Homing (14 page)

The kid sat on his heels. He chewed the pencil's end. He closed his eyes. He thought about his girlfriend and their stupid fight. He thought about his father, who didn't understand him, and his mother, who'd taken off and left him when he was in grade five. He thought about the library ladies, who'd scowled when they saw him duck in for a pencil and paper. He took a deep breath, and then he figured out what he really wanted to say.

At last he leaned down to the scrap paper and scratched out, I am here, where are you? He folded up the scrap, placed it carefully in the bird's message sheath, and took the pigeon in his hands. He spoke quietly to it, using an even voice and encouraging words. Then he held it aloft and bounced his arms up toward the heavens, and let the bird go in a volley of feathers. He visored his eyes with his hand, and watched the bird flap away, north, over the city.

Nathan sat back. Relief flooded his body. It would be only a matter of time, now. He let out a breath. The wind picked up at the same time and grabbed the unfolded sheets of brightly coloured origami paper. It lifted them up and for a moment they hung, suspended in front of the library doors while Nathan and the kid sat on their heels, mouths open. And then the wind just exploded, flinging snow and coloured paper like strange confetti over a stranger parade. Nathan put his arm around the boy's shoulders and drew him into the bushes, to the little windsheltered cove against the library's front wall to wait out the storm.

* * *

At first, Henry thought it was just a random pigeon, though he'd never seen any hanging out in the street like this one was. As he got closer, he saw the bird had something attached to its leg. He kept an eye on it while he unlocked his door, in case the little fucker might try to dive-bomb him, the way it had the other day. He got the door open, and looked back at the bird. Suddenly, it winged toward him, and Henry let out a cry and ducked down, but this bird didn't try to take his head off. Instead, it flew inside the house, landed in the back hallway and stood there looking at Henry, black eyes glinting. Henry stood in the doorway, uncertain. “Come on, birdie,” he said. “Come on out of there now.” But the bird just looked at him, then turned and hopped toward the kitchen.

“Oh, come on, chrissakes,” Henry said. He flicked the lightswitch in the hall, but nothing happened. “Naturally,” he said. “Lightbulb must be burnt out.” He crept down the hallway after the bird, not wanting to startle it or cause it to peck his eyes out. The front door hung open, and he half-hoped the bird might just turn around and fly on out. On the other hand, he was a little curious about the message
on the bird's leg, and the thing did not seem inclined to leave. Maybe it was for him, the message.

“Don't be absurd,” he chided himself aloud, but when he got into the kitchen, the bird was up on the counter, tamely awaiting him. He flicked the light switch on the kitchen wall and was only mildly surprised when nothing changed. “Power out,” he said aloud. There was a flashlight, he remembered, on top of the fridge. He picked his way toward it through the bags of groceries still on the kitchen floor. “Sorry about the mess,” he said lamely, before remembering he was only talking to a bird. He shook his head. Fucking Johnny Parker. He was too high to be dealing with this kind of situation. The bird seemed to extend the message leg toward him.

“Okay,” Henry said, “alright. I get it. It's for me.” He clicked on the flashlight and balanced it on the counter while he took the scrap of paper from the bird and unfolded it.

I am here,
the note said,
where are you?

Henry leaned against the counter, stunned. The bird turned around three times, then settled itself on the formica, tucked its head beneath its wing and went to sleep.

* * *

“Hey dude,” Charlotte said, when her friend opened the front door. She held out a brown paper bag. “They had power at the LC,” she said. “I brought wine.”

“Great,” Leah said hurriedly, her eyes a little wild. “Come in, come in.” She grabbed Charlotte's sleeve and pulled her into the house.

“What's wrong?”

“Harold,” Leah said, already turning away to race back up the stairs.

“What about him,” Charlotte asked, following. She started to unwind her scarf, but got tangled up between it and the bottle of wine. She stopped, put the bottle down, left the scarf on and took the stairs two at a time after Leah. “It's warm in here,” she said at the top of the stairs.

“I know,” Leah wailed. “It's all my fault.”

Charlotte caught up to her in the candlelit bedroom. “It's not a bad thing,” she said.

“Yes, it is,” Leah said. She leaned against the window sash, but it was stuck and wouldn't budge. “I forgot to open the goddamn window for Harold.”

“Oh,” Charlotte said. “Oh dear.”

“Exactly,” Leah grunted, still pushing at the window. “It's way past time for him to come home. Totally dark out now.”

“What would he do if he got here and couldn't get in?” Charlotte asked. She stepped to the window and gave Leah a light push. “Let me try, Leah.”

Leah stepped aside and wiped her hands over her face. “I don't know. What would he do? I don't know the answer to that.”

Had Harold had tried to come home and found the window closed? Would he just go somewhere to wait, try again later? Maybe he was up in the eaves. With a mighty heave, Charlotte popped the window open. The wind rushed in, fluttering the red silk on Sandy's cage. Leah poked her head out into the freezing night. She twisted her neck to look up to the rooftop.

“Harold!” she called. She wasn't even sure if he knew his name, wasn't sure if birds could even hear, but she called for him again, just in case.

“Oh, sweetie,” Charlotte said, her hand on Leah's back. Leah sighed, her hands on the windowsill, head still stuck out. The wind brought tears to her eyes. She closed them, and felt the water drip down onto her cheeks. She drew her head inside again.

“Now what?” Charlotte said.

“We wait,” Leah said. “And we leave the window open.” She grabbed two sweaters from the closet and handed one to Charlotte.

* * *

Henry closed the front door and wandered through the house with the flashlight, clutching the scrap of paper. What could it mean? Could it be for him? If not, why was the bird just hanging around in front of his house? Why had it flown inside without hesitation, gone to sleep, just like that, on his kitchen counter, for chrissakes? It didn't make sense that it could be for someone else. But at the same time it didn't make sense that it was for him. He was loath to rustle around in the kitchen for fear of waking the bird. He thought about playing
his guitar, but that might disturb the creature too. Finally, he went upstairs and, resting the flashlight on the dresser, wrestled the clean sheets onto the bed. He put his socks and underwear in the drawer James had cleared out for him, and remembering his laundry in the basement, went down to see to it, the flashlight's aura bobbing in front of him, a spotlight he tried like hell to catch. Dry clothes to the dryer top, wet clothes into the drum, to wait for the power to come back on, then up the stairs with an armload of clean shirts and jeans, and then up the stairs again to put them away.

Just thinking about the note made his heart hammer in four-four time. Could it be from Tina? But then, what kind of sense did that make? She knew where he was, and he was pretty sure she didn't care. Come to that, he knew where she was, too. Big deal. It was done between them, for once and for all. And thinking about it now, he knew that was a good thing. They'd done little more than scrap the whole five years they spent together. In the beginning, that had been exciting. They'd have rousing arguments about — christ; Henry didn't even know what they'd fought about back then, back before they had anything to fight about. Back before any of it mattered. Regardless they'd have astonishing, clattering fights then just as abruptly they'd fall into bed and have astonishing, clattering sex. The fights grew more intense, the sex, somehow, fell away. Till finally, all they were having were fights. And then, just before the very end, even the fighting had become simply commonplace. They fought wearily, about money, about Henry's supposed infidelity, about where they should live, about what they should have for supper. Once the passion went out of their fights, Henry had known it was over. It was just lying there waiting to die. And finally, one night, Tina put a bullet in its head and killed it. And in the end, Henry thought, it was a mercy killing. And now he was just waiting to get over it.

So it wasn't Tina then. And Johnny Parker knew damn well where to find him. And really, who else did he traffic with these days? It obviously wasn't that best-forgotten girl of last night. Maybe it was actually meant for James. James was genuinely away, though not missing. He'd gone to England, on tour, and Emily had gone with him. Most everyone knew that, though, Henry thought, christ, it was even written up in the newspaper. Big deal and all that. Good for James, and good for Henry. He had this place for another month if he wanted it, and he did.

Henry wondered if the bird would be hungry when it woke up. He wondered how long pigeons usually slept. He went down to the kitchen, and there the bird sat, placid, but most definitely awake. In fact, he thought, it looked a little hungry. He looked through the cupboard for something to give it, found a box of crackers, crumbled one up and mixed it with a bit of water. He put the paste on a saucer and placed it before the bird. “Bon apetit,” he said, and the bird began to peck desultorily at the paste.

* * *

Nathan paced. Night was coming on. He hoped the bird had made it home, he hoped his message had been received. He could barely wait for morning, for another paper animal with a fortune cookie message.

* * *

Leah waited for Harold to come home. She had never waited so hard for anything.

* * *

Johnny Parker thought about going out. Maybe in a bit, he thought, and poured himself another drink.

* * *

Charlotte shivered in her sweater in Leah's living room and poured another glass of wine.

* * *

Henry looked out the window.

* * *

Leah looked out the window.

* * *

In front of the library, Nathan paced.

* * *

The phone rang, startling the bird. Henry picked it up. “Yeah,” he said.

“Hey,” said Johnny Parker.

“Oh, hey.”

“What's going on?” said Johnny Parker.

“Right now?” Henry said. “Right now I'm staring at a pigeon on my kitchen counter.”

“Dude. Seriously? The birds are taking over the neighbourhood, right?”

“Naw,” said Henry. “Weird though. I come home, and there's this bird sitting in the road. It's got something on its leg. I'm a little bird shy these days, so I keep an eye on it while I'm getting in the house, and it flies in after me. Won't leave. Off ers me its leg, for chrissakes, so I take this note off and it says, ‘I'm here, where are you?' Whaddya think?”

“Who's it from?” Johnny Parker asked. He let out a stream of smoke against the receiver.

“No idea,” Henry said. “No fucking clue.”

“It's probably not even for you.”

“Yeah, I thought of that,” Henry said, “but — “ he stopped. He hadn't told Johnny Parker about the voices he'd heard lately, the messages that seemed to be all around him.

“What,” Johnny Parker said.

“Nothing,” Henry said. “You're probably right. It probably isn't even for me. What do you think I should do with it?”

“Put it outside,” Johnny Parker said. “Get shut of it.

“Yeah,” Henry said, but he was reluctant. “Yeah, okay. I gotta go, I'll talk to you later.”

“Wait, man, you coming out tonight?”

“Yeah, I don't think so,” Henry said. “I think I'm done for the day. Gonna do some work.”

On the counter, the bird finished the cracker paste. Henry pointed the flashlight at it, framing it perfectly in a circle of pale yellow light. It looked up from the saucer and watched Henry with one eye.

“Now what, birdie,” Henry said. “What do you want now?” The bird cocked its head and looked at him some more. “You stay here,” he told it. “I'll be right back.”

He returned moments later with his guitar. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and had a seat. He tuned the instrument and strummed it meditatively a few times. “What do you want to hear?” he asked the pigeon. He hadn't had an audience in so long. This audience seemed as good a place to start again as any. “No requests?” he strummed some more. He played the song he always liked to start with; its simple chords and sad words always gave him a strange kind of hope. And it seemed to fit the day, somehow, so he began: A then G, then each again, and into the Lightfoot lyrics he'd sung a thousand times before.

The bird tucked its head under its wing again and sighed.

* * *

Leah heard the song, but she didn't know where it was coming from. Maybe she was going mad. No bird, no ghost, that song coming from nowhere — it wasn't adding up to anything good. Maybe this was what cabin fever felt like. Maybe she'd driven herself mad, at last, with the staying inside, and the worrying.

Full darkness had swept across the street by now. What light there was from the moon bounced off the snow and reflected off the neigh-bours windows across the street. Leah thought it should look like a peaceful scene. But to her, it looked menacing, malevolent.

She looked at Charlotte, who was curled in chair, a flashlight she'd found in the kitchen cupboard tucked in beside her, hands pulled into her sleeves, reading.

“Do you think I'm going mad?” Leah asked.

“Hmmm?” Charlotte replied, barely looking up.

“Charlotte!” Leah said sharply. “Pay attention!”