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By Vicki Austin

But let me explain. No, in the words of Inigo Montoya, “… there is too much. Let me sum up.”

Or try to.

During our social isolation, my husband and I have taken to walking for endless miles in our tiny, slightly urban corner of the world.

Within a seven-mile radius of our home, we can tell you which sidewalks boast the best trimmed trees — no ducking necessary — which ones have the most threatening dogs — I have learned I’m fully prepared to grab my beloved by the shirt collar and thrust him out of harm’s way — where the friendliest porch-sitters perch waiting for passersby — yes, it is a lovely quarantine day behind these masks, isn’t it — and which uneven sidewalks must be carefully navigated to avoid another “Vicki falling on her palms and popping the lenses out of her new knock-off Foster Grants” debacle.

We are a finely tuned pair. Our neighbors know exactly when we are going to leave in the morning, and when we will return. And of course, we wear our Covid-19 masks.

A few days ago, all of this predictability went, for just a few hours, right out the window.

It started with a new mask.

My husband has long been very happy with his facial adornment, aka gaiter scarf, purchased quite a few months ago. Just an aside here, to me the scarf somehow makes my husband’s youthful fifty-plus-self look like the heroic Spider Man. To the woman who yelled at him out of her window the other day, the scarf makes him look like a burglar.

I, however, having received a set of five, new, purple, triple-layered, Covid-19 masks for my outdoor recreation time from my love, was ready to share my newest fashion with the world.

Pairing my face covering with a hot-pink tank top, neon purple and fuchsia crop pants, violet Saucony runners, orange socks, and a navy-blue ball cap to cover my morning hair (I am blessed with endless greasy strands upon waking), I was prepped to go. Well… once I Velcro wrapped half my body in the hip-flexor support I have needed since sitting for online teaching has left me physically impaired, I was ready to go.

Glancing in the mirror, I hesitated as I felt the annoying poke from an underwire gone rogue. It was really time to get a new bra, but we weren’t going to be gone for very long, and this one was the best for my new-mask outfit. I shrugged and pulled the pricking fabric down once more before announcing my preparedness. I felt a nagging suspicion that it was a credit to my husband he didn’t object to being seen with me in public. Even so…

It was a cool, promising morning, and there was a spring in my step as I suggested a familiar route to my other half. It would give me maximum new-mask mileage. We’d gone about two miles, when fate stepped in.

As my husband pondered the merits of a large blue house we were passing, I stopped short. There on the sidewalk in front of me, was a heaving, shuddering, ball of down.

I am not known for my toughness.

Tears started to pour.

My husband peered at me from beneath his imposing fabric-swaddled brows.

My sobbing started in earnest.

There was no choice. He started searching the property for a nest.

“Don’t get too close to the house,” I hissed in his direction, looking for more nosey neighbors with shotguns. We live in a very stand-your-ground community.

“Good point,” he replied, as he cautiously ambled back over to the tree and tried to look like an unassuming birdwatching bandit.

Handing me his phone, my sweetie suggested I call the gaming commission. We both ambled onto the road, attempting to look like ordinary citizens, stopping to make a routine phone call in the sleepy street.

Having been directed to a delightful rescue organization, we put a plan into place.

Hastily removing my purple swatch by the ear loops, I carefully swaddled the baby mourning dove in its folds. The bird was hardly stirring.

“It’s an hour and fifteen minutes by car once we get home,” my husband said, eying the bundle with concern. “Let’s start walking.”

We started off. Now, my hip generally starts to act up a few miles into our journey, and this day was no exception, especially as I had dislodged my Velcroed brace in the bird-recovery operation. As I clutched the folded mask and its contents carefully to my chest, I tried to lean into a soothing stretch. My husband eyed me warily.

“Don’t hurt your hip. Maybe you should slow down. I’ll go ahead and get the car. It might not make it, you know. Don’t injure yourself more.”

Tears streaming anew at his words, I agreed to this plan. As my husband’s outline grew smaller in the distance, I picked up my pace the best I could.

“Get another mask!” I yelled. He nodded.

“And my phone!” I hollered. His head bobbed.

“And I’ll need my reading glasses!” I continued.

To the man’s credit he turned and smiled and just kept going, leaving me, a wildly capable, unmasked woman, to my own devices.

But there was my hip, and darn if that bra wire wasn’t stabbing me in the left breast. I pushed at it with my elbow as I was unable to use my hands in any way other than to cradle my bundle and try to keep it from absorbing the shock of my uneven gait. The Velcro was scratching my side and pulling down those saucy yoga pants. Blowing my greasy hair away from my tear-stained face, I tried to watch the pavement below me, and keep my slippery leggings aloft.

Limp. Push. Blow. Sob. Yank.

My husband turned around to check on my progress. Waved. Continued.

Limp. Push. Blow. Sob. Yank.

My husband turned around again to check on my progress. Hesitated. Waved. Continued.

He grew even smaller. It was all us now.

I looked down and started the conversation.

“Your name is Frankie, obviously, because Frankie can be a boy or a girl, and I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl, so Frankie it is!”

I felt my face pull into a terrible grimace as I tried not to bawl outright.

Limp. Push. Blow. Sob. Yank.

Frankie stopped shivering and started burrowing.

“That’s it, Frankie!” I yelled, “You can hang on. I’m taking you to people who know how to care for you.”

Limp. Push. Blow. Sob. Yank.

Frankie nestled a soft beak into the mask and shoved a bottom out of the folded opening.

“You’ve got this Frankie. You’re not going to die!” I cried out, holding the purple bundle aloft as I tripped on the sidewalk in front of me, but somehow maintained my balance.

I had just entered the business district and the two women coming towards me with a baby stroller looked concerned, frightened, really. Sometimes we get strange characters lurking in the doorways early in the morning. I turned towards the towering windows, preparing to throw myself in front of the carriage to protect the child from the impending threat.

He was indeed a frightening man, a Mike Meyers “Wayne’s World” look alike complete with an irreverent ball-cap-adorned puffy white face, greasy wild hair, sloppy pants and a ripped tank top. He was muttering some kind of nonsense to himself and my heart began to race.

But, why was he carrying a purple mask… similar to my own? Oh, dear.

The women gave me a wide berth.

I pulled my elbows in tighter, slowed my gait, narrowed my steps.

I quietly, unobtrusively, limped, pushed, blew, sobbed, yanked.

I’m quite sure the man who ran the red light in front of me instead of coming to a full stop as I approached the intersection was on his way to a sale on sprinkler heads at Target. You know how fast they go.

And that man on the bike, he definitely wanted to test the strength of his skinny tire wheels on those uneven curbs while allowing me and Frankie space to spread out.

After quite a few more limps, pushes, blows, sobs and yanks, my chariot arrived. We were on our way.

We drove for an hour and ten minutes. Frankie livened up. Frankie burrowed. Frankie poked a nose out and peeped at me.

Upon our arrival to the rescue facility, I emerged from the car triumphantly. Gently holding Frankie aloft, I prepared my speech.

This is Frankie. This is Frankie’s mask blanket. Frankie likes to cuddle in the mask and stick a feathered bottom out. Frankie’s left wing is a little tender, but Frankie likes to spread it out while sleeping. Frankie has two cuts below his/her right eye so be careful when you swaddle Frankie, and Frankie’s hungry. Frankie likes to be warm so when you feed Frankie, keep the wrap handy.

 But when I got out of the car, I quietly handed Frankie to a new caretaker, who was, for some reason, all business. As a matter of fact, she looked a little pale.

“Can I take a photo of your facility for my students?” I asked. “I teach seven-year-olds. They will love to hear about this.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered as she backed away, then turned and hastened her way back inside

I snapped a few photos and adjusted my brace. Velcro is torture.

My husband seemed to be snickering at me. “Boy, she was in a hurry.”

“Yes,” I said, smoothing my hair under my ball cap. “It’s your mask. I think it scares people.”

— Vicki Austin

Vicki Austin, faculty and dorm parent at Wyoming Seminary College Preparatory School, lives with her husband, two children and 80 or so other teenage boys in Kingston, Pennsylvania. Vicki has more than 25 years of experience in many facets of education and is currently shifting her writing focus from persuasive to creative. Vicki’s most recent work has been featured on the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop blog, included in the online journals Projected Letters and Wraparound South and printed in The Walls Between Us: Essays in Search of Truth, a Juncture publication. You can find Vicki on Twitter @VickiAustin02.