The Colours of Birds

by Higgins, Rebecca

  “Is it a bomb?” she chokes out.

  “Nah, they don’t think so. They’re checking again, but they think it’s just a threat.”

  Claudia breathes and prays a thank you, but she is still afraid.

  “You there?”

  “Yes. Who called it in?”

  “They don’t know,” Laura says, but Claudia can hear June’s voice telling her to call the internet people, and a film of guilt settles over her, grey and fine as nuclear ash. The kettle starts to scream.

  On Walnut Street

  Alice saw the for-sale sign at Lucia’s as soon as she walked into the front room to drink her tea in peace. It was only a week after the dinner party. Across the street, the driveway was empty and the curtains were drawn. Alice dressed and let herself out of the house quietly while the children and Howard were banging around at breakfast. She went over and knocked on Lucia’s door. The potted crocus was gone from the windowsill.

  Everybody was talking about it at the Andersens’ get-together the next Saturday.

  “Can you believe it? Right in the middle of the school year, too!” Mary swirled her drink, and the ice cubes clinked together.

  “I knew something was weird about them, right from the beginning,” Lorna said. “They never fit in here.”

  Maureen bit into a hot dog. Ketchup dripped out of the end of the bun and splotched onto the linoleum between her espadrilles.

  “Maybe they moved for the Eyetalian’s work or something,” she said, her mouth full.

  Lorna flinched. “Sure. Maybe. But that’s not what I heard.”

  “What did you hear?” Mary looked up from her drink and stared at Lorna.

  “Think about it, Mary. They’re Italian, right? They move here suddenly and move away a few months later, with no warning at all? Didn’t you see The Godfather?”

  Mary shrugged.

  Maureen swallowed the bite of hot dog. Her eyes were big. “You mean you think they’re in the mafia?”

  “Congratulations on catching up, Maureen. I’m not saying they’re part of it, not necessarily, but I think they’re mixed up in all that bad business somehow.”

  “Maybe they’re on the run,” Mary said, but she sounded skeptical.

  “Maybe.” Lorna looked pleased with herself as she brushed crumbs off the front of her sleeveless blouse.

  “Can I get anyone something to drink?” Alice asked. “I’m going to see if they can make a martini.”

  The other women shook their heads. Lorna stared at her.

  “You’re very fancy all of a sudden, Alice Cartwright,” she said, smiling like it could have been a joke.

  When Lucia waved to Alice from her front yard, she always called out, “Hello, Mrs.” Not Alice or Mrs. Cartwright. Just Mrs. In the six months they lived across from each other on Walnut Street, Lucia called Alice by her first name only once.

  “Hello there, Loo-chee-ah,” Alice would say, pronouncing each syllable. Lucia was beautiful. When she bent down to pick up the paper from the front porch, she did it in one gentle swoop, as if she were a fish moving through water. Her skin was smooth, too; she might be twenty-five, but Alice imagined her to be closer to forty. Lucia’s eyes were brown, like Alice’s, but there was something bigger and more dramatic about Lucia’s. When she blinked or closed her eyes in thought, her lashes folded down over them, as smooth as her newspaper swoop. Her long, blond hair was usually held half up in a clip, off her face but still streaming down her back. She must be very rare in Italy, Alice thought the first time they met and she heard the woman’s accent as she introduced herself. The other neighbours on the street called her the Eyetalian’s Blond Wife.

  Lucia had two tall, quiet children, a boy and a girl. Both had blond hair cropped short. The girl’s was a pixie cut, like Mia Farrow’s. It was sharp and stylish on Lucia’s daughter, but Alice was secretly glad that her own girls seemed to be keeping their hair long, for now.

  Lucia’s girl blushed and ducked her head when Alice saw her on the street. Her skin was pale and reddened quickly, and it was probably for the best that she didn’t seem to sunbathe. Not like Sheila and Cynthia, who were always lying out back in the summer, hair piled up on top of their heads, browning their lithe bodies in the sun until their father hollered at them to come in and help their mother already. Then one of them would yell back, “Dad, we’re on vacation!” And this back and forth would go on for a few minutes until the girls dragged themselves inside, stomping their bare feet, leaving bits of grass on the linoleum.

  Lucia’s boy was younger, maybe twelve when the family moved in. He was about the same height as Peter and Danny, even though they were teenagers. He nodded at Alice when he saw her and waved at the kids but kept to himself. When Lucia’s family first moved onto Walnut Street, Alice asked her children to invite the kids along to things, and Danny tried. Alice once watched Danny call after the boy as he walked towards the corner. It was early fall and the air was turning, so Alice was seeing this through a closed window and couldn’t hear what the boys were saying. After a minute or two, Danny turned back to where his brother and the other neighbourhood boys were waiting. Lucia’s boy walked away.

  She wasn’t convinced her daughters had made much of an effort at all with Lucia’s girl. “We asked her over, Ma. She turned red and said no. What are we supposed to do? Drag her over here by her short hair?” Cynthia said. Sheila snorted. Alice turned away in case she couldn’t adjust her face in time, in case her daughters caught her glint of dislike for them.

  That Christmas, the doorbell rang when Alice was basting the turkey. Howard was asleep on the chesterfield, and the boys were playing hockey on the Andersens’ backyard rink. Upstairs, Cynthia said something, and Sheila clomped across the floor.

  “Girls!” Alice called as she slid the turkey back into the oven. “Can one of you get the door?”

  “We’re in the middle of something, Mom!” Sheila yelled.

  Alice sighed. It was easier to answer the door herself. At least the girls weren’t wandering into the kitchen, scavenging snacks and spoiling their dinner.

  She wiped her hands on her apron and walked to the front door, the shag carpet soft on her bare feet.

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs.” Lucia’s blond hair was stuffed under a white hat that could have been cashmere. Alice pushed her bangs out of her eyes, her hair wet from sweat and stinking of turkey heat. The winter air made her shiver. She looked down. Lucia was holding a bottle of wine, the green glass of the bottle dark against her white gloves.

  “Thank you, Lucia. Merry Christmas to you too.” Alice smiled, waiting.

  “This is for you and your family.” Lucia held out the bottle.

  “That’s so sweet of you. Thank you,” Alice said, wiping her hands again before taking the wine. For a second, as it changed hands, the bottle slipped. Alice’s heart sped up like it used to when the children were younger and she was always averting near accidents: milk on the grey chesterfield and ketchup on Sunday dresses. But Lucia didn’t let go until she had a good grip. Alice’s heartbeat slowed.

  “Do you want to come in?” Alice asked after a pause.

  “No, no thank you. I must go back.” Lucia turned away.

  Alice thanked her again and watched Lucia glide across the street and delicately sidestep a snow bank, tall boots black as piano legs.

  Over dinner, Howard examined the label. He raised his eyebrows at Alice.

  “This is really expensive stuff. Better than the fruitcake we got from the Andersens for sure.”

  Alice nodded as she swallowed a mouthful of turnip mash. Howard put the unopened bottle back on the table and got himself a beer from the fridge.

  At the Carlisles’ New Year’s party, Alice stood in the kitchen with the other neighbourhood women.

  “We invited the Eyetalians,” Mary Carlisle said as she finished mixing herself an old fashioned at the makeshift bar beside the sink.

  “And?” asked Lorna.

  “She said thanks, but
no thanks, of course,” Mary said, stirring her drink with the handle of a spoon.

  “Of course,” said Maureen.

  “Big surprise. Has anybody even seen the Eyetalian? I bet it’s just her over there with the kids.” Lorna shook her glass and tipped it up, sliding an ice cube into her mouth.

  “Nobody’s seen him?” Alice asked, stepping out of the way as Lorna reached past her to pull a bottle of vodka from the freezer.

  “She has.” Maureen pointed at Mary with her elbow.

  “I told you that, Lorna,” Mary said, watching Lorna refill her glass.

  “So you saw him …” Alice prompted.

  “Very early in the morning, driving away in that flashy Cadillac. Not much to look at, but he definitely exists,” said Mary.

  “Do you know we brought casseroles over to the Eyetalian’s Blond Wife that first week they moved in? Not even a thank-you note. Let alone returning the favour when Artie’s mother died.” Lorna pinched her lips together over her straw and slurped.

  “Maybe they’re shy,” Alice said.

  “Maybe. But a gesture of neighbourly goodwill every once in a while wouldn’t kill her,” Lorna said.

  “They brought us wine on Christmas,” Alice said, quietly.

  “What?” said Maureen just as Mary was saying, “Pardon me?”

  “Lucia brought us wine on Christmas,” Alice repeated.

  “You’re kidding. Did you get any wine, Lorna?” Mary said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Me neither,” chimed in Maureen.

  The three women looked at Alice. She wished she hadn’t mentioned it.

  “I mean, it’s probably just because the kids are close in age.” Alice poked at a lime slice in her glass with a swizzle stick.

  “Did you give them a bottle of wine when they moved in?” Lorna asked.

  The women waited.

  “We did, yes,” Alice lied.

  “Well,” Lorna said. “That must be it then.”

  In the other room, the men were laughing. Alice listened to see if she could pick out Howard’s voice, but the sounds of the husbands blended together, indistinct.

  It was later in January when Alice first saw Lucia’s husband. January was miserable that year, blustery and relentless. Snow piled up in the driveways overnight, the winter laying down its white blankets again as soon as the men removed them.

  On the morning after the first big snowfall, Alice was in the kitchen early, making tea for herself before the kids got up and came downstairs wanting breakfast. Howard was pushing the snow to the edge of the driveway and heaving it into the yard.

  Across the street, Lucia’s husband walked slowly down the steps of his house, one gloved hand holding a shovel, the other one gripping onto the snow-covered banister. He was shorter than Howard and twice as wide, even with Howard’s post-Christmas bulge filling out his blue parka. Like a snowman, his pale, round face melted into his middle sphere, uninterrupted by neck. His head was bare despite the cold, and his thick hair was as black as barbeque charcoals.

  Howard called out something. From the bottom of the steps, Lucia’s husband waved and smiled, saying something back that Alice couldn’t hear. Then he bent and started clearing the path in the direction of the sidewalk, small shovelfuls half the size of Howard’s. He was still shovelling when Howard came inside, stamping the snow off his boots.

  “Howard?” Alice called softly, not wanting the children to wake up yet. She went to the front door, pulling her bathrobe around her more tightly.

  “Morning, Alice,” Howard said, bending down to untie his boots.

  “Honey, before you take your boots off, can you go back out there and help him?” The front door was open, and through the screen door Alice could see Lucia’s husband labouring, his round face red.

  Howard sighed. “He does look like he’s having a rough time of it, doesn’t he? Poor bastard.”

  He tightened his laces and pulled his hat down over his ears.

  “You’re a sweet man.” Alice put her hands on Howard’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss his cheek, his skin cold and smelling of outside.

  Howard pulled the door shut behind him. Alice watched them from the kitchen, sipping her tea. Her husband slowed down his shovelling speed, letting the other man lead.

  By the time Howard sat down at the table, his face was red too. The children were awake, stomping around upstairs and jostling each other for time in the bathroom. Alice put an extra slice of bacon on Howard’s plate and kissed him on his bald spot.

  The next day, a teenager Alice didn’t recognize came to shovel Lucia’s driveway and did so for the rest of the winter, thin and fast, more efficient than Howard even. Some mornings Sheila and Cynthia got up early to watch the boy, giggling in the kitchen. On those mornings, Alice finished her tea in the living room.

  Spring came slowly. It was mid-April when the crocuses beside the driveway pushed themselves up out of the dirty snow. One Monday, Alice was crouching next to them and peering at the flowers when she heard, “Mrs.!”

  Alice stood up too quickly and her head felt fuzzy and strange. She rubbed her face.

  “You okay, Mrs.?” Lucia’s brown eyes squinted, from concern or the sun.

  “I’m fine. Thanks, Lucia.”

  “Angelo and I, we would like to invite you and your husband to have dinner at our home, this Saturday evening?” With Lucia’s head tilted, her blond hair was longer on one side, brushing her inner left elbow.

  Lorna would be furious. Alice smiled.

  “We’d love to. What can we bring?”

  “Do not bring anything. I will have the dinner prepared.” Lucia bent down close to the crocuses. “These are very beautiful.”

  Lucia brushed the snow away from the base of the plants, making her hands wet and more green visible. Alice knew what she would bring Lucia on Saturday.

  “Will Saturday be an adults-only evening?”

  Lucia wrinkled her nose and frowned as if she were trying to sort out Alice’s words.

  “What I mean is, should we bring the children or no?”

  “If you want it, of course, but my children are going to the cinema that night.”

  Perfect. “Perfect,” Alice said. “It will be just Howard and me, then.”

  Alice’s hands were getting cold, wrapped around the green pot in its crinkly silver wrapping. Howard rang the bell again.

  “Why didn’t you just give her one from the yard?” Howard asked.

  “It’s nicer this way. Actually, I don’t even know if a wild crocus can survive once you’ve dug it up and transplanted it.”

  The door opened and Lucia stood in a billowy gold top draped over tailored white slacks, radiant.

  “Are we early?” asked Alice.

  “You are here at a good time. Come in!” Lucia opened the door wide.

  Alice wiped her feet on the mat at the door. Everything in the hallway was white: gleaming tile under their feet and bright walls that smelled like they’d just been painted. Alice marvelled at how neat the entranceway was: no kicked-off shoes or dropped handbags. No children’s coats. She made a mental note to tidy the front hall when she got home.

  Howard leaned against the wall to take his shoes off.

  “No, no. Please. Leave them,” Lucia said.

  They followed her down the hall. Still holding the crocus, Alice glanced at the wall to see if Howard had left a handprint, but there was nothing there.

  In the living room, Howard made a beeline for a black leather easy chair. Alice stepped toward Lucia to give her the potted plant.

  “Oh! So beautiful!” Lucia said, her eyebrow arcs lifting in delight. She took the purple crocus and put it on the windowsill facing the street.

  Lucia’s husband, Angelo, came into the room then, dressed in black pants that were a little too short. Alice could see two thick strips of white sock above his black shoes, like the cream between Oreos. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, showing a patch of curly, sil
ver hairs. Alice looked away.

  “Howard!” A smile split Angelo’s wide, red face in half as Howard stood up and the two men shook hands.

  “Mrs.” Angelo took Alice’s hand and kissed it. She blushed and perched at the end of the black leather chesterfield. Angelo sat at the other end, leaning forward to talk to Howard. Lucia disappeared. When she came back, she was holding a silver platter of drinks. There were six glasses.

  “Is someone else joining us? Another couple?” Alice turned back toward the front door to cover her disappointment.

  Lucia shook her head and her hair caught the light.

  “Oh no, Mrs.,” she said. “I have some extra drinks here. I didn’t know what you wanted, you and Mr.” Lucia pointed her chin towards Howard, who selected a beer from the tray, as usual. Angelo took a beer for himself. After studying what was left—two highball glasses of something reddish, a tumbler of what could have been scotch, and a martini glass with clear liquid and three olives—Alice chose the martini, which she’d never had before but had seen in the movies. Lucia put the tray down on the small side table before taking the scotch for herself and sitting down beside Alice.

  “We will eat dinner after our drinks.”

  Alice tried to sniff the air discreetly to see what Lucia was cooking, but she couldn’t smell anything at all.

  “It is so nice for you to come here and eat with us. You are the first friends we have to dinner,” said Angelo.

  “Really?” Howard raised his eyebrows.

  Angelo cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. “My wife, she is very wonderful, but she is not a cook.” Angelo smiled at his wife. Alice wondered if Lucia would get angry, but she only laughed and leaned down to kiss Angelo on the top of his head.

  The husbands talked about the weather and basketball. Howard didn’t really follow basketball, but he seemed to be keeping up his end of the conversation. Howard always seemed relaxed in social situations, even when he wasn’t. Sometimes Alice watched him from the edges of parties and admired his stretched-out legs, his easy grin, and envied him.