Sparrow Man

by M. R. Pritchard

  I chuckle to myself. He should have expected this from me.

  Holding onto the side of the pool, I turn towards the pool house, hoping that it’s still the same in there. There was a bathroom, a couch, and a queen sized bed. Sleeping in a real bed right now, the thought of it is enough to make me lift myself out of this pool and run over there naked to find out. I grip the side of the pool, kick my feet in the water.

  “Here,” Sparrow’s voice startles me out of my daydream of sleeping on pillow-top luxury. A gust of air brushes by my face as he drops a stack of towels next to me and a mostly used bottle of shampoo. He turns, refusing to look in my direction.

  “What’s wrong, Sparrow Man? Afraid to see me dry off in the sun, naked as the day I was born?” I tease.

  Seems like Sparrow is having a rough day today, first I almost shoot him and then he gets to see me like this. I guess the thought of seeing me naked is enough to spoil his feather orgasm.

  “I’ll go check out the pool house,” he mutters, walking away from me.

  I wash with the shampoo and then lift myself out of the pool and wrap myself in a towel. Seems Sparrow has good taste and selected the huge beach towels from the cupboard. They’re musty smelling but clean. I move my clothes to the dusty patio furniture and lay them out to dry for the day. As I walk to retrieve my backpack, Sparrow exits the pool house and looks right at me.

  “See you’re decent again.” He looks down the length of me. With the towel that reaches my knees there really isn’t much for him to see. “Have you no dignity?” he scoffs.

  I shrug and toss the bottle of shampoo at him. “Want to freshen up? I won’t peek,” I promise.

  He sets the bottle down on a patio table and motions towards the pool house. “Doesn’t smell like dead animals in there.” He looks around. “You could probably sleep in there for the day.”

  I walk past him into the pool house, backpack in hand. Yeah, it’s just the same as it was before. Staring at the queen size bed, using the last bits of control left in me to not run, jump, and roll around in it naked, I remind myself to get dressed.

  Emptying my bag, I find a tank top, an oversized flannel shirt, and a pair of almost-too-short jean shorts. I wish I had paid closer attention when I grabbed the change of clothes from my dresser drawer at home. The summer nights here are cool and a second pair of pants would have been ideal. I could go into the house and search Sara’s closet, wouldn’t be the first time I stole her clothes. But, I took enough from her and right now I can’t muster the strength to go in there. I only hope that my jeans are dry by the time we need to move again. I put the clothes on and start pulling back the blankets on the bed.

  Sparrow walks through the door I never closed. He’s carrying a package of dry pasta and a can of beer.

  “Is that for you?” I ask, my mouth salivating at the sight of the beer. I guess you can take the girl out of the trailer but you can’t take the trailer out of the girl. Soon I’ll be smoking cigarettes and walking around in my bra.

  “I told you.” He tosses the beer and pasta at me. “Sunlight, that’s all I need.”

  I catch the items, opening the beer as fast as I can, not even caring that it’s warm. “Almost forgot. Thanks.” I give him a quick smile and take a long drink. “God, I hope this doesn’t get me wasted.” I take another long swallow. “I haven’t had beer in so long.” I open the bag of pasta and crunch on a dry noodle. It’s not fine Italian dining, but it will have to do for now. “Sure you don’t want some? This beer isn’t going to last.” I down the rest of it, squeezing my eyes from the carbonation burn in the back of my throat.

  “Nope.” Sparrow moves around the pillows on the couch near the door and sits down.

  I set the empty beer can on the glass-top wicker nightstand and roll up the bag of pasta. Leaning back on the pillows, running my fingers across the thickly padded mattress, I think for a second that I could share this little luxury with Sparrow, and then I remember all the bad things I put him through today. I’m surprised he’s even staying in the same room with me. Just as I pull the covers over myself and lay down, I hear him start to hum, Never Say Goodbye.

  “Sparrow?”

  He stops mid-hum. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry I almost shot you.”

  “Worse things have happened.”

  “Spar-”

  “Go to sleep, Meg.”

  Normally, being bossed around would piss me off, but for some reason-maybe it was the beer or the exhaustion or the cool bath-I close my eyes and drift off as he continues his humming.

  …

  As soon as I wake up, I can tell what Sparrow has done and a fury burns deep in my chest. I was slightly confused by these feelings as I watched him, his hair damp. Sparrow had cleaned himself up and it was more than just a splash in a birdbath. He took a bath in that pool while I was sleeping. His clothes are changed too, the jeans clean and a shade darker than the last pair he had on. I wonder if he found something in the house to wear? Sara did have an older brother.

  I kick the shampoo bottle when we walk by it, empty. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that he refuses to take that coat off in front of me and that he refuses to get cleaned up while I’m awake.

  “Hell, I’d stripped down to my bare skin with him walking around,” I grumble to myself as I collect my dry clothes and tie my boots on.

  One beer never resulted in a hangover before, but for some reason I’m having a hell of an attitude problem today. I blame it on the beer and continue to glare at the back of Sparrow’s glistening wet hair in the moonlight as we walk.

  Maybe he doesn’t trust me; maybe that’s what his problem is, even though I saved his life yesterday when that sack of skin had its hands around Sparrow’s throat. That was me who blasted that rotting piece of meat off the mountain, and then…shit… I had held a gun to him. Almost shot him, remembering all that crap that happened. No wonder he doesn’t trust me.

  Doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Maybe going on this adventure with a crazy man was a bad idea, but it has gotten me a whole hell of a lot closer to the border. Soon I will have Jim and Sparrow will be on his way to wherever crazy men go. I actually can barely believe that I’ve stuck with him for this long.

  We take a left onto Route 37, the anticipation growing stronger inside me. We’re close to the border and all I can think about is finding Jim.

  “This is the barn.” Sparrow’s deep voice breaks the night calm.

  “The one with the snowy owl?” I ask.

  Sparrow takes a deep breath, puffs his chest out a bit. “Yup,” he starts walking at a fast pace towards a decrepit barn. “This is the place.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I ask, following him.

  “Just know. Can feel it in my bones. This is the place.”

  Standing still, watching as he searches the barn for an opening, I look around, noting the summer grass and leaves and I wonder what the hell a snowy owl would be doing in this area at this time of the year.

  “Sparrow?” I shout.

  “Shh!”

  “Sparrow, you’re not going to find a snowy owl here.”

  “Yes. She lives here. I can feel it.”

  “She?” I walk closer to him. “Sparrow, snowy owls only come here in the winter. It is early summer. You’re not going to find one.”

  “You have little faith in me, Meg.” He looks around, eyes focused on the ground, and crouching, his hand reaches out lightning fast and I see that he has plucked a mouse from the tall grass. He holds it in his hand in front of my face.

  “What would you like to be?” he asks me. “The bait or the feather remover?”

  “Is there an option for neither?” The mouse squeaks and pedals its legs in the air.

  “I need extra hands, Meg.” He smiles at me. “You owe me, anyways.”

  “No, I don’t.” I take a step towards him. “You saved me. I saved you. We’re even.”

  “Yeah, but I got you that beer. So you still owe me.
”

  “What?”

  He smiles again, saying nothing.

  “You found that beer. And… and I think it made me sick!”

  “You’re fine.” He jiggles the mouse, it arches back, trying to claw at him and get free. “What’s it going to be?” I stare at the mouse. Sparrow widens his eyes in a begging motion. “I suggest you be the bait.”

  “Fine!” I hold my fingers out to pinch the mouse tail. “But I’m telling you this is pointless. Snowy owls don’t frequent these parts in the summer months.”

  “Ye of little faith.” He points to an open clearing behind me. “Can you stand right over there? In the full moon light?”

  I scowl at him.

  “Please,” he adds.

  “Where will you stand?”

  “In the shadows,” he whispers and fans the fingers of his left hand like a magician.

  Sparrow starts walking backwards towards the barn. I move to the spot he pointed to and hold my hand out, the mouse squirming, its tail wiggling between my fingers. I stick out my hip and make a face for Sparrow to see. I can’t judge his reaction to my attitude, though, because I can’t see him anywhere. There is nothing but stars and moon and night air brushing around me. Then, I hear strange noises coming from the shadows, a screeching hoot, strange dark whistling, a hiss.

  “This is pointless,” I mutter to myself.

  Just as I’m ready to drop the mouse and stomp off, I catch movement in the upper levels of the barn. A white head peeks through a hole in the siding, followed by a neck and the entire body of a snowy owl.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper.

  The sounds made by Sparrow turn into a deep hooting. The owl opens its wings and lifts itself into the night sky. Circling over my head once, twice, it descends and flies straight for me, its flapping wings moving my hair as it lands on my arm. I stiffen and every muscle in my body turns tight and rigid. I wasn’t expecting the owl to be so heavy. The owl blinks at me and I can almost see my reflection in its huge golden eyes.

  “Ah, my beautiful, beautiful snowbird.” Sparrow leaves the shadows and stalks up behind the creature as it cocks its head to the side, looking at me first and then the mouse in my hand.

  I stare at the owl, transfixed in its beauty; the moonlight glowing off of its white feathers speckled with brown, the catlike eyes that seem to be judging me. Its claws dig into the skin under my plaid shirt.

  Out of my periphery I see Sparrow walking quietly, inching closer, murmuring words to the owl of how beautiful it is. I blink, focusing on my reflection in the owl’s eyes. Sparrow’s words are much like what a man would say to a woman he loves. I don’t think I’ve ever heard words like this with my own ears. Words like this have never been spoken to me, not even by Jim.

  Sparrow moves slowly, murmuring his soft pillow talk the entire way until he is just behind the owl. He reaches both hands out on either side of the owl, his fingers ready to pinch.

  “My sweet, sweet, magical creature,” Sparrow’s voice is soft and deep. He reaches up, grasping a feather on each side of the owl’s wings and pulls, hard.

  The owl’s eyes widen as it screeches in my face just before lifting off. I feel its claws dig even deeper into my arm and I drop the mouse.

  “Holy fuck!” I breathe out, realizing that I hadn’t taken a breath that entire time.

  I turn to Sparrow who holds two large white feathers, spotted with brown at the tips. His eyes are gleaming and excited. And as I watch him, something inside me starts to feel strange. Remembering his cooing at the owl and the realization that I have never had anyone talk to me like that, something catches in my chest and I’m not sure what to do about it. As a result, I conclude, the only reasonable option at this moment: I think it’s my time to leave Sparrow.

  This is what I tell myself over the span of three seconds. I don’t need him for the rest of my trip and I’m so close to the border now. He has his owl feathers and I’m pretty sure my arm needs stitches from the owl scratching it during lift off. I back away into the shadows, just as Sparrow did. He doesn’t even notice as he stares at his prized feathers, the feathers he’s been searching so long for already.

  Well, I’ve been searching for something too-for someone. And after listening to Sparrow murmur to that owl, I can’t wait one second longer to make it to Kingston and find Jim.

  As Sparrow is distracted with his feathers, I turn and run.

  …

  I run away from the barn, stumbling into the forest. The sensation of my heart beating fast and seeming to burn at the same time, appears to slow me until I reach the pavement of the highway. Then I run until I can’t remember those things Sparrow murmured to that owl. And I try to remember the things Jim would say to me, the things that made me agree to marry him, but I can’t think of one thing.

  I run until the sky turns pink and the sun peeks over the tops of the treetops and then realize what a stupid idea it was to run at this time. I slow, the sound of my footsteps replaced with the sound of moaning and shuffling feet. Then I look around, searching, trying to find a safe place to hide. There are no cliffs or gated yards here. There are only pavement and trees. I look to my left, seeing a large oak and wonder if that’s my only option right now.

  Focusing in front of me, they’re moving closer, the dead waking and shuffling down the road. Screw it. I run for the tree, wrapping my hands around the lower branches and walking up the trunk. I fit my left foot in a deep crevice and move my hands until I’m upright. The moaning gets louder. I reach for a branch above me and climb higher as the meat sacks collect at the base of the tree.

  Shit.

  I sit on a narrow branch, out of breath, arms wobbly. This is a great mess I’ve gotten myself into, stuck in a tree with no way of making it down. I sit, leaning my head against the trunk, reminding myself that I can’t fall asleep up here because that will only result in my death from a quick fall to the ground. The smell of rot wafts up, my stomach churns. I check my arm and find that it’s not bleeding; the scratches from the owl barely broke the skin. And I can’t get the sound of Sparrow’s voice out of my head, no matter how hard I try.

  This is where I sit for the entire day, with the rough bark of the tree digging into the backs of my thighs and my butt going numb from not moving. When the moon rises over the treetops, the walking dead below me drop to the ground, leaving a pile twenty bodies deep or more below me.

  Listening, just to make sure the dead are all out for the night, I attempt to climb down. Off in the distance I hear someone humming.

  “Sparrow!” I shout into the darkness.

  Whoever it is, they don’t answer. The humming gets closer along with footsteps. And I know I should be scared, stuck in a tree in the middle of the night, not knowing who’s walking towards me, but these past few days I’ve come to know that humming voice. It’s Sparrow.

  “Sparrow!” I shout again and looking down, between my legs and the branches I sit on, I see him standing not far from the base of the tree and the pile of bodies.

  “Hey, Meg.” He waves at me like I never ran away and abandoned him in the middle of last night.

  “What took you so long?”

  His hand pats his side. “Hit the jackpot in that barn. You should’ve seen it. Nests everywhere.” He splays his fingers, opens his palms and arms wide like he’s imitating fireworks. “Swallows and chickadees and mourning doves and a ton of pigeons. Even found a Grouse, almost stepped on the sucker. Even though they don’t really fly I still got a feather from a nest near the barn.” He holds up a small brown and white feather for me to see.

  “Sparrow! I’ve been trapped in this goddamn tree for an entire day.”

  He quirks his lip and tucks the feather into his chest pocket, patting it like a pocket watch. “You’re the one who left me, Meg.” He tips his head to the side. “Why did you run away like that?”

  “I… I don’t know.” I stutter, real pathetic-like.

  But I know exactly why, I just don’t wa
nt to tell him. I couldn’t take the sweet murmurings he spoke to that owl. I look at the pile of rotting bodies below me. “How do I get down?”

  “Jump.”

  I climb down to the lowest branch and focus on a small patch of grass between the bodies. I jump, landing hard, my backpack slapping against my back, almost falling forward into the rot as something squishy and crunchy explodes under my foot. I look down to find a meat sack without a hand; the goopy mess is under my boot. My stomach lurches.

  Sparrow starts for the road. “Come on, Meg. I bet we’ve got one more night until we make it to the border.”

  I run after him, wiping the bottom of my boot off in the pine needles and roadside gravel along the way.

  …

  One more day, that’s all we have left for walking. Just like Sparrow said. He whistles while we walk, pointing out the mansions and old hotels near the bay. He doesn’t ask me again why I ran away from him last night, and his ignoring what happened makes me feel even more like a jerk.

  “Bet this place will be busting at the seams with meat sacks come morning,” Sparrow says a little too jubilant.

  “Great,” I mutter as I crunch on the rest of the dried pasta Sparrow found for me the other night.

  We make good time as we walk down Route Twelve towards the highway that connects the mainland to Wellesley Island. My hopes are high, and the excitement from thoughts of seeing Jim again make the deep parts of my stomach tingle.

  “What do you think Jim will say when you see him?” Sparrow breaks the silence between us.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him between popping the dried noodles into my mouth like super crunchy popcorn.

  I think for a minute. I would hope he would run for me and pull me into his arms, maybe spin me around in a circle like they do in the movies, or talk to me with the admiration and adoration as Sparrow had for that white owl. I still can’t remember a time when Jim spoke to me like that. Maybe when I see him tomorrow, maybe then he will have missed me so much that those words will come spilling out of his mouth. He’ll call me precious, and baby, and beautiful, and squeeze me between his strong arms because he’s missed me so much. That’s what I wish will happen.