by John Searles
“Bingo,” Donnelly says. “I knew it. Tell me. Have you been to New York before?”
“A couple of times with my family at Christmas, and once on a school trip.”
“Well, you haven’t experienced New York until you’ve lived here, dear. Edward used to have a saying.” Donnelly stops and stares down at the Oriental carpet, tapping his white deck shoe against the gray fringe at the edge. “What was it? Oh, yes. It was: New York is a nice place to live, but I wouldn’t want to visit.”
“Huh,” Philip says and smiles, turning the statement over in his mind. He doesn’t bother inquiring about who Edward is, since he plans to leave once he confirms his suspicions about what’s on the other side of that door.
“Tell me the cross streets where you first stepped foot on the sidewalk here in town,” Donnelly says.
Philip doesn’t know why the old guy wants this information, but he tries to remember anyway. Last night he parked in the garage at the Marriott, and this morning he got in his car out of sheer habit, and drove down to the Village since he’d heard Deb Shishimanian talk about it so often. “St. Mark’s and First Avenue.”
Donnelly cups one side of his white face. “That has a nice ring to it. You see, I think it is crucial to remember these things in life. Someday when you look back, you can say, My New York story all started on St. Mark’s and First.”
“Where did yours start?” Philip asks.
“Ah. It all began for me when I stepped out of a taxi onto Bank Street and Waverly. And what a wonderful beginning it was.” Donnelly looks toward the ceiling and seems to lose himself in thought for a moment before clearing his throat and getting back to business. “So what do you think of the place?”
“New York?”
“The apartment. Does it appeal to your refined Kansas taste?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“That’s right. My apologies.”
“I like it. But I have a question about the—”
Before Philip can say the word pets, Donelly starts talking again. “This was my very first apartment when I came to New York from Commerce, Georgia, some fifty years ago. Just off the bus like you.”
Philip ignores the bus comment. “You’re from Georgia? But you don’t have an accent.”
“Honey,” Donnelly says, “the first thing I lost when I arrived in this town was my virginity. The second was my accent.”
Philip smiles. “I need to ask—”
“I have a lot of memories here, so whomever I select as my sublet has to be trustworthy. Are you trustworthy, Philip?”
“I guess,” Philips says. “But about the—”
“You guess?”
“No, I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”
“Good. I thought so. Now, listen. I know I may have embellished a tad about the place being pristine. But there’s no harm in employing a little hyperbole when one is trying to sell one’s wares. So what do you think?”
“It’s cozy. I like the pictures on the wall. I like the mural. But what about the pets?”
“Oh, yes,” Donnelly says. “Sweetie and Baby. Let’s go pay them a visit, shall we?”
He steps into the kitchen on the way to that door and Philip asks, “Sweetie and Baby wouldn’t happen to be birds, would they?”
The question causes Donnelly to stop and turn around. His womanly face takes on a pinched expression, as though he has been through this before. In a resigned tone of voice, he answers, “Sweetie is a mynah bird.”
“And what about Baby?”
“She’s a snake.”
“A snake?”
“A snake. A darling one. But nonetheless, a snake.”
Hasn’t this guy ever heard of a dog or a goldfish? Philip thinks. “Listen,” he says. “I really like your home and all. But I don’t want to waste your time, especially since you have all these people coming to see the place. I have to be honest with you. I can’t live here because I am afraid of birds.”
“Nonsense,” says Donnelly. “Sweetie is not a pterodactyl for goodness sake. She is a loving little black bird who will sing and talk to you and keep you company. Do you remember the birds in Snow White who flew around her when she sang?”
“Vaguely,” Philip says.
“Well, Sweetie is that sort of a bird.”
“A cartoon one?”
“No, silly. She is a nice one. I’m telling you, no one could be afraid of her.”
“Trust me,” Philip says. “I could be. In fact, I already am.”
“No, you’re not,” Donnelly says.
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
Philip feels as though he is back at home, having one of his trademark discussions with his mother. “Yes. I am.”
“Did you ever see the movie The Birds?” Donnelly asks.
“I have,” Philip tells him. “And it validates my fear.”
Donnelly taps his white deck shoe against the checkered kitchen floor. More to himself than to Philip, he says, “No one ever made a movie about my biggest fear in life. If there was one, I’m not sure I would be brave enough to watch it.”
“What are you afraid of?” Philip asks.
He clasps his jewelry-cluttered hands together and looks up at Philip. “Oh, I don’t want to get into all that sad business right now. Listen, why not just take one little look-see? I guarantee you’ll fall in love with her.”
“I guarantee I won’t,” Philip says.
But against his better judgment, he follows Donnelly through that door into a long narrow bathroom. The birdcage hangs from a metal wire that’s hooked to a vent on the ceiling, directly above the toilet and next to an open window. The snake tank sits on the floor beside the grimy bathtub, a heating bulb glowing inside. Philip can’t bring himself to focus on the pets right away so he looks around at all the bottles of dandruff shampoo—Head & Shoulders, Selsun Blue, and a few medicated brands he has never heard of. He wonders if Donnelly wears that colorful scarf over his head simply to prevent a blizzard of his flakes inside the apartment.
“Why do you keep your pets in the bathroom?” he asks.
“Sweetie loves to flirt with the pigeons who land on the fire escape. And I leave Baby in here so the two of them can be together.”
As Donnelly presses his fingers to the cage, Philip looks out the window at the crumbling fire escape. Down below, he sees a narrow alley with a stained mattress and a rusted shopping cart turned upside down. Someone spray painted the words Suck My Cock on the brick wall of the neighboring building. When he looks back, Philip allows himself a quick peek at the bird. Its feathers are shiny and black. There is a splash of orange nears its dot eyes. It lets out a whistle and claws at the bars, rubbing its beak against the stones in Donnelly’s rings.
“She thinks my jewelry is fruit,” he says. “Don’t you, precious? But you’ve already eaten your fruit today so don’t be greedy.”
Not that he had any doubts before, but after seeing the bird Philip is convinced that he cannot do this. And when Donnelly reaches his hand toward the door of the cage, Philip says, “Please don’t open it.”
“But how will you get to know her if she’s behind bars?”
“That’s my point. I don’t want to get to know her. I have to go.”
“Go where?” Donnelly asks, pulling his hand away from the cage door.
Philip doesn’t have an answer. But he wonders why this guy is so determined to make him stay. He is about to ask that very question when the birds squeals, “Make me a martini.”
Donnelly laughs. So does Philip, despite himself.
“Edward taught him that phrase. One summer we set up a tape recorder that played those words over and over until she finally got it through her bird brain.”
Again, Philip doesn’t ask who Edward is. He is used to people introducing new players into the conversation without explanation. Shish used to do it all the time. If Philip interrupted to question who was who, she became annoyed and told him just to forget it. Now he
asks Donnelly, “What else does the bird say?”
“Oh, lots of things. She’s in the bathroom, so as you might imagine, she can mimic all sorts of foul noises. But she didn’t learn them all from my fanny, mind you. She picks up her most disgusting sounds through the echoes in the ceiling vent that leads to the neighbors’ bathroom. Stay away from those people up there, Philip. They’re the real animals in this building. You’ll see for yourself if this sublet works out.”
“Listen,” Philip says, glancing down at the snake tank on the floor. The creature must be hiding in the little box inside, either that or it has escaped, because he doesn’t see it anywhere. “I just don’t think this is a good fit because I don’t like—”
“Shh.” Donnelly holds a finger over his mouth then motions toward the cage. “Let’s adjourn to the parlor and discuss the matter further. I don’t want to hurt a certain someone’s feelings with all this antibird talk.”
Once they are back in “the parlor,” Philip glances behind the dressing screen in the corner, where he sees an antique desk in front of one of the windows. On top there is a large computer. The sight of it surprises him, seeing as the guy still owns a record player. For a brief moment, Philip pictures himself sitting there working on his poetry, staring out the window as he searches for the perfect word. He has not decided much about the details of his new life in New York, but he has made up his mind to keep writing his poems and to submit his work to the journals Dr. Conorton suggested. The list of names and addresses, along with his portfolio, is under the driver’s seat of his Subaru parked on St. Mark’s Place.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Donnelly asks.
Philip turns and sees him holding a container of Taster’s Choice instant coffee and a small white teacup. “No thanks,” he says.
“Cigarette?”
“No thanks again. I really should get going.”
“You young people are no fun these days,” Donnelly says as he puts a pot of water on the stove, then uses a match to light the burner as well as his cigarette. When he’s done, he sits on a wooden stool next to the counter, takes a drag, and blows the smoke through his nostrils. “Never underestimate the power of coffee and a cigarette, Philip. I’m telling you, it’s pure magic.” He pauses. “You’re not one of those health nuts like the people downstairs, are you?”
Philip shakes his head. “I—”
“Good. Because let me give you some advice. Stay away from that restaurant.”
“Restaurant? I thought it was a store.”
“It’s both. And Lord knows what else they do in the back. Uterine massages or some such nonsense.”
“Uterine what?”
“Massages.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.” Donnelly inhales his cigarette again and blows more smoke through his nose. “And I certainly don’t want to find out. I saw it on a flyer on the front door one day. If you ask me the people who go into that store need to eat some red meat and get laid. I know that sounds extremely Republican of me, and I am not a Republican mind you, but it is the truth as I see it.”
“Listen,” Philip says, determined not to be interrupted by his rambling any longer. “Once and for all, I need to get going. I’m sorry again that this didn’t work out. I’m sure one of the other people coming to see the place will be happy to sublet it from you.”
Philip steps toward the door but it takes him a moment to locate the knob, which is painted to look like a hubcap on one of the taxicabs in the mural. The instant he puts his hand on it, Donnelly blurts, “There are no others.”
“Excuse me?” Philip says, turning to look at him, but keeping his hand on that hubcap-doorknob.
“The last three people I had lined up to sublet the place backed out. One young lady canceled just this morning. I am supposed to be on a bus right now to Georgia. I printed up a half dozen signs on my computer and went around the neighborhood hanging them up. Believe me, at my age, that is no small feat.”
Philip thinks of the selfish way he shredded and tossed those pink pieces of paper into various garbage cans on the street. As he watches Donnelly’s skinny arm stretch to the counter, where he sets his cigarette in a green ceramic ashtray, Philip feels guilty for interfering. “What about that person you were talking to on the phone when I came in? The one coming here in an hour.”
Donnelly’s thin voice lilts when he confesses, “I was just playacting.”
“What do you mean playacting?”
“I wasn’t really on the phone. I was just trying to make the place seem more desirable to make you want it. People only want something in life if they think they might not be able to get it. You must know that by now.”
Philip lets out a breath and takes his hand off the doorknob. “I don’t understand. Why did the last three people back out?”
“Two words: Sweetie and Baby.”
“I thought they were loving.”
“I think so. But most people, like yourself, don’t seem to agree. Nobody much likes the idea of feeding Baby a mouse once a week. And sometimes Sweetie can—”
“Can what?”
“Peck you if she’s in a bad mood. She pecked the girl this morning when I was showing her how to clean the cage. It was only a little wound on her forehead for goodness sake. Hardly any blood at all. But of course, she ran out of here crying. That’s another thing about your generation—you people love high drama. You can’t relax and have fun, but you certainly know how to howl and carry on about all the wrongs that have been done to you. Next thing I know I’ll be getting a letter from her attorney.”
Philip waves his hand at the photos on the wall. “Can’t one of your glamorous friends do it while you’re gone?”
Donnelly stands and goes to the stove. He turns off the burner but doesn’t bother making coffee. “Honey, most of those people up there are dead. When you get to be my age, friends drop off like flies. The ones who are still alive are in no shape to climb these stairs. I can barely get up them anymore. You’ll see. You’ll be old yourself one day. People think it’s a happy stage in life, and it is for about a year and a half. Then it becomes absolute drudgery. A slow march to the grave.”
“Why don’t you board the pets?” Philip asks, trying his best to stick to the subject.
Donnelly raises his scant, almost nonexistent eyebrows. “We are talking about a bird and a snake here. Not Lassie. Besides, it would cost money and I’m on a fixed income.”
“Well then why don’t you take them with you?”
“To my sister’s? Ha! Fauncine’s a bitch when she’s healthy. I can only imagine how miserable she is going to be in her dying days. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Philip?”
Philip has yet to figure out the appropriate answer to this question. He doesn’t like to say no, since that would deny the fact of Ronnie’s existence. But answering yes always leads to the inevitable follow-up questions like How old is he? and Where does he live? Philip settles on telling Donnelly that he has one younger brother, figuring he’ll evade any further questions if pressed for details.
“Well, be nice to him,” is all Donnelly says, “because you never know if you’ll need him to take care of you when you’re on your deathbed.”
Philip lets out a breath and rubs his eyes. The cigarette is still lit in the ashtray, and the smoke is bothering him. Behind the bathroom door, the bird squeals then makes a sound like a toilet flushing then asks for a martini.
“Even if Fauncine wasn’t such a shrew,” Donnelly says, “Sweetie and Baby have lived all their lives in that bathroom. I can’t move them now. Snakes are very sensitive to their environment. A change like that could be very traumatic. She might not make it. And I promised Edward I would take care of her. Believe me, I’d rather own a poodle or maybe a nice dachshund hound. I’ve always been partial to small dogs of that sort. But when you make a promise to someone who has passed on, you need to keep it for your own peace of mind—whether or not you believe they are u
p there watching. Does that make sense?”
“I suppose,” Philip says. “Listen. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
This time, when he puts his hand to the doorknob, Donnelly blurts out one long breathless sentence: “This is a rent-controlled apartment and I only pay two hundred and eleven dollars a month, but I am willing to give it to you for five hundred if you take care of my pets.”
Philip stops. He turns around and asks Donnelly to repeat himself. When he does, Philip finds himself actually considering the offer. Five hundred dollars a month is far, far less than what those real estate agents had quoted him today for a place in another borough. As much as Philip dreads the idea of feeding mice to a snake and caring for a nattering, peck-happy bird, a rent that low would mean he wouldn’t have to work while he was here. He has enough money saved from his days at the Olive Garden to survive years at that price. And so long as his father didn’t cut off the emergency credit card, he could get by for ages without ever having to get a job at all.
“Three hundred,” Philip tells him without turning around.
“Four-fifty.”
“Four hundred.”
“Deal,” Donnelly says and slips his warm, limp hand into Philip’s. “Bless you, young man. I guarantee you are going to be very happy here.”
When he lets go, Donnelly goes to his desk and riffles around until he finds a crinkled Greyhound schedule. He dons a pair of enormous glasses to see about catching a bus tomorrow. When he grows flustered and confused by the crowd of numbers and tiny print, Philip takes it from him and determines that there is a bus leaving at nine-thirty in the morning. Then he sees that there is also one leaving at six o’clock tonight for D.C. From there, Donnelly can connect to an overnight bus headed to Athens, Georgia. Philip double-checks the schedule by calling the 800 number. When he confirms that the information is correct, he presents Donnelly with his options.
Without pausing to consider it, Donnelly says, “The midnight bus to Georgia, you say? Well, this is Fauncine’s swan song after all. I shouldn’t deprive her of any extra time to make me miserable, seeing as it’s been her life’s work and all. It’s settled then. I’ll leave in a few hours. Why put off till tomorrow what you can cross off your to-do list today?”
