And drinking it, for that matter. He raised his bottle to the art school kids, but if they noticed him doing so, they didn't respond. He could smell the pizza now. His stomach called out to it. He swung off the stool and went to check in with Sal.
Johnny leaned on the sill of the pizza bar. “Hey Sally,” he said.
“Hey,” said Sal. He was a flush-faced kid, maybe twenty-four. He wore an oversized paper-boy cap and his floppy hair pushed out from under it. He made pizza like an angel.
“What's cooking?” Johnny Parker said, pulling a smoke out of his pocket and lighting it up.
“I am,” Sal said, hustling around the tiny kitchen. “Gimme a drag.”
Johnny held the cigarette out to the pizza-making imp. The kid stopped his hustling long enough to take a deep drag off the cigarette. He held the smoke inside for a couple of beats, then tilted his head to the ceiling and let it out in a slow, controlled stream.
“Whaddya want?” Sal said, once he was quit of smoke.
“Whaddya got?” Johnny Parker asked.
“Got pepperoni ready, veggie deluxe in the oven, be about five, six minutes for that one, working on mushroom double cheese right now. Be fifteen minutes for that one.”
“I'm not picky, dude,” Johnny Parker said, reaching for his wallet. “Give us a slice of the pepperoni.”
“Coming up,” Sal shouted. He grabbed his pizza cutter from the magnetized board on the wall and whizzed it across the pizza. He turned the pie expertly with just his fingertips and made another incision. Another turn, another incision. Johnny Parker smoked and watched. Finally, Sal lifted a slice out, put it, dripping and giant, on a paper plate and handed it to Johnny, who gave him a couple of loonies in return.
“Thanks,” Johnny Parker said. He handed over the rest of the cigarette. “Want this?”
Sal took it, stuck it in his mouth. “Anytime,” he said and then he was back to hustling around the kitchen, cigarette dangling.
Johnny Parker turned away from the kitchen already mid-bite. Fucker was hot, and starting to stick to the roof of his mouth, but he was too far in to back out, and besides, there was a beautiful girl standing four feet away, staring at him.
Johnny chewed and fought the urge to spit the burning mouthful back onto the plate, and swallowed in a blazing gulp. He held the slice up to the girl and said, “Pizza?”
She laughed at him, her cap of brown curls bobbing. She looked like a fucking shampoo commercial, he thought, unbelievable. He moved toward her.
“Want a bite?” he asked.
“What kind?” she asked looking at it, and at him, with appraisal in her eye.
“Pepperoni,” he said, “no one makes it better than Sally there.” He shot his thumb over his shoulder in Sal's direction.
“Sure,” the girl said, “I'll have a bite of that.”
“I'm Johnny Parker,” he said, handing over the pizza.
“Okay,” the girl said, taking it from him and lowering her mouth to it. She looked up at him from under her bangs. “Thanks.”
She took a bite; chewed it mouth slightly open.
“Hi's ho'” she said, steam pouring out of her mouth.
“Yeah,” said Johnny Parker, “careful there it's really hot. Just came out of the oven. Kinda burns your taste buds off. I don't know why I don't blow on it, or wait awhile you know? Happens to me every time.”
She looked at him politely, mouth still open, steam still pouring. She waved her hand in front of her mouth. He heard himself rattling
on like his grandmother, who was a world class rattler who could talk for twenty minutes about what was on sale down the IGA. He wished he could shut up, but she was obviously in distress, and there was nothing he could think to do short of holding out his hand and inviting her to spit the pizza in it, and that was making him nervous, and damn it, Johnny Parker was not used to being nervous, and it turned out that when he was, all he could do was rattle like an old woman. So rattle he did.
“I play guitar,” he said, mortifyingly. “I'm a musician.”
She turned away from him, her body shook once and then she straightened up, mouth still agape. She reached for his beer, took a swig without asking. Not that Johnny Parker would have minded, just â well, she didn't seem to give a damn about anything, and here he was behaving like a twelve-year-old. A twelve-year-old grandmother. Jesus Christ.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smoothed down her hair with the palm of the other. “Huh,” she said. “That so?” She reached for his beer again, took another deep draught of it. “That's better,” she said. She gave her head a little shake, and those curls bounced again, mesmerising Johnny Parker. She looked at him pityingly, and finally said, “So, are you going to buy me a drink, or what?”
“A drink?” he said, as if he'd never heard of such a thing. “A drink, yes, of course, of course, I am. What, uh, what do you drink?”
“Tonight,” she said, “I'm drinking JD.”
“Coming up,” Johnny Parker answered. He ordered the drink at the bar, looked back over his shoulder to make sure she was still there. She raised her eyebrows at him and he looked away fast. What a tool he was. How many girls, how many dozens, maybe hundreds of girls, and now all of a sudden it's the junior prom all over again? Jesus. He didn't even know her name. He got her drink and ordered another beer for himself. He turned to go back to her and she was right beside him.
“Oh,” he said, “there you are.” He handed her the Jack Daniels. “Um, there you are.”
“Thanks,” she said, taking it and knocking half of it back in one shot.
“Hey, I didn't catch your name.”
“I didn't tell you my name,” she said.
“That's true,” Johnny Parker said. It was starting to grate on him how in a flap he was and how much she was enjoying and encouraging it.
“So, how about you tell me your name now,” he said, gesturing to her drink with his beer hand.
“I will,” she said, “but not because you bought me a drink. I'll tell you because I feel like it, and because you're kind of cute when you're flustered.” She laughed a little, and put her hand in front of her mouth. It was clearly an act, but Johnny Parker was willing to fall a little harder for it.
“Okay,” he said. “Thanks, uh, thanks.”
She smiled at him and held out her hand. “I'm Charlotte,” she said, “and I'm charmed to meet you.”
* * *
Leah woke up shivering and stiff. She'd fallen asleep on the steps, head pressed to the wall, and she awoke the same way. The music had stopped. The house was quiet. She shivered again, remembered the open window, the missing bird. She ran up the stairs, sure she'd see Harold pressed against the bars of the cage, trying to get in to be with Sandy.
But upstairs, there was still only one bird. Sandy sat unhappily in the cage, her seed dish empty, her partner missing, the room frigid and windy. Leah felt a wave of sympathy for the bird before her and a stab of worry for the one that hadn't come home. She poured some seed out into Sandy's bowl, filled her water bottle, and pulled the silk over the cage. She left the window open wide enough for Harold to squeeze through if â when â he came home. Then she took off her clothes and hurried into bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin and bringing her knees up to her chest. She waited for sleep as the wind that snuck through the window mussed her hair.
* * *
At the library, Nathan paced the paths up and down, up and down. Would the message get through? What would tomorrow's pigeon post bring?
* * *
Henry laid his guitar down to rest. The bird slept soundly on the
kitchen counter, not stirring even when Henry finally put the groceries away. That done, his borrowed little house in order, he mounted the steps for his first well-earned sleep in weeks. God, the pleasure of sliding into a bed made with clean sheets, he thought. How could anything this simple feel so goddamn good? And if this was all it took, why hadn't he done the wash weeks ago? Didn't matter, it was done now. Henry closed his eyes and drifted off, a half smile on his face. Downstairs, the bird whistled in its sleep.
* * *
Charlotte and Johnny Parker circled each other like boxers in a ring. The band came on and played and was loud, but that didn't stop their conversation, that didn't change the way they looked at each other, that didn't solve Charlotte's desire to put her lips on Johnny's or Johnny's need to run his hand through Charlotte's curls.
“This is stupid,” she said finally. “Why don't you just come home with me?”
Johnny Parker was on his feet in a heartbeat. He didn't even finish his beer.
They were barely in her door before he had her clothes off. He backed her towards the bed, as if they were two tango dancers. She worked at his belt buckle, peeled his jacket off, pulled at his shirt.
“I love you,” he said, just before she fell backwards onto the mattress.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said, as he fell down after her.
* * *
Leah awoke with a feeling of dread. What was that about? Oh yeah. No bird. She opened both eyes, looked hopefully around the room. Still no Harold. It was freezing inside; the wind had calmed but wasn't quite gone. This had to end sometime. She couldn't keep the window open forever.
* * *
Henry awoke to find the bird sitting on his bedside table. It was the flapping of the wings that woke him.
“What's up pally?” he said. “Wanna go home?”
But the bird just looked at him and hopped off the table to the floor. It hopped to the hall then took flight, back downstairs to wait for Henry to get out of bed.
Henry did just that. He followed the bird downstairs, prepared another saucer of cracker mash.
“But that's it, little guy,” he said, liking the sound of his voice, parental. “You've gotta get home, wherever that is.” Next door, he wondered, thinking of he bird he'd watched wriggle in the upstairs window. He'd knock later, see if they were missing a bird next door, he thought. He put the saucer on the counter and the bird hopped over to it and began to peck. Henry watched proudly for a moment, then turned and began to fix himself some coff ee. He pulled James and Emily's cafetiere from beneath the counter and filled the top with espresso. He ran water into it and put it to boil on the stove. He put bread in the toaster and fried an egg. He sliced a tomato and laid the slices on the egg in the frying pan. When the toast popped, he transferred the egg and tomato to the bread; spread some dijon mustard on one slice, added a leaf of lettuce and sat down at the table to eat. It was the first time he'd done that since coming to stay at James and Emily's, maybe even since well before that. He felt like a grown-up and that felt good. It was going to be a good day. The guitar leaned against the wall, ready when he was.
* * *
Johnny Parker woke up and nuzzled Charlotte's hair. “I'm sleeping,” she said in a raspy morning voice. “Can't you see that?”
“I love you,” he said.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.
He kissed her shoulder and rolled away from her, got out of the bed. He reached for his tighty whities, pulled them on and padded to the bathroom. From there, he went to the kitchen, where he stood in front of the open fridge, scratching his belly. It wasn't promising.
Back in the bedroom, he got dressed as quietly as he could, but he was six-foot-four and not used to tiptoeing around.
Charlotte opened one eye.
“Sorry,” he said.
“You leaving?” she said.
“Not exactly,” he said. “Kind of.”
“Whatever,” she said and rolled over and began to snore gently.
Johnny Parker let himself out. Windsor Street was busy. What had been new snow the night before was now slush, and it splashed out of the road onto the sidewalk as the early morning traffic flew by. He waited for a break then dodged across the street to the corner store. There was a promising smell in the air, like rain instead of snow. It was the end of March after all, it couldn't last forever. He smiled and thought of Charlotte lying there in her bed, beautiful under blankets. Promising indeed. He didn't know what the hell was happening to him, but goddamn, he wasn't going to fight it. He bought eggs and bread and coff ee and jam, and the
Globe and Mail.
He hoped she didn't have to work. He had no idea what she did for a living. He couldn't wait to ask her. He took the plastic bag of groceries, and whistling loudly, dashed back across the street to her apartment.
* * *
Leah was bereft. Harold was still MIA, and Sandy was inconsolable. She worried that if she sent Sandy out to deliver the message to Nathan, then both birds would be missing, because what if Sandy couldn't find her way back? If Harold was gone, was the cagestill home to her? Leah didn't think she could take that chance. She hated to think of missing a day with Nathan, but it was only a day. Surely Harold would come back any minute, any hour, and then it would be solved. The message would just be a little late. She resolved to wait. The wind still clattered in the room. She pulled up the duvet over herears and drifted back to uneasy sleep.
* * *
Henry knocked on the door next door. His fingers felt dry and shrivelled in the cold, windy morning. He waited, but no one came.
“I'll try again later,” he said, to the closed door. Back inside, the bird still sat on the kitchen counter. Henry opened the window and waved toward it, but the bird wouldn't budge.
“Well,” he sighed, “it's there if you want it.” He put another log on the woodstove and pulled his turtleneck up around his ears.
* * *
Nathan and the hip-hop kid stood guard outside the library. That was how Nathan thought of it, though the hip-hop kid totally ignored him, didn't even know he was alive. The hip-hop kid asked people for change, but Nathan didn't. He just liked the feeling of having something to do. The bird was late, and he didn't know what that meant, but waiting for a response to his note felt like the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. So he stood with the hip-hop kid and it helped to pass the time.