Rob’s girlfriend, Anna, caught my eye and stood. “I’ll keep him company, Kim,” she said, and the two women shared a look.
“All right,” Kim acquiesced, “but don’t forget that it was your call, Brian. And no free pass next time, either.”
MOST OF THE CUTLERY AND PLATES fit into Kim’s dishwasher, and Anna and I took care of the pots, pans and serving dishes in no time. “I could see where your mind was going,” she said. “Clean-up is a good way to get away from the madness for a while.”
I nodded, elbow deep in the sudsy water. “They are a good bunch of people,” I said. “But it was getting overwhelming again.”
“Yup,” Anna said. “After three years I’m a lot better than I was, but I still need my time out. Babysitting helps, but this is even better.” She dried a large rectangular dish and found a spot for it on the sideboard. “So this must have been double weird for you,” she said. “I mean, these folks don’t actually belong to me. But you’re meeting a huge number of your own family here. Must be so strange.”
“It is,” I said. “I wanted this for so long ... meeting my parents, anyway. I somehow never even imagined brothers and sisters. And connecting with Kim has really meant a lot to me, but ...” I trailed off.
“But what?”
“But she’s ... they are all just people. Just folks. I don’t know what I was expecting — monsters, Martians, superstars? But they feel both familiar and alien in that way that my childhood friends’ families felt when I went over there for any length of time. Like it was just like being at home, only somehow different enough to be utterly baffling.”
She laughed. “All families are unique and all families are the same,” she said. “Just like the people in them.”
Before we could continue this conversation, we heard the front door open. A soft female voice called out, “Hello?” and Anna answered back. Soon a blonde head poked through the kitchen door.
“Hi,” she said. She was a little younger than me, dressed in a long, full brown skirt and some kind of flowy blouse that you might see on a buxom tavern maid at a Renaissance Faire. I thought I could even see flowers poking out of her hair.
“Hiya,” Anna said and leaned over for a quick hug and kiss. “This is Brian Guillemot,” she said, turning to me.
“They got you working already?” the new woman asked, laughing.
“I volunteered,” I said. I went through a process of elimination on my mental list of attendees. “You must be Wolf’s daughter, Sandra.”
She and Anna shared a glance; then she frowned almost comically. “No one bothered ...” the putative Sandra said, then stopped. “No.” She turned to me. “I’m Terry. Terry Frost. Chuck’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, uttering the classic Canadian statement required in any awkward or uncomfortable situation, then recovering. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thanks,” she said me, then turned to Anna. “Those jerks.”
“I don’t think it was on purpose,” Anna said. “I never thought to mention it, either. I guess I just assumed someone said ‘she’ at some point.”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. “All anyone said about you was that you were a librarian and the best thing that Chuck ever brought into the house.”
“Well, isn’t he a charmer,” Terry said to Anna, then turned to head toward the back door. “This family gets better with every new addition, don’t you think?” And with that, she walked out to the yard.
THE SUMMER SUN WAS STILL POKING OVER THE HORIZON, but the kids had all been packed off to bed and a fire was roaring in the brick-lined pit. I wasn’t much of a nighthawk and could feel my body starting to shut down. Still, I wasn’t ready to crawl off to my rented tent just yet. Thankfully, I’d had the presence of mind earlier to wrestle it from the trunk of the Civic and find a spot in the yard to put it up. Jeannette had seen me struggling and came over to help.
“Is this even your tent?” she asked skeptically as I was leafing through the dog-eared instruction pamphlet and staring at the various items that came out of the package.
I shook my head. “Rented,” I said. “I’m not a big camper, you know?”
She nodded and picked up the bits and pieces that had fallen to the ground. “Yeah,” she said. “They had me pitching my own tent by the time I was seven. I can do it in the dark now.”
“I appreciate the help,” I said as I watched her expertly set up the small portable shelter.
“No problem,” she said, hammering the stakes into the ground with a stick. “So, I don’t want to be rude or anything...” Her voice faded off.
“Ask your questions,” I said. “I’m surprised that no one wants to talk about my situation.”
“Everyone’s curious,” she said. “They’re just too polite.” She grinned at me. “It won’t last.”
I laughed. “So what do you want to know?”
“What was it like?” she asked. “Being adopted?”
“Huh,” I said. “That’s hard to answer. I mean, what’s it like not being adopted? It’s just the way things were. I mean, it had some strange advantages and disadvantages, but everything in life is a tradeoff.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “when I found out how babies were made, I never had to imagine my parents actually doing that.” We both laughed. “And when they did something totally embarrassing, I had the luxury of knowing that we didn’t share any genetic material, so I had a chance not to turn out crazy like them. Stuff like that.”
“And they really wanted you,” she said, looking away.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “They did.”
We were quiet for a moment. Then Jeannette asked, “So, was there this big there’s no Santa Claus kind of drama when you found out?”
“No,” I laughed. “I don’t know when they told me; it must have been when I was little. It feels like I’ve always known. But they were really weird that way.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“They never did the whole Santa Claus, Easter Bunny thing,” I said. “They were into honesty with me. It was almost like they didn’t treat me like a kid, or at least they didn’t treat me like I was dumb. It was cool, in a way, but kind of awkward, too.”
“Being the only kid who knows the truth about Santa could be tricky,” she said.
“That was only the half of it,” I said, thinking back. I sat down on a tree stump. “Want to hear a funny story?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, so my dad’s a nurse. In our house we always used the proper terms for body parts and illnesses and whatnot. I must have been the only eight-year-old who tried to get out of school by complaining of gastrointestinal distress.” She laughed. “Anyway, there was this one time in third grade. My friend Blair was kind of a brat, and at recess this one day he’s bragging to all the other boys that he showed Julie Hopkins his dinkus. Everyone is really impressed, of course. I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but I don’t want to be left out of something cool. So what do I do?”
She shrugged, leaning in for the punchline. “I ask him if I can see it, too.” She burst out laughing.
“You’re a funny guy, Gumbo,” she said. “And not just funny ha-ha, either.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
“You’ll fit in here just fine.”
AS WE SAT BY THE FIRE, the night drawing in upon us, the novelty of my arrival in the family seemed to have worn off. Everyone was talking about the ancient and well-worn topics that fill family get-togethers without going out of their way to include me, and that felt more normal than the endless explanations and translations earlier had been. I could feel myself getting more and more tired, but it was nice just to be comfortably ignored in the group, so I stayed longer than I might have.
They’d explained that in the morning, the “kids” — my generation — usually had a big breakfast together, while the “grown-ups” — Ki
m, Wolf and Barbara — took care of the little ones. I took the explanation as an invitation and as I stood to pick my way to my tent, I tapped Rob on the shoulder.
“I’m in the little blue tent over by the big tree,” I said. “Don’t let me miss breakfast, okay?”
“No problem, buddy,” he said. “I’ll get you up in time.”
I found my way to the house and used the bathroom, then fought with the complicated opening to the tent for a while before I finally breached its defences. I crawled into the tiny space and got into the sleeping bag. I had only enough time to think that I could get used to these people before I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
13
THE BIRD WHISPERER
THE MORNING CAME QUICKER than seemed at all reasonable. I was awoken by Rob’s voice loud outside the tent. “Hey, Gumbo,” he called. “Get up if you wanna eat.”
I had a moment of panic as I found myself tangled in the unfamiliar sleeping bag. Once I located the zipper and extricated myself from the down-and-nylon coffin, I felt my heart rate decrease and my sense of alertness start to grow.
“You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” the real Sandra said as I made my way into the kitchen. She’d arrived while we were at the fire pit, and Rob had introduced us.
“Thanks,” I said and accepted the large mug gratefully. She pointed me toward the fixings, and I doctored the coffee quickly before taking a sip. “Just what I needed,” I said and sat at the large round table that dominated the kitchen.
Chuck was mixing up a huge bowl of pancake batter while Rob and Jeannette tag-teamed a griddle of eggs, bacon and dollar hotcakes. Pretty soon the table was loaded with an assortment of morning-after breakfast foods, and the eighteen-to-thirty-five-year-olds were gathered around it, putting short work to the lot.
After we’d all had a round of protein, carbs and grease, Terry asked me, “So, how was your crash course into this crazy clan?”
“Fantastic,” I said with only a small amount more enthusiasm than I really felt. “You guys have been great. I never expected to be so welcomed. It’s kind of amazing.”
“Well,” Rob said, “it’s something we all wondered about, too. We all knew about you — Mom never kept it a secret that she’d given up a baby for adoption.”
“It’s the cornerstone of her birds and bees talk,” Jeannette said. “Mom’s never been shy about using her choices as examples for the rest of us.”
“So you’ve known about me all your lives,” I said, feeling the heat of embarrassment starting up. “Wow. That’s kind of ... I don’t know.”
“We aren’t exactly the Cleavers,” Rob said. “We aren’t even the Simpsons. An extra kid out there we’d never met was hardly the strangest thing we all had to deal with growing up.”
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “Don’t forget we all have different dads and there were times when that was mighty damned complicated.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “So, what are they like?”
“Our dads?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’ve all met your dads, right?” I hoped I hadn’t started a conversation no one wanted to have with a stranger.
“Oh, yeah,” Rob said, grimacing. “They’ve all been around at one time or another.”
“My dad lives in Vancouver,” Chuck said. “After they split up, I used to part-time it between here and there. I went to school here and summered over there — it was kind of backwards, but Van in the summer can be a blast. My dad’s okay. He and Mom just were too young, probably. It’s not exactly like me coming along was part of the plan, either.”
“I see my dad all the time,” Jeannette said. “He lived here with us when I was a kid. Now he’s got a place in Victoria.”
“Chris is a good guy,” Rob said.
“He’s okay,” Jeannette said with somewhat less enthusiasm.
“How about you?” I asked Rob, after he didn’t jump in at the natural point.
“My dad’s an asshole,” he said simply. “I haven’t seen him since I was fifteen years old, and as far as I’m concerned that’s just fine.” He didn’t seem to want to say any more and I didn’t press it. No one else disputed his statement either, so I guessed there was something to his assessment.
“So,” I began after a pause, “did Kim ever mention anything about my father?”
Before anyone could answer, I heard a scream from deep in the house. “What the hell?” I said, dropping the bit of toast I was still toying with, and half standing. “Who is that? Is everything okay?”
“Did no one give him the tour?” Terry asked the rest of the table. They all looked at each other with blank looks and shrugs. “You people are terrible,” she said with mock exasperation. She stood and said, “Fine, I’ll do it. Come on, Gumbo. Let’s go meet the birds.”
THERE HAD TO BE A DOZEN OR MORE OF THEM. Everything from a little budgie in a cute little gold cage to a giant green-and-red squawker sitting on a branch in some kind of giant parrot house. “It’s an aviary,” Terry said. “Sort of the bird equivalent of an aquarium.”
The windows had been darkened when we walked into the room, but Terry opened the blinds and that somehow turned on the audio of the occupants. Shrieks, squawks and chatter filled the room, almost to deafening proportions. It was unlike anything I’d ever encountered.
Terry took me on a brief round of introductions. “This is Peter Piper,” she said, pointing to a big grey bird in its own cage. “He’s kind of scared of strangers.” I was waggling my fingers on the bars of the cage when in a grey streak the bird flew at me, beak and claws flashing. I jumped back and Terry said, “I’d keep my fingers away if I were you.”
The bird seemed to scowl at me as I passed by, and I swore it growled at our closest point of approach. “This is Suzie. Hiya, Suzie,” Terry cooed at the cute little pink-and-yellow songbird. “She’s a pretty one, aren’t you, Suzie Q?” The bird opened its beak and a thin, reedy choke came out. Terry turned to me and said, “She’s the grand dame of the group. Kim’s had Suzie and another one, Roscoe, since she was eighteen. Parrots live forever. The rest of them are pet store rejects.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yup,” Terry said. We continued around the room, meeting birds with some defect or another that kept them from being saleable. Most of the parrots were mean or crazy, and the other birds were all healthy but in some way not desirable as pets. “Squawk,” the giant red-and-green parrot in its own aviary said to me as we approached.
“This is Napoleon,” Terry said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“He’s the emperor here, is he?” I asked.
“Not Napoleon as in Bonaparte,” she said. “More like Dynamite.”
“Squawk,” Napoleon said. “Idiot. Idiot. Squawk.”
I laughed. “I’m amazed they couldn’t sell him,” I said. “I can see lots of people finding that hilarious.”
Terry nodded. “Yeah, the talking is fine,” she said. “It’s the biting and scratching that’s the problem. He’s a great chatter and singer, but nasty as all hell. Ole Peter back there is a pussycat by comparison. You really don’t want to get anywhere near Napoleon; Kim’s the only one who can get into his cage. He’ll scratch your eyes out, given a chance.”
“Good to know,” I said, looking at Napoleon out of the corner of my eye. We left the bird room and the chorus of noise quieted but didn’t stop as we closed the door.
BACK IN THE KITCHEN, CHUCK EXPLAINED. “The store has contracts with a bunch of bird breeders and they get regular shipments in. The birds are often too young to have fully developed by the time they arrive at the store, so some bad behaviours just don’t manifest until it’s too late. They could send the bad birds back — it’s what most stores do — but the birds would probably be destroyed. Mom isn’t about to allow that, so we end up with all the bad birds here.”
“She’s got a knack for them,” Rob said. “When I was a kid, Mom spent hours training me with them. I’
m okay with the birds, but nothing like her. I tried to feed Napoleon once and nearly lost my hand. Mom seems to never have a problem. It’s a gift, though I sometimes wonder how useful being a bird whisperer really is nowadays.”
“How many birds are there?” I asked.
“Sixteen?” Jeannette said. “Maybe more.”
“And there are a pair of dogs,” Chuck added, “a bunch of cats and —” she turned to Jeannette “— is the hedgehog still here?” Jeannette nodded. Chuck turned back to me. “All of them at the store are a bunch of sucks for animals, but Mom’s the biggest softie of the lot. We’ve had at least one of everything they sell over the years — spiders, snakes, iguanas, ferrets, you name it.”
“But more birds than anything,” Jeannette said. “Mom loves her birds.” More coffee was poured around the table and we sat in companionable silence for a moment. That was when I remembered what we’d been talking about before the birds had interrupted us.
“So,” I began again, not knowing how to get back to the topic I desperately wanted to discuss without seeming to be, well, desperate. “You’d all been telling me about your dads before. Did Kim, um, ever say anything about mine?” I hid in my coffee cup, but still noticed the awkward looks going around the table.
Finally Jeannette said, “She won’t talk about it. It’s, like, the only off-limit topic with her.”
I frowned. “So she’s never said anything to any of you?”
“Only that it’s not something she wants to talk about,” Chuck said. “At least not with us.”
“Did you ask her?” Rob asked.
I nodded. “She doesn’t want to talk about it,” I confirmed. The conversation turned to the plans for Chuck and Terry’s wedding, and I started cleaning up the dishes. I was only half listening, still focussed on my own unanswered questions, when I thought I heard my name.
I started paying more attention to the talk at the table and found that Terry was discussing the seating arrangements for the reception with Sandra, who apparently worked for a catering company. Sandra said, “So we’ll put Brian with me and Michael’s family. There’s room for one or two more at that table, so if he brings a date, that’ll be no problem.”
The Home for Wayward Parrots Page 7