Starling Days

by Rowan Hisayo Buchanan

  “I don’t know,” Oscar said. “Mina’s been teaching in New York for a while.”

  “Ah . . .” Ami said. “How is Mina?”

  “The usual,” he said. Though that night he’d dreamt of fucking her, not a subtle dream, no hidden messages, just fucking, her body going up and down and her head flung back. On waking up he’d reached out his hand to the space where she wasn’t.

  “Wait a minute,” Ami said, and washed her hands with the cinnamon-scented soap. “Just stay right there,” she added and padded out of the kitchen.

  When she returned she was holding a package tied with a loop of red ribbon. “I meant to give this to you on the day,” she said, “but after the cake, and then . . . Well, it didn’t feel like the right time.”

  She seemed to expect him to open it so he did. The ribbon unspooled with a quick tug. He ran a thumb under the tape so as not to tear the paper. He opened the narrow box. A scarf.

  “Thanks, you didn’t have to,” he said.

  “It’s alpaca and lambswool,” Ami said.

  “Not llama then?” he asked, trying to sound amusing.

  “No, not llama.”

  “That’s cool. Thank you.”

  They paused. Oscar put on the scarf to show he was game. Ami reached up and adjusted it. It felt veterinary, as though he was a creature whose collar needed fixing. He almost expected her to pet him.

  Ami gathered up the gold paper and began to fold it into quarters.

  “Did you ever leave him?” Oscar asked.

  “Him?”

  “Dad.” Who else? The dentist?

  “Well, I thought about it.” She said this in the same tone she might’ve used to explain that she’d considered, then rejected a holiday to Canada. “It was complicated. I broke his favorite bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. It went everywhere.” She made a blowing-up gesture with her hands. “But I loved him. And at some point you just have to decide to forgive a person.”

  Maybe in thirty years he and Mina would tell people that. They’d say it was complicated and no one would quite understand why they were together. But they’d make it work. They’d get a bigger house and animals to over-love. Maybe. Or maybe they’d be living in separate apartments, next to strangers’ bodies. Or maybe his wife would have smashed or snapped or cracked or broken herself, and when they called him to pick her up it would not be a barefoot woman he found but a body. Oh, he was so tired.

  Standing in Theo’s apartment was uncomfortably like trespassing. Mina laid a finger on one of the guitar’s strings and it twanged indignantly. Phoebe’s husband, soon to be ex, needed her to post him something she’d taken. So here they were. Phoebe pulled a fuzzy, neon pink, leopard-print coat from the suitcase.

  “That’s what he wanted?” Mina asked.

  “Of course not.” Phoebe slid the coat over her shoulders and twirled. “Everyone says leopard is basically a neutral. If you’re bold enough, you can do whatever you want.”

  The thing her husband needed was a pot of lemon-scented beeswax, the wax the yellow of ear gunk. Mina tried to imagine Phoebe throwing all her belongings into suitcases, her palm making a fist around this jar. What would Mina grab hold of if she were leaving? Phoebe shoved the furniture polish into the pocket of the coat. “I’m going to make a coffee. Want one?”

  Mina followed her to the galley kitchen. Phoebe poured two teaspoons of instant coffee into a mug imprinted with the name of Theo’s university in a faded font. When Mina kissed Phoebe, the kiss tasted of Nescafé Gold. Phoebe’s fur coat brushed Mina’s neck.

  Phoebe pulled away. “Hey, let me put my mug down at least.”

  Mina took the mug from her and placed it in the sink.

  The kiss had barely begun before Phoebe pulled away. “Shit! Where’s Benson?” She strode out of the room. Benson was gnawing a leather seat cushion, head tilted to get a mouthful.

  “Bad dog. Bad.” Phoebe shook a finger. Benson played dead, his huge paws hooked in supplication.

  It would be best, Phoebe decided, if they allowed him to get his yahs-yahs out in the park. It was a narrow strip, ringed with trees. The fence posts were topped with an arrowhead design. The shafts were thick enough to slay elephants. Phoebe chose a bench under a willow. On the one opposite a woman looked at her phone and smoked.

  “God, I could kill for a cigarette,” Phoebe said. “This coat always had a pack in the left pocket. It reeked. Go on, sniff it.”

  Mina did. It smelled of nothing. The only thing she could detect was the faint whiff of a wet city. “I can’t smell anything,” she said.

  “Exactly. Nothing. That’s what my marriage smelt like. Nothing! You know it was him I gave up for?”

  A French bulldog with alert ears and an Argyle sweater waddled towards them, swishing his pale behind. Mina used to tutor a kid who lived on Madison Avenue. The father walked like that. Benson, off-leash, dashed towards the Frenchie. The smaller dog’s muzzle pulled back toothily. Benson retreated under the bench.

  “Typical,” Phoebe said, and reached through the slats to run a finger over Benson’s skull.

  The smoking woman jiggled her black patent shoe as she typed. Her whole body was stiff and concentrated, apart from that nervous shoe. Up and down it went. Mina was overcome by the idea that the anxious woman bore almost as much relation to Mina’s life as Phoebe did. If Mina died, Phoebe would probably only be sad for an afternoon, maybe a week, a month. Didn’t they say mourning lasted half the time you’d known someone?

  “What’s your ex-husband like?” Mina asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” Phoebe said.

  “That’s not fair. You’ve known Oscar longer than I have. But I can’t imagine Brendan.”

  “He’s the sort of man who’d rather ring me than buy a new pot of furniture polish.”

  It seemed a bad moment to ask what made Phoebe willing to fetch it. Mina took Phoebe’s free hand. And Phoebe let her.

  From above Mina heard the clunk of something heavy being moved. The decorators had decided to start on the upstairs flat. They had nodded at the work she had already done, acknowledging it but refraining from comment. She wondered if this was the famous British reserve or if her DIY left them speechless.

  It was almost six. She should offer them more tea and chocolate-chip cookies. That morning Ed had told her he took his tea with three sugars and Tomek took his black. She laid out the store-bought cookies in a flower shape. She balanced the plate in one hand, while holding the two mug handles in the other. She stepped slowly, careful not to spill. The journey was convoluted for such a short distance. She had to walk from 4B to the exterior walkway, to the fourth-floor landing, up the stairs, onto the fifth-floor walkway and into 5B. As she stepped out onto the first of the two walkways, she blinked against the low sun. The trees had all thrown away their leaves, but the air was warm and the breeze mild. Were Novembers in England always gentle? By next year, she couldn’t be here anymore. She tried not to let the thought bother her.

  Mina peered over the edge of the walkway’s railing. Four storeys down, pushed against the courtyard’s wall, the industrial containers were stuffed with trash. Pigeons perched on the surface, flashing their blues and purples. It felt strange to be so far above the birds.

  In 5B, Ed and Tomek were packing up. They’d stripped away the birds completely and now everything was naked. People talked about naked walls, and Mina had always thought they just meant an absence of stuff. But the stripped walls really did look like flesh—the flesh of a very old English lady, mottled all pink and white, with faint scraps of green and blue. It was like being squeezed between a duchess’s thighs.

  The two men were of similar height and wore matching heavy boots and dusty jeans. Tomek was the first to look up. She thought of him as the pretty one. He had light blue eyes, like those balloons that say It’s a boy!!

  “We were just heading out.” He shrugged apologetically and scratched the back of his neck.

  “But, thanks
, a biscuit would be grand.” Ed grabbed a cookie, consuming it in two bites. He was the less pretty one. A stud pierced his right earlobe. Did it indicate a love of punk?

  “Tomorrow we’ll start stripping downstairs,” Ed said. “That okay?”

  “Great,” she said.

  “One for the road,” Ed said, as he grabbed another cookie. And then they both headed off.

  Soon she, like the birds, would have to be removed from the apartment. But, unlike the birds, she could not be chucked onto a scrapheap. Yet it didn’t seem real. In some parallel life, Mina and Oscar would be going to the farmers’ market or writing invitation lists for one of his parties. Why had she sent him that text? It had been so easy to type those three words: I kissed Phoebe. It was true, of course. But lots of things were true. She could have written, I miss her too, the person I used to be. The person who thought she was in control of her own brain. She could have written, I miss the way my forehead slots just below your shoulder. She could have written, It is an emergency, please come home. But she hadn’t. She’d tasted Phoebe’s mouth and it had blurred into hers and she had felt herself rock against another person and now that was done and she could not take it back.

  She took a sip of the unmilky tea before heading downstairs. As she walked along the balcony, a whirl of leaves rose in the wind. They spiraled as if an unseen spirit were spinning there. Then, without warning, they dropped to the ground.

  She needed to see Phoebe. But Phoebe was at work. Perhaps Mina could eat at the restaurant. It hadn’t disturbed Phoebe too much the last time. She thought of the overpriced endive salad, and the aphid-green pools of olive oil. Mina needed a job. Perhaps tonight she could talk to Phoebe about whether she’d ever move to New York. Bloggers could blog from anywhere. Phoebe would love New York. But no. Two weeks was too soon to ask someone to move continents. Anyway, Mina should get things sorted first. It would be easiest to begin with the tutoring. Her hands moved flicker-fast across the keyboard.

  Dear Ms Davies,

  How is Alfie? Is he enjoying junior year? My research here is coming to an end. Let me know if you and Alfie would like me to return. Though if he’s comfortable working with Boris, that’s no problem.

  All my best,

  Mina

  She read it aloud. Her voice sounded jaunty. She could do this. Of course, immigration to the United States was complicated. But surely it would be easier for Phoebe with her red hair and pale skin than it had been for Mina’s Shanghainese grandmother. New York seemed full of the English. They were everywhere, on TV, at her university. She’d introduce Phoebe to people and they’d marvel at her cute accent. Though Mina wasn’t sure which people. The problem with going to college with your husband was that most of your friends were shared property in the same way that the microwave and the pillows were. It didn’t matter. She’d have Phoebe. They’d make new friends. Be happy, Mina thought, be happy.

  She fed Benson dinner, ran him around the park until his paws dragged, brought him back to 4B, arranged his blanket for him, and refilled the water bowl. Around nine, she prepared to set out for the restaurant. It was a late dinner and her stomach ached, but it meant that she’d finish eating close to the end of Phoebe’s shift and they could walk home together.

  Benson was curled in his bed in the corner of the apartment. His tail was tucked under his paws. Good. Everything was to plan. And her gift for Phoebe had arrived. Mina re-examined the collar, running her fingers over the silk bow at the front. The lady in Wisconsin called it a BowWow Bow Tie. Mina had chosen XXL to accommodate Benson’s fluff. She’d settled on a lavender that would complement Benson’s fur. Phoebe would love it. Mina was sure it would play well online.

  Oscar’s father was wearing thick grey sweatpants, the kind you never saw at the gym anymore. His T-shirt had the name of one of the breweries, the one started by two sisters. The kanji flapped as he jogged.

  “Come on,” Oscar said. “You can do it.” He was jogging backwards, the way he’d seen personal trainers do in the park. It was a weird feeling, the world expanding as you tumbled into it.

  “Mild exercise,” his father said, between breaths. “Mild.” His red face lifted to the sky.

  “We’ve only just left the house. We’re barely out of the drive.”

  His father wasn’t even fat. Oscar had been a fat kid. He knew the sear of chub sizzling from muscle. His father didn’t even have any weight to carry.

  “I was thinking,” Oscar said, “maybe we can go next year. You can take me to meet Sato and the rest.”

  “Sato’s dead.”

  “I can see you slowing down,” Oscar said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  They jogged on, applauded by the plock-plock of pine cones falling in the wind.

  “I was thinking that the red rice beer would be the best fit for Eileen Johnson.”

  Wind caught the fine hair of his father’s head, lifting it up.

  “How about we try skipping rope.” Oscar had thought they might do it on the beach, but the top of the drive would do.

  “Jump rope? Isn’t that for little girls?” his father asked.

  “Boxers skip. It’s cardio. It’s good for your heart. Also it’s important to have a balanced exercise, you don’t only want to be running.”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Skipping at my time of life.”

  Oscar handed him the rope. His father raised it overhead, flipping it until it hit the ground where it fell with a slap. But he tried again. And this time got in three jumps before stumbling.

  “This is harder than it looks,” his father said.

  “You’ll get there with practice. You’re trying to get too much height.” Oscar demonstrated the small jump required.

  His father went again. His sweatpants billowed. They would need better athletic gear. Ami must know where the nearest mall was. The rope went taut with speed. “One, two, three, four, five, six,” Oscar counted aloud. The rope smacked his father’s calves.

  “Again,” Oscar said. “You’ve got this.”

  Again his father lifted the rope. His jumps were uneven and the nylon cord dragged on the ground. But he kept going, stopping occasionally to breathe.

  They turned home when a soft rain began to tickle their scalps. “Guess you can teach an old dog after all,” his father said.

  “I’ll be teaching you tricks in no time.” Oscar coiled the rope so it fit in the pocket of his basketball shorts.

  His father replied, “You know, you’d make a good dad.”

  *

  After the restaurant closed, Mina waited outside to walk Phoebe home. Tonight Phoebe seemed to take longer. Mina walked around and around the benches. It wasn’t a big deal. Phoebe would just be splashing water on her face or making polite goodbyes.

  When she emerged, Mina caught her by the crook of the elbow for a kiss.

  “Not here,” she said. “It’s not professional.”

  “I don’t think anyone noticed.”

  Phoebe was walking quickly. Her scarf was triple-wrapped under her chin and Mina longed for that neck.

  “Wait,” Mina tried, “I got you a little gift.”

  “Show me at home.”

  Home, Mina thought. Home. It was home.

  A few pumpkins still haunted doorsteps and windowsills. Their faces were caved in, expressions more senile than menacing.

  “I didn’t know you did Halloween here.”

  “It’s an American thing,” said Phoebe.

  “But you did a blog post about it.”

  “I post about lots of things.”

  “You don’t need to be like this. I won’t come to the restaurant if you don’t want me to.”

  Phoebe walked silently, her hands in her pockets. It wasn’t that cold. What had triggered this mood? PMS? No: that was the sort of accusation a man would make.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Mina tried.

  Phoebe raised an eyebrow.

  “What? Ghosts aren’t an American impor
t.”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe.” Phoebe was looking upwards, but when Mina followed her eyes there was nothing to catch onto, just sky, trees and a few window squares. Mina thought about her grandma. Her grandma thought the ancestors were always there, wandering around, judging you, intervening on your behalf. When she lost the keys, she’d talk to her dead husband, who had apparently always known where the keys were. When she found them, she’d thank him. It was in this way that Mina knew many of the likes and dislikes of a man she’d never met. Grandma had been convinced that Grandpa adored Mina. Mina was such a good girl. She got such good grades. Grandpa was so proud. Not would be. Was. The question was not in doubt. Every Qingming, her grandmother made all his favorite foods: pork dumplings and burgers and Canadian bacon and sugared doughnuts and fresh rice. Mina had been prepared to tell Phoebe all this. But Phoebe did not seem interested.

  At home, Benson did a clumsy jig. He included Mina in his joy. Her return too was worthy of celebration.

  Mina handed Phoebe the gift. The tape at one end had come unstuck and waved forlornly. Phoebe slid the out the bow tie.

  “It’s for Benson. I saw them online and I just thought he’d look really cute.”

  “Mina. Um. I don’t really believe in clothes for dogs.” She turned it over in her hand as if she were being forced to inspect a dead frog.

  “It’s just a collar. A collar with a bow. Look.” And Mina bent down, patting her knees. It took her a minute to fasten the bow because Benson kept trying to lick her hands as she worked. “There we go.”

  “Okay. He’s a bit cute. But can we sleep? I’m exhausted.”

  It was very dark and her body was soft and naked in the bed. Under the covers the chill eased away. Phoebe said it so quietly, “I got my decree absolute today.”

  “Decree absolute?”

  “The thing that says your divorce is 100 percent final.”

  Then she rolled over, and no matter what Mina asked, Phoebe could not be shifted back around.

  His father was taking a nap so Oscar sat alone at the desk with the binder and his laptop. The plan for the afternoon was to put all these names and numbers into a spreadsheet. He’d put in region, speciality and his father’s advice. Digitized, it would all be in one place, and safe in the cloud where fire and flood could not reach.