Page 18 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

Hard Evidence (continued from preceding page)
its cathedral proportions. It occupies one floor, but with high ceilings and interesting spans and cross- beams that form narrow lofts where Lyra enjoys perching during her cage-free time. The furniture is mostly rummage-sale collectibles, artfully restored and reupholstered. A Christmas tree, on a stand in the dining room, hasn’t yet been decorated because Jo- anna is saving the ritual for Christmas Eve. Last week- end she’d taken ornaments from her childhood out of her father’s attic, weightless tarnished balls and bells with chipped paint and little oxidized attachments resembling crowns. Scott and she would hang them with old-fashioned tinsel; her father would enjoy it. She’d hand him a simple task.
She guides her father into her kitchen, where copper pots dimly reflect earthenware jars and honey-toned granite surfaces. Suspended from the ceiling are several antique birdcages, fussy but practical landing sites for Lyra.
“Where’s Beryl?” her father asks, circling back to- ward the entrance hall while tapping his cane. His hair floats up in an electric nebula, which Joanna attempts to smooth down, telling her father that Scott would be home in a couple of hours and dinner would be soon.
“Wouldn’t you like to visit the bathroom?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Her father scowls. “I’d like to take a nap.” Joanna agrees, but only if it’s a catnap. “Din-
ner will be soon,” she repeats. As she leads him past the master bedroom toward Scott’s bedroom, Lyra whistles for her, but Joanna’s attention is on her father, who is struggling. “Where?” he asks. “Here?”
he echoes her, tapping with his cane. Scott’s room still displays sports banners from high school and shelves resplendent with trophies. Joanna’s father has slept here for five nights, rediscovering it each time he enters. “What a clean room.” His bleary eyes brighten with approval. “You must’ve been at it, cleaning all day,” he compliments Joanna. “Atta girl.”
Joanna steers her father toward her son’s plump futon where a neck pillow and heating pad are now installed. He turns to her with an anguished expres- sion. “I think I have to take a leak.”
“Come right this way,” says Joanna, relieved. At least there wouldn’t be another accident. When she hovers at the bathroom door, embarrassed yet committed, her father shoos her away with his hand. “Pffft!” he utters. From Joanna’s bedroom, Lyra appeals to her in a tart vocalize. “Not now. Sorry, little bird.” Once
her father is asleep, Lyra will be released and fed and made much of.
Hearing the sound of water from the bathroom tap, still apprehensive, Joanna returns to the kitchen and removes three cartons of Chinese takeout from the refrigerator. An early dinner will settle him, she thinks, then maybe he’ll sleep through the night, though she doubts it. She spoons the savory con- tents into white porcelain bowls, loosely covers them, and begins to microwave. While the bowls cook, she stands in the hall, listening for her father, hearing intermittent splashes of tap water. No flush, no shuffling footsteps, just random bursts of bird chatter. Back in the kitchen, nervously stirring a gleaming mound of chicken and snow peas in bean sauce, Joanna realizes there is no leftover rice. Scott must have eaten it all. She will have to boil more.
Rustling around in her pantry, Joanna seeks a short- cut, not the hardy organic brown rice she prefers. From in back of the pastas, she seizes a box of quick white rice with an open top. Pulling it up hurriedly is enough to send a cascade of grains across the pantry shelf and kitchen floor. She throws the mostly empty box in the trash and gets on her knees with a dustbin and brush. Just a quick sweep for now; later, once her father is in bed, she’ll vacuum the shelves.
While Joanna is on the floor, it begins. Piercing squawks at first, then heavy, dragging footsteps that underpin her father’s voice, which rises to a sicken- ing high pitch. “Shoo! Shoo!” he is screeching, swat- ting with his cane from his bent position in the hall. Joanna is up and lunging in her stocking feet, nearly losing her balance trying to get to him, knowing at once what has happened, but not knowing how. She had secured the cage, locked the master bedroom
door this morning, hadn’t she? The door is open and her bird is now loose and terrified. Instead of fleeing back to her cage, Lyra flutters in place, dodging Jo- anna’s father, then swoops low and heads for Joanna, who moves in a conflict of impulse, torn between her father and her bird. “It’s okay, Dad,” she cries, then, “Pretty bird.” She holds out her index finger, but there is no contact, just the terse hiss that Lyra makes when scared. Something is drifting and falling in slow motion like a twist of smoke. A feather, Joanna sees, when it lights on the secretary.
Then there is a cryptic warble, and the bird is sud- denly out of sight. Frantic, Joanna checks the cages
in the kitchen, but there are only the ridiculous, persnickety wire curlicues, not Lyra in defense mode with her tail feathers outspread and beak open. No
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