Summer Job as a Squirrel Catcher

1968, Jonas, age 9, rolling sleeves and tucking trail, arming himself in the AM. They had been nearly three days under siege, and Jonas’ Castle Doctrine hung like heavy shame over the household. Jonas’ brother was the worst affected: only leaving his room twice since being diagnosed “1-A”. A side effect of the siege, Jonas knew.
Jonas patrolled.
Jonas kept watch.
Jonas stood vigil.
They came in the morning. Bushy tailed rats, beady little eyes; taking from the birdfeeder and giving to themselves. Squirrels had Jonas by the balls. His air rifle was ever-present, but Jonas always seemed to miss every shot. His aim was poor. He shot at hundreds, but they returned with each sunrise to steal the seed away. Jonas knew that his mother would refill it ritually, hoping for a few hours of song.
Each day passed the same. No birds, too many squirrels.
In the night, Jonas would stare out the window - looking up somewhere far away.
Young Jonas was up with the morning, he was a cold and bitter wind descending the mountain top. He held his shoulders back, brown locks tossed out of green eyes, loading air rifle carefully, inserting metal BB into magazine into ashy black handle; passed down from an older brother with no time to lean against balconies and take pot shots at squirrels or ruffle Jonas’ hair. Jonas popped his collar, zipped, cross tied his boots, wrapping around the back once before returning front-wise: two loops as taught. Waiting. Then, stepping outside, his breath catching and crystalizing into mist - no, like cigarette smoke: like his mother in front of the radio. Jonas pretended to puff, then the feeling of immaturity. The thought of his mother made Jonas sad: She cries all the time now.
It's a ritual. A squirrel dashes up the bird feeder.
 He is a bitter wind. He is kneeling in grey morning shade. He is holding his breath. He is touching eyelash to barrel.
BANG!
The ring dies, and Jonas stands surveying the field. No squirrel. Jonas leans back, yellow glow breaking through trees, disappointed and dozing.

BANG!
Eyes open, Jonas looked up to the silhouette of his older brother, out and about, light smoke trailing over broad shoulders. Jonas walked up and stood beside his older brother.
A warm hand on his shoulder, meeting eyes far and away, looking at one very dead squirrel, twitching under the bird feeder.
“Come on, Joan,” an older brother’s crinkling laughter like unwrapping candy, mouth watering, “let's make an example of this one.” And together, the two brothers strung the dead grey squirrel up by its tail, letting it hang from the feeder.
“Now,” Jonas’ older brother grinned, “the rest of ‘em will think twice.”
They admired their handiwork. A single bird landed on the feeder, gave the twitching squirrel a cautious peck, then fed from the seed.
“It’s only for a year or so, Joan,” he said, taking the cigarette from between teeth.
“I know,” said Jonas, though he did not understand.
“And when I come back,” the conscript said, “I'll be the first one from around here to go to college. It’s a kind of reward…” trailing off into the early morning.
The Squirrel spun slowly. Strung up by its tail, beady eyes bulging, little arms stiff with rigor mortis. When it got to be too much, his older brother told Jonas to take it down:
“After all,” he smiled sadly, “Ma would freak if.”
Then he ruffled Jonas’ hair and turned back.
Jonas leaned back and watched the morning atmosphere clear into electric blue - a single aeroplane slowly splitting the sky by longitude, white trail tight, a boat alone, crossing a river as wide as the world.
“Tomorrow,” Jonas declared, “I start my new summer job as a pilot!”
Or maybe an astronaut, he dreamed.
1968, Jonas, age 9, rolling aluminum overhead, cutting eye holes out of a space helmet, and eyeing the roof as a candidate for the moon.