Love and Ordinary Creatures

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  Joe, Caruso thinks glumly.

  “Nope, it’s Beryl!” she yells back. Recapping the bottle of polish, she puts it and the dust rag on the floor beside the chaise longue.

  His sandals schuss across the linoleum.

  “Joe Fitzgerald,” he says as he passes through the doorway. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, thrusting forth his calloused hand.

  “Beryl Gaskill—in the flesh,” she says, taking hold of his palm and shaking it firmly.

  The grip of an oyster shucker champion, Caruso thinks.

  “Clarissa left a message at Blackbeard’s,” he explains. “She was going to the mainland and wouldn’t get back until late. Wanted me to check in on Caruso.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I decided to do, too.”

  “What happened?” he asks. “She up and left and didn’t give me a reason why.”

  “It’s a secret and a surprise,” Beryl says.

  “Can’t you tell me?”

  “I’d rather not say in mixed company,” Beryl says, grinning and nodding at Caruso. “But she’ll tell ya in the morning.”

  “Sure, I can wait,” Joe says.

  “His feeder was full, and I changed his water, but the good news is…no more plucked feathers.”

  “Plucked feathers? Clarissa didn’t tell me about that.” He looks hard at Caruso. “Where? I don’t see any bald spots.”

  “Hidden beneath his wing.”

  “Poor little fella,” Joe says, as though he means it. “He’s never done that before. How come now?”

  “Why do you think?” Beryl asks him. “It’s been just the two of them in this cottage for two years.”

  “I feel like a home-wrecker.”

  “Ya think so, maybe?” Beryl says with a penetrating stare.

  Joe meets her gaze. “I came here to wind down from law school, to surf and bask in the sun. The last thing I was thinking about was a serious relationship. I didn’t plan on meeting Clarissa,” he says in a calm voice.

  “She didn’t plan on meeting you either,” Beryl says, crimping her lips into a smile. “Clarissa’s my best friend,” she goes on. “She and Caruso are like family to me. She’s finally got some peace in her life, and I don’t want that to change.”

  “I understand. You’re her friend, and you want to protect her.”

  “The way I see it, she and Caruso complement each other,” Beryl maintains. “He’s her other half, and she is his. I don’t want them hurt. So you best think long and hard about your intentions. You need to know where the two of you are heading.”

  “Could Ocracoke use another lawyer?” He chuckles.

  “We already have one, and one’s enough,” she jokes back.

  “Chapel Hill has restaurants, some good ones, too.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” she says. “A person can’t be in two places at once. Right, Caruso?” She walks over to the painted chest and from the bottom drawer pulls out the baby blanket. “Bedtime,” she says, draping it over his cage.

  Their footsteps fade as the back door closes on their voices, so soft now he can’t make out their words. Every so often he hears Joe laughing while they linger on the deck, quietly talking. He’d like to know what they’re saying, but, same as a person, a bird can’t be in two places at once.

  Eighteen

  “Morning, Caruso,” she greets him as she takes the baby blanket off his cage and throws it over the back of the sunroom chair. Her voice is as cheerful as the sunlight flooding in through the open blinds. Last night, she had come in through the front door, seldom used, and gone straightway to her bedroom without letting him know she was home, and he is still miffed at her. Uncurling his leg, he yawns by stretching his left wing and leg downward, while spreading out the left side of his tail. He yawns again, boosting his body with another blast of oxygen.

  “You ole sleepyhead,” she says, her lips curling upward.

  He gives her a dismissive glance and ignores her lovely face, even lovelier without makeup. Her silky arms are swaying gently against her thin yellow nightgown as she babbles sweet nothings to him. Finally she comes to a standstill, her features melding into a contemplative pose.

  He fans his wings over his back and stills himself also, clueless as to what is going on.

  She clears her throat, fixes her blue eyes on him, and says in a light, chirpy voice, “Your great big surprise is back in my bedroom. Wanna see it, Caruso?”

  It would be surprise enough, he thinks, if she would just say that he is the only fellow she loves.

  She oscillates down the hallway, the ruffled hem of her gown like a wave breaking around her toes. The bedroom door opens, and he hears a loud, nostalgic racket. Lowering his head, he glues his eyes anxiously on the wire-meshed floor.

  “Look, Caruso,” she says, her footsteps inching closer.

  He breathes in. No whiff of gum nuts or willow twigs in the air, rather a scent from long ago. Confused, he raises his head and spots the small, round cage dangling from her fingers. Bright rays of sunlight bounce off its curved metal bars, blinding him, but in the next instant he clearly sees the pink-feathered chest and neck and the light-gray tail and wings. It is a Rose-breasted Cockatoo. He jerks his head back down, his yellow crest rocketing up in horror.

  “A Galah,” she tells him.

  As if he doesn’t know what kind of bird it is. As if she doesn’t know that Galahs thrive by the thousands in his native land.

  “I bought her because you’ve been lonely,” she explains. “Her family was transferred to Germany, and she needs a new home. What do you think of her, Caruso?”

  He closes his eyes in dismay. The word, Galah, means loudmouth in Australia.

  “Her name is Matilda.”

  A wild bush cry flies from his throat.

  “Okay. Okay,” she says coolly. “You need some more time.”

  He flaps his wings in fury and blindly chomps the air with his beak, and the bird reacts as he expects. She elongates her neck and flattens her feathers in fear.

  “Please be nice, Caruso,” Clarissa says. “You’re scaring her.”

  He harnesses every bit of his willpower and puts an end to his bad behavior.

  “It’s all right. We’ll try this again later,” she says, turning to leave.

  He shuts his eyes tightly and doesn’t open them until she closes her bedroom door. She has ambushed him, he thinks. Ambushed him, as surreptitiously as an owl snaring a mouse in the night. His legs fold beneath him. Dizzy, he slips off his perch, thumping against the wire-meshed bottom. Pawned him off on another bird, he thinks, because Joe is her main man now.

  “I must make some changes in the cottage,” she says, throwing the latch on his cage at Crab Cakes. “You can visit with the staff while I’m gone. They want to spend some time with their favorite fellow. Now, act nice,” she reminds him as she closes the cage door. “And remember, no more feather plucking. Those bald patches look nasty,” she says before she goes.

  This morning, the Galah was forced upon him. This afternoon, the restaurant staff. One second, he’s everyone’s favorite fellow. The next, her embarrassment. So much for her great big surprise, he thinks bitterly.

  “How are you doing, big guy?” Rick asks. Caruso swivels around to face him. “Clarissa says you’re not up to snuff, but you look just fine to me. You wouldn’t believe the Parmesan sauce I prepared last week,” he says, his right eye floating delightfully toward Caruso. “It was my best yet. I began with a Sauce Béchamel—a rich blend of butter, flour, milk, and chicken broth…”

  Caruso’s thoughts wander as Rick describes every ingredient, every step of the process. Before Joe came into their lives, Clarissa would talk to Caruso in the sunroom after a long day’s work. She would tell him what she had cooked, which dishes worked and which ones didn’t, but with such vibrant energy that he never missed a word, never wanted to.

  “…and then I tossed in the heavy cream, some finely grated Parmesan, a little salt, a dash of freshl
y milled pepper, a pinch of nutmeg, and my secret ingredient…”

  Nothing is so annoying as a secret, Caruso thinks, recalling the banter of Clarissa and Joe over paella that evening of their first date—the secret ingredient in his scrambled eggs and tuna, in Granny’s vinegar-raisin pie.

  “Mace!” Rick says exultantly, as though he were giving away the most important secret in the history of the culinary arts. He nudges his blond bangs to one side with his fingertips, arches the black eyebrow above his wandering eye, and, in a blissful voice, adds, “Clarissa liked it, said the mace made the sauce much more interesting.” A faraway look on his face, he stands there reliving his moment of glory, then fixes his eyes on Caruso and says, “You know, Clarissa’s heart is big enough to love two guys at once.” Spinning around on the balls of his feet, he retraces his steps over the patio and tugs open the kitchen door.

  Caruso scoops up a beak of tepid water, tips his head back, and swallows. Clarissa’s heart is only big enough for Joe, he thinks as he looks despondently at the birdseed in his feeder. It is sleep he wants, not food. He longs to draw a curtain on the world and fall into this endless dream:

  Clarissa is a Sulphur-crested Cockatoo in the bush of Victoria. He spots her in a gum tree, preening her beautiful feathers. Erecting his magnificent crest, he screeches his love and catches her attention. With his beak, he widens a tree hole to demonstrate his skill at carving a nest. She flies over to inspect it, flaps her wings in approval. He shows his devotion by tenderly grooming her pinfeathers. She does the same for him until they are completely at ease with each other. Ready to mate, she dips down, with her wingtips lowered, and he presses his body against hers. During the brooding season of September, they separate from their flock to find a safe haven for their clutch of eggs. In the trunk of a eucalyptus tree, they find an abandoned woodpecker hole, which they enlarge with their beaks. The shavings fall into a soft nest at the bottom. They take turns keeping their eggs warm until they hatch, then raise their chicks together. In this way, they become paired forever—a couple of cockatoos in love.

  “Hi there, Caruso,” Pops says, ambling over the pathway from the bar. “What do you think about my new necktie?”

  Caruso rocks forward on his perch, scrutinizing the bright yellow background covered with dark blue squares and circles.

  “It’s a Roaring Twenties tie. A classic. I found it in a consignment shop in Wilmington. Goes well with my suit, doesn’t it?”

  Caruso opens wide his beak and quickly snaps it shut.

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like it. We’re the same—me and you. We know what’s important. The craftsmanship of a classic timepiece, an antique necklace, or the old stylists when they sing. I know you like Miss Peggy Lee. Clarissa told me. We both love that sexy, sultry voice of hers. Oh yes…” he says, closing his eyelids, as he begins to hum and sway. “‘I stood there shivering in my pajamas and watched the whole world go up in flames,’” he says, wrapping his arms around himself, rocking from side to side. “‘And when it was all over I said to myself, “Is that all there is to a fire?”’”

  For the first time, Caruso fully grasps the meaning of this song, these lyrics he’s listened to for years. Is that all there is to love? he wonders.

  “‘Is that all there is, is that all there is,’” Pops sings, his eyes now open, his voice full of feeling. “‘If that’s all there is my friends, then let’s keep dancing/Let’s break out the booze and have a ball/If that’s all there is.’” And when he’s finished, both he and Caruso are surprised to hear Devon giving him a round of applause.

  “Awesome!” Devon says, shaking his head exuberantly, his thick braids flying.

  “That was Miss Peggy Lee,” Pops tells him.

  “Never heard of her.”

  “One of the great old stylists. Won a Grammy for that song. Randy Newman did the arrangement.”

  “He’s pretty famous,” Devon says. “I can hear him in that song. It’s—”

  “Weird and wonderful,” Pops jumps in. “I love it, although I don’t feel about life that way. Life is still amazing to me.”

  The way it once was for me, Caruso thinks.

  “What amazes you, Devon?” Pops wants to know.

  “Kites,” he answers instantly. “I love designing and building them, and then letting them fly.”

  “Good!” Pops exclaims. “Keep on doing what you love.”

  “Caruso, my friend,” Devon says, coming over to him.

  Caruso lowers his head, and Devon gently brushes his fingertips down his neck.

  “Gotta party of twelve coming tonight,” Pops says. “Wanna help me scrounge up a few extra chairs?”

  “Sure,” Devon says as they set out for the bar.

  “Caruso!” Sallie calls, dashing through the bar door, brushing against Pops and Devon as she clomps toward him. “Clarissa told us about the parrot. Said she bought her for you because you’re lonely.”

  Gingerly, she slips a fingernail between her teeth and nibbles on it. “She didn’t have to ask me to talk to you, Caruso. We talk all the time, don’t we?”

  He bobs his head and waits for the other shoe on her gigantic foot to drop while she spits out a sliver of nail, which sails into his water dish and floats there, light and poisonous as a jellyfish. “The way I see it,” she says, narrowing her eyes to slits, “she has her hands full—Crab Cakes and Joe. So she got you a companion to keep you busy.”

  He cheeps anxiously.

  “Didn’t I warn you? Didn’t I say three’s a crowd?” She shoots him a critical look. “And if three’s a crowd, what do you think four is?”

  Squawkless, he is.

  “Four,” she says, emphasizing the word, “four makes a family. The two of them are the parents. You and that other bird—the kids.”

  “Claaa-risss-a,” he says soulfully.

  “Don’t worry, Caruso,” Sallie says, softening with the sound of approaching footsteps. “I’ll be here for you. I’m still your friend,” she says, shifting around to the sight of Manuel. “Your turn,” she tells him before leaving, her shoes pounding loud as ever over the bricks.

  Not Manuel, Caruso thinks wearily. On good days when he’s clearheaded, he’s unable to understand his Spanglish. How will he be able, with his mind in such a fog, to understand him now?

  Manuel, small and brown as a wren, stops short of his cage. Smiling broadly at Caruso, he doesn’t speak but instead begins to juggle the serving spoons in his small hands. They fly through the air, somersaulting above one another, as he agilely catches them. Laughing, he balances on one leg and tips precariously to the side, as though he might tumble over, but doesn’t, and Caruso, forgetting his troubles for a moment, bounces with delight. Manuel pauses, pulls the red bandana tied around his forehead over his eyes, and begins to juggle again—the serving spoons like playful birds, dipping, diving, and tumbling—while he plucks them from the sky. When the performance is over, he pushes his bandana up, winks at Caruso, gives him a little bow, and bounds over the patio to the kitchen.

  Caruso catches sight of Clarissa, back now, going from one station to another, coring and slicing a red bell pepper into strips on the worktable, stirring and tasting a sauce on the stove, then dressing several chickens on the counter beside the sink. He could be one of those poor chickens, Caruso thinks. Before long, he will be as denuded of feathers as they are and will feel as dead inside as one of their carcasses. And though he doesn’t think much of their intellect, chickens deserve more respect than this. Once they were alive and free, not just meat.

  Caruso turns his face away, but, seconds later, unable to control himself, he looks back to see Rick inching a spoon toward Clarissa, who, oblivious to it, glances up and points at him beyond the glass panels, her lips silently moving. Poor Caruso, he’s lonely, he imagines her saying. Again, he turns away. He does not need her pity. Best to close his mind to her, he thinks, folding his leg up, tucking his beak into his back feathers, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.


  Before he can wake up fully, she is removing him from the Victorian cage to take him home. Her Reeboks crackle through the desiccated grass. Bleary-eyed, he stares at a blur of yaupon shrubs in the adjoining yard. Mosquitoes buzz near his ear coverts. Close by, a tomcat—that stealthy butcher of birds—yowls. Yet Caruso doesn’t flinch. Cats are the least of his worries these days.

  She ascends the rickety steps to the wooden deck, pushes open the door, and goes inside. In the sunroom, she clicks on the overhead light. As soon as she unhinges the cage door, he whiffs the faint odor of Galah.

  Wary, he eases himself into his refuge, his castle, his sanctuary—as she calls it—and spots beak marks, proof of Clarissa’s betrayal, on the stale dog biscuit which he has been ignoring for weeks. She’ll stoop to anything, he thinks. While the staff was courting him, she was courting Matilda.

  “You know, don’t you?” she says, watching him closely as he settles upon his perch. “Please don’t be upset with me. Matilda needs to get used to her new cage.”

  Her new cage. How painful it is for him to hear these words!

  “I’ll be right back,” she says, latching him in.

  He pivots toward the long arm of windows and stares into the desolate night. The stars, it seems, have fallen from the sky and drowned themselves in the ocean. The moon is hiding his face in a hazy fog. Somewhere at the end of Fig Tree Lane, a dog yelps. He listens to her bedroom door, opening and closing, then opening once more, and, after that, her footsteps in the hallway, but he refuses to cast his eyes on her.

  “Caruso,” she says softly. “Turn around.”

  He feels her presence and detects the scent of bird.

  “Look at me.”

  Reluctantly, he pivots in her direction. She is five feet away. With her right side foremost, she stands there innocently, the Galah’s pink crown of feathers like an indictment behind her head. “I’m doing this for you,” she says, shuffling sideways toward him, moving closer and closer as he puffs out his cheek feathers and frets on his perch. She twists her left shoulder slightly, and the Galah, crouched on her arm, swings forward. “Matilda’s not going to take your place,” she says reassuringly. “Good boy,” she tells him as she slides one foot over the floor, then brings the other to rest beside it, again and again, until she and the Rose-breasted Cockatoo are inches from his cage. She continues to shift slowly, stopping only when the three of them are face to face.