Treasure Island!!! (3 page)

 

B
ack in my studio apartment, I reached for the phone. Could anyone be more lost than I?
I started to call my mother—a reflex reaction when I smell trouble—but before I completed dialing, I realized I had no desire to hear her point of view and saved myself by hanging up. Then I called Lars, who was at work and couldn't take my call, and Rena, who was not, and immediately came over to feed and water Richard. This was fortunate, since I was in no condition to nurture a bird. She insisted she didn't mind.

“You haven't called me in a long time,” she said. “So you're still deep into this
Treasure Island
thing, huh?”

“Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and ears, a fork'd one! Thanks for asking. Lately my sister's the only one who asks, but she asks because it's her library copy. She's pissed about the overdue notices.”

“Of course. They'll revoke her borrowing privileges!”

“You're as bad as her. They won't. They'll just decide the book is lost. Adrianna wants me to get my own copy, but that's crazy—like telling a superstitious person to buy a new rabbit's foot.” I nuzzled the book against my cheek.

“Did you used to have a rabbit's foot when you were a kid?” Rena said, shuddering. “Mine was dyed blue and on a little metal chain. My uncle gave it to me. Whose idea of luck was that? Certainly not the rabbit's.”

Rena cut up some banana and gave Richard a water dish, occasionally throwing him flirty little glances.

“I've pet-sat for a Zebra Finch and some lorikeets,” she said. “But never a large exotic. He sure seems like a character.”

“What's wrong with him?” I said.

“Nothing. I just mean he has a lot of personality.”

At that Richard screamed, loosening the fillings in my molars.

“Maybe turn off the maritime music,” Rena suggested.

Reluctantly I did, but Richard didn't calm. He screamed and screamed until Lars pressed the buzzer to be let into my apar­tment. “Wonder why
that
shut him up?” I said as I pressed the intercom. Rena left as Lars entered. In passing they exchanged mildly distressed greetings, Rena clobbering his hip with her enormous Turkish Kilim hand-woven expandable purse.

“I'm not taking sides,” Lars said after he had heard, two or three times, my story.

I cuddled up to him on the bed, about three feet from the bird whose cage sat unhygienically on my table.

“Do,” I urged. “Do take sides. Otherwise where is the fun?”

“Well, okay, I'm thinking maybe you were out of line a little.”

“Oh come on! Nancy thinking I stole her money,
that's
out of line.”

“You did take it—”

“But it was petty cash. And I'm her employee. She's putting the worst possible spin on it. She goes about as if she's St. Francis of Assisi! I'm supposed to bring extraordinary diligence to her scrappy endeavor? I said I'd work there, not that I would
live
for the animals. ‘Oh, time to feed hamsters!'” I added. “‘Oh, time to brush cats!'”

“Please don't do her accent,” Lars said, his mouth askew.

“But you know the apple barrel scene, right? Jim Hawkins overhearing Long John Silver plotting a mutiny? After Jim falls asleep in the apple barrel? That's how he discovers half the crew are pirates.”

“So?” Lars said, failing to grasp the magnitude.

“So then Jim rushes back to the Captain, Dr. Livesey, and Squire Trelawney and tells them everything he's just heard. And they're all like, Wow, Jim, with this information you have basically saved our asses, only they put it better. They're complimenting him and the doctor says, ‘Jim is a noticing lad.'”

Lars looked at me blankly.

“A noticing lad, a noticing lad,” I said, smacking his thigh. “
I'm
a noticing lad, and that's why I do Nancy's voice. I've
noticed
that Nancy talks without any articles.”

Lars has a bit of fight in him, so long as the topic isn't too personal. “You told me Nancy's lived in the States twelve years. She owns her own business. She's probably more integrated in the community than
we
are. No way she sounds like a Chinese stereotype.”

“But you haven't met Nancy,” I grumbled. “She really does talk like that. One day I'll go to China and the native speakers can quote my egregious errors as much as they want—then you'll see.”

“Since when are
you
going to China?” Lars said with a touch of sulkiness. That's when it hit me: Lars wasn't politically sensitive, not by a long sea mile. He was afraid I'd leave him.

“Don't worry, I'm not planning any trips. Unless someone does all the arrangements for me, flight and hotel and all that, I don't even
like
to travel.”

“Scrraww!” Richard said. Wings flat, head tucked, he appeared to be molesting his feathers.

“You know what Nancy's really upset about? Willie. But it wasn't me who shaved him. Who do you think
did
pick up those clippers?”

“I have no idea. Maybe some kids wandered in and then did it for a prank—”

“Teenagers!” I remembered the boys speeding past me in the mud-splashed car. I had waved to them. Willie's tormentors.

“Do you have another job in mind?” Lars asked.

“What?” I said, caught unawares.

“That's why I'm thinking you should talk to Nancy. Face to face.
BOLDNESS. KINDNESS. FORGIVENESS
—”

“Lars, you don't even relish the adventure, do you? You're like Tom Redruth, the gamekeeper who gets dragged along, and grumbles the whole time.”

“Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Heart of gold; not a lot of drive; eats a bullet in Chapter Twenty-Five: The Attack. Besides, there's nothing about
forgiveness
in the Core Values! Jesus. Read the book!”

But the longer we sat on my bed, in my lovely studio apartment, with its cheerful, flimsy sub-Urban Outfitters furnishings, the more I realized I had no savings and would rather slit my wrists than go back to the gift wrap department at Flounkers. At least at The Pet Library I could read. And maybe Nancy could take the parrot back.

“Lars, hand me my stationery box.”

At first, I chose a lovely medium-weight note-card with a letter-pressed border of red peonies, a piece of stationery that came from a superb out-of-town paper boutique. Just imagining Nancy's hands (never manicured) unwrapping it on the counter (invariably soiled) prompted me to save the card for a better occasion. Here was a dull card with fern fronds, leftover from a box set. I drew a thick decorative swirl over the “Thank You” and it was perfect.

Dear Nancy
, I wrote. Immediately an image sprung up of her sifting through the mail in the back room, the airbrushed centerfold of cats warping off the wall behind her.
Since you've misconstrued my actions, I'm bound by my honor to explain them. Many, many times I looked at The Pet Library's petty cash and thought of how I could use the money for my personal uses, for instance to buy a cashmere sweater—which I'm fairly sure I'm never going to be able to buy—and yet I didn't. I hope I'm right when I say that this kind of restraint counts for something. I took the money to buy a parrot for The Pet Library. Which wasn't right, my boyfriend tells me now, but wasn't the most wrong thing in the world either, as it was an act on behalf of the business and not a misappropriation of funds for a personal sweater. I had no idea the money didn't belong to The Pet Library. As for the fish, I wish I hadn't left the tank uncovered but you can hardly blame the cats for taking a crack at them. When Jim Hawkins counts up the dead after the first skirmish, the crew has been reduced from nineteen to fifteen. And two more wounded, lying about, I think. But he soldiers on. As for Willie his coat was his best feature but, on the bright side, it will grow back, and now it will be easier to really go after his eczema. I hope you accept this apology and let me know at your earliest convenience about my hours for the coming week. I could work this Saturday, but not Sunday because Lars and I have plans and I was going to ask you, before you fired me, if I could have Wednesday off. Any of the other usual hours would be good.

 

Your Faithful Hand

 

 

S
ometimes when a person does something wrong, she finds it easier to continue in a wrong way; for if having done a wrong thing, she proceeds to do a right thing, the wrong thing may appear to others all the more plain. I offer this sententiousness as an attempt to understand Nancy, whose actions the most compassionate person would find difficult to explain. Not only did she fire her best and only part-time employee, she refused to accept Richard for her collection. This woman who for years had given homes to lizards that people had dumped anonymously into the drop-box after maiming them,
refused
, as a matter of principle, to accept my bird. All she wanted was her money back.

I was at my parents' house, explaining some of the indignities to my sister Adrianna, who for financial reasons, had recently moved back home. Adrianna loaded pita chips with hummus and ate them very slowly, leaning one elbow on the speckled Corian breakfast bar.

“Well, he's yours now,” she said. “Tell me where you see potential snags.”

I counted them off on my fingers.

“The dirty cage. The smell of feather dust. The cost of feed. The cost of shots. Holding the bird for shots. The bird angry with me after shots. Daily upkeep. Daily training. Daily contact.” I paused and stared at my pinky. “There's also the question of how I could own a bird and ever go away on the weekends.”

“You never go away on the weekends. You come over to Mom and Dad's.”

“Well, maybe I've been
planning
to go away on weekends.”

“Maybe it would be good for you to have a pet,” Adrianna said. “The responsibility, I mean. Besides, if you needed to get away, doesn't your friend Rena do pet-sitting?”

I passed myself the tub of hummus she'd been hoarding.

“Rena gets on my nerves.”

Adrianna looked quizzical.

“Very unambitious personally, and very doom-and-gloom about the environment. Mm thinking of cutting her loose,” I said with a full mouth.

“She still worried about her nitrogen footprint?”

“Negative energy,” I summarized. A huge glob of hummus dropped onto my mother's vinyl coupon organizer, which was lying on the counter. “Let's finish talking about Nancy. Do you understand what I've sacrificed for her, how much study of
Treasure Island
I've missed while I sat and signed out her goldfish? I was trying to help her. Now I wonder where I'd be if I'd applied my ingenuity to myself instead of to her Library.”

“There's an idea.”

“The real reason Nancy hates the parrot is because she doesn't have the guts to go and get
anything
for the Library.”

“But it's the money issue too, right? She'd been saving up for her mother's hip replacement.”

In the pantry, packed with chickpeas, Cheez-its, and peanut butter pretzels for my parents' next two hundred guests (they never entertained), I found and broke open a second bag of chips.

“If I have to, I'll keep Richard even if it ruins me, even if I have no money to go to the movies or buy clothes or ever go anywhere on the weekend ever. But I'll tell you what I told Nancy's voicemail last night: only if she takes the parrot will I let bygones be bygones.”

“Who's talking about bygones?” my mother said, coming into the kitchen with a basket of laundry.

“Who's picking up fag-ends of conversations?” I said.

She set her basket down on the kitchen table and, as if I had said nothing at all, began to fold my father's boxers.

“I mean, who's pulling on the line? Dipping without a chip? Fishing without the bait? Cruising without a motor?”

“Really, sweetie, I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Because I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to Adrianna.”

“Oh,” my mother said, with the pleasure of having successfully translated a scrap of a foreign language, “have I interrupted?”

“Well, yes. It was kind of a confidential matter.”

“Okey dokey.” She took her laundry down the hallway and disappeared into her bedroom.

“What was all
that
about?” Adrianna said. “You pissed at Mom?”

“I'm not pissed. I just don't need her knowing my business. Listen,” I said, when I was sure we were in no danger of being overheard. “You don't happen to have a thousand dollars lying around, do you? That I could borrow?”

With a scornful glance, Adrianna plunged a shard of pita into the hummus.

 

 

I
've decided to live with Lars,” I told Rena on the telephone.
“Really? I thought you were . . . feeling alienated and . . . thinking of breaking up with him. How did this happen?”

“What do you mean, happen? We've been together for five months. Actually, nine, if you count that impromptu sleepover.”

“Yes, but . . . Well, how does he feel about it?”

“He's thrilled. He's more domestic than I am. This is what he's always wanted. Also, I can't pay the rent on my studio.”

In an intimate booth at Diamond Dave's Taco Co., Lars had looked at me over the rim of his large-bowled margarita. “You mean you want us to get a place together?”

“Do you mind me asking?”

“Frankly, it's a relief to not be the one doing all the emotional work,” he said. “I didn't see it coming though. You've been kind of bitchy lately.”

“Preoccupied,” I amended.
“Mea culpa.”

“Wow,” said Rena on the telephone, after I had explained my plan to immediately move in to Lars's recently renovated sublet one-bedroom condo. “Did you even—I mean, did you try asking your family for help?”

“Well, duh, because what's the fourth Core Value, Rena?”

“
HORN-BLOWING
?”

“That's four. I meant three. What's the third Core Value?
INDEPENDENCE
. Adrianna has no money, only credit card bills. Aunt Boothie already paid for the parrot, and my parents will only loan me money with interest. I still owe them money for the Lasik.”

“Tough love,” Rena said. “Still, what would be the APR?”

“The hell if I know,” I said. “I'm not an economist.”

 

In the beginning, living with Lars was lovely. It didn't matter if I was kissing him hello, or kissing him goodbye, or reminding him to pay the bill for cable; there was something sweet in all we did, something fresh and fragrant, as if a spring breeze blew through the apartment, which of course it didn't because it was autumn and I kept all the windows closed even when it was warm so I could enjoy the central air con­di­tioning.

Rena threw out her skepticism and gave us a box of personalized address labels. My mother sent us a congratulatory note and a three and half gallon bucket of caramel corn. Adrianna came over for spaghetti and did a decent impression of not being jealous that I had a live-in boyfriend and she had a loveless life in which her richest emotional engagements were with third graders. Did I mention that since her debt debacle, Adrianna had been living with my parents?

I hadn't wanted to take full ownership of Richard, but now that I was living with Lars, it didn't seem exactly like I had. Richard was
our
baby. After we discovered that Lars's gag reflex was weaker than mine, Lars took to cleaning the cage, and I volunteered to do food and water. I found an independent supply shop not far from the apartment, which seemed a remarkable stroke of good fortune, until I discovered it was owned by a drab and lonely lunatic with strong ideas about avian diet. “I won't sell you vitamins,” she said, flitting about the shop like Ben Gunn, prying bottles from my hand. “You need to be thinking about
whole foods
. A green vegetable, an orange vegetable, whatever fruits and vegetables are available seasonally! Sprouts? Yes! Loaded with enzymes! Grow organic and just
wait
till you see the shine of his plumage!” Shine this, I thought and took the bus to PETCO, where I bought a bag of Vita-Mix pellets—and on, second, indulgent thought, a bag of sunflower seeds to motivate Richard during lessons. I now spent my jobless hours training him to speak.

“No, honey, don't let him out,” I told Lars, “I know more about animal behavior than you. A cage is a bird's home. It safeguards him from the overwhelming complexity of the world. Letting him out for some exercise would be like throwing a person off a cruise ship for a little swim.”

“People swim off cruise ships all the time,” Lars said and he began to take Richard regularly on his arm. Sometimes Richard made thrumming noises while he clowned around with Lars's glasses. Sometimes Lars tickled his belly, and Richard made a weird sound like two cups of gravel in a blender, which Lars called laughing.

“See?” said Lars. “Happy bird! See?”

The two of them had such a good time I might have been jealous, except I didn't want the bird to sit on me. The sharp beak. The black tongue. The scaly claws. Ugh!

“Don't let him vent on my index cards,” I said. “And if he gets anywhere near my new bag, I'll kill you.” My calfskin bag boasted two small side pockets and a main compartment exactly big enough for
Treasure Island
. Rolled leather handles; turn-lock enclosure.

“Maybe you resent him because he cost you your job,” Lars said as he walked around the room in big figure eights.

“
That
job? Are you kidding?”

I resented Richard for other reasons. He screamed frequently and imitated Lars's morning cough. A white fungus stippled his beak.

“You can take that off with a little soap and water,” Lars said.

“I don't want to coddle him, I'm sure birds in the wild have it. But what in the world should I do about the talking?”

Richard had proved to be a fine mimic, but he favored the voices he heard on the television, which I kept on to overcome the tedium of his lessons.

“Steer the boat, girlfriend,” I said.

“It's big, it's hot, it's back!”

“Steer the boat, girlfriend.”

“Fall blowout carpet sale!”

“Steer the boat, girlfriend. I'm speaking loud enough, aren't I?”

“You always do,” Lars said.

“There's
nothing
in
Treasure Island
about how the parrot begins to talk. No tips at all on the learning process.”

“It's a story, not a user's manual. But don't give up, you've got time. Parrots can live for a hundred years, you know.”

A hundred years? I glimpsed myself grown old. With a liver-spotted hand, I reached out for the birdseed; an empty house, a funeral procession, Richard on a stranger's arm, flapping his wings on my grave. These images cooled my fervor for the project. One afternoon when the bird let loose a familiar torrent of enthusiasm about a hot double beef patty stacked with cheese, I threw down my book and glared. It was the middle of the day. I covered his cage with the cloth.

“There. Now you'll let me read.”

“Scrrraw,” he said softly and then quickly fell asleep.

A few hours later, as I rifled through Lars's desk in search of photos, letters, and ticket stubs from his previous girlfriends, the quiet apartment began to feel like a tomb in which I had been buried alive. The autumnal light, the sound of Richard grinding his beak. But at six o'clock, the door burst open, and there was my boyfriend with a bag of dinner in hand. How I leapt from the sofa, how I forgot the indeterminate contents of the desk, how we clung to each other like newlyweds! The sofa that had seemed a desolate raft in the sea of his absence now became a schooner in which we glided, watching television, eating fried food, and kissing each other's ears.