The Bird Cage (2 page)

Cody stands as if transfixed as the wick catches.

“Throw it out to the field!” Trevor yells, racing toward his little brother.

Cody drops the firecrackers into the dry grass at his feet where they instantly start their explosive pops, and the grass is on fire almost as fast. Racing to him, Trevor screams for Cody to get away from the burning grass, to run into the plowed field.

Trevor tackles him. Cody’s jeans are burning, and now he is screaming, too. Trevor yanks him up, runs into the field and throws his brother to the ground, rolls him in the soil and beats on the flames with both hands, throws dirt on the jeans. They are both yelling. Cody is trying to push Trevor away, striking at him.

Exhausted, the flames out, Trevor starts to shake, and Cody is sobbing. Beyond the plowed dirt the grass fire is blazing, and their Dad is there suddenly, hosing down the grass fire—

“Hey, Trevor, you planning on burning down the joint?” Ezra walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Trevor! Man, what’s going on? All that smoke! Trevor! Snap out of it!”

Trevor began to shake, he coughed, and backed away from the stove, nearly fell down, and Ezra grabbed his arm. “Trevor, say something! What’s wrong with you? Say something!”

Trevor shook his head, dazed, shaking and unsteady. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “Don’t know.”

“Yeah, me too. Come on. Sit down. You want a beer, water? Shit! The oven!” He turned off the oven and using a kitchen mitt pulled the burned nachos out, ran to the patio with the smoking pan, then returned with JD and Hal. “Let’s get him to a chair or something.”

They took him to the patio and pushed him down onto a chaise. Someone put a beer in his hand, and gradually his head began to clear, the shaking stopped.

“A flashback or something,” he said after taking a drink. “I’m okay now. It’s okay.”

“Dude, you’d better get to a doctor, get checked out,” Ezra said. “You were out like a light, standing like a statue, but out.”

“Man, you could have burned down the whole house! And you just stood there!” JD said.

Later, alone, Trevor played the scene over and over. How frightened they had both been. Not just that, he knew. Not just that. He had felt the fire, had felt it on his legs, burning his flesh. Cody had been burned, not seriously, but enough to hurt like hell, and he had felt it, too.

One of those kid incidents that you never really forget, he thought. He had threatened to pound Cody to a pulp if he ever got into his stuff again, but it wasn’t that either. That had been an anger reaction after fear and dread. He remembered the fear and dread, and he remembered feeling his legs burn.

It was irrational, Jean kept telling herself, pacing in her small apartment. All night she had come wide awake repeatedly, replaying that scene at the pond over and over, feeling all that fear again and again. Fighting a surge of guilt again and again. Irrational, she repeated. Crazy time. She had been six years old. A child, little more than a baby. And she had reacted as a child, a very young child. It was crazy after so many years to feel guilt over something she had done at that age. Children that young couldn’t be held responsible for not acting as adults.

She paced. The pond had been so shiny, wet. Now she knew what that meant, but she hadn’t known then. Neither had Cody, but he had been afraid of it and she had pushed him. She shook her head.

“Dear God, not again,” she said in a low voice. It had been cold, windy, but above freezing she knew now, but she had not known it then. He had been afraid. I want to go home. I’m cold. And she had pushed him.

Wearily she walked to the kitchen and stood at the sink. She should eat something, make coffee, do something. She didn’t even know his last name.

She should tell him she was sorry, she thought suddenly. Had he been haunted by that plunge through the ice? Falling into the icy water? As if it had been decided for her, she knew she had to find him, tell him she was sorry. Her mother would know his name.

Her mouth felt dry when she called. The banal how’s everything, taking a day off, I’m fine, all the small talk seemed a terrible effort before she could get to her question.

“Mom, I’ve been racking my brain trying to remember where we lived before we came to Portland. Who our neighbors were. I know there was a strawberry field nearby, and that’s about all.”

“That was on McCrutchen Lane, out past Gresham. Why has it come up all at once?”

“Just trying to fill in some blanks in my memory,” Jean said. “Was that the name of the family with the strawberries?”

“Yes. I took you with me to pick berries when you were five. You and their little boy ate more than I got in my pail.”

Her mother laughed and chatted about those days until Jean said someone was at her door and disconnected. McCrutchen. Cody McCrutchen.

There was no Cody McCrutchen in the phone book. No C. McCrutchen. Stupid, she told herself. He could be anywhere in the world. He could be back there at the orchard spraying apples or something. Or in New York, or L.A. Anywhere. He could be in Portland, using a cell phone. That night she slept no better than the previous night, and when she turned up at the shop, Lizzie examined her closely and told her to go back home.

“Honey, you look like someone who isn’t sleeping, or eating either probably. Take the rest of the week off, get rid of whatever bug got hold of you. Summer flu, most likely. Watch movies, or read novels for a couple of days, get some rest, plenty of fluids.”

Jean was both relieved and sorry. She was too restless to sit still and no movie could hold her attention for more than a few minutes at a time. But neither could she have dealt with customers who dithered over curtains or blinds and chose shiny gold brocade for drapes.

She had to tell him she was sorry, she told herself almost desperately, and she no longer could know if it was for his sake or her own. She knew it was obsessive, compulsive, irrational, but she had to tell him. Maybe then that scene would stop playing in her head, maybe then his screams would stop sounding in her head. Maybe then she could sleep.

Trevor eyed a frozen chicken cacciatore with loathing before putting it in the microwave. Since the incident with the nachos he was almost afraid to light the gas stove. Not almost, he thought derisively. Scared shitless. If he’d been alone, would he have set his house on fire? As far as work went, he should have just called in sick. Maybe he was catching something. Maybe he really was sick.

Out, asleep or something for more than ten minutes! That business with the firecrackers. God, what had that been about? Why now? Cody had thought Trevor had been beating him, not beating out the fire, but beating him up for getting them in the first place. And fire burning his legs… His hands had been burned, not his legs, but he had felt his legs burning. He shook his head, tried to shake that day away, back out of memory where it had been for so many years. It persisted. He got a beer from the refrigerator, but before he had opened it, his phone rang. His father was on the line.

“Trevor! Your mother’s had an accident. They took her to St. Vincent’s Hospital there in Portland. I’m on my way in.” His voice was ragged, shaky with fear. “Call Cody and meet me there. Emergency room.”

“Dad, what happened? What kind of accident? How bad?

“Car,” he said. “That’s all I know. They just called. Meet me there.”

The microwave was dinging when he ran from the house.

At the hospital the admitting nurse consulted with someone on the phone, then said, “Doctor says you can see her for just a minute or two. They’re prepping her for surgery. After that, please stop by again. There’s some paper work to take care of.”

That started what he considered a night in hell. His mother had been barely conscious, already sedated. Her eyes had flickered a moment when he said he was there. She mumbled something, and he leaned in closer to hear when she repeated it, “
Tell Cody I’m sorry
.” Nothing more. She had gone to surgery before his father arrived, and together they had waited throughout the long night.

Head injury, internal injuries, a broken collar bone… When she came out of surgery, they took her to the ICU and only his father was permitted inside the tiny room filled with machines and tubes, monitoring screens, and then only for a few minutes at a time.

Mid morning, he thought almost with surprise. His father was slouched in a chair, his eyes closed, although he was not sleeping. Trevor thought he was praying.

“Dad, I’m going to Cody’s apartment. I’ll find him and get him in here.”

His father nodded silently.

Trevor had called Cody’s cell phone and left messages twice with no call back yet. He couldn’t tell if he was more angry with his brother than afraid for his mother who had not regained consciousness. He drove across town fast, cursing under his breath.

Cody lived in a studio apartment that was as barren and tidy as a barracks. Boxes lining one wall, a futon, one chair, a small television, two chairs at a table that held stacks of papers, letters and bills, with barely space for a plate, a microwave on a counter, a small refrigerator and sink were all it contained. Trevor’s glance about was swift, then lingered on the table. Cody’s wallet was there, and his cell phone.

“What the hell?” he muttered, picking up the wallet. It had a few dollar bills, credit cards, other cards. He tossed it down and began to look through the papers, then stopped when he came to a deposit slip for Cody’s credit union. He had deposited twenty-five thousand dollars five days earlier.

“Jesus! What’s he into?”

He had just started going through the rest of the papers when the doorbell rang. He raced to the door and yanked it open.

Jean backed up a step. “Cody? Cody McCrutchen?” The man looking at her was tall, reddish brown hair, blue eyes, probably about the right age. She shouldn’t have come, she thought. What if he had completely forgotten what happened at the pond that day? He’d think she was a nut case or something. She backed up another step.

“No. I’m his brother Trevor. He isn’t here. What do you want with him?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. Sorry to bother you. I… I just wanted to tell him something. Sorry.”

She was young, with nearly black hair in a pony tail, big dark eyes, and she looked almost haggard, with dark shadows under her eyes. He started to close the door, hesitated, then said, “You want to leave a message for him?” She was afraid, he thought, looking at her more closely. Afraid of Cody? Obviously she didn’t even know Cody.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.” Almost inaudibly she added, “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell him I’m sorry.” She turned to leave.

He caught her arm. “Wait a minute. What do you mean? Who are you?” His mother’s message, Tell Cody I’m sorry, sounded in his head.

“Jean Biondi,” she said, jerking away from his hand on her arm. “I used to know Cody a long time ago.”

“Jean, stop. Wait a minute. Have you heard from him recently? Do you know where he is?”

She shook her head.

“Then why are you here? Sorry about what?”

“Something that happened a long time ago,” she said in a low voice. “When we were both just kids, six years old. I did something I’m sorry about. I… I thought I should tell him I’m sorry. I had a dream about it, or a flashback, something that made me remember, and I wanted to tell him.”

Trevor opened the door wider. “Jean, please, come in. We should talk. I had a flashback about him, too.” He felt his legs burn, and his hand was shaking.

Almost against her will, she nodded. Would it be enough to tell his brother? Make the screams stop, let her sleep again, make it all go away again? She went into the apartment with Trevor.

They sat at the kitchen table and she recounted the incident at the pond with her eyes downcast, her hands clenched in her lap. He got her a glass of water.

“It won’t go away,” she said in a low voice. “I keep hearing him screaming.”

“Jesus,” he said, sitting across from her again. “I keep feeling as if my legs are burning… ” He told her about the firecrackers. “I was fourteen,” he said. “Cody was ten. He thought I was beating him up for taking my firecrackers. He was crying, begging me to stop.”

“What’s happening?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. This is crazy. And I don’t know where he is. I’ve got to find him. Our mother’s in critical condition, a car accident.” He stopped and a wave of fear washed over him. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper as he said, “The police officer who told us about it said she didn’t try to stop. No skid marks. She just drove straight off the road, sideswiped a tree, went down an embankment and rolled over. She didn’t even try to stop. Just before they took her up to surgery she said to tell Cody she’s sorry.”

The color drained from her face as he talked. “You think it happened to her? A flashback or something?”

“I don’t know what to think. They said I was like a statue, with smoke rolling out of the oven. More than ten minutes. The timer was set for ten minutes. I didn’t hear it go off. Didn’t smell the smoke. Nothing.”

“I was in a chair, no memory of getting to a chair. Nothing,” she whispered. “I don’t know how long I was like that. Just nothing.”

For a time neither spoke again. Then Trevor rose. “I have to go back to the hospital. I’ll leave a note here for Cody.” He wrote his note on the back of an envelope and stuck it into the wallet so that most of it showed.

She stood, clutching the chair back. “What if it happens again? While you’re driving? While I’m driving?”

He looked at her bleakly. Yes, he thought, he believed his mother had had a flashback, too. Like a statue behind the steering wheel, the road ahead gone, everything gone, just a blank, and now she was in intensive care. “We should stay together for now,” he said. “Just for now, until we know what’s going on.”

“Whoever is driving has to keep talking. If I stop talking or you stop, take the steering wheel, put on the brake, what?”

“Back streets, no freeway, drive slowly. Grab the steering wheel and the hand brake,” he said hoarsely. Would that be enough? He didn’t know. “Come on, let’s go.”

Grace watched Edward Markham as he made his way awkwardly to the sofa with its pretty green cushions and sat down. After he was seated, she took one of the comfortable chairs on the other side of the coffee table.