by P. G. Forte
The bathroom’s greenhouse ceiling was gone, although the retractable glass walls that surrounded the tub still stood. When I found myself staring at them, measuring their height and giving serious thought to the idea of boosting Claire over the top of them, I knew I’d lost it.
So that... what? I asked myself angrily. So that she can tumble down into a room filled with broken glass? There’s a plan.
Clearly, my mind was gone. “Stand back,” I ordered as I bent to pick up a boulder that had once been part of the garden wall.
“Why? What’re you...” Claire asked, her voice changing to a shrill cry of, “Mike, no! What the hell?” as I charged at the house and hurled the rock through the glass wall. “Omigod, are you crazy?”
I was breathing hard from exertion but feeling much better overall. “No, I just didn’t feel like waiting for the locksmith to get here,” I joked as I reached inside, undid the latch and slid the wall open a couple of feet.
“Oh, that’s great,” Claire sighed, unhappily. “Very funny. Like there’s not enough damage already? You have to cause more? Besides, you could have hurt yourself.”
I glanced at the wall. It had been one of my favorite features when the house was first built. But, with the ceiling gone... “It was going to have to come down anyway. Now, later, what’s the difference?”
Without waiting for an answer, I turned and slipped inside the house, feeling insanely grateful for the fact the ceiling had caved in since it made seeing where I was putting my feet that much easier.
I took a couple of steps into what used to be my bathroom and looked around, trying to assess the damage until a sound behind me made me turn my head.
“Claire, don’t,” I cautioned, annoyed to find her trying to follow me inside. “It’s too dangerous this way. Why don’t you go back around to the back door and wait for me? I’ll let you in there.”
“Why don’t you shut up and give me a hand?” she snapped, clearly at the end of her patience, as well. “And stop telling me how dangerous everything is. I’m not the one throwing rocks. ‘People in glass houses’, Mike. After all this time, I’d have thought you’d know better.”
“Funny.” I reached out a hand to steady her as she climbed over the wreckage that had fallen into the tub. “I can see now why you never really made it big in comedy.”
Claire’s mouth fell open, she stared at me, eyes wide and hurt.
“Sorry.” That’s not me talking, I wanted to tell her, it’s some crazy person whose house has burned down, whose bird might be dead, who’s lost his mind to the woman he loves and no longer knows what the hell he’s saying. Instead I mumbled, “Guess you’re not the only one who says things without thinking, huh?”
“I guess not,” she said, climbing out of the tub and glancing around.
Using the side of my foot, I swept the worst of the debris away from the door that led out to my bedroom.
“Let me at least go first,” I said, still wanting to shield her from as much as possible.
She looked at me crossly. “Fine, it’s your house, be as manly as you want. But I’m gonna be right behind you.”
I nodded, feeling a pang of remorse. We were behaving this morning like some bitter, estranged couple whose only child was sick or missing. Linked by our common emotions of love and fear, our attempts to get along with each other were sabotaged by sniping attacks that tore our thin veneer of civility to shreds. How had things come to this?
The bedroom was dark, the walls smoke-stained and water-streaked, the carpet sodden. I didn’t imagine I’d ever completely eradicate the burnt-out smell.
“Why is it so wet?” Claire asked.
“All that water had to go somewhere,” I replied. Adding, “From the helicopters,” when she gazed at me blankly.
“Oh, right,” she sighed. “I forgot about them.”
I pulled open the bedroom door and water splashed over our feet. The rest of the house--the mostly uncarpeted sections, anyway--appeared to be under a couple of inches of water, most of which appeared to have come down the chimney. I half expected to see Zoe’s charred remains floating on the tide. But no, probably not charred, I thought as I looked around. It seemed we’d at least be spared that.
“Do you see her anywhere?” Claire asked quietly.
I shook my head. “No.” I didn’t hear her, either, which was a lot more ominous. If she were alive, I’d have expected Zoe to be complaining. Loudly.
The living room was a disaster--it appeared this was where most of the damage had occurred. “Guess it’s time to redecorate,” I half-joked, but I don’t know if she heard me.
“Where is she?” she whispered, looking around, biting her lip.
“I don’t know.” Considering how much of the ceiling had come down, I wasn’t sure we really wanted to know, either. But there was still one more room to check. I thought about asking Claire to wait here while I went into the second bedroom, but I doubted she’d listen. What did it matter anyway? “C’mon,” I muttered as I headed across the living room. “Just watch where you step.”
The door leading into the bedroom was open. Had I left it that way? I couldn’t be sure, but the door was in a more-or-less direct line with the fireplace. I suppose the force of the water could have pushed it open. The room seemed to have sustained little damage, just the usual smoke darkened walls. A very good thing. But there was still no sign of Zoe anywhere.
Her big, wrought iron cage was empty, but that wasn’t a surprise, I hadn’t left her in there and she’d be unlikely to go in on her own. For the better part of twenty four hours, I’d been consoling myself with the idea that at least she hadn’t been trapped in her cage, unable to flee as the fire crept closer. Now, having seen the rest of the house, I had to ask myself if she wouldn’t have been safer in there.
Her perch was also deserted, a layer of black ash floated on top of her water and soot coated what was left of her food.
Claire looked around the room calling, “Zoe? Zoe, where are you, sweetie? You can come out now,” very softly. Only silence met her plea.
I sighed, feeling defeated. “You stay here and keep calling her, maybe she’s asleep or hiding or something. I want to check the living room again.” It was a lie and a bad one, at that. Zoe rarely slept during the day. But, if she’d been crushed under falling rubble from the ceiling, and if I could keep Claire from seeing her like that, then I guess that was the best I could hope for.
I don’t think I was out of the room for more than a couple of minutes when I heard Claire call me. “Mike, come here. I found her!”
“Shit,” I muttered as I raced back towards the bedroom. Was that panic in her voice, or excitement? And what were the odds she’d find her the minute my back was turned?
“You were right,” Claire said, getting to her feet with a black and bedraggled Zoe cradled in her arms. “She was hiding under the bed. But I think she got herself wedged in there somehow, or maybe she’s just frightened? She wouldn’t come out on her own, I had to reach in and pull her out. Do you think she’s okay?”
“I don’t know.” Crossing the room, I held out my hands. “Let me see her.”
Was it that my hands were trembling, I wondered a moment later, when I had her in my arms? Or was Zoe shivering? And from what--fear, cold, pain? Blindly I sat down on the bed and stared at her. Was it too soon for relief?
“I’ll go get something to wipe her off with,” Claire said as she hurried from the room.
Good idea, I thought, stroking Zoe’s grimy feathers. At least she didn’t appear to be burned--that was something. She was alive, conscious, neither burned nor bleeding--all good things. “I’m sorry I left you alone for so long,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”
Zoe blinked up at me; not moving really, not speaking, just staring. Let me just point out that birds don’t have the most expressive features, so I think I can be excused for not knowing what--if anything--was going on in her head. Was she in shock? Half-asleep? Dying? What do
you do in situations like that? What can you do, other than to make a mental note to call her vet as soon as you can locate a working phone?
“Here, let me have her for a minute,” Claire murmured, back again with a couple of dish towels and a handful of grapes she must have taken from the refrigerator. She sat down and reached for Zoe, I handed her off reluctantly and then watched as Claire ministered to her. She wiped Zoe’s feathers, paying special attention to her face--her beak in particular. “There’s my pretty girl,” she crooned softly as Zoe’s bright plumage was slowly restored. “There she is. That’s gotta feel better now, doesn’t it?”
Then she coaxed her to eat the grapes, tearing the fruit apart with her nails, using her juice sweetened fingertips to tempt Zoe with tiny tastes.
Watching her with Zoe, watching the way Zoe responded to her--perking up a little as Claire hand-fed her another grape, looking more like her usual self--I found myself growing inexplicably angry all over again.
I felt like I was the one being teased, tempted, toyed-with. Claire kept showing me these tantalizing glimpses of herself, of this sweet, soft side that she never revealed to the public. A side of her I might never get to see again. And I wanted to. I wanted to see it again and again. Always.
Oh, God, how I wanted that, wanted her, wanted this.
Watching her with Zoe... it was almost like we really were a family. Almost like she really did belong here. Almost like she’d never ended things between us.
But she had. And I had to remember that.
I guess I must have sighed in frustration because Claire glanced up at me and smiled. “I think she’s feeling better now,” she said, indicating Zoe. “I think she wants her daddy.”
“Thank you,” I murmured as I reached for her, too startled by Claire’s choice of words to say anything else.
Her daddy? Why did she say that? Was she teasing me, mocking my cozy little family fantasy, or does she feel it too--this connection between us, this link?
I didn’t know and not knowing only made me madder still. And then, just when I didn’t think things could get any more strained or impossible between us, when I was already close to breaking under the hopelessness of the situation...
“We need to talk,” Claire said.
I don’t think I’d ever realized before how ominous those four words could sound.
I guess I could try and blame what happened next on lack of sleep, on exhaustion, or reaction, or who knows what. But I think it was just inevitable. I think we’d been building up to this moment, to this confrontation, from the very beginning.
“Talk about what?” I asked, as I resettled Zoe on my lap and fed her another grape. She was standing up now, croaking softly under her breath, as she attacked the fruit.
Claire didn’t answer right away. In fact, she was silent for so long I began to wonder whether she was ever going to speak again. When she did, I wondered why she’d even bothered, because the words she said made no sense.
“What if I told you something about myself that completely upset everything you think you know about me, what would you do?”
I stared at her blankly. “I have no idea. What are we talking about?”
“I’m not who you think I am.”
I felt my eyebrows edge up toward my hairline. “Okay, so who are you then? Or, maybe a better question is, who do you think I think you are?”
“This isn’t funny,” she snapped, eyes flashing.
“And I’m not laughing,” I replied, probably a little too coldly. “Am I?”
Claire’s lips pursed but she said nothing.
“Is this the lack of caffeine talking, Claire? Or are you being intentionally cryptic?”
“You have this... this vision of me, Mike, and it’s a fantasy. It’s not realistic. It’s not me.”
I felt my breathing stall. “What do you mean?” She couldn’t know about my imaginary Claire, my phantom, my... “Fantasy? What fantasy?”
“Like the other night, when you were talking about how perfect I was? I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes. I’m only human.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever tried to suggest you weren’t human,” I pointed out, just before the other shoe dropped. “And what do you mean, the other night? Does this have anything to do with what happened Saturday morning, with why you left?”
She nodded. “It has everything to do with it. Or, at least, maybe not everything, but it has a lot to do with it.”
“You broke things off with me because I said I thought you were perfect? What am I missing here? Most people...” Most people wouldn’t mind being adored. “That’s not generally considered a horribly objectionable thing to say.”
Claire looked away, her cheeks flaming. “You said a lot of things, Mike. Perfect was just the first one that came to mind.”
“What things did I say?” Try as I might, I couldn’t think of any of them. None that were offensive, anyway. Not since...”This isn’t about Derek, is it?”
“What?” Claire scowled. “No, of course it’s not. Would you forget about Derek?”
“I’d love to.”
“There are things you don’t know about me. Things I really haven’t wanted you to know. That I still don’t want you to know.” Sighing, she dropped her gaze again, mumbling, “But, the thing is, if you don’t know, then what you think you know is a lie, and when you do find out, or if you find out--Oh, it’s hopeless.”
“So what if I don’t know everything about you?” Having lost track of her logic, I clung to the last thing she’d said that made sense. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me either. Give us a chance. We’re just starting out.”
She looked at me sadly. “It’s not that simple, Mike. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with someone. I’ve been here and done this before. And it’s just... it’s too big a chance to take. There’s so much I could lose. I don’t know...” She fell silent. I fed Zoe another grape while I waited for her to continue. “I don’t think I can do this. Not right now. I thought I could but... I’m sorry.”
“I still don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I reminded her.
Claire nodded. “I know. That’s the whole problem.”
She looked unhappy and I wanted to help. But we were sitting in the burned out wreckage of my home, I still didn’t know for certain that Zoe was going to be okay, and this talking in circles was getting us nowhere. My patience was worn thin. “So tell me.”
“I can’t. Not now. Maybe... maybe some other time.”
“Damn it, Claire! What the hell’s going on?”
“Nothing. Forget it. Just forget I said anything. It was a mistake.”
“Another mistake? Terrific. Does that mean I can forget about what you said Saturday too?”
“Mike...”
“Because you said that was a mistake as well.”
She shook her head.
“I don’t get it Claire--any of it. Why are you doing this?”
“Because!” Getting up, she began to pace around on the damp carpet. “Do you think this is easy for me? What if I tell you the worst thing I know about myself and you decide it’s something you can’t handle? What if it changes the way you feel about me, the way you look at me--what happens then?”
“I don’t know. Try me and see.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” I set Zoe down on the bed where she could help herself to the rest of the grapes. She complained a little about that, but I ignored her. I stood, intending to go to Claire, to take her in my arms and tell her that the only thing I couldn’t handle was the idea of losing her. That nothing could change the way I felt. But before I’d taken more than a step in her direction, she shrank away from me. She crossed her arms defensively and, with that one move, derailed all my good intentions. I glared at her. “What the hell’d you do, Claire? Kill a man in Reno? Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as you think it is.”
She glared back at me for a moment
before her face changed. She looked away, biting her lip, almost smiling. “Well, when you put it that way...”
“I have a lot to lose too, you know.”
She shook her head, looking sad again. “Not really. What do you have to lose besides your fantasy idea of who I am?”
Plenty, I wanted to tell her. Should have told her. Didn’t. “Don’t knock fantasies, Claire. You’re a fantasy for a lot of guys besides me, you know, and I doubt any of them would mind trading that in for a little reality.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “Like I said, Mike, I’ve been through this before. More times than you might imagine. Men always say they want reality, they rarely ever mean it. And even then...”
“Try me,” I suggested again, stepping closer, taking hold of her arms, trying hard to ignore the anger I felt at being lumped in the category of Men Who Say Things They Don’t Mean. Trying even harder to ignore the helpless, pleading look in her eyes, as well as the insidious voice in my head that clamored, shut up and kiss her.
“Who are these other men, anyway? It doesn’t sound like it could be that much of a secret if you’ve had this conversation so many times.”
She sighed. “No one. They’re no one. That’s not what’s important. And I never said it was a secret.”
“Well, if it’s not a secret, then what’s the big deal? Tell me and get it over with.”
“Oh, Mike.” Reaching up, she framed my face with her hand and smiled wistfully. “What am I going to do about you?”
“Tell me what’s bothering you? I know you don’t think I can fix it, but why not let me try?”
She studied my face for a long time until my nerves, already stretched taut by exhaustion and stress, were on the verge of snapping. Finally she nodded. “All right, you win. I guess it’s only a matter of time before you find out anyway. I just hope...” Taking a deep breath she said, “There were these movies I made, back when I was first getting started in acting, that were... well, they weren’t the kind of film you’d really want on your resume. They weren’t... good. In fact, they weren’t ever intended to be good. There was never any ‘redeeming social value’ to them, if you know what I mean?”
