Love and Ordinary Creatures

by Gwyn Hyman Rubio

  “Gonna keep my eye on you tonight,” Joe says, catching her eye and winking.

  “Uh-huh,” she says as he puts his palm under her elbow and guides her toward the bedroom. “But we’ve gotta talk in the morning.”

  “I’ll be right here. You know, I love you.”

  “Really?” she says.

  Nearby, Caruso is eavesdropping. The bedsprings creak as she slips under the sheet, but she doesn’t speak again.

  Back in the sunroom, Joe changes his water, finds the bag of parrot pellets, fills his food dish, and eases him onto his perch. “Thank you, buddy,” he says, before retrieving the baby blanket and covering his cage.

  Caruso listens to him padding around the room, shutting the wooden blinds, then shuffling down the hallway. The living room sofa whines when he sprawls out on it. He releases a noisy yawn and, almost at once, begins to snore—his snores as intrusive as blasts from a ferry’s foghorn. Caruso doubts he’ll be able to sleep but in no time falls into a restless slumber. At dawn, he wakes with a shriek that sends her running to him.

  She whips the baby blanket off. “What’s wrong, Caruso?” she says, right as Joe stumbles drowsily into the room.

  Even he if could, he wouldn’t tell her what he did, would never confess to what might have happened if he had put all of the pink pills in her milkshake. How could he describe in mere words the horror he felt last night as image after image of her still, lifeless body drifted in and out of his nightmares? How could he ever be honest about the reckless choices he has made for love?

  She unhitches his cage door and reaches for him. He lurches back, undeserving of her touch.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she reassures him. “I’m all right.”

  She makes him a better parrot than he is, he thinks, hanging his head in shame.

  “Let’s have a look,” Joe says, coming over. With his fingertips beneath her chin, he turns her face toward him. “Yes, you’re my beautiful Clarissa again,” he says softly.

  Caruso steals another glimpse of her. It’s true. Her features show no trace of yesterday’s sickness. But then he remembers the pills in her milkshake. “Claaa-risss-a,” he says remorsefully.

  “My sweet boy,” she says, and he lets her rub his neck.

  “You need to get back to bed,” Joe tells her.

  “No, I’m up,” she says firmly, en route to the kitchen with Joe following after her. Water rumbles into the coffee pot. Next, she taps coffee into the perforated drum.

  “You really do look better,” he says.

  “I feel better.”

  “A remarkable recovery, considering…”

  “Considering…” she repeats, deliberately. “Considering you broke the glass top of my door.”

  “That’s trivial considering how much…you…”

  “I drank a chocolate milkshake,” she insists. “Not a sin in my book.”

  “What about the bourbon, the pills?”

  “That was the night before,” she says. “I took two pills. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was upset.”

  “About what?”

  “Maggie,” she says quickly.

  “Maggie?”

  “You know, Maggie McKenzie, the girl you dated on the mainland.”

  Caruso catches the spur of accusation in her voice.

  “Oh, yeah, Maggie. I dated her for a while. She’s from here.”

  “Yes, that Maggie,” Clarissa says. “Why didn’t you tell me about her? Did you come to Ocracoke to patch things up with her, and when it didn’t work out, settle for me? Is that what happened, Joe?”

  “No,” he says bluntly.

  “Then why did you come here at all? The surf is better at Rodanthe.”

  “I picked this place to relax, like I told you, but also, truth be known, to apologize to her.”

  “Well, that’s not what her sister said.”

  “I don’t care what her sister said,” Joe snaps back. “I went to Maggie’s house to tell her I was sorry for the way I acted. Nothing more.”

  “You stopped dating her months ago. Why now?”

  “Because I do care what my sister thinks of me.”

  “Your sister?”

  “My older sister, Jo Ann. The only one who’ll put it to me straight, who won’t mollycoddle me.”

  “Lucky for us,” she says.

  “Lucky for me,” he adds. “She called me a solipsistic, entitled toilet seat. Told me I led Maggie on. That, regardless of my decision to break it off with her, she deserved better from me. Said I acted like a jerk.”

  “I bet that made you mad,” Clarissa says.

  “Look, Clarissa. For as long as I can remember, Jo Ann and I have knocked heads, and, for just as long, I’ve ignored her. Convinced myself she was jealous of me. But this time, I couldn’t shrug off her words. They dogged me for months, and then—out of the blue—I got it. Her truth cut through my denial like a razor blade, and I wanted to do the right thing. So I came here.”

  “Elaborate. Just how big a jerk were you?” Clarissa wants to know.

  “The worst kind. A coward and a liar,” Joe admits. “I lost interest and simply quit calling her. Then let myself off the hook by pretending she wasn’t really interested in me. I’ve lived my whole life like this. Eating the last piece of pie without asking if anyone else wanted it. Rationalizing my gluttony by believing I was sparing my sisters the calories. I want to save the environment but act like the world revolves around me. Yeah, that’s me. I treated Maggie badly and, as always, rewrote the story.”

  “Shitty,” Clarissa says. “And did you tell her everything you just told me?”

  “I tried. Said I should have talked to her, face to face, should have spelled out my intentions like a gentleman. But halfway through my apology, she shut the door on me.”

  “You could’ve driven to Roanoke Island when you were at Rodanthe and tried again.”

  “I did. I knew she was working at her father’s agency there and took off one morning, but she refused to see me. So I left. What else could I do?”

  “Come on, Joe. You know,” Clarissa says. “You write her a letter of apology, spell out every rotten thing you did, and tell her you’re sorry—but that would require some real honesty, some genuine regret, wouldn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “That would be too real, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Still a jerk,” she says.

  “I’m trying not to be, Clarissa. I wanna change, but change doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.”

  “And me?” she says, any brashness in her tone disappearing. “Are you bored with me now? When you go back to school, will you stop calling? Will you do to me what you did to her?”

  “I can’t even imagine that,” Joe says, his voice quivering.

  “And why’s that?” she asks.

  “’Cause I think about you constantly,” he says. “’Cause we click. ’Cause I adore every little thing about you. ’Cause I’ve got you in my eye.”

  And then they are quiet.

  Caruso listens to cups clinking against saucers, to coffee being poured, to spoons tinkling. He can hear them sipping and whispering—next, the benches scraping over the floor. He thinks they must be kissing. The Great Mother’s revenge on him—or perhaps Her blessing, he reasons.

  “What are you smiling about?” Joe says.

  “About you…the jerk I’m letting back into my life,” she tells him. “About me allowing my own foolish adoration to let you off the hook. About how I’m always overreacting. I need to change, too. Need to learn how to go with the flow, how to accept life gracefully.”

  “And us? What are you thinking about us?”

  “We are special together,” she says. “And we both know it.”

  “Special enough to live with each other?” he asks.

  “Possibly.”

  “In Chapel Hill with me?”

  “That’s
a big step.”

  “How about a little step, then? A trial run during the off-season?”

  “Maybe,” she says, “but I think I should have a serious conversation with Jo Ann first.”

  He begins to chuckle. “I’ll give you her number, and you can call her while I fix the door.”

  “Later,” Clarissa tells him. “Right now, I need to call Beryl and tell her I’m okay.”

  Okay. Such a tiny word, promising so much hope for the two lovers, Caruso thinks, his heart wavering between sadness and joy for them. Okay. He will never be okay again. But what if…what if he had someone like Joe’s older sister, someone like Jo Ann? And what if that someone could care about him, even with all his flaws? What if she loved him enough to point them out to him? And if she should exist—somewhere out there in the vast universe—would he be willing to listen to her wise, true words?

  Thirty-one

  What is a little bird to do should the veil be ripped away from his heart and he—at last—sees into the darkest part of him? What is he to do if he should go there? Could he live with such a truth? It is true, Caruso thinks, that he has plotted and schemed to win Clarissa’s heart, but any destructive consequences of his actions were unintentional. He has made mistakes, yes, but he never wanted to hurt anyone.

  For he is not a calculated killer. No bird of prey, is he, who coldly kills his victims to provide food for himself and his offspring. If he had chicks, he would never choose to feed the eldest chick more, all the while knowing that he would grow strong enough to murder and eat his weaker sibling. Caruso would never do this, not even to guarantee the survival of his species.

  Without warning, a voice inside him whispers, Cain preying on Abel.

  No…no, Caruso thinks, quickly reconsidering. Birds are not like that. A bird of prey is simply following his instincts. Killing is in his nature.

  It is the nature of jealousy, replies the faint voice in his head.

  Jealousy is what humans feel, not birds, Caruso counters.

  People love birds because they see themselves in them. Same as humans, birds can be timid or outgoing, tender or cruel, steadfast or disloyal, trusting…or jealous.

  Birds are not jealous, Caruso objects.

  Two harrier hawk chicks in a nest, the older one killing his younger sibling. Is that not like the “mark of Cain”?

  Spiritual words written for human beings, not for birds, not for him.

  What about “selfish jerk”? the voice says.

  He cringes, remembering how he felt when Clarissa called him that. Did she really speak the truth? he wonders.

  Yes, Clarissa hurt you with those words. But later, you felt better. She made you and Joe equals.

  I must protect my nest…my mate, Caruso thinks. I love my red-headed Eclectus hen.

  You and Joe are the same. He eats the last piece of pie. You eat the last grape. Both of you pretend you’re eating it for her, satisfying her need to be loved.

  Love is about sharing—what birds do, he thinks, justifying himself.

  Make up your mind. Is it “survival of the fittest” or “breaking bread”?

  No…no…it’s the way of love—one for her, one for me, one for her, one for…

  You claim to love the natural world, but how can you when you have such disdain for your feathered friends, when you act as if you are the center of their universe?

  What is a little bird to do?

  Or a little bird who fancies himself a human being? Her voice, once more, intrudes.

  His mind is stunned by this painful truth. Is this the voice he’s been waiting for?

  Get out your binoculars, rotate the focusing wheels, look at yourself a little closer, the voice tells him. See yourself clearly. Remember who you are.

  I am just a parrot, he thinks. I don’t believe all the other birds revolve around me.

  Are you sure?

  Yes, because birds accept their place in the world. They are not proud.

  Isn’t the lesser masked weaver bird proud of his tightly woven nest?

  Yes, but…

  The bower bird is certainly proud of his decorating skills.

  Still, though…

  The peacock is proud of the eye in his tail feather.

  “Proud” isn’t an adjective used to describe a bird.

  What about “proud as a peacock”?

  A simile for a human being.

  What about “proud as a cockatoo”?

  Yes, but it’s right that we feel proud.

  I know…I know. In 1250, the Saracen Sultan gave you as a gift to the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire of the German States. This makes you a bird of importance.

  The truth cannot be ignored, he thinks.

  The truth is your hubris compelled you to abandon your birdness. Which you did, as effortlessly as a preened pinfeather.

  “No!” Caruso says.

  Pride cometh before the fall.

  “No, no!” he insists, fighting back.

  It is your pride that did you in.

  Not true, Caruso thinks. I can laugh like the kookaburra, decorate like the bowerbird, long for love like the kakapo. I don’t put myself above them.

  Well, what about the seagull? the voice asks him.

  He is squawkless.

  Jonathan Livingston and the other slackers.

  I tried to empathize with them, he thinks.

  Letting the humans do their fishing for them.

  “No pride at all!” Caruso shouts.

  While you are soooo prideful, the voice says, catching him in the net of Her words, your pride egged you on. It led you to the precipice of your false human ego and pushed you over, didn’t it?

  “The power of pride,” he tries feebly.

  The architect of your destiny, the voice boomerangs back.

  He emits a thin, weak squawk of protest. It wasn’t all my fault, he thinks, excusing himself. I was stolen from my parents, snatched from the sky, and locked into a cage on the other side of the ocean, thousands of miles away from home.

  That’s true, the voice, softer now, gives him. It qualifies as a reason.

  I was scared and alone.

  I know, the voice says.

  I wanted to be loved.

  Don’t we all?

  What I did was only natural.

  I believe you believe that.

  What I did was only human.

  Yes, only human, She repeats in a firm voice.

  Faint, Caruso wobbles on his perch. Stretching out his wings, he presses them against the sides of his cage and braces himself up.

  Be honest, Caruso, She tells him. Years ago, you began this long, arduous process of trading in your birdness for humanness.

  “No,” he puffs, shaking his head in denial.

  You refused to befriend Matt because you wanted Clarissa for yourself.

  “Caruso loves Claaa-risss-a,” he chokes out.

  And in your desire to have her, you led him to his death.

  “An accident,” he says.

  The pink feather in the tomato sauce.

  I didn’t mean to hurt him. I never drew blood with my beak.

  The pink pills in Clarissa’s milkshake.

  Only to make her sleep.

  But it was a dangerous, selfish act, She says.

  “Clarissa loves Caruso!” he cries out.

  Yes, She says triumphantly. That is what you want, what you’ve always wanted, and you’ve done everything in your power to get it.

  “Caruso loves Clarrissa!” he corrects himself. “I acted out of love.”

  No, not out of love, She says, but out of some vast emptiness, as deep as the ocean, inside you.

  Out of love, he persists. Love is eternal hope, isn’t it?

  Hope is the thing with feathers.

  Yes…feathers let me fly. I fly in hope. I fly for love.

  The truth is...not always.

  What do you mean?

  Hope kept Theodore Pinter whole…almost ’til the end.
<
br />   But the old man couldn’t remember anything.

  He remembered Olivia’s birthday.

  What good came of that?

  The only thing that matters, Caruso, for birds or humans—another chance.

  That’s all this bird ever wanted. I deserve another chance.

  So did the old man.

  He quit trying.

  But he did get another chance, didn’t he, Caruso?

  What could a little bird do?

  You are no longer a bird, She says. Even the flightless cassowary kept his wings, but you have abandoned your birdness.

  “Not so,” he says, vehemently shaking his head.

  Without your birdness, you won’t be able to fly.

  I still have my birdness, he thinks, his eyes darkening in anger. And to prove it, he erects his crown of gold, throws back his head, and delivers the long, sustained, ear-splitting shriek of the Sulphur-crested Cockatoo.

  Yes, that’s it, Caruso, the voice says. Embrace your birdness. Embrace the truth. But embrace all of it.

  Thirty-two

  “I’m not trying to mommuck ya, sweetie,” Beryl says, interrupting Clarissa’s energetic chatter about a tropical storm gradually gaining strength as it heads north toward them, “but ya two should be sailing leisurely toward your future, not racing there.”

  Apparently, Beryl is intent on talking about Joe and Clarissa, Caruso thinks. He has been obsessing over the lovers for days now, and each new tidbit of information about their relationship confounds him further. He longs to live in the present like a parrot, but this speck of humanness in his parrot heart won’t allow it.

  “I’m not racing anywhere,” Clarissa tells her, thumping down a mug of peppermint tea, so strong he can smell it from his cage in the sunroom. “Except off this island if a hurricane blows our way.”

  “If ya move to Chapel Hill, you will be.”

  Clarissa clears her throat and in a hurt voice says, “You don’t want me to spend the off-season with Joe, do you?”

  “It’s not that,” Beryl says after several seconds. “I like Joe. I’m happy that you two have worked things out. Really. I mean, he seems nice enough, but living with a guy hain’t the same as dating him.”

  “I know that,” Clarissa says defensively.

  “What if he surprises you again?”

  “I know who Joe is, especially now,” Clarissa says. “Anyway, I’m tired of flipping hamburgers at Howard’s Pub when the island shuts down.”