Counting Cardinals

This happened in the early nineties when I was thirteen years old; living with my grandparents in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. My bus stop was two blocks from my house, and I would enjoy the walk home with my little sister and her friend Margie, who lived eight houses down. It was more like four, looking back, but for reasons I do not understand, that distance to Margie’s felt so far as a child. Our house was in a cul-de-sac with a dipping driveway to the garage that connected to our basement. A box garden and a thin but loud creek in the backwoods. My grandma and I used to fill the bird feeder and watch the birds together from the back window. She had a small field guide on different species of bird; and counting the cardinals was our favorite. She told me that every cardinal represented a spirit from the afterlife, an angel greeting you from beyond. They ate all our black seeds, which made me laugh as a child. Why would angels like the black seed so much?

After each school day, my sister and I would race to our front door after Margie went home. I would run around the edge of the cul-de-sac to give her a chance to beat me, but she never did. Her legs were too short and weak, and they flopped back and forth in her little sun dress. She was so adorable, and I loved that she was my sister.

On this particular day, my sister was sick. Her name was Joyce. Joyce was sick. My grandpa, who still had one year before retirement, was at work, so Joyce stayed home with our grandma. I remember feeling so jealous while I sat on the bus because I knew grandma was making my sister homemade chicken noodle soup and letting her watch TV. So, I planned to be sick the next week.

When Margie and I got off the bus that day, we talked about our similar fear of snakes. I do not know why or how that topic was chosen for our stroll, but it put me in a strange state of mind before I got home. After I rode the bend of the cul-de-sac to mimic racing Joyce, I saw that the garage door was open.

I walked through the front door slowly and was immediately hit with an air that felt wrong. There was a draft, a few streak marks on the hardwood, the coat closet door was open, and the side foyer light was on. That light was never on. Well, never after returning from school. Panic jumped in my stomach, but not like a flutter of a butterfly, but like a drill that turned my stomach until my skin was tight. I looked around like a scared cat, pupils taking in any bit of movement.

“Is somebody here?” I said out loud and strained to hear any response. I wanted to go back out the front door and check the garage, but that became a hard task to perform at that moment. I was scared of a garage that I had been in more times than I could count. I knew the ins and outs of this house and I made sure I turned every corner with the best view of the area, leaving no possibility of getting jumped unexpectedly. When I reached the kitchen, I could see the door to the basement, where the garage was open, and the light was on. Creeping towards it with my neck on a swivel, I peeked my head down the stairs.

“Hello? Gram? Joyce?” But just as I said the J in Joyce, my eyes caught a discoloring on the handrail. Blood. That drill in my stomach shot through the top of my head and I whipped around, expecting the burglar and murderer to be behind me. No one was there, but I ran to get out of that house with the speed that would have lapped Joyce on our runs home. But then it happened; just before the front door, he caught me, a large hand wrapped around my waist and picked me up with minor struggle. I thrashed and twisted like a fish trying to escape a net, and scratched at everything in front of me. My long legs kicked around blindly. I did not want to see the face of this person. I did not want to have nightmares about him. I did not want to have to remember him. Luckily, one of my feet hit a sensitive area, either a shin or something more valuable, and his grip loosened. My nails flew towards his eyes and I was free.

I ran to the only house I knew I could run. I was crying and panting and could not utter a word. Both of Margie’s parents were home, and they called the police after about a minute of reading my swollen eyes and shaking face.

I stayed there the night, holding Margie’s mother’s hand for hours, until I fell asleep. She rarely left me and only spoke warm and comforting words. Every tender whisper felt like a blanket just out of the dryer.

The next morning, my grandpa picked me up and when I saw him I burst into tears, which felt so true, the truest and hottest tears I have ever cried. I knew they were gone.

Joyce and my grandma’s bodies were found in the basement, and they never caught the man who did it. Just a few years later, I lost my grandpa; I think the stress of the murderer coming back was too much for him. Even today, I peer around corners, and hold a lingering anxiety in my hands.

Today I sat at the back window of my house and watched the cardinals eat the black seeds. I saw three at one time, two big ones and a small one. I felt the same hot tears run down my face.