Crimes of the Sarahs

by Kristen Tracy

  When I let it go, I’m surprised to feel sobs escaping from somewhere deep inside of me. Feelings that I’ve been holding down for a long time are finally finding their way out. I try to calm myself, to take a series of breaths. I choke, sputter, gasp. All I can think about is what Sarah A said. Is that why I’m crying? Do I think she’s right about why I stole that stupid jar? Yes. I do. And knowing this—believing this—makes me, makes everything, feel so much worse.

  Chapter 17

  The inquisition is two weeks behind me, and to cheer myself up I’ve started sleeping with Roman Karbowski. Not the person. But the pillow. Since Sarah A left him behind, curling up with Roman allows me to feel less alone.

  I haven’t spoken to the Sarahs. Somewhere around day four, I grew numb to the pain. Actually, I grew numb to everything. I don’t know if this is what Sarah A had in mind when she told me to just stop feeling things, but it works much better than the alternative, which is to feel awful about myself all the time.

  In addition to my newly implemented curfew, I was forced to give up my volunteer work at the shelter. It was explained to me that due to my impulsiveness concerning animal equality and liberation, I would be a liability. But my life has bloomed with new kinds of activity. I’ve become essential to my parents’ lives. They even take me to work with them. Like I’m a lunch box.

  When school starts in three weeks, I imagine I’m either miraculously going to reattach myself to the Sarahs or finally strike out and make new friends. Except, I’m not really sure how to do that. I have no idea what I’ll do. When I picture myself at school, Sarahless, I’m wending through the hallways, burdened by my heavy backpack, all alone.

  Sometimes I hope that the school year kicks off with a major Sarah reconciliation. They’ll all race to my locker to tell me how much they missed me. It shouldn’t matter. I know it shouldn’t. But I want my absence to have made them ache. For them to have felt incomplete. I want to hear them say that they were unable to launch full bore into the guy phase without me.

  My mother can sense that there’s more to the “donation jar” story. So does my father. I’m certain they suspect other crimes. And even though they don’t voice this concern, it’s clear they each think that I’m protecting the other Sarahs. Thankfully, in the days that followed, neither pushed me toward additional confessions. I admire this about them. They’re prepared to let me keep some secrets.

  My mother and I are driving to Dr. Pewter’s condominium.

  “Stabilizing the master bedroom will be a feat,” she says. She pulls to a stop in front an old, two-story brown condominium. A college professor lives in this dump? I unbuckle my seat belt. For the first time, I realize that my mother’s car smells oddly medicinal, like fruit and ointment.

  “Your car smells like grapefruit and something else. Something bitter,” I say.

  “When cleaning defiled pigpens, bitter grapefruit is one of the more pleasant fragrances to encounter.”

  Dr. Pewter’s master bedroom in one of the last rooms my mother has left to clean in this Beowulf-obsessed professor’s cluttered life. It’s my first time coming to her condo. For the past two weeks, we’ve been working on cleaning her office at Western Michigan University. It’s on the ninth floor of Sprau Tower and overlooks a fountain that strongly resembles the YMCA’s swimming pool. Except the fountain contains several quack-happy ducks.

  Dr. Pewter’s office wasn’t the receptacle of filth that I’d been expecting. Sure, there were towers of graded essays stacked in leaning piles across her desk. (I skimmed quite a few of them. The majority had earned C’s and were dripping with BS.) And she had a ton of Bible-thick books about Old English prosody and Beowulf. But I was sort of expecting that. Minus the dust, her work space appeared reasonably sanitary. I wouldn’t have wanted to eat a meal or have any surgical procedures done in there or anything. But it wasn’t on the verge of being condemned.

  “You make it sound like her place is something out of a horror film,” I say.

  My mother hasn’t released her grip on the steering wheel.

  “Horror is a good word.” My mother frowns, creating a deep crease next to her left eye along her nose. She finally turns off her car and pulls the keys out of the ignition. “She has an abominable home life.”

  “Can you sum it up in one word?” I ask.

  My mother slowly turns to face me.

  “Parrots,” she says. She drops the keys in her purse and re-grips the steering wheel.

  “Parrots?”

  “Parrots,” she repeats, nervously wringing the steering wheel with both hands.

  “You mean she’s let parrots overtake her house?” I ask.

  My mother shakes her head no.

  “Not the house. Just the master bedroom.”

  She reaches into the backseat and pulls out two pairs of thick leather work gloves.

  “They bite,” she says.

  “I know, we’ve had a couple at the shelter,” I say. “The parrot is one of only two animals that can see behind itself without turning its head. The other is the rabbit.”

  “Good. You’ll be an asset. I had no idea you had parrot experience. I’ve been reading up on parrots in preparation for today. They have a flock mentality, you know.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” I ask.

  “Never let them gain the upper hand on you, Sarah. Make sure the parrots never go higher than your chest. You need to remain dominant,” she says.

  “You make it sound like they’re going to kill us.”

  “Birds are dreadfully smart and devious. I wouldn’t put anything past a parrot.”

  Wow, I knew my mother wasn’t an animal lover, but I had no idea her distrust for wildlife had reached such a paranoid level.

  “Mom, they’re not going to kill us,” I say.

  She bites her lower lip and gets out of the car. I see her pull out a gun from beneath her seat and place it in her cleaning bucket.

  “Mother! You can’t carry a weapon in your car. Let alone your client’s house.”

  “It’s just a squirt gun,” she says.

  “What good will that do?” I ask.

  “I thought you said you’ve worked with parrots.”

  “I have, but we never utilized water weaponry at the shelter.”

  “When birds get wet, they’ll generally stop whatever they’re doing in order to preen.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  She reaches underneath the seat again and pulls out another pistol.

  “That’s fake too, right?” I ask.

  “Yes, Sarah, it’s yours. Now let’s go clean.”

  “Won’t cleaning chemicals kill them?” I ask. “Birds are so sensitive about fumes. That’s why they get sent into mine shafts.”

  My mother shakes her head. She bends down to arrange some of her spray bottles.

  “I told you. I’ve been reading up on parrots. I’ve brought grapefruit seed–based cleansers. The birds will be fine.”

  “You can clean filth with a grapefruit?” I ask.

  “Grapefruit seeds contain an extremely potent compound that can kill staph, strep, E. coli, salmonella, candida, herpes, influenza, parasites, and fungi. You name it. Some say it can even clear up yeast infections.”

  “Are all those things in her condo?” I ask. “Should we wear rubber gloves underneath our leather ones? Do I need a mask? Am I going to get herpes? Or a yeast infection?” I ask.

  I’m struck by nostalgia. Hanging out with the Sarahs was so much more fun than this.

  “We’re not going to get herpes or yeast infections. And I don’t know what ills are lurking in her condo. I’m sure we’re properly suited to handle what we have to.”

  She straightens herself up and gathers her two plastic buckets that are brimming with supplies.

  “Do you need help?” I ask.

  She surrenders the smaller one and I find it to be much heavier than your average bucket. I follow my mother up Dr. Pewter’s cracked cement walkway. Grass a
nd weeds pop up through the fissures, widening the original cracks.

  “She should pull these,” I say.

  “We’ll be pulling them after the master bedroom,” she says.

  I almost object. How is lawn maintenance our job? My mother jiggles the key until it turns and we walk inside.

  “It’s ridiculous,” my mother says. “If you’re given the chance at a good life, you should seize it. Stay organized and productive. Match your socks. Fold your underwear. And don’t let your parrots run the show.”

  “Do you hate Dr. Pewter?” I ask.

  “I don’t hate anybody, Sarah. But people shouldn’t let their domiciles run amok.”

  My mother seems on the verge of tears, which strikes me as odd. My mother is never on the verge of tears. We walk down Dr. Pewter’s entrance hall and through her living room.

  “It looks and smells clean to me,” I say.

  “I toiled for weeks in here,” she says.

  I consider asking my mother why she likes organizing and cleaning in the first place. I always assumed it was her life’s love, but her attitude thus far isn’t bearing that out. She seems pushed to the limit by Dr. Pewter’s messy lifestyle. It’s like my mother is taking it personally, when she should be treating it like just another day on the job.

  We arrive at the master bedroom and it’s clear that there’s some sort of bird action going on behind the door. There’s muffled squawking.

  “Sarah, I want you to remember that when a parrot screams at you, it’s important not to yell back.”

  “Why? Will that scare it?” I ask.

  “No, because when you yell back at a parrot, you’re just giving it exactly what it wants.”

  My mother makes it sound like we’re going to go to war. It’s so easy not to think about the Sarahs at a moment like this, because so much other stuff is at stake. Wait a minute, by consciously not thinking about the Sarahs, I’m totally thinking about them. It’s crazy how that works.

  My mother opens the door. This is more than a master bedroom. It’s an aviary with a bed in the middle of it. There are ten tall perches set up around the room’s perimeter. They must be at least six feet tall.

  “They just crap anywhere?” I ask.

  “They’re animals,” my mother says. “Of course they do.”

  I count a total of six parrots. They all look like macaws. Three are blue. We had one like them at the shelter. They’re called hyacinth macaws and their color is so deep that they’re almost purple.

  “They’re pretty,” I say.

  My mother doesn’t agree.

  The other three parrots are scarlets. They’re mainly red, especially their chests, but they have bursts of bright blue and yellow on their wings.

  “They’re big,” I say.

  “We need to clean,” my mother says.

  I look around. Other than white bird droppings that litter the beige carpet, I don’t see much to clean.

  “Clean what?” I ask.

  Two of the hyacinth macaws flap their way to one of the slats of Dr. Pewter’s four-poster bed. They cock their heads and look at us using just one eye.

  “They’re creepy,” my mom says. “They’re evaluating us, deciding who’s superior, us or them.”

  “Maybe this isn’t the job for you,” I say. “Maybe Dr. Pewter should hire a parrot person.”

  “I can do this. I’m not going to be thwarted by birds.”

  She reaches into a bucket and pulls out a yellow sponge.

  “I’m going to wet this down,” she says, walking to the bathroom.

  One of the scarlet macaws, the largest, glides like a kite toward the perch nearest the bathroom door. I watch its feathered belly pass over me.

  “Sarah, hand me my gun,” she says.

  “Mom, it hasn’t done anything yet.”

  “It’s above chest level. You’re not supposed to let them get above chest level. The book was firm about that.”

  I pick up the squirt gun and hold it. It’s pure black and looks so much like a real gun. I turn it over in my hand.

  “Sarah,” my mother says.

  I look at the gun. It doesn’t feel right to water down a bird in its own home while it’s minding its own business.

  “Sarah Trestle, hand it to me.”

  “Sarah Trestle,” the macaw above my mother squawks. “Sarah Trestle.”

  My mother throws her arms over her head and runs to me. I look at the parrot. It doesn’t have to open its beak to talk. The words just come out.

  “It’s not doing anything. It’s parroting what you said because it’s a parrot and that’s what they do.”

  “Sarah Trestle,” it repeats. The words sound watery.

  It’s an odd feeling hearing a bird say your name.

  “I bet Dr. Pewter has taught them to say all sorts of things,” I say.

  “I guess,” my mom says.

  She’s taken the gun from the other bucket.

  “This is going to be a long day,” she says.

  I’m tempted to see what these birds can do. I wonder if they know Old English. I wonder if they can recite Beowulf.

  “Beowulf. Beowulf,” I say, trying to steer them into action.

  “Don’t encourage them, Sarah.”

  “Come on, Mom. This is so cool. It’s like parrot theater.”

  “What’s so cool about parrot theater?” she asks.

  “Beowulf. Beowulf,” I say.

  Two of the smaller hyacinths fly over me and join the scarlet macaw near the bathroom.

  “The Geats. The Geats,” one calls.

  “They’re doing it,” I say.

  “Shh,” my mother says. She looks interested.

  “Grendel’s in the beer-hall,” squawks a scarlet from across the room.

  “Deathbed. Deathbed,” bugles another red parrot. It drops its head down, and then lifts it back up, like it’s trying to play peekaboo.

  “Hello, Mother,” cries another in a dry voice. It’s hard to keep track of which bird is saying what.

  “Dragon was a foe. Dragon was a foe,” screeches another. Its voice is piercing.

  “Deathbed. Deathbed,” calls the bed-stationed parrot, its red head moving so fast now it’s almost a blur.

  “Good-bye,” blurts the scarlet near the bathroom.

  I watch a white turd drop from beneath its tail feathers and land in the bathroom’s entranceway. I’m relieved that it fell on the linoleum and not the carpet. It’ll be easier to clean.

  After the parrots stop talking, the room falls silent. It’s almost like the parrots have flown away.

  “And the body parts from the heart, from the soul, to seek glory,” I say.

  “What?” my mother asks.

  “That’s how the story of Beowulf ends. After he kills Grendel, Grendel’s mother, and the dragon, Beowulf dies. ‘And the body parts from the heart, from the soul, to seek glory.’ I mean, I don’t know if those are the exact words. But it’s the gist of it.” I let her think I’m a genius and don’t mention that I just read the lines a couple of days ago at Dr. Pewter’s office.

  “It sounds tragic,” my mother says.

  “It’s Beowulf. He’s the hero and he dies. These parrots are better than SparkNotes.” The Sarahs would love hearing about them, I think. Especially Sarah B.

  For no obvious reason, the parrots erupt in squawking.

  “It’s the flock mentality!” my mother says.

  They begin flying from perch to perch, circling above us. The sound their feathers make when they flap their wings hard reminds me of a flag at full mast cracking in the wind. It makes the hairs on the back on my neck stand up. I look at my mother. Her skin is extremely goose pimpled and she looks like she might start crying.

  “Can’t somebody else do this? You seem pretty freaked out,” I say.

  “I am. It’s your great-grandmother.”

  “What?” I ask. This makes no sense. It’s the parrots, not my great-grandmother. She’s been dead for years.


  “Her cats did the same thing to me. All nine of them. I can’t take animals en masse.”

  “What do you mean they did the same thing to you?”

  “Their animal presence overwhelmed me,” she says.

  “You can’t take animals, period,” I say.

  “I know.”

  My mother slides her squirt gun inside the back of her pants much the way I’ve seen cops do on television. The birds are screaming. They’re through with their performance. Now, they’re just making earsplitting noise. I help her gather her supplies.

  “So you’re done?” I ask. “We’re not going to clean?”

  “This is the first job I’ve ever quit,” she says.

  “Because of the parrots?” I ask.

  “Exactly,” my mother says.

  We hurry out of the bedroom and shut the door. The birds don’t settle down.

  “We’re not going to pull weeds?” I ask. I regret having brought it up, because I don’t really feel like doing any bending over.

  “I’m done,” my mother says. “Those cats, Sarah. They ruined her. Your great-grandmother didn’t have to live that way. Nobody does.”

  My mother rarely talks about her side of the family. Her own mother died several years ago in a car accident in Detroit. Her father lives in Florida. I’ve only met him twice. My great-grandfather died young. I think he had a lot of problems. My mother has explained her family history this way: “I come from people who experienced a long run of bad luck.”

  But Liam has a different explanation, a political one. “It’s the effects of postcolonialism,” he has said and said again. The first time he ever told me this, we were driving to the grocery store. I don’t think I’d ever heard the word “postcolonialism” before. “The whole idea was to fracture the family unit. To isolate and wreck and ruin and destroy. Where do you think Hitler got the idea for concentration camps?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “American Indian reservations!” Liam yelled, pulling into a parking stall at Meijer.

  I still remember the look on his face. It was a combination of furor and unbelievable sadness. I gripped my mother’s shopping list and asked the one question that seemed important.