Same Place, Same Things

by Tim Gautreaux

  “This here’s Amelia,” Mr. Lejeune said. “That’s what Alvin named her.” He looked at his nephew. The grandfather saw that the boy was trembling in spite of his smile. His feet were pointed inward, and his left hand was shriveled and pink.

  “How you doing, bud?” the grandfather asked, patting his head.

  “All right,” the boy said. “We goin’ to the park at four o’clock and turn Amelia loose.”

  Lenny forced a smile. “You and your uncle been having a good time training old Amelia, huh?”

  The boy looked over to where his uncle had gone to sit on the front steps. He was rubbing his knees. “Yeah. It’s been great. The first day, we got caught out in a thunderstorm and I got a chest cold, but the medicine made me feel better.”

  “You had to go to the doctor?” Annie asked, touching his neck.

  “Him, too,” the boy volunteered in a reedy voice. “Shots in the legs.” He looked up at Lenny. “It’ll be worth it when Amelia comes back from across town.”

  “Why’s it so important?” Lenny asked.

  The boy shrugged. “It’s just great that this bird way up in the sky knows which house I live in.”

  “Hey,” Mr. Lejeune called. “You want me to put on some water?”

  “No thanks,” the grandfather said. “We had coffee already.”

  The old man struggled to his feet, untying the pads from his knees. “At least come in the backyard and look at the cage.” He shook out his pants and tugged the boy toward the rear of the house to a close-clipped yard with an orange tree in the middle. Against the rear of the house was a long-legged cage shiny with new galvanized hardware cloth.

  “That took a lot of work to build, I bet,” the grandfather said to Lenny, who shrugged and said that he’d told him how to do it. The corners of the cage were finished like furniture, mortised and tenoned. In the center was a ramp leading up to a swinging door. The pigeon squirted out of the old man’s hand and flew into the cage, crazy for the steel-mesh freedom.

  “We’ll let her rest up for the big flight,” Mr. Lejeune said.

  Lenny glanced over at Annie’s face. She looked long at the pigeon, then over at where the boy slumped against the orange tree. “You know, if you decide you ain’t happy with the bird, you can have your money back.”

  Mr. Lejeune looked at him quickly. “No way. She’s trained now. I bet she could find this house from the North Pole.”

  Lenny smiled. “I knew it. Another satisfied customer.”

  The grandfather told Mr. Lejeune how much he liked the cage.

  “Aw, this ain’t nothin’,” he said. “Before my back give out, I was working for Delta Desk and Chair, thirty-six years in the bookcase division. Man, you could pass your hand over my seams and it felt like glass if you closed your eyes.” He waved a flattened palm over the cage as if he was working a spell.

  The grandfather touched Annie’s shoulder and they said their good-byes. On the walk home, she was silent. When they got to his grandfather’s, she stopped, rattled her little toolbox, and did not look at either of them. Finally, she looked back down the street and asked, “Lenny, what’s gonna happen if that bird doesn’t come back to the kid?”

  He shook his head. “If she flies for the river and spots them grain elevators, she’ll never see Broussard Street again, that’s for sure.”

  “Two weeks ago you knew he was buying Amelia as a pet for a kid.”

  Lenny turned his palms out. “Am I responsible for everything those birds do until they die?”

  The grandfather rolled his eyes at the girl. She wasn’t stupid, but when she looked at Lenny, there was too much hope in her eyes.

  Annie clenched and unclenched her big pale hands. “If I was a bad sort, I’d hit you with a crescent wrench.”

  Lenny blinked twice, perhaps trying to figure what she wanted to hear. The grandfather knew that she paid for their dates when the boy was out of work. She bought his cigarettes and concert tickets and let him hang around her house when something good was on cable. Often she looked at him the way she studied whatever gadget was whirling in her lathe, maybe wondering if he would come out all right.

  Lenny lit up a cigarette and let the smoke come out as he talked. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to think of something to tell the kid if the bird don’t come back.”

  She considered this for a moment, then leaned over and kissed him quickly on the side of his mouth. As he watched her stride down the sidewalk, the grandfather listened to the Williams sockets rattling in her toolbox, and he watched Lenny wipe off the hot wetness of her lips.

  * * *

  That night, a half hour after dark, Annie, Lenny, and his grandfather were watching a John Wayne movie in the den when there was a knock at the rear screen door. It was Mr. Lejeune, and he was worried about Amelia.

  “I turnt her loose about four-thirty and she ain’t come back yet.” The old man combed his hair with his fingers and peered around Lenny to where Annie sat in a lounger. “You got any hints?”

  Lenny looked at a shoe. “Look, why don’t you let me give your money back.”

  “Naw.” He shook his head. “That ain’t the point. The boy’s gonna get a lift from seeing the bird come back.” Alvin’s pale face tilted out from behind his uncle’s waist.

  Annie, who was wearing shorts, peeled herself off the plastic couch, and the grandfather put a spotted hand over his eyes. Lenny turned a serious face toward Mr. Lejeune.

  “Sometimes those birds get in fights with other birds. Sometimes they get hurt and don’t make it back. What can I tell you? You want your money?” He put a hand in his pocket but left it there.

  The old man sidestepped out onto the porch. “Me and Alvin will just go and wait. If that bird’d just come back once, it’d be worth all the crawling around, you see?” He held the boy’s twisted hand and went down ahead of him one step at a time. Annie moved into the kitchen and broke a glass in the sink. The grandfather tried not to listen to what happened next.

  Lenny went into the kitchen to see what had caused the noise, and met a rattle of accusations from Annie.

  Then Lenny began to shout. “Why are you bitching at me like this?”

  “Because you gyped that old man and the crippled kid. I’ve never seen you do nothing like that.”

  “Well, you better get used to it.”

  “Get used to what?” She used a big contrary voice better than most women, the grandfather thought.

  “Get used to doing things the way I like.”

  “What, like stealing from old people and kids? Acting like a freakin’ slug? Now I know why your parents left your ass in the street.”

  Lenny’s voice came through the kitchen door thready and high-pitched. “Hey, nobody left me. They’re on vacation, you cow.”

  “People on vacation don’t sell their houses, leave the time zone, and never write or call. They left because they found out what it took me a long time to just now realize.”

  “What’s that?”

  And here a sob came into her voice and the grandfather put his head down.

  “That there’s a big piece of you missing that’ll never turn up.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that,” Lenny snarled, “and I’ll show you why.” The popping noise of a slap came from the kitchen and the grandfather thought, Oh no, and struggled to rise from the sofa, but before he could stand and steady himself, a sound like a piano tipping over shook the entire house, and Lenny cried out in deep pain.

  * * *

  After the grandfather prepared an ice pack, he went to bed that night but couldn’t sleep. He thought of the handprint on Annie’s face and the formal numbness of the walk back to her house as he escorted her home. Now, he imagined Mr. Lejeune checking Amelia’s cage into the night, his nephew asking him questions in a resigned voice. He even formed a picture of the pigeon hunkered down on a roof vent above the St. Mary Feed Company elevator, trying with its little bird brain to remember where Broussard Street was. About one o’clo
ck he smacked himself on the forehead with an open palm, put on his clothes, and went down to the old carport with a flashlight. In the eaves he saw a number of round heads pop into his light’s beam, and when he checked the section from which Lenny had plucked Amelia, he thought he saw her. Turning off the light for a moment, he reached into the straw and pulled out a bird that barely struggled. Its claws were painted red, and the grandfather eased down into a wheelbarrow to think, holding the bird in both hands, where it pecked him resignedly. He debated whether he should just let the animal go and forget the Lejeunes, but then he imagined how the boy would have to face the empty cage. It would be like an abandoned house, and every day the boy would look at it and wonder why Amelia had forgotten where he lived. He held the bird and thought of Lenny’s parents probably parked in a Winnebago in some canyon in Utah, flown off that far to escape him, his mooching and his music. Why had they really left him? The old man shook his head.

  * * *

  At two-fifteen the grandfather walked down the side of Mr. Lejeune’s house, staying close to the wall and out of the glow of the streetlight. When he turned the corner into the backyard, he was in total darkness and had to feel for the cage, and then for its little swinging gate. His heart jumped as he felt a feathery escape from his palms, and the bird squirted into the enclosure. At that instant, a backyard flood-light came on and the rear door rattled open, showing Mr. Lejeune standing in a pair of mustard-colored pajama bottoms and a sleeveless undershirt.

  “Hey, whatcha doing?” He came down into the yard, moving stiffly.

  The grandfather couldn’t think of a lie to save his soul, just stood there looking between the cage and the back door. “I wanted to see about the bird,” he said at last.

  The other man walked up and looked into the cage. “What? How’d you get a hold of the dumb cluck? I thought she’d be in Texas by now.” He reached back and scratched a hip.

  The grandfather’s mouth slowly fell open. “You knew.”

  “Yeah,” Mr. Lejeune growled. “I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid. And no offense, Mr. Fontenot, but that grandson of yours got used-car salesman writ all over him.”

  “Why’d you come by the house asking about the bird if you knew it’d never come back?”

  “That was for Alvin, you know? I wanted him to think I was worried.” Mr. Lejeune grabbed the grandfather by the elbow and led him into his kitchen, where the two men sat down at a little porcelain-topped table. The old man opened the refrigerator and retrieved two frosty cans of Schlitz. “It’s like this,” Mr. Lejeune said, wincing against the spray from the pull tabs, “Little Alvin’s never had a daddy and his momma’s a crackhead that run off with some biker to Alaska.” He pushed a can to the grandfather, who picked it up and drew hard, for he was sweating. Mr. Lejeune spoke low and leaned close. “Little Alvin’s still in fairy-tale land, you know. Thinks his momma is coming back when school takes up in the fall. But he’s got to toughen up and face facts. That’s why I bought that roof rat from your grandson.” He sat back and began rubbing his knees. “He’ll be disappointed about the little thing, that bird, and maybe it’ll teach him to deal with the big thing. That boy’s got to live a long time, you know what I mean, Mr. Fontenot?”

  The grandfather put his cap on the table. “Ain’t that kind of mean, though?”

  “Hey. We’ll watch the sky for a couple days and I’ll let him see how I take it. We’ll be disappointed together.” Mr. Lejeune looked down at his purple feet. “He’s crippled, but he’s strong and he’s smart.”

  The grandfather lifted his beer and drank until his eyes stung. He remembered Lenny, asleep in the front bedroom with a big knot on the back of his head and a black eye. He listened to Mr. Lejeune until he was drowsy. “I got to get back home,” he said, standing up and moving toward the door. “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Hey. Don’t worry about nothing. Just do me a favor and put that bird back in its nest.” They went out and Mr. Lejeune reached into the cage and retrieved Amelia, dropping her into a heavy grocery bag.

  “You sure you doing the right thing, now?” the grandfather asked. “You got time to change your mind.” He helped fold the top of the bag shut. “You could be kind.” He imagined what the boy’s face would look like if he could see that the bird had returned to the cage.

  Mr. Lejeune slowly handed him the bag. For a moment they held it together and listened. Inside, the bird walked the crackling bottom back and forth on its painted toes, looking for home.

  License to Steal

  Curtis Lado rolled out of bed slowly, pulled on his wrinkled khakis, and walked into the kitchen, yawning and scratching the back of his head with both hands. He sat down at his chrome-legged dinette table and noticed that no pots murmured on the stove and no coffee smell hung in the air. He stared down at the note left on the worn Formica. “I had enough,” the note said. It was his wife’s handwriting. He got up and shoved open the rusted-out screen door, then walked into the backyard to look for her 1969 Torino, but it was gone. He stared at the empty gravel drive and said to himself, “What the hell?”

  Curtis put on his brown vinyl bedroom slippers and walked down to the corner to use the pay phone outside the Mudbug Café to call his son, Nookey, who worked at a sausage plant in Ponchatoula.

  “What you want?” Nookey yelled over the whir of a dozen grinders. “I got a pig to do here about the size of a Oldsmobile.”

  “Baby, Momma took off and I don’t know where she’s gone. Did she say anything to you?”

  “Naw, nothing she ain’t been saying since I was born. Said she was tired of living in Louisiana with somebody didn’t bring home no money. Said she wanted to move to the United States.”

  “What the hell’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know,” Nookey whined. “And I don’t know where she run off to. She did say something about not paying the light bill for two months because she needed the money for a trip. Hey, this pig had to be shot with a deer rifle to bring him down. I got to get busy.”

  “Just tell me where your brother is and I’ll let you go.”

  “Buzzy’s in jail.”

  “Which one?”

  “Hammond.”

  “Okay. Maybe he’ll know something.” Curtis hung up and reached into his pocket for coins. He began dialing the jailhouse number, which he knew by heart. He got Buzzy on the phone, but his addict son didn’t know what month it was, much less where his mother had driven off to that morning.

  “Maybe she went to Biloxi,” Buzzy suggested in his slow, faraway voice. “It’s nice and sandy this time of year.”

  “Son, why would she leave me? Answer me that? I got to know where she is.”

  “Maybe she just went to the flea market.”

  “No, baby. She left me a letter and everything.” His voice nearly cracked. The importance of what had happened was beginning to sink in. “I can’t understand it, Buzz. She got a refrigerator that works, she got a nice brick-paper house, and she got us.” But Buzzy, who hadn’t seen his mother since he had been arrested for selling marijuana the week before, couldn’t give a clue as to where she had gone. Curtis checked the coin-return slot and walked home.

  He had a little folding money in his pocket from his wife’s last check, but that was it. Though he had not held steady work since 1978, he knew he had to find a job fast. Without the money Inez had brought in from her job as a cashier, the power company would take his meter and Friendly Willy finance would show up to get the TV. His 1971 Dodge pickup was also not paid for. Though Curtis was convinced he had a weak heart and that work gave him a nervousness in his chest parts, he had to eat. So, in the tiny bathroom he scraped off his silver whiskers and added a shot of V05 to his swept-back iron-gray mane. He pulled his best polyester cowboy shirt over his rounded shoulders and admired the pearly buttons in the mirror. On his way out the door, he lit up a Lucky Strike.

  He drove up Highway 51 to Amite, where he saw a sign stating that a foundry was hiring. The reception
ist in the main office said he would have to come back in an hour because the person who did the hiring was out, so Curtis drove back down 51 to get something to eat. At the Big Sicilian Lounge, a brown cinder-block structure huddled under a shot-up Dixie beer sign, he slid out from his truck. Inside, he hunched over the plywood bar and drank three beers quickly, as though he had come in from a two-day trip across a desert. “Give me a pickled egg,” he said to Raynelle, the barmaid, a large redheaded woman with no eyebrows. “I need something good to eat.”

  “Why don’t you try a pig lip,” she said, hoisting onto the counter a gallon jar labeled with large black letters: FIFTY CENTS A LIP. He inspected shapeless parts floating coldly under a blond gluey film.

  “Fish me out one,” he told her. He finished off his meal on a paper towel, tossed down his last beer, and headed back to the foundry.

  The personnel director at Deep South Metal Casting was a pretty thirty-year-old blonde who wore makeup and perfume like a cosmetics saleslady. Her name tag read TAMMY MICHELLE. She shook an application form at him, and he took it gravely, spending over an hour filling its tiny voids. Later, she read it in one minute flat. She put it down on her desk and looked at Curtis, who was seated across from her in a plastic chair. “Mr. Lado, I see you left school in the eighth grade.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I went further than anybody in my family. I always told my own boys how important it was to get a good education. My oldest is educated more’n anybody I know.”

  Tammy Michelle gave him a faint smile. “You mean he has something like a B.A. or M.A.?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He got a GED.”

  The personnel director pursed her glossy lips and looked down at the smudged form on her desk. “I see that your longest employment was at a chicken plant for three years. Is that right?”