Homing (18 page)

* * *

Leah slept fitfully, shivering even beneath her duvet. In the morning, when she woke up, Sandy was dead. She was backed against the furthest corner of the cage, cold and stiff, her eyes dull instead of gleaming. The wave of revulsion Leah had first felt toward the birds returned, but she felt hot tears on her cheeks all the same. Sandy had cried all night with increasing fretfulness, finally stopping around four in the morning. Leah, grateful, had thought she'd merely exhausted herself. Herself exhausted, Leah had slept. But now this. Dead of a broken heart, Leah had no doubt. Could things get worse? First Nathan missing, then Harold, and now this. A dead bird because of her. Everything she touched turned to rust.

Leah took the red silk off the cage and laid it in a shoebox. She reached into the cage and pulled Sandy out. The bird was stiff and cold, its feathers more grey than brown now. She placed the bird gently in the shoebox, wrapped the red silk around the frigid body, and covered the whole thing with the lid. She wondered if there was something else she should do, and wished she'd loved the bird even a little.

* * *

Nathan was at the end of his rope. Two days now and no reply. Every time a bird circled over the library, he balled his hands into fists and held his breath. And every time the bird failed to land on the step in front of him, he let the breath out slowly and stood stock-still on the path in front of the library, trying to regain his equilibrium. It didn't make sense. Obviously, he'd off ended someone with his note, but who? And why were they writing to him in the first place if they didn't want him to write back? It defied logic. And logic was Nathan's
mother tongue.

The afternoons were proving long without an avian visit. Nathan wished he had the patience to read, but he felt he had to keep moving, and he didn't think he could read and walk at the same time. Besides, he could never seem to get anyone's attention in the library. Even if he had wanted to borrow a book, he doubted he would have been able to.

Maybe the bird was on its way. Maybe his correspondent was simply trying to find the right words. Nathan resolved to wait a little longer. He didn't know what else to do.

* * *

Johnny Parker was getting ready to take a shower. He whistled. He couldn't help it. He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve what he had — whatever that was. He was pretty sure he was in love, as ridiculous as that sounded. He stood in Charlotte's bathroom and whistled, and scratched his bare chest. She was remarkable. But he had to be careful, he figured. He had his life carefully arranged for maximum pleasure. He went out when he wanted and came home when he wanted. And while he was out, he did what he wanted. If he and Henry wanted to smoke dope all day and eat cookies, there was no one to answer to. And he liked that, he really did. On the other hand, Charlotte. Shiny-haired, hilarious Charlotte.

Johnny Parker ran the hot water. He stepped out of his boxer shorts. He decided not to decide anything. He'd just go along, he thought, and see where he ended up. He got the water where he wanted it and stepped beneath the spray.

* * *

Leah straightened up the stack of origami paper on the kitchen counter. She wondered if she should make a little animal for Sandy, a little bird to keep her company in her cardboard box. She missed the daily routine. She missed Harold. And most of all, she missed Nathan.

She wasn't sure how she would dispose of Sandy's body. She pushed the shoebox to the back of the counter and left the kitchen. She didn't even bother to put on a pot of coffee.

* * *

Charlotte genuinely couldn't think of how she'd filled her time before that night in Hell. Her stupid job, she guessed. That thing took up a lot of time. But she'd called in sick once already, and she didn't think she could again. It had meant she'd had to stay in all day, in case anyone from the office saw her and busted her, but going out didn't appeal to her. Staying in with Johnny Parker did. It would have to end sometime, she supposed. Even if the relationship continued, which was highly unlikely, she had to admit, this honeymoon phase couldn't last forever. And anyhow, she had to go back to work. The lawyers needed their cases researched, and they were pretty much useless without her.

But she liked the way Johnny laughed, and the way he made everything seem possible. “It's positive, man,” he'd say, when things were going well. And “man, that's a drag,” when they weren't. He was straightforward and open and Charlotte liked that about him.

She wanted to tell Leah, and she didn't want to. It didn't seem fair, with all her friend was going through, to turn up so gleefully happy. Then again, perhaps Leah could use the distraction, Charlotte thought. She picked up the phone and dialed.

* * *

Henry woke up early, on top of the world. Dave O'Dell's name rang in his ears like the best line from the best song he'd ever heard. Correction: from the best song anyone had ever heard. A song he'd written. It was a short step from the open mic at The Awkward Stage to world domination, he could feel it. Dave O'Dell was the bridge.

Henry laid on his back and felt invincible. His cock was morning-hard and he felt like the most powerful man on earth. He was going to write. All day. And he was going to slay.

* * *

Charlotte kissed Johnny Parker goodbye for the second time that morning. Once didn't seem to be enough. She'd thought it was going to be, but then she'd gotten to the door and had to come back for more. Didn't seem to bother him any. He smiled broadly when he saw her coming, held his arms open to her, picked her up and swung her around. Her hair flew out, shiny. He loved her.

“Okay, put me down,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I mean it, I have to go. Leah needs me.”

“I need you,” Johnny said, putting her down and pinching her ass.

“Oh, you've had me. That'll hold you.” She winked at him and squirmed out of his arms.

“I don't know if it will,” he called after her. “I'm already starting to fade. I'm fading fast. Don't be cruel.”

She laughed, waved, blew a kiss and was out the door.

* * *

The house was freezing cold when Henry got up. He shivered in his shirtsleeves, and stoked up the fire again. He wondered if the bird was gone. In the kitchen, the saucer was empty. He put the coffee on to brew, and had a look around the house. No bird. It was a relief. He shut the kitchen window and waited for the coffee to make. Gonna be a good day, he thought.

* * *

Charlotte knocked and waited, knocked and waited. She entertained a brief hope that Leah might have actually gone outside, but soon she saw her through the door's window, coming heavily down the hall. She was carrying a shoebox. Oh boy, Charlotte thought. Here we go.

She took a deep breath and smiled gently at Leah when the door swung open.

“Thanks for coming,” Leah said. She clutched the box dumbly. “I — stupid birds, you know?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte said. She unwound her scarf and shut the door behind her. “I know, honey.”

“Just,” Leah said, “I think the ground might be soft enough to dig. I've been listening to it melt out back for two days.”

“Don't worry,” Charlotte said, “I'm sure it will be fine. Do you have any coffee?”

Leah's nose reddened, just at the tip.

“Oh no,” said Charlotte, “No, don't do that. It's okay. Tea is fine, just fine.”

“It's not that,” Leah said, her voice already wet with crying.

“What then? The bird?”

Leah shook her head. “No, well, yes, a little, but no, not the bird. It's me, this house, Nathan,” the words galloped out. “This whole thing is a joke. It was a bad idea to try it this way. He's gone and that's all there is to it, you know? I can't — birds, origami, messages — none of it changes anything. It's not — none of it matters, it doesn't matter. It's just, he's gone, and I can't find him, and no matter what I do, that doesn't change. He's just gone.” She cried freely, the tears dripping off the end of her nose, plummeting from her cheeks to her sweater, dripping onto the worn softwood floor, settling in, becoming part of the house.

Charlotte put her arm around her sobbing friend.

“And it's so stupid, you know? I'm so weak. I'm so, I think I'm special, somehow, that what I feel is diff erent, but it's not, you know? It's exactly the same.”

Charlotte patted Leah's black hair, smoothed it down over her shoulders. “Sweetie, you're not making any sense.”

Leah laughed damply against Charlotte's shoulder. “It's okay,” she said, with a mouthful of tear-soaked hair, “it makes sense to me. I've been an idiot. I'm going to try to stop.” She drew away from Charlotte, pushed the wet hair off her face, patted Charlotte's shoulder. “Sorry,” she said.

“Don't apologise,” Charlotte said. “It's what I'm here for.” Charlotte picked up the shoebox and moved toward the back door. “I'll go bury this thing. Uh, Sandy.”

“Thanks,” Leah said. She could barely look at her friend. “I'll watch from here.” She leaned against the kitchen counter, in view of the backyard, but several feet from the door.

Charlotte nodded and turned toward the yard.

Outside, Charlotte placed the shoebox on the bench and began to dig with a spade she'd found against the shed. The ground was still mostly frozen and it took a while, but she was able to dig out a good-sized hole behind the lilac bush. Charlotte plunked the shoebox in the hole.

She stood in silence for a moment then looked back over her shoulder at Leah who stood at the kitchen window, her face a pale painting in the window's frame.

Finally Leah shrugged. Charlotte shrugged too, leaned the shovel
back where she'd found it, rubbed her hands together briskly and came back inside.

“Should I say something, a few words?” Charlotte asked, the door clicking shut behind her.

“It was just a bird,” Leah said. But a whirring flash of grey-brown in the backyard made her stop. She looked up and out the window again. “Harold,” she said. “For chrissakes.” Harold came to rest on the mound of snow-streaked dirt beside Sandy's grave.

“Jesus,” said Charlotte, “are you sure?”

“Yeah, look at his leg.” The message sheath was there, and it was empty. “Where have you been,” she said sternly, face pressed against the glass. “Look what's happened now.”

Charlotte opened the door, stepped out into the yard again.

Leah pulled the door shut, shivered.

Charlotte moved toward the makeshift gravesite. She shooed Harold off the mound, and shovelled it back into the hole, patting it down with the spade. Harold flitted about from branch to branch on the lilac bush, and when Charlotte was done, Harold flew toward it, alit there and looked steadily at Charlotte till she backed away and went inside.

Leah put the coffee on. There was always coffee after a funeral. Coffee with real cream because who cared at that point? And sandwiches with lots of mayonnaise, cut in quarter triangles. She rummaged through the fridge. “No sandwiches,” she said.

“What?” Charlotte said, running warm water over her hands.

“No sandwiches. Not much of a reception.”

Charlotte looked at her blankly.

“For the funeral,” Leah said. She looked at Charlotte looking at her. “I'm cracking up, aren't I?” she said.

“A little,” said Charlotte. “A little, you are.”

“Anyhow,” Leah said. “We have coffee. No cream though. And we have goat cheese and crackers.”

They took their mugs to the front room and drank the coffee in silence while the sounds of guitar music came from next door.

“I should go,” Charlotte said finally. “I'm way behind at work now, thanks to Johnny Parker.” She blushed a little just from saying his name.

“Whoa,” Leah said. “Who the hell is Johnny Parker?”

“I don't know,” Charlotte said, reddening further. “This guy I met.”

“So that's where you've been,” Leah said, smiling with her eyes. “I'm going to need details.”

“I know,” Charlotte said. She stood up and shrugged into her coat. “But for now I have to go to the office and pretend to be recovering from the ‘flu.”

“Good luck with that,” Leah said.

“Mmm hmm,” Charlotte said dreamily, winding her scarf around her neck. She put a hand on Leah's arm. “And for real, Leah, I am so sorry about the bird.”

“I'll be okay,” Leah said. “Go, you don't want to get fired.”

* * *

Nathan waited. He couldn't believe a second day could go by with no birds, but then, if he thought back, and thinking back wasn't easy for him, but he could do it if he tried, if he really concentrated hard, if he thought back, the birds hadn't always come. There had been a number of days when he'd just been by himself, waiting. He didn't know what he was waiting for at the time, but now he knew. He was waiting for the birds. But now that the birds had stopped coming, he didn't know what he was waiting for next. But it was all he knew how to do, so he gathered his hands into loose fists at his sides to keep his arms from flapping the way they had when he was a child, and he took the library path, back and forth, back and forth.

* * *

Henry sat with the guitar on his knee and thought about Tina. He pictured her, and he pictured Rene, her picky old artist boyfriend, and he wondered how he felt. Truth was, he didn't feel much of anything. And that felt kind of good. Something was happening, he could feel it. He reached across his guitar and pushed record on his four-track, just in case. Then he went back to his instrument, and listened to what it was saying.

* * *

Charlotte tried to concentrate on her work, she really did, but every time she licked her lips, she thought about Johnny Parker. She spent half an hour emailing herself a list of things she liked about him. Then she spent another half an hour thinking about what to get him for his birthday. Then she spent half an hour simply staring into space. At the end of that, she got up, put on her coat and said to the office in general, “I don't feel well. I think I'd better go home.”