Bird

Bird wondered about that a lot. Or maybe it was decided all at once. Or maybe it depends on the weather.

The weather. Strange.

           She’ll ask her tomorrow.

-----

           The kitchen clock said 10:07 A.M., but the clock in the den said 10:08 when she finally knocked on the door.

           “Do you have a glass of water?” Her cheeks were red and specked with sweat.

           “Yes,” Bird replied.

           They stared at each other in the doorway for a moment.

“Can I have one?” She raised her eyebrows at Bird.

           “No,” Bird looked at her, amazed. What a silly question.

           Alison stared, her mouth partly open and peeling into a smile. Then she shook her head slowly and looked at her shoes, which reminded Bird:

           “Do you pick out what shoes to wear after you choose the rest of your clothing, or does it come together all at once?”

           Alison blinked at her for a moment, considering both the question and her answer.

           “It depends,” she ultimately decided.

           “On what?”

           She sighed, shrugging her boney shoulders, “On… the outfit? And the weather, I guess.”

           The weather. Of course.

           “And just… general feeling of the day,” she continued.

           “General feeling?” Bird repeated, confused and growing annoyed at the vague explanation.

           “Yeah,” Alison shrugged again, searching the air above her head for a better description.

           “Like if I have to walk a lot, I usually wear sneakers or boots or something. I don’t wear sandals if my toenails aren’t painted… that sort of thing, you know?” She looked at the woman in front of her, completely aware that she did not, in fact, know.

           “Okay,” Bird decided the answer was sufficient and her heart was beating a little quicker than she’d like. Moving on.

           “Mail?” she asked.

           “Yep,” Alison took no time at all to segue from shoes to mail. She’d gotten quicker at moving past their conversations without confusion over the year she’d been visiting Bird, which Bird appreciated.

           “Just a few,” she said, handing her the three small envelopes, holding them carefully by the corners. Bird took them from her quickly and set them on the table inside the door. Alison watched her, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her cargo shorts.

           “Are those women’s shorts?” Bird asked her, squinting at the thick khaki fabric bunched around her waist, held sloppily in place by an underachieving belt.

           She rocked back on her heels and inspected her shorts. She let out a low hum, squinting.

           “I don’t think so,” she decided.

           “You don’t know?”

           She shook her head and shrugged, “I bought them second-hand.”

           She said this as though it would be the end to Bird’s questions, when in reality it just raised more.

           “You paid for those?” Bird said slowly, pointing a finger up and down the atrocity she chose to wear.

           Alison laughed, tilting her head back and showing off an empty hole near the back of her smile where a tooth would normally be. Her hands stayed docked in her giant pockets. Why did she need so many pockets?

           “You don’t like my shorts, Miss Bird?” she teased, swinging her elbows back and forth and tapping the toe of her leather boot on the porch. She raised her eyebrows and struck a pose.

           “No.”

           Bird shut the door.

-----

           It was 9:43 A.M. according to both clocks. Bird opened the door:

           “Do you sell those cookies?”

           Alison started to answer, then stopped.

           “Do you mean Girl Scout cookies?” she asked.

           “I don’t know what they’re called.”

           “The little boxes?” she held up her hands to indicate the size.

           “Yes.”

           “Miss Bird, I’m twenty-six,” she said carefully as if that were an answer.

           Pause.

           “So, you don’t sell the cookies,” Bird confirmed.

           “No ma’am, I do not.”

           Bird scowled. Sighed.

           “Mail?”

           “None today.”

The beginnings of Alison’s chuckle snuck inside before the door was fully closed. Strange girl.

------

Bird sprayed the front window, folding her rag neatly in half once and then once again. She wiped from the top to the bottom of the glass in long, slow movements. She peered outside.

Weather. She stood, thinking. The blueish liquid began to drip down the glass, bringing her back to the task at hand. As she finished the edges of the window, Alison’s lanky form rounded the corner in front of Birdie’s house. She was nodding her head back and forth mouthing along to whatever music was playing through her blocky headphones. Her t-shirt was faded and ripped. Did she pay for that one, too?

Alison stopped at Bird’s mailbox, fishing out a single white envelope. She tucked it in the back pocket of her denim shorts without a second’s glance at who it was from. Something on her nose glinted in the sun as she started towards the porch. She ducked out of her headphones and hopped up the steps two at a time.

The door swung open just as Alison raised her hand to knock.

“Morning, Miss Bird. Did anyone ever call you Birdie?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“What is on your face?” Bird squinted at her.

Alison furrowed her eyebrows and brought her hands up to her face, feeling around for something out of place. She winced as her fingers brushed over her nose, reminding her:

“Oh, it’s a piercing,” she laughed.

Bird scowled at her (rather, at her nose) not attempting to hide her disgust.

“Why would you do that to your face?”

“Because I like it,” she said plainly, holding Bird’s gaze. She smiled at the woman, tilting her nose towards her and batting her eyelashes playfully.

“I do not.”

“Oh, I know,” Alison fished the envelope out of her back pocket and handed it over. Bird put it carefully on the table inside.

“Who calls you Birdie?” she asked casually.

This, however, was not casual.

Bird stared at Alison (and Alison’s nose) for anywhere between a minute and a lifetime.

“My husband,” Bird finally replied.

Alison’s smile faltered, and she searched Bird’s expression for a hint of how to take this. Of course, no hints were given.

“I didn’t know you have a husband,” Alison said carefully.

“I did,” Bird replied, matter of fact. Alison’s smile had almost completely faded, leaving behind a gentle blankness in her face. She considered, then asked:

“What was his name?”

Alison braced for impact. But without blinking, Birdie replied:

“John.”

They stood: Alison, Alison’s imagination of John, Bird, and Bird’s memory of John. They were all silent.

“Okay,” Alison nodded.

“Okay,” Birdie agreed.

-----

 “No mail today,” Alison spoke before the door had finished creaking open.

Before the door could swing shut again, a voice coming from Alison but surprising even Alison herself said, “Can I call you Miss Birdie?”

Birdie stopped, peering around the door at Alison. The girl had a skirt on today. And sandals (blue toenail polish). Birdie considered the question.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Okay.”

They stood looking at each other in the doorway. Alison did not turn to go; Birdie did not shut the door. Until she did.

“Miss Birdie?”

Again, Birdie stopped, opened the door.

“Yes?”

Alison’s eyes darted from Birdie to the house behind her. She’d only seen glimpses of the front hall from behind Birdie’s small frame perched in the doorway. It was neatly arranged and always clean. Alison couldn’t pick out specifics.

“Do you need anything? Anything else?” she said, gesturing vaguely to the mailbox and back to Birdie’s house.

Birdie tilted her head at her.

“No.”

“What about groceries?” Alison persisted.

“They’re delivered,” Birdie refuted.

“Your trash?”

“They pick it up from the porch.”

Alison sighed and fiddled with the material of her skirt.

“What about some company?” she offered gently.

Birdie didn’t answer.

“Can I… maybe come in?”

“No,” Birdie said quickly, shutting the door behind her.

She stood in the front hallway for a moment, waiting to hear Alison’s footsteps dismount the porch. She breathed heavily, putting a shaking hand over her chest. Finally, light shuffling outside signaled Alison’s retreat.

“No,” she whispered to herself.

-----

10:48 A.M. said the kitchen. 10:47 said the den. She had overcorrected.

The cargo shorts were back today. Birdie eyed them immediately when she opened the door.

“Like my shorts?” Alison boasted without missing a beat.

“No,” Birdie said a little too coldly, possibly to hide the edges of a smile that pulled at her eyes. It was hard to hide anything from Alison, who smiled back at her.

“Mail?” Birdie said, interrupting whatever beginnings of a friendly moment were happening on her porch.

“Mail indeed,” Alison handed her a plain white envelope accompanied by a smaller, squarer envelope. Birdie stopped on her way to set these down on the table. She turned the small envelope over in her hand. The return address was one house behind hers.

“What did—” Birdie started before realizing that Alison had already trotted off the porch, wearing her headphones like a crown.

-----

           Dear Miss Birdie,

           I’ve enjoyed getting to know you better over the past year. I would love to learn more about you and your life. I worry that if you do not show me more of who you are then I will have to start holding your mail hostage.

Respectfully,

Alison

P.S. You obviously have plenty to say about my clothing, we could start there?

-----

“I thought you might write me back.”

           “No,” Birdie didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, she took the (normal) envelopes from her hand and placed them on the table.

           “But—”

           “I don’t need you mocking me,” Birdie snapped.

           Alison’s face fell, her eyes wide.

           “No! That was not my intention—”

           “I can get my own mail,” Birdie shot back at her before considering the obvious falsity of this statement.

           “Of course,” Alison replied, choosing to ignore the obvious falsity of the statement.

           They stood. Birdie, Alison, and The Statement.

           “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Alison finally said, giving Birdie a weak smile before ducking off the porch.

           Birdie shut the door.

           She left The Statement outside.

----

10:09. Both clocks. (Fixed?)

She was wearing the skirt again. This time with boots. She handed over the few letters in silence. After a moment:

“So, I have a date tonight.”

Birdie stared at her, awaiting the point.

Alison cocked her head at Birdie and laughed.

“Nothing?”

“What should I say to that?” Birdie asked plainly.

“Well, I was wondering if you had any advice for me,” Alison shrugged, fidgeting with the loose strings on the bag slung over her shoulder.

“Haven’t you been on a date before?”

Another laugh; this time louder and with sharp, breathy edges. Birdie couldn’t help but wince.

“Of course I’ve been on a date before,” Alison shrugged, “It’s just been a while.”

“Do you know this person?” Birdie asked.

Alison scrunched her nose and bobbed her head back and forth.

“Sort of?”

“Sort of,” Birdie repeated.

“I haven’t met them in person,” Alison explained.

           “And you think that’s safe?”

Had her inflection been moved just two inches to the left, this would have been a caring comment. Instead, it remained in the all-too familiar realm of judgmental. This was where Birdie most often resided.

           “It’ll be fine,” Alison waved the comment away with the back of her hand, “Never mind. I’ll let you know tomorrow how it goes.”

           Birdie squinted at her.

           “Wish me luck!” Alison called over her shoulder as she hopped down the steps. Birdie watched her go. Strange girl.

----

11:46. Both clocks. (Fixed.)

Birdie stood by the window; her arms crossed. She peered through her curtains, focused on the corner of the street.

Nothing.

----

3:17. Both clocks.

Bird double-checked her calendar. It was Wednesday.

----

5:23.

----

7:45.

She must’ve forgotten.

----

           The next day Bird sat by the window, her eyes darting to the sidewalk every time she detected the slightest movement. A car rounding the corner, a pigeon, a dog tugging stubbornly on his leash.

           Something wasn’t right.

           She sat by the window and thought about this for quite some time.

----

           By 2:15, she had convinced herself that this was ridiculous. The girl must be preoccupied (even though she was never preoccupied before) or forgotten about the mail (even though she has never forgotten about the mail before) or decided she has had enough of Bird (even though, given her chattiness, this was unlikely).

           The girl was fine, and Bird would most definitely see her tomorrow.

----

           It was tomorrow, and Bird had most definitely not seen her.

           Something wasn’t right.

           Routines exist for a reason, thought Bird, and when those routines are broken, it means something is wrong.

           It was 1:30 exactly, and Bird had come to the conclusion that Alison was not okay. She must have gotten herself into trouble with the internet date. It was, she decided, the only reasonable option. Had she simply decided to hold Bird’s mail “hostage” like she had threatened, she would have needed to come get the mail in the first place, which she had not. And, knowing her, she would have flaunted this. Quite a bit. It also did not do Alison any good to coax out information that she was not present to receive.

           So, it was the date. And something has gone wrong.

           And Bird could not fix it.

           Unless.

           She figured out what shoes to wear.

----

           She did not know the time. The clocks held their breath and refused to tick as Bird stood over a pair of petite loafers. Neither Bird nor the shoes blinked.

           Had this been any ordinary house and any ordinary woman, a pair of shoes that had not been worn in decades would have collected a significant amount of dust. But since this was not an ordinary house, and since this was a very unusual woman, the loafers were perfectly clean. As were the ballet flats, sneakers, and short, white kitten heels that had lost the staring matches prior.

           Bird picked up the loafers. Stared. Her heart pounded behind her ears. Her stomach tightened. Her feet didn’t budge.

           Until, of course, they did.

           Bird stood in the open doorway; the loafers placed carefully on the porch in front of her. She noted the warm breeze and the clear skies overhead. Weather. Strange.

           After what truly could have been any length of time—a day, possibly a decade—she slipped her house shoes off carefully: one foot, then slowly the other. She left them tucked just inside the door under the table that had lately been starved of mail. They waited patiently for Birdie to decide that this was a terrible idea. Which she did not do.

           Her heart was beating so loudly in her skull that she didn’t hear her own footsteps as she shuffled across the porch. Her eyes were wide and her breathing shallow. Her hands had been balled in tight fists since she closed the heavy wooden door behind her. She muttered something under her breath about letters and nose rings as she tentatively stepped onto the sidewalk where suddenly she stopped:

           The sunshine.

           The warm sunshine.

           She stood.

           And breathed.

           Maybe her fists were loosening.

           Maybe she was melting like an ice cube on pavement.

           A car rounding the corner startled her and shot her back to the moment. She blinked, squinted, and made herself keep walking. She could go back, she ached to go back, but she kept walking. Because her house was just around the—

           Alison sat on the porch, comfortably reclining in a small wicker chair, flipping lazily through a paperback. Her feet—barefoot—rested on the table in front of her which was otherwise filled with small green boxes of cookies and a sweating pitcher of lemonade. As she turned a page, her eyes darted up and met Birdie’s.

           “Miss Birdie!” She stood up clumsily, tossing her book to the side. She quickly realized that she had not planned out what she would say next, so she looked at Birdie with an expression that was equal parts concern and childlike excitement. She weakly gestured to the chair opposite her, carefully placed in the shade.

           Bird squinted at the girl for a moment. Furious. Speechless. Touched.

She slowly mounted the stairs as Alison held her breath, watching her. As Birdie reached the porch, Alison’s eyes flicked down to Birdie’s loafers, making the corners of her mouth twitch into a grin.

           Birdie eyed the old wicker chair that had been set aside for her and the mound of cookies that were probably half-melted by now. She considered this for a long moment. Then, she moved the chair into the patch of sun flooding the porch and sat. Alison sat, too.

           They stared at each other.

           “So, what do we talk about.” Birdie asked.

           “My outfit?” Alison suggested. Cargo shorts again.

           Birdie shook her head. She reached for a box of cookies.

           “The weather?” Alison offered instead.

           Birdie closed her eyes, feeling the sun pour over back, the breeze whisper through her hair.

           The weather.

The beautiful weather.

Strange.