Love and Ordinary Creatures

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  Amazingly, food is the last thing on his mind. He shakes his head.

  “No, huh? Me neither.”

  She meanders back into the sunroom. Her foot grazes against the antique plate holder, and she stumbles, spilling bourbon on the floor. “I forgot about that,” she says. Extending her arm out to her side, the drink in her hand, she remarkably maintains her balance as she squats to pick it up. She sets the holder on the bookcase and returns to the chaise longue but doesn’t sit.

  “Beryl’s right,” she suddenly declares. “Order your life. Order your mind. Gotta clean this mess up.”

  Downing the rest of her drink, she starts toward the kitchen. He hears the closet door opening and closing, water gushing and ceasing to flow. Within minutes, she is back with a mop and bucket and a handful of paper towels. She wipes up the spilt liquor in one fluid motion as though she’s not been drinking, after which she wads up the paper towels and makes straightway for the trash can in the kitchen. When she comes back, she zealously mops the dirty floor around his cage and then splashes water into every corner of the sunroom, scrubbing the linoleum with a vengeance. Her movements are fast and furious, as if she’s punishing the cottage for getting dirty.

  She moves on to the kitchen. From atop the worktable, he watches her sponging grime off the refrigerator and stove until their white surfaces glisten, whereupon she cleans the counter, then takes a rag to the glass top of the back door until he can see the sunset glowing vividly through it. Sighing, she reaches for her empty glass beside the sink, pours herself more bourbon, and gulps. “What…can I…do, Caruso?” she asks, turning to face him. “She’s prettier…smarter…and he got tired of…her. Am…no…Maggie,” she slurs. “Betcha he’ll be bored with me real soon.” She takes another swallow and frowns into her drink.

  Sliding out a bench, she sits down—all the while drinking and talking, her speech becoming more garbled, her features more bleary as she finishes off the glass. There are tears, he notices, along her lower lashes. Drunkenly, she shakes her head and flings them off.

  “Sleep…how’ll I sleeeep?” she mumbles in a voice so pitiful it makes him wince. She plunks her drink on the worktable and teeters to her feet, the bench rocking behind her as she staggers up. Moving unsteadily toward the long kitchen cabinet near the stove, she draws open the door and lurches forward, grabbing a plastic vial of pills from off the bottom shelf. A doctor on Roanoke Island had prescribed them for her, Caruso remembers, after a particularly awful phone call with her parents, and she had taken one at bedtime every night for a week to help her sleep.

  She pushes on the plastic cap with the heel of her palm and tries to twist it open, but it won’t budge. “Stuuupid, chile-prooof cap,” she mumbles, turning the container on its side. She rummages through the counter drawer and takes out a small mallet. Wielding it like a hammer, she cracks the vial in two. She tweezes up two pills with her thumb and middle fingers, throws back her head, tosses the pills into her mouth, and swallows them with the last bit of bourbon. Next, she plucks up the remaining pills and deposits them in the spoon rest on the counter. She reels back toward him, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. With a startled blink, she takes a clumsy step forward, lifts her empty glass, and says, “To Caruso, the on…ly un who loves me.”

  She stumbles to her bedroom, smacks the glass down on the nightstand, and falls into bed. Fluttering up, Caruso settles on the pillow next to her face, counting her every breath.

  Twenty-eight

  The toilet flushes. Water gurgles from the faucet as she washes her face. She seizes a hand towel on the vanity, but just as she is about to dry off, she lets out an agonizing groan, drops the towel to the floor, and staggers to the toilet. Her arms hugging its porcelain base, she retches violently into the bowl, then dry-heaves for several more minutes. Using the top of the commode like a crutch, she rises on shaky legs. When he steps aside for her to pass into the hallway, she says not a word, only presses her large hand against her forehead. “My head, my head,” she moans before collapsing onto the chaise longue. He climbs up to be with her, and she tells him how bad she feels. He turns his face away from her stale, acrid breath. Before he can turn back, she is swaying upward, floundering toward the kitchen.

  “My head is splitting,” she says, unlatching the long cabinet door beside the stove and seizing a container. She flips the lid off with her thumb, spills three red pills into her palm, and swallows them. “Water,” she rasps, moistening her dry lips with her tongue. She heads to the sink, reaches for a tumbler on the drainboard, cuts on the faucet, and rapidly swills down two glasses of tap water. She sets the glass on the counter and begins to weave back and forth. “Ohhhh!” she says, dropping to her knees, then sprawling out on the linoleum. She lies there on her back, breathing heavily with her mouth open, Caruso crouched by her shoulder.

  “Hair of the dog,” she mumbles, her gaze veering upward, landing on the half-empty bottle of bourbon on the counter. Using a bench for leverage, she maneuvers to her feet, grabs the Booker’s by its neck, reaches for the tumbler, and splashes some in. “Relief—please,” she says, sipping it on her way to the sunroom. “It’s hot in here,” she mumbles, flicking on the fan.

  She sits down on the blue-cushioned seat, and he squawks up at her.

  “Come to me,” she says, and he does as she asks. “My sweet boy,” she says as he nestles against her thigh. She tastes a little more bourbon and wipes her mouth on her shirtsleeve. The same shirt she had on the day before. The same shirt she slept in last night. The same seersucker pants.

  She’s a disheveled, smelly mess, he thinks, whiffing a sour odor. No food in her stomach since yesterday. No toothbrush. No bath. No baby powder. But at least her rampant red hair, flushed cheeks, and swollen eyes have replaced the drunken blur of her face and made it distinct again.

  “I thought he would call me from Rodanthe, but he hasn’t,” she says, slewing her eyes around the room. “Looka there…spotless,” she says, amazed, as if she doesn’t know who cleaned it. She brings the glass to her lips and sips. “I thought he’d miss me, but he doesn’t.”

  Her poor-pitiful-me tone annoys him. Where is his spunky Clarissa, who can whip up a soufflé without thinking, watch the same soufflé fall, and laugh about it while she whips up another? He wants that Clarissa back.

  “You love me, don’t you, Caruso?”

  He bobs his head and coos.

  “My main man,” she says, curling her legs up on the chaise longue, rolling over, and drifting off.

  “Shit,” she grumbles several hours later when the Cedar Island ferry announces its arrival with five humongous foghorn blasts.

  He chitters encouragingly while she struggles to sit up.

  “Poor baby…we didn’t eat last night,” she says, all of a sudden remembering. “Come on. Let’s get some fruit.”

  From the refrigerator, she takes out a navel orange, a Red Delicious apple, and two kiwis. She washes and slices the apple, peels the orange and divides it into sections, and cuts the rind off the kiwis. Even with a hangover, she arranges the fruit so that it looks pleasing on the plate. “A little nourishment,” she says, setting the plate on the worktable, lowering herself onto the bench.

  Ascending to the tabletop, he tweezes a chunk of apple between his toes, brings it to his beak, and crushes the mellow-flavored flesh with his strong, dry tongue. She wolfs down two wedges of apple and then pinches up a section of orange but doesn’t eat it. “I’m feeling queasy,” she says, giving the orange to him. She wobbles as she stands and moves shakily over the floor, her head disappearing into the frosty space when she opens the freezer door.

  “Chocolate ice cream,” she says, bringing out a quart of Edy’s and putting it on the counter. She leans into the door as she closes it and opens the other side. “Great,” she says, finding a carton of milk behind a large bottle of marinade. Leaning over, she retrieves the blender from the bottom cabinet, plunks it on the counter, and plugs it in. She removes the lid f
rom the glass pitcher, scoops up some ice cream, and plops it into the container. She adds the milk, snaps the lid back on, and throws the switch, the loud sound of the machine making her grimace. Taking the lid off, she raises the pitcher to her lips and swallows, each gulp lasting longer than the other. “As good as one of Granny’s remedies,” she says, thumping the almost-empty pitcher on the counter. “Oh, yes, much better…much better,” she says, nodding. “I need more hair of this dog, but first a shower. I stink,” she says, scrunching up her nose, breathing in.

  She returns the milk and ice cream to the refrigerator before starting toward the bathroom with Caruso in her wake. Midway there, the phone rings. Her body rigid, her features frozen, she peers down the hallway and waits.

  “Hi, Clarissa, it’s me,” Joe says.

  A strange gurgle skips from her throat.

  “I’m catching the early ferry back tomorrow morning. How about lunch at the Treasure Chest—around eleven—before your day gets too busy? Will meet you there. Can’t wait to see you. Bye now.”

  She swallows hard, staring blankly in front of her.

  “You can’t wait to see me,” she mutters after a minute of stony silence. “But what will we see when we look at each other?” She pauses for another moment and asks, “Will I see someone I can trust?”

  She is equivocating, Caruso thinks fearfully.

  “Someone I can trust to change?”

  Don’t go, Caruso thinks.

  Wrapping her arms around her waist, she girds herself and states, “I’ve gotta see him. At least I owe him that.”

  Disheartened, Caruso cries out.

  “Oh, sweetheart, trust me,” she tells him.

  He trusts his instincts only. If she meets Joe for lunch, she’ll give him another chance. “Lunch at eleven, then,” she says, setting out again for the bathroom, the door closing behind her.

  This time, she must trust her bird companion, Caruso thinks as the water from the showerhead pings against the stall.

  Caruso hops through the sunroom and into the kitchen. With a determined pulse of his wings, he flies up to the counter, takes a pink pill from the spoon rest, and drops it into the melted ice cream at the bottom of the glass pitcher. He goes back, tweezes up a second pill, and drops it in. He scrutinizes the contents of the blender. Like a gambler, he weighs the odds and considers every unintended consequence. This is his last chance. No mistakes this time, he vows. Resolved, he plucks up another two pills, lets them fall into the chocolate slush, and returns for yet one more—a guarantee that she’ll sleep through her luncheon date with Joe.

  When she comes out, he is crouching beside the bathroom door. “I feel better,” she tells him, her gait steadier on her way to the kitchen. He looks on, steely eyed, while she prepares another milkshake, the arm of her white robe swishing as she scoops up more ice cream and pours in more milk. She snaps the lid on the blender and turns the machine on—any incriminating trace of pink disappearing into the swirling chocolate mass. She drinks it all.

  Meandering back into the sunroom, she lies down on the chaise longue beneath the schussing fan. Within minutes, she is sleeping. He flies up beside her.

  Time passes. The sunset is replaced by a myriad of stars. In the moon’s gauzy light, he watches her chest rising and falling, her belly undulating with each intake and release of air, and feels the gentle brush of her breath on his feathered cheeks. Her skin is smooth again, as satiny as a baby’s, the lines erased along with the worry, and once more she is his lovely red-headed Eclectus hen. “Claaa-risss-a. Don’t go. Sleep,” he says, the words spoken softly into her ear.

  Tomorrow, at noon, Joe will realize that she’s not showing and that she doesn’t trust him anymore. Then, Caruso will kiss her lips with his beak and wake his Sleeping Beauty from her deep repose, and together they will create their own happy ending. The rhythmic sound of the whirling fan calms him, and before long he has joined her in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Twenty-nine

  The bright sunlight wakes him with a start. He jerks himself upright, the hot, wet air wrapping itself around him like a towel. Inhaling a blast of oxygen, he vigorously shakes his torso, preparing for battle, only to realize that he has already won the war. For the intense heat belongs to midday, not morning. She slept through her luncheon date with Joe.

  Flapping his wings, he cries out in victory. He cranes his neck to look at the one he loves. She seems too still. Too peaceful. He moves closer to her face, listening for her breath, but her lovely lips aren’t parted. Climbing upon her chest, he extends his wing, like a scarf, in front of her mouth and nose and notices his feathers trembling. She is fine, he thinks, and would have shrieked out in relief but hears the click, click, click of the rotating fan blades, feels the breeze wafting down from them, and realizes that they are ruffling his plumage.

  Panicked, he destroys their fairy tale ending with a screech. He presses his ear covert against her chest, longing for a heartbeat. Oh, yes, sweet Great Goddess of Creation, it is there. “Claaa-risss-a,” he says, thrusting his beak against her lips, feeling her erratic, unsubstantial breath against his face.

  He shrieks loudly, his cry caroming around the room. “Clarissa!” he wails. “Clarissa!” But she does not stir.

  He flies from the chaise longue into the kitchen and turns on the faucet. Again, he drenches his plumage in the gushing water. Cutting the flow off, he scales down to the floor, totters back, and awkwardly maneuvers his soaked body onto her chest. He flutters his wings, raining droplets upon her cheeks. Still, she doesn’t react.

  Screeching, he flaps wildly, the water flying, and swoops off the cushioned seat and darts toward the windows. He clutches the blinds with his toes and ferociously shakes them. “Clarissa! Clarissa!” he cries, all the while asking Warramurrungundji to help him. “Claaa-risss-a!” he screams as he hurls his small body against the panes of glass.

  Three houses down, he catches sight of Joe, the Great Mother’s answer to him. He shrieks his name over and over until Joe hears him and starts to run down the sandy lane, his strong legs propelling him forward, and—for once—Caruso is grateful for his strength. Sprinting down the driveway, he races past the long row of sunroom windows as Caruso follows him, lunging from one panel of blinds to the next, until he disappears around the corner. Caruso sails into the kitchen and lands on the worktable just as Joe clips up the deck steps, flings open the screen door, and bangs his hand against the glass top. When Clarissa doesn’t answer, he grinds the doorknob. “Clarissa!” he yells, twisting the knob again and again. With an anguished cry, Caruso suddenly remembers that the door is locked. Whipping off his T-shirt, Joe wraps it around his fist and shatters the glass. Reaching in through the empty space, he flicks the lock and rushes in.

  “Clarissa!” he calls, starting for the sunroom with Caruso in flight behind him. “My God,” he groans when he sees her still body on the chaise longue. “Wake up,” he says, his strong hands clutching her shoulders. “Wake up,” he insists, shaking her hard.

  He pulls her down until she is lying flat on the cushioned seat. Tilting her head back, he opens her mouth, sticks two fingers inside, and sweeps them around. “Steady pulse,” he says, after pressing his index finger against her neck. He holds his hand in front of her nose. “Breathing,” he says, “but gotta get her moving.”

  He makes straightway for the kitchen. Screaming, Caruso flies ahead of him, gliding through the doorway, settling on the counter, just inches from the spoon rest of pink pills. He flaps his wings and hisses.

  “What has she done?” Joe says, coming over. He picks up one of the pills and holds it up to the light. “Xanax,” he mutters and puts it back. Seizing a dish towel from the counter, he cuts on the faucet and wets it. After wringing it out, he dashes back to the sunroom with Caruso following behind him.

  “Clarissa…Clarissa…wake up,” he says, gingerly wiping her face. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” he repeats, hooking his hands beneath her arms. He pulls her off the
blue-covered seat, the muscles in his chest and arms straining. “Clarissa, wake up,” he says, his voice urgent. “Please, wake up.”

  Her eyelids flitter, and she slurs something incomprehensible before closing them again. “Time for a shower,” he says as he wraps his arms around her chest. Like a lifeguard rescuing a swimmer, he drags her down the hall, her heels bumping over the floor. They are almost to the bathroom when she opens her eyes and, in a clear voice, insists that he stop, and then immediately falls silent, shutting her eyes once more. With a deep breath, Joe gently lays her down.

  Caruso hears him banging cabinet doors in the bathroom. Within minutes, he is on the floor beside her, taking the cap off a bottle of rubbing alcohol, splashing some into his palm, and patting it on her cheeks and beneath her nose.

  She grumbles and slaps blindly at him. “Don’t,” she says irritably, plinking her eyes open. He stops. “What…goin’…on?” she asks in a heavy, drugged voice.

  “That’s what I wanna know,” he says back. Neither speaks for several seconds. Then Joe says, “I saw the bourbon and the pills. What were you thinking?”

  “Not sure,” she murmurs, her eyes struggling to find him. “I only took two.” She pauses, and Caruso can tell from the baffled look on her face that she’s trying to figure it out. “Yesterday, I was sick to my stomach. Drank two milkshakes.” She yawns, her gaze falling on Caruso, stationed by her feet. “And felt better,” she adds thoughtfully. “After that, I don’t remember.” She glances up and smiles weakly at Joe.

  Caruso savors every inflection of her sweet voice. Thank you, Warramurrungundji, for sending someone to help her, he says to himself, his breath quickening, his heart torn, because this someone was Joe.

  Thirty