You Can Lead a Horse to Water (But You Can't Make It Scuba Dive)

by Robert Bruce Cormack

  “Sauna,” he squawks.

  “Bless your little heart.”

  “Gimme some tit action.”

  “Bisquick.”

  Christ, she’s teaching him Joey’s eulogy.

  “That’s pretty cool,” Max says. “Otis has to see this.” He calls the house. Ruby must have picked up the phone. “Hey, Ruby,” Max says. “Tell Otis to get on YouTube. There’s this bird I want him to see. Go to Bisquick, The Talking Myna. I’ll hold.”

  Muller comes in the kitchen with a piece of cotton baton in one ear. Max switches from YouTube to The Rec Room of Sound. Otis is checking the video out on his other computer. He still hasn’t shaved. The phone is tucked between his shoulder and his ear. “Excuse me, folks,” Otis is saying. “Max wants me to look at this video on YouTube. Got a talking birdie or something here.” Ruby’s looking over his shoulder. “Is that old girl a ventriloquist?” he says to Max on the phone.

  “No, it’s the bird, Otis,” Max says. “Mynah’s can talk.”

  “If you call that talking. Foul-mouthed little bugger, isn’t he?”

  “Listen, Otis. Sam knows the woman. He gave her the bird. What do you think about interviewing Bisquick on your show?”

  “You want me to interview a bird?”

  “Why not? Bisquick’s a natural.”

  “I think he’s adorable,” Ruby says.

  “See?” Max says. “Ruby thinks it’s a good idea. What have you got to lose? All you do is sit there tapping pencils.”

  “Okay, Max,” Otis says. “Hear that, folks? I’m gonna interview a talking birdie. Set it up, Max. Until then, let’s hear the Box Tops’ singing ‘The Letter.’ Coming at you from The Rec Room of Sound.”

  We call Margot and she’s over the moon. “Any wardrobe requirements?” she says, and I tell her The Rec Room of Sound is pretty casual. “When are we doing this? Bisquick’s ready to go.”

  “When do you want her to do the show, Max?”

  “Why not now?”

  “We’ll pick you up in about fifteen minutes, Margot,” I say.

  “Fine with me. Just let me clean Bisquick’s cage.”

  “Isn’t this great?” Judy says. “Margot’s going to be on TV.”

  “It’s a web show, sweetie. Don’t get your hopes up too high.”

  “Why are you being so skeptical?” Mary says.

  “Otis has the attention span of a fruit bat, for one thing.”

  “C’mon, Sam,” Max says. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s go get Margot then.”

  “Take, Muller, Daddy,” Judy says. “We’ll watch from here.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind, Jude,” Muller says.

  “Of course I don’t mind. You and Daddy go bond.”

  “Just stay out of the lake, Sam,” Mary says.

  Out by the car, Max starts in again about the brownies, telling Muller he might as well bake a batch while he’s over there.

  “Maybe we should lay off the brownies for a while,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “Otis can’t keep his mouth shut, for one thing. Seriously, Max. Mary and Judy watch his show. They’re watching it right now.”

  “We already talked to him. He won’t do that again.”

  “He’s a nutcase, Max.”

  “Ruby says he won’t get any sex if he opens his mouth.”

  “He’ll just go find a mail carrier or a meter maid.”

  “I promise, Sam. Not a word out of Otis.”

  “I could make a small tray,” Muller mumbles.

  “Fine,” I say. “One small tray, and that’s it.”

  Chapter 21

  “Let me just finish up my segment, folks, and we’ll get started,” Otis is saying while Bisquick jumps from Margot’s shoulder to the turntable. Otis is already onto his next program; something called Otis Cries for You. It’s a concept that only Otis could invent, meaning it’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. He invites people to send in their saddest blogs and he commiserates by crying. The blogs and emails have been coming in all morning.

  “This one’s a corker,” he says. “A woman in Rocksmith just lost her dog. Came face to face with a cement truck. You know who wins in circumstances like that, ma’am. I feel your hurt. You keep your chin up. Chester’s in a better place.” Otis chokes back a sob, and then wipes his eyes. “I hope you folks will continue to share your sad tales,” he says. “We’ll get back to them at two o’clock. Meanwhile, let’s bring a little smiley face to your day with Bisquick, the talking Mynah birdie.”

  Otis pulls a chair over for Margot. “So, Margot,” he says. “You’ve only had Bisquick a few days, I hear. First impressions?”

  “He’s a wonderful bird,” she says. “His language isn’t the greatest, but that’s the fault of his former owner.”

  Bisquick jumps over onto Otis’s big stomach. He bobs up and down.

  “Friendly thing,” Otis says.

  “He’s going for your nipple.”

  “Why would he go for my—ouch! Ouch!”

  “Don’t jerk around. He thinks you’ve got a berry.”

  “A berry? Ouch!”

  “Bisquick, bad bird.”

  “Son of a bitch—ouch!”

  Margot tries pulling Bisquick away. He keeps hanging on to Otis’s nipple and flapping his wings. Ruby comes out of the laundry room with folded shirts. “What are you doing to that bird, Otis?” she says.

  “I’m not doing anything! He’s got my nipple!”

  “Bisquick thinks he’s got a berry under his shirt,” Margot says.

  “Want me to get him some blueberries?”

  “Do something!” Otis yells. He falls off his chair, bringing Bisquick down with him. Wings flap, Ruby laughs, and Max has to take the controls.

  “We’ll be back with more Bisquick in a minute, folks,” Max says. “Meanwhile, send in your saddest stories. We’ll read ’em right here at two o’clock, four o’clock and six o’clock on The Rec Room of Sound.”

  Ruby comes back downstairs with some blueberries. Bisquick jumps right in the bowl. “All he wants is a berry,” Ruby says.

  “Like hell,” Otis says below the turntables. His head appears, hair disheveled. He gets back in his chair and moves his lips around trying to get his dentures back in place. “Okay,” Otis sighs, rubbing his nipple. “Is that bird gonna talk or just grab my thingies?”

  “Tell Otis what I taught you, Bisquick,” Margot says. “Come on. What did Joey always say? Joey says? Joey says?”

  “Get—get that thing away from me,” Otis says, swatting Bisquick. “Bird’s got a one track mind. Go peck someone else’s nipple.”

  “He really likes yours,” Margot says.

  “So did Max when he was a baby,” Ruby laughs

  “You didn’t have to say that on air,” Max says.

  “Don’t scratch my records, you stupid bird,” Otis says. “Can’t you cage this thing, Margot?” Margot opens the cage door but Bisquick isn’t interested. “Come on, Bisquick,” she says.

  “Do like your mama tells you,” Otis says.

  “He’s wants more berries.”

  “Ruby, go get him some berries.”

  “I’ve got laundry to do, Otis.” Margot starts helping Ruby fold sheets.

  Otis cues up a record. “Here’s a favorite of mine called ‘Hungry for Your Love’ by Joe Perkins,” he says. “Listen away while I find this dang bird something besides my gibblies. More Bisquick coming your way at the top of the hour, so stick around.”

  Muller and I are upstairs watching on Ruby’s computer. The latest batch of brownies has just come out of the oven. Downstairs, Bisquick says “cocksucker” every time Joe Perkins hits a high note. Otis comes into the kitchen rubbing his right nipple. “Bird’s wearing out its welcome,” he says, grabbing a brownie.

  Ruby and Margot bring up the laundry. Max follows with Bisquick on his shoulder, bobbing up and down. He jumps on the counter and goes after the brownie crumbs. “Y
ou’re gonna have one sick bird in a minute,” Otis says.

  “Why?” Margot says.

  “Them brownies aren’t to be trifled with.”

  “What’s he on about?” Margot asks Ruby.

  “They’re grass brownies,” Ruby says. “Have one.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Margot,” I say.

  “Oh, go fly a kite, Sam.”

  “Dang bird’s going after my nipple again,” Otis says. “What’s his problem? You train him to do that?”

  “Not me,” Margot says.

  “Get away from my brownie, damn you,” Otis swats at Bisquick. “Go lie down or something.”

  “Bird’s don’t lie down,” Margot says.

  “He chewed off a corner of my brownie.”

  “They don’t chew, either.”

  “Look at that little bastard.”

  “He sure loves brownies,” Max says.

  “I don’t know about putting a stoned bird on air,” Otis says, popping the last of the brownie in his mouth. “Probably get us both arrested. Fuck it. Come on, bird. Try to keep your language civil.”

  As soon as Otis sits down, Bisquick jumps over to the screen, pecking at his own image. “Go on now,” Otis says to him. “You’re not on yet.” He swats at Bisquick pecking at the stylus again. “Before I put this bird back on, I got a few emails that need immediate attention. I read a message earlier from Emma out in Peoria. Her husband left her a few weeks ago—”

  “Asshole,” Bisquick says.

  “I just want to say, we’re pulling for you, Emma”—fist to the mouth—“just like we’re pulling for all of you—”

  “Sauna,” Bisquick says.

  “Button it.”

  “Gimme some tit action.”

  “For those of you just joining us,” Otis says, “I’ve been interviewing Bisquick. He’s a Mynah bird. I’ll try interviewing him again after a musical interlude. This one goes out to all you folks living with a broken heart called, ‘I Never Loved a Man as Much as I Love You.’ If anyone has any pearls of wisdom for Emma, just blog here. I’ll read them out later.” Bisquick and Otis are both staring at the screen.

  “Ain’t that sweet,” Margot laughs, picking crumbs off her shirt. “Bless his little heart. He sure loves performing, doesn’t he, Sam?”

  “He certainly does.”

  Margot finishes her brownie and licks her fingers. “He’s almost as smart as Joey,” she says. “I want to thank you for all this, Sam. I’m having fun.”

  “I’m glad, Margot.”

  “How much did Bisquick cost, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not as much as you’d think.”

  “Well, it was a wonderful gesture, Sam.”

  We look at Otis and Bisquick staring at us on Ruby’s computer. Bisquick jumps over on the stylus as the song ends.

  “And to think all that personality comes out of a brain the size of a pea,” Margot says.

  “Otis or Bisquick?”

  “Probably both.”

  The record jumps. Bisquick is pecking the stylus. “Get off there,” Otis says. Bisquick drops down on the record and rotates.

  Chapter 22

  Otis Cries for You is dedicating an hour to deceased pets, or what Otis refers to as their “unintended departures.” A long list of tragedies are showing up with photos posted via Instagram. Otis reads them on air while Bisquick pecks at his bald spot. “Christ! Ouch!” Otis says at one point. “Do the goddamn show yourself, stupid bird.”

  Otis comes upstairs rubbing his head.

  “You’ve got dead air, Otis.” Max says.

  “Go tell them I’ll be back. I need an aspirin or something.”

  Max goes down and puts on a record. “Here’s a funky tune by Albert King called ‘Hey Pretty Woman,’” he says. “Otis will be right back with more sad stories. Just sit tight.” Bisquick jumps on Max’s shoulder.

  They come upstairs as we’re cleaning the brownie pans. Max talked Muller into making another batch of brownies. Margot looks ready for a nap. Her eyelids droop like old curtains. “Go use the bedroom downstairs,” Ruby tells her. “It’s made up.”

  “And take that goddamn bird with you,” Otis says. Otis gets some milk out of the fridge. “Max,” he says, “you’d better take over for a while. Play some more Albert King or Spencer Wiggins.” He lies down on the dining room rug. His eyes close. Bisquick jumps on his stomach. “Give it a rest, Bisquick,” Otis mumbles.

  Max starts with some O. V. Wright, a tune called “Don’t Let My Baby Ride”, and we listen while Otis snores in rhythm. Muller helps Ruby clean up the last of the plates. He keeps giving her looks until I finally take him by the arm. “Come on,” I say. “The girls are waiting.”

  He hands Ruby his dishcloth. “Thanks, big fella,” she says. “You’re a good man to have around.”

  “Any time, Ruby.”

  Ruby gets her cigarettes off the window ledge. “Don’t tempt me,” she says patting her stomach. “You’re one helluva cook, Muller. But I have to watch my waistline.”

  Margot’s head hits the kitchen table. “Help me get her downstairs,” Ruby says. We take Margot to the bedroom and head off.

  All the way home, Muller just sits there. The man’s on a different playing field, somewhere between Star Trek and The Flintstones. “Stop looking so miserable,” I say when we pull in the driveway. “Mary already suspects something.”

  “I like Mary.”

  “Yeah, well, another stunt like the other night and she’ll be a distant memory. You’ll be locked up somewhere.”

  “I’m not crazy, Sam.”

  “Difference of opinion.”

  He takes out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. He lights it, draws in some smoke, and then exhales. “I would have come up,” he says.

  “You might have told me that before I swallowed half the lake.” He blows out some more smoke and wipes his eyes. “Here,” I say, handing him my handkerchief. “Come on, wipe your face. And blow your nose.”

  When we come in the house, Judy jumps up and gives Muller a big hug. “What’s the matter, Muller?” she asks. “You look miserable. Have you been mean to him, Daddy?”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Is your ear still bothering you, sweetie?”

  “I’m just tired, Jude,” Muller says. “I’m going downstairs.”

  “Do you want me to make you some soup?”

  “I just need to lie down for a bit.” He goes downstairs, closing the cellar door behind him.

  “What am I going to do with him, Mom?” Judy says.

  Mary gives me a look. “Is there something you’re not telling us, Sam?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The Rec Room of Sound is on the computer. Otis is sitting there wiping tears from his face. The man’s decrepit. Mary keeps looking at me until I finally say I’m going for a bath.

  One of these days, I need to get the washroom renovated. The tub’s barely big enough to hold me. I don’t know how Muller does it. He sloshes around like Flipper. Half the water is on the floor when he gets out and he leaves wet towels everywhere.

  I slip down in the water. I’m practically submerged, breathing out my nose, watching the water ripple. Out in the kitchen, I can hear Wilson Pickett singing, “Land of a Thousand Dances.”

  There’s a clatter of pans in the kitchen, a spoon falling on the linoleum. I finally get up and towel myself off. Then I go in the bedroom and put on a clean shirt and pants.

  When I come out again. Mary and Judy are cooking away, The Rec Room of Sound is playing, and Meek and Beek are chewing their bars. I get a beer and watch Judy peeling potatoes. “You smell good, Daddy,” she says.

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  On the computer screen, Bisquick’s bobbing up and down, Max is working the turntables, and Ruby and Margot are doing the camel walk. Margot’s bifocals are hanging from one ear. Max te
lls everyone Otis is on his way. “He’s grabbing a shower,” he says.

  I go downstairs and find Muller hooked up to his oxygen machine. He’s breathing like Darth Vader. I kick him in the leg. “Take off the mask, Muller. Sit up, for chrissake.” Muller props himself on his elbow. “Look,” I say. “Judy’s not stupid. She knows something’s wrong. Every time you come down here, I’m covering for you.”

  “You don’t have to lie for me, Sam.”

  “I’ve already lied for you. I’m sick of lying.”

  “I should talk to Judy.”

  “And say what?”

  “Tell her how I feel.”

  “You bring up Ruby and you’re dead meat.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Ruby.”

  “Shut up about Ruby, for chrissake. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I just feel affection for her somehow, Sam.”

  “I should have left you in the lake. You’re a fucked up asshole.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And stop saying you’re sorry.” I sit down on the edge of the cot and take a hit of the oxygen. Then I hear Mary calling us to dinner. “We’d better go up,” I say.

  “Sam, thanks for worrying about me.”

  “I’m worried about Judy. You I could kick to the curb.”

  Chapter 23

  We live in an established neighborhood: old homes, nice lawns. Back in the seventies, everyone planted shrubs and hedges. Nobody gave much thought to care and maintenance. You stuck the shrub in the ground and hoped for the best. Now it turns out some shrubs don’t get along with other shrubs. Some hog all the nutrients and the others just sit there feeling sorry for themselves. That’s what this article’s telling me while I sit in Krupsky’s waiting room.

  He comes out and waves me into his office. “Anything new, Sam?” he says, and I tell him my shrubs may be at war. He undoes my shirt and thumps my chest. “Your lungs sound like a popcorn factory,” he says. “You still smoking?”

  “I’m stopping.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as my son-in-law hits the road back to Seattle.”

  “Not getting along?”

  “He’s got the hots for my friend’s mother.”