Open Water (25 page)

“Look, this isn’t a parrot hotel,” she said.

“Why not? What else has it got going for it?” Willis said.

She turned around to look at him square. She smoothed her robe. She tugged it closed.

“It’s not a love shack or anything, is it?” Fritz said.

Holly looked at him, surprised.

“A love shack?” Fritz said again. “It’s not earning what it could.” His voice exhibited a clarity he hadn’t revealed in the last five minutes.

Willis was feeding the macaw a peanut and didn’t object to what Fritz was saying. They were implying something, but what? Could they actually be suggesting that she was down at the heel and moving toward a lower social status? Moving at any noticeable velocity? Holly went to the sink and filled the kettle. She felt her underarms glowing with heat; the rayon robe was sticking to the small of her back. “You’re very funny,” she told Fritz.

“Wait and see,” Fritz said.

Holly made a large pot of tea and set it down on the kitchen table. She watched Willis pour two cupfuls of sugar in the pot and stir it around with the measuring cup. It was
an odd mannerism; he stirred with the Pyrex cup like a cook on a wagon train. How could anyone like something so sweet? It belied a childlike trait and she was searching for anything to round out the picture, to take the hard edges off. Because, when the two men were together like that, Willis was knocked down a level, into ordinary punkdom. She studied Willis to pinpoint his redeeming features. His eyelashes were dense and long enough to leave spider-leg shadows on his cheekbones from the overhead fluorescent. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. But she didn’t think she wanted to entertain Fritz Federico much longer; his peculiar mannerisms, his flat speech and spooky loyalty to Willis upset her.

The Chihuahua’s homely face emerged from within Fritz’s coat. It kept licking its leather button nose, its flat tongue curled over like a wet ribbon of chewing gum. Once and again, Holly looked at the percolator clock on the kitchen wall, its orange bubble blinking
two seconds, two seconds.

Holly took a frying pan from the cupboard and whacked it on the burner. She twisted the knob on. She decided to make eggs for Willis and Fritz. She would fix them something to eat, and they could be on their way with that blue dinosaur. The bird was making a mess hulling the peanuts, tossing its head as it ground the nuts in its beak, ingesting only a fraction of what it pulverized.

Willis sounded very pleased about her breakfast invitation. “That’s perfect. We eat. Then we all go over to your bird guy. Maybe he has a cage.”

She opened her refrigerator. She didn’t have eggs after all. Willis told her he would get them from Rennie. Holly walked outside with the men. Fritz put the dog on the ground where it released a tiny golden puddle. “You better
invite Rennie,” she told Willis. Willis went into his house. Fritz went over to the car to get a ceramic dish he had bought for the puppy. The dish said “Doggie” in calligraphic letters. Fritz handed it to Holly so she could read it back to him. Holly thought the bowl was much too large for the Chihuahua. “He can swim in it,” she told Fritz. He didn’t like her criticism. She turned another way to look across the cove. The expanse of green water seemed to oxygenate her vision; the retina screen was soothed and she could return her gaze to Fritz. She looked Fritz straight in the eye as she handed the heavy dish back to him. His empty face was getting the best of her. Then, Willis came down the steps with a carton of eggs. “Rennie’s sick this morning,” he told Holly. “She’s in bed.”

“She’s in her bed?”

“It’s a bad day for her,” Willis said. “I hate it when she doesn’t get up. It looks bad if Munro comes over.”

Holly told Willis, “I’ll make her some toast.”

“Look, don’t go over there. It’s a strain.”

“No it isn’t. It’s no trouble.”

“I’m telling you. For Rennie, it’s a strain. She’s not up to company.”

After everything, Holly didn’t like being identified as an outsider. She started walking over to Rennie’s house. Willis came after her.

“I’m going to see if she wants something,” Holly said.

“You’re on private property,” Willis said. It was a stupid remark. He looked at her and shrugged. He wasn’t smiling and he wasn’t frowning.

Rennie was in her bedroom sitting up in bed. Her hairbrush was balanced across her knees.

“I can’t even drag it through,” Rennie said.

“Feeling worse today?”

“Just a little weak. That hairbrush is like an anvil.”

Holly picked up the hairbrush and lightly brushed Rennie’s hair at her temple. “Feel weak as a kitten?”

“Weak as a mouse. That’s a degree worse. After mouse, what comes next?”

“I don’t know.”

“Weak as a fly. Then what?”

Holly imagined a string of diminutive creatures and insect life, but she didn’t extend the list any further. Rennie’s skin looked odd, the dull ochre tone of a gum eraser. Holly knew this change of color might indicate involvement of the liver. Holly brushed Rennie’s hair until she grabbed Holly’s wrist and took the hairbrush out of her hand. “I won’t have any hair left,” she said.

Holly thought she understood the mood swings of the dying. But Rennie was staring at her in such a bold perusal, she wasn’t sure if she knew.

Willis asked Rennie if she wanted any medications from the closet. Rennie refused. She laughed. “You’re asking
me?
That’s a switcheroo,” she told Willis.

He didn’t like her teasing and he ducked out of the room. Rennie’s laughter took a toll and she leaned back on the pillows to rest. She looked at Holly. “What’s happening over there in your place?”

Holly didn’t know what to say. Perhaps the parrot was meant to be a secret. Willis came back through the room with a new box of Coffee Nips and the
Newport Daily News.
He put the offerings in Rennie’s lap.

Rennie told him, “A bowl for the candy would be nice.”

Willis left and came back with a milk glass dish. He emptied the Coffee Nips in that.

“That’s better. I’m sick, but I’m still following Emily
Post. Now, tell me. What are you up to, you and your play group?”

Willis didn’t answer.

“Yes, tell us. What exactly are you doing?” Holly said.

Willis looked at Holly. He didn’t like a gang-up like that. He smiled at her, but he was angry. He started to sing “Delilah,” an old hit by Tom Jones. He sang the first verse. He paused. He sang the refrain. Willis knew the second verse.

“Unreal.” Holly crossed her arms and waited while Willis repeated the refrain. His voice ascended above the muffled pumping of the waves, the terns’ triple screaks, the tinny knocks of sheet-metal hammers coming from a storm-gutter renovation two houses over.

“He has a nice voice, doesn’t he?” Rennie said to Holly. “He takes good care of it. He gargles with whitewash.”

Holly grumbled her affirmation, but Rennie was too tired to elaborate on the joke, her eyes fluttered trying to stay open.

Rennie said, “Munro wants to know what that truck is doing in the shack. That InstyPrint truck? In our shack.”

“Munro has been here?”

“Last night.”

“Where was I?”

Rennie said, “If you don’t know where you were, how would I know?”

“I was looking for
her
,” Willis said. He glowered at Holly. “Where were you?”

“Are you asking me?” Holly snapped. “I was at the mall. I live my own life, you know.”

“Well, when you decide who’s living what life, and where, send me a postcard.” Rennie turned on her side.

They left her alone to rest and went down the stairs.

When Rennie heard the kitchen storm snap back, she
picked up her book, found a blank page, and wrote a note to herself: “One time around went our gallant ship, two times around went she; three times around spun our gallant ship, and sank to the bottom of the sea.”

Fritz was down on the beach with the Chihuahua. Holly could see a little speck racing in circles near the foamy edge. The dog would be washed away if Fritz didn’t look out. Holly walked into her house after Willis. She had left the frying pan on the burner; it was red hot. She smelled the harsh fumes from the new Teflon coating. She went over to the stove and lifted the pan off the blazing circle. The intensity of the chemical smoke was making her cough. The fumes burned her eyes.

Willis saw it first.

The parrot was on the floor, under the kitchen table. It didn’t look good. It looked dead. It was asphyxiated. The chemical from the nonstick coating had poisoned the air and the parrot must have succumbed in a matter of a few minutes. Willis took the bird outside and tried to revive it. He held it upside down by its feet and shook it like an umbrella; its wings flapped open and closed artificially. Its round eyes were shiny and blank. It was finished.

Few words were exchanged. Fritz came inside and learned what had happened. “I guess no one wants to have eggs?” Fritz said.

Holly handed Fritz two raw eggs, folding his knuckles over them. “Okay, Ichabod. You make yourself some eggs,” she said. “Any style.”

“I think I just will,” Fritz said.

Holly went into the bathroom and locked the door. Willis took the bird into Rennie’s shack. He opened the door of the jewelry kiln and crammed the animal’s body inside, creasing its stiff unruly tail. He could have plucked a long blue feather, but he decided he didn’t want it. He suddenly recognized its particular shade of blue. It was like the voluminous whorls of petrified fabric on the antique figurehead, the “White Lady.” He shut the door of the kiln and set the dial.

He went back to Holly’s. She was frying an egg sandwich for Fritz, working the spatula under its golden crust. Fritz was holding a stiff one-hundred-dollar bill, teasing the puppy. The little dog was invigorated by the game, its tiny jaws snapped at the currency. The game annoyed Willis and he grabbed the bill away from Fritz. He brought it up to his face and studied the blue and red flecks, thin crescents sharp as dolls’ eyelashes embedded in the creamy paper.

They were eating their eggs without a lot of gab when someone knocked on the door. It was Elliot Tompkins from the Norman Bird Sanctuary.

Holly explained to Elliot that the bird wasn’t their problem any longer. They had found a new home for the macaw.

Fritz was enjoying his breakfast, slapping a hunk of butter on his plate and dabbing the end of his fried-egg sandwich against the blob. “Willis found a home for it. A nice hot, dry climate.”

Willis stared at Fritz.

Elliot Tompkins put a book on the table.
The Parrot in Health and Illness
, a large volume, fully illustrated. Elliot said, “Holly, I thought this would be a help, but I guess it’s too late.”

Willis tore a bite from a heel of buttered bread and lifted the heavy text. The book opened to a central page. A photograph showed a parrot nipping a fishing sinker. The caption under the picture said, “Lead Poisoning.” Elliot Tompkins wasn’t pleased to leave the book in Willis’s hands and he took it back.

“Maybe I’ll look at that some other time,” Willis said. He stood up and shook Elliot’s hand.