queen of the Baxter County Fair. For forty-two years in a row, she'd won the blue ribbon. She thrust the thoughts out of her mind and concentrated on her final coup against the blackbirds. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself.
After her bath, Drucilla tiptoed out of her house carrying a chair. She sat in the shade of the shed and waited for the birds to gather, as they always did, in late afternoon. Her eyes were constantly scanning the sky, but the birds didn’t come. At twilight, she gave up her vigil and went back into the house. They’ll be back, she thought. She ate a sandwich and turned on the television. Her work in the strawberry patch, combined with the hot bath, put her into a deep sleep.
Shrieks and moans blended with the sounds of the television. Drucilla stirred and opened her eyes. A police car had its siren blaring on the tv show. She blinked her eyes to shake off the fog of sleep when mournful cries again penetrated her ears. She sat up and grabbed the remote. She turned down the volume on the set and tilted her head, listening—silence. She walked to the screen door and looked out into the dark—silence. An uneasy feeling settled over her, and she shut the big door and bolted it. She made sure all of the windows were locked before retiring to her bedroom.
She awakened early the next morning. Once again she picked up a kitchen chair and carried it out by the shed. It wasn’t until she was seated and scanning the sky that her eyes shifted to the strawberry patch. A raspy sound escaped from her throat as she sucked in her breath. She stood and walked stiffly in the direction of the strawberry patch. Bonny Madison was the first person she approached. Spittle trickled from the side of Bonnie’s mouth. She was sprawled on the ground like a huge water balloon. She was whispering. Drucilla knelt beside her and lowered her head to hear. Bonnie whispered, “The whole town showed up to help you harvest your strawberries. I knew you didn’t want the birds to eat them.”
Drucilla stood and looked out over the patch. It was strewn with the bodies of over two hundred townsfolk.
The shrill cries of the blackbirds broke the eerie silence as they circled over the Strawberry patch.
