LJ Idol - Week 3 - Morgenmuffel
Abigail was a curious child. She was always asking questions, always opening doors to see if there might be something mysterious or beautiful or spooky on the other side, always following a few steps behind the matrons at the orphanage to see what they were up to because around every corner an adventure might be found.
“Girl, you need to mind yer’ own beeswax,” her mama had told her when she got too inquisitive, as they sat shelling peas in the sun or watching the Grand Ole’ Opry on their threadbare loveseat. But Abigail couldn’t help but ask about things, like when a new “uncle” came to spend the night, or when her mama brought a new suitcase home and hid it way up high in her closet.
Abigail kept right on minding everybody’s “beeswax” until the morning she woke up to an empty house, her mama’s beat up Chevy long gone and nothing to greet her but a silvery packet of Poptarts and a can of Mountain Dew on the stained kitchen table.
She missed her mama…sometimes…but the orphanage had been fun at first, with new doors to explore and new stories to discover. But soon she grew bored of the endless routine, the scratchy tights and early lights out and oatmeal for breakfast everyday. They NEVER got Poptarts at the orphanage.
So, when the Morgens pulled up looking smart in shiny shoes and sunglasses, looking for a “wise girl,” and a “curious girl” and maybe “a little girl with brown curls like Mrs. Morgen…” the matron knew just who to bring from the dormitory. Abigail did not disappoint, and soon she was riding to her new home in the backseat of a car with gleaming chrome and air conditioning!
Abigail liked the Morgens a lot. They liked to listen to music, Freebird and The Who were their favorites. They let her have Poptarts every Saturday morning and they always answered her questions, sometimes smiling to each other over her head indulgently. Mrs. Morgen had a melodic voice and would coo to her gently when she brushed her hair. Mr. Morgen built a treehouse with her and when he got home from work he’d “steal her beak” and they’d both laugh and then he’d give it back.
Things were good with the Morgens but the first night at their house, as she sat at the sparkly laminate table, the vinyl of the kitchen chairs cool against her legs, she had been given one very important rule.
“Abigail, Mrs. Morgen and I are very glad you are going to live with us now,” said Mr. Morgen and she could tell this was an important conversation by the serious look on his face. “We hope that you’ll like living here too. We want you to know this is your house now. You can explore all you want, but once you go to bed, please do not leave your room until 7:00 in the morning.”
It seemed an odd request, but with so many doors to open and an attic to explore, Abigail felt lucky to be living at the Morgens house. She wanted badly to ask one question, just one little word, “Why?,” but then she thought about mama, and the beeswax, and decide to just sit on this one for a bit.
Each night at bedtime, one of the Morgens came in and read to her from a book, Chicken Little was their personal favorite. As her eyes got droopy, they’d get her a glass of water from her attached bathroom and peck her lightly on the head and tuck her under her covers and then leave until morning. Some nights Abigail could hear them rustling around until late into the night, and when the moon was new sometimes she’d hear the screened porch door swing open and the Morgens would slip out into the black night together.
But in the morning they were up early, like early-early, every day before the sun and by the time she came out for breakfast, they looked just as perfectly presentable as if they’d slept all night.
After their alarm went off each morning, she could hear them shuffle out of their bedroom, one behind the other. They would pass by her door slowly, occasionally bumping the wall of the hallway outside her room before descending the stairs, an odd ruffling sound following them as they walked to the kitchen.
She tried to ignore it, to go back to sleep each time the alarm startled her awake but she just had too many questions. After weeks of lying in bed and wondering why she couldn’t leave her room, Abigail decided it was time to find out.
The alarm went off and the Morgens rustled slowly by her door. She slipped from the bed and padded on kitten feet across the carpet. Grasping the door handle, she gently, gently turned it until the latch snicked open and then held her breath when she pushed the door into the hallway, desperately relieved there was no creak as it swung into the darkness.
She crept to the stairs on her knees and slipped down on her bottom, one step at a time until she could see through the posts of the bannister into the kitchen below.
Both the Morgens had their backs to her. Wearing robes, they went about their morning routine. Mr. Morgen had the bread out and was waiting on some toast to pop. Mrs. Morgen was making coffee.
The toaster pinged. Mr. Morgen pulled the crispy bread onto a plate and buttered the toast. Then, reaching into the pocket of his flannel robe, he pulled out two plump white mice. Placing them on the bread before him, he lifted the delicacy to his mouth and crunched heartily into his breakfast.
Abigail gasped. The sound of her tiny breath reached the hypersensitive ear cavities of the Morgens and their heads turned toward the stairs in unison. Their heads. Just their heads, swiveling full circle to seek her out in the darkness. She found herself staring into two sets of wide golden eyes framed by feathered faces.
They hurried toward her, scuffling across the linoleum on taloned feet, their wings now visible beneath their housecoats.
“Oh Abigail,” Mrs. Morgen began, “We did not want you to see us like this. We’ve always wanted a baby and when we discovered we couldn’t have owlets of our own, we thought taking in a human child would be our best option. I hope you aren’t too disturbed, we have so loved having you here in our little nest.”
Abigail was surprised, but this was truly the most interesting thing to have ever happened to her plus, there were Poptarts every weekend. She reached out and delicately touched Mrs. Morgen’s beautiful brown feathered cheek before asking her next question.
“Could I have wings too…mother?”
The Morgens looked at each other over her head and hooted softly in happiness.
“Why don’t we talk about that in the morning, little bird?” Mr. Morgen asked and, taking Abigail beneath his wing, walked her back to her bedroom.