Sammie & Budgie

by Scott Semegran

  "OK," said Olaf, smiling.

  Sammie smiled too. I think he felt better knowing that there was a sign on Budgie's cage, declaring to the world in definitive, dark letters that the bird was his. And I felt better knowing that I had at least a couple of days to figure out if we would be taking a parakeet home to Austin with us. Sammie leaned over to the bird cage, puckering his lips and making kissy noises. "Be back, Budgie. I love you," he said.

  With that, we all said goodbye to Olaf and left the pet store. We got in the Volvo S70 then drove away. The rest of the way to San Antonio was pretty quiet, as quiet as four people in a car could be after a sad farewell like that.

  It's true.

  Chapter Nine

  San Antonio, Texas. Do I need to say more? When people say San Antonio, most people think of these things: the San Antonio Spurs basketball team, the Alamo, the River Walk, Sea World, and Mexican food. To most people not from San Antonio, it would seem to be the ultimate tourist destination with plenty of thrilling sights to see and exceptional food to eat. I mean, San Antonio has the best Mexican food in the world, even better than in Mexico! It's true. But to the people that live and work in San Antonio--except for following the Spurs--most of these things are simply things to avoid. The River Walk? Tourist trap. The Alamo? Meh. Sea World? Killer whale concentration camp. To a lot of people who grew up in San Antonio, that town really meant mostly one thing: military bases. Randolph Air Force Base, Kelly Air Force Base, Lackland Air Force Base, Fort Sam Houston, and Camp Bullis--thousands of families lived and breathed military life in San Antonio and my family was no different. When Retired Army Colonel Marvin Burchwood was on active duty, he was stationed at Fort Sam Houston, an army base in the heart of San Antonio, where he worked in manpower, and our family lived in a suburban home in Northeast San Antonio. My father went to work, my mother stayed home, and I went to school: the perfect military family.

  Nowadays, whenever I drive south down I-35 from Austin into San Antonio, I get that nostalgic pang driving through the unchanging landscape of storage facilities, massive mega-churches, chain family restaurants, cheap motels, truck stops, and the skating rink where I learned how to roller skate in the first grade. San Antonio never seemed to change--ever. Driving this stretch of interstate highway was, literally, like going back in time for me. This time, I marveled at the state of suspended animation that we were driving through; time literally seemed to me to stand still.

  "San Antonio never changes," I said, out loud to myself. No one else seemed interested in my astute observation, not even Nat--who was sound asleep in her chair like an albino spider monkey with its arms and legs wrapped tightly around its torso--or the kids, who were still playing their Nintendos or drawing in their sketchbooks in the back seat, oblivious to where we were. In the rearview mirror, I could see Sammie and Jessie doing their thing, and my boy repositioned himself as if he had heard me say something but nothing of consequence.

  "Are we there yet?" Sammie said, not looking up, disinterested in the outside world, drawing in his sketchbook.

  "We're in San Antonio, son."

  "We are?!" he said, tossing down his pencil, then looking out the door window. His excitement soon faded. "It's boring here. Are we close to where PeePaw lives?"

  "Kind of."

  "Let me know when we're really close to where PeePaw lives. OK?"

  "Ok," I said, looking back at the highway then glancing at Nat. She was snoring, a light, rhythmic snore that mingled nicely with the hum of the air conditioner and the road noise. Her head laying against the door panel, she was drooling a bit, a droplet on the armrest still attached to her lower lip by the thinnest strand, like the remnants of a spider web. It seemed physically impossible to me for someone of her height to sleep in the awkward position she was in but, in spite of my astonishment, she was sound asleep. I mean, she was out cold. I thought for a moment to wake her up and save her neck from the impending, severe crick it would receive from sleeping in such a bizarre position, then decided otherwise. Sleep would be good for her, I thought. It was going to be a long weekend. I just knew it.

  After a few more minutes of driving, I found the exit we were supposed to take to get to the appropriately named Autumn Grove, the nursing home where my father lived. I wasn't too worried about missing Ms. Robyn since I knew she practically lived at Autumn Grove and, even if she wasn't there, I knew they would call her in if I requested it. She was just that kind of lady--dedicated and loving and open-hearted and dependable. I took the exit then turned right at the next intersection. This part of San Antonio's heyday was definitely somewhere in the mid 1970's but was experiencing a renaissance of late. Several of the 70's styled buildings had been refurbished, painted a more modern color scheme which accentuated their disco quirkiness, but many had been knocked down completely and replaced with buildings with a more arts & crafts style, creating a mishmash of tans and maroons and browns and greens that was at least slightly more appealing than mold and rust and mildew--all for the sake of progress.

  Before I knew it, the great lawn of Autumn Grove appeared, the monolithic sign with its namesake mounted right behind the curb to the road. On the other side of the sign was the driveway to my dad's nursing home. I turned onto the driveway and saw the buildings of Autumn Grove in the distance, several hundred yards away, past the great lawn with walking trails and gazebos and park benches and pecan trees and magnolia trees and a duck pond. It was an elderly person's paradise or, at least, that's what the brochures would have you believe. It certainly seemed that way by its appearance. I slowly proceeded up the driveway towards the buildings housing the retirees, when all of a sudden--out of the blue--the engine to my Volvo S70 cut off as well as all electrical power. All the lights on the dash just went dark. Confused, I didn't know what to do while my car slowly stopped in the middle of the driveway, not even halfway to the main building. And like an antidote to the malaise my family suffered from, the lack of motion woke up Nat from her sleep and startled my kids from their gaming and drawing.

  Nat rubbed her eyes as she sat up, then wiped her wet cheek with her hand, then said, "Where are we?" She was confused not only because she had slobber on her cheek but because we were not moving.

  The kids, too, asked the same question. "Yeah, where are we?" Sammie said, concerned.

  "Yeah, Daddy. Where?" Jessie said.

  "We're at Autumn Grove," I said. "Well, almost."

  "Why are we parked here?" Nat said, looking around. We all watched a long-haired dachshund run across the length of the great lawn to its owner, an elderly woman sitting in a motorized wheel chair. When the dog reached her, it jumped into her lap, then she proceeded to drive toward us, her chair wobbling as it ran over the dark green, Bermuda grass. Her smile was big and wide and a shiny yellow. Her hair was thin and silvery, strands of it dancing away from the rest of her styled hair helmet. The dachshund yipped and yapped as she got closer to my car. "We have a visitor."

  I rolled down Nat's window using the button in my door. The elderly woman pulled as close as she could without dropping off the curb at the edge of the lawn. A sticker was affixed to her purple, polyester shirt. The top part of the sticker said, in bold font print, "My Name Is." Underneath that in neat, cursive handwriting written in black marker said, "Bernice."

  "Are you having trouble with your automobile?" she said, her long-haired dachshund yipping and yapping, too. The dog's barking clearly irritated Bernice, who seemed quite confused as to what to do about the dog's bad behavior. She tried to muzzle the dog but it was too allusive for her hands to grasp.

  "I guess so," I said, loudly. "It just shut off on me."

  "Are you here to visit a resident?" she said. Her dog continued to bark at such an irritating rate that Bernice raised her hand--shaky yet determined--then actually clamped the little bastard's mouth shut. It continued to at least try to bark, the muffled noise accompanied by its little dog tongue protruding between its dog lips. "Sorry for all the noise."

&n
bsp; "My dad lives here. Colonel Burchwood. He's retired Army." Her face twisted in contemplation, scanning the rolodex of her mind with the name, trying to put it with a face. I realized as I watched her rack her brain that maybe they didn't know my dad by such a formal name. Maybe they knew him informally so I said, "His first name is Marvin. Some people call him--"

  "Marv!" she said, excited. The dachshund was determined to yap some more but Bernice held onto its snout as best she could. "Oh, Marv is such a fun man. So sweet and gentlemanly."

  Whoa! What was this? I wasn't used to hearing my father described with these glowing terms of endearment, with such gushing and complimentary words. How strange it was to hear him called these things. Maybe, just maybe, we were not talking about the same person. Maybe, she was confusing him with another, different Marv, one who was a good father and sweet to his family and a social butterfly that played Bridge with the gang and sipped brandy from a glass snifter and laughed at everyone's jokes and was always willing to lend a hand to a friend in need. Certainly, she wasn't referring to my father: the asshole. It was all very confusing.

  "Maybe you're thinking of someone else. My dad is--"

  "No, there's only one Marv in the whole place. I'm certain of it. Such a friendly guy. And such a looker, too!"

  "I see. That's good to know," I said, looking at my kids, perplexed. They gave me shrugs in return, confused like I was, mainly because they didn't know who this lady was and we were still stuck in the middle of the driveway. It was awkward. Plus, she was kind of drooling over my dad, which was gross.

  "But you have to know, Marv isn't doing so well. I imagine that's why you are here, to see him. Am I right?"

  I nodded. The dachshund in her lap, quiet now, sat stiffly as if trying to hold back a bowel movement, its face constipated and oblique. He was a sight to see, I tell you. "I need help with my car, though."

  "If you can get it closer to the building, then I'm sure Tony will help fix it."

  "Tony?" I said, confused.

  "He's the handyman. He can fix anything." The dachshund suddenly escaped from her grip and released a series of yips and yaps that almost sent Bernice tumbling to the grass. She tried to grab his snout again--her hand still shaky but quick--but he eluded her, jumped down in the grass, and tore off toward the duck pond to chase some birds milling about the lawn for seeds or grubs or bread crumbs or whatever. "Maybe I'll see you later at dinner," she said. She turned her motorized wheel chair and pursued her little monster, which was running around the perimeter of the pond in a frothy rage. As she drove away, she extended her arm into the arm and waved--a slow deliberate wave--like the Queen of England or a holiday parade queen.

  I examined the faces of my passengers, all confused by what just transpired, and offered a suggestion. "Want to push the car?"

  "Push, like, this car?" Nat said.

  "Yeah!" said Sammie and Jessie, quickly opening their doors and ejecting from the back seat as fast as they could.

  "If you help them push, then I'll steer the car as close to the parking lot as possible."

  Nat wore her apprehension on her face like the wrong color lipstick for the occasion. It was clear she didn't want to push the car but--as far as I could tell--she didn't really have a choice. I mean, the kids were back there trying to push already and she was the nanny. It was official; she had to help push.

  "Fine," she said, sluggishly getting out of the car. The three of them discussed a quick plan of action at the back of the car. I could feel the three of them pressing on the trunk of the Volvo. She called out, "On three! One! Two! Three!"

  As they pushed, the car reluctantly drifted down the driveway toward the main building, slowly picking up speed as the driveway dipped down a slight incline. The Volvo picked up enough speed that it got away from the kids and, as it sped toward the parking lot, I thought for a second that it might make it the whole way. I could see the three of them in the rearview mirror, waving and cheering as the car sped away from them. But as the driveway continued up towards its inverse, the Volvo quickly slowed down almost to a stop way faster than I expected. I pulled the wheel to the right and got the car as close as I could to the parking lot, but not close enough. It lurched to a stop when I hit the curb about twenty feet away from the nearest parking space. Well, it was really close enough. Nat and the kids ran to the car, then stopped, stooped over, hands on their knees, panting heavily.

  "You almost, like, made it," Nat said, her hand on her chest, breathing heavily.

  "So close," I said. I heard the whir of a small, electric motor in the distance and turned to see what it was. A golf cart appeared, out of nowhere, with a stalky Hispanic man driving. He was wearing a white jumper and a baseball cap, also white, his face serious as if he was ready for business, his grip of the steering wheel firm, his back erect. "Must be Tony," I said.

  He parked next to the Volvo, the electric motor of the cart dying the instant he released his foot from the gas pedal. He hopped off the cart and stuck his landing on the asphalt, his fists pushing his hips in place, his legs locked into stiff cylinders, and his gaze intense. He looked at me then the car then the perimeter around the car and, it appeared, he already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask.

  "Having car trouble," he said, serious, not a question but a declaration.

  "Yes," I said, intimidated.

  "Any ideas?" He peered at the hood of the car like he had X-ray vision, seeing the problem at a microscopic level, inside the wires, inside the hoses, inside everything.

  "No."

  "Of course not," he said, matter-of-factly. "Leave the key with me. I'll fix it." He extended his hand for the key.

  "Are you sure?" I said, dangling the key then clinching it. "I don't want to be any trouble. I can call a wrecker or a tow truck."

  "Why would you do that?" he said, puzzled. "I said I can fix it. I'll have it ready to go by the time your visit is over."

  "Really? 'Cause that would be great, actually."

  "Really. It's my job. I fix things." I handed him the car key and he returned a smile that, without a doubt, exuded the confidence and where-with-all of someone who knew exactly what he was doing with exactly the skills he had in his toolbox. As I would find out in time, Tony really could fix anything. He was just one of those types of men who could do that, take anything apart and put back together in working order without any trouble at all, like he was just born to do that. There weren't too many men like him around anymore and--if there were--I didn't know who they hell they were. Most people I know don't know how to fix shit and that's the truth. "You'll find Ms. Robyn inside the entrance. Just ask for her at the welcome desk. She'll help you the rest of the way."

  "OK."

  "Have a nice visit," he said, slipping in a quick, kind smile before returning to serious mode.

  I gathered my brood and we walked toward the entrance. In front of the building was a covered, circular drive with a number of rocking chairs and padded benches around the perimeter of the driveway, potted plants and flowers and succulents between them, a water fountain to one side and a bird bath on the other. Parked under the cover of the entrance was a long, white limousine, its windows tinted pitch black, an antenna for satellite radio on top, shiny chrome wheels at bottom--the tires glossy and spotless--and the name "Autumn Grove" stenciled on the side in bold letter of burnt orange and oak brown and forest green. It was certainly staged as an elderly person's paradise and there were many places--hospitals and care centers and clinics and retirement homes--that had a similar faux-coziness that betrayed the crappiness of the stark, cheap reality inside. But Autumn Grove was different which was why I put my dad, retired Colonel Burchwood--PeePaw--there. This wasn't any fake bullshit. It was the real deal, inside and out.

  Inside, we huddled then took in the welcome den. The smell of fresh, baked goods hung in the air, music from another era quietly played through speakers in the ceiling, and a few residents sat and chit-chatted with each other on leather cou
ches. The den (I called it a den because that's exactly what it seemed like to me rather than a welcome area or lobby or whatever else a business would call the area by the entrance) was exquisitely furnished with an eye for comfort as well as style, two over-sized leather couches faced each other, a coffee table of sturdy, carved dark wood in between them with cups of coffee and plates of cookies on top, two matching leather sitting chairs on each end, and an elderly couple sitting on one couch together, their eyes locked on each other, their laughter hardy and carefree. It did not feel like the lobby of a business; it felt like a home. Sammie and Jessie were overwhelmed by it all. Nat's face lit up as she looked around.

  "I could, like, really live here," she said, her mouth agape with wonder and a little bit of jealousy. "It's way nicer than my place."

  "Me too!" said Sammie.

  "Cookies!" said Jessie. She bolted for a small table just past the welcome desk, a large serving tray with an assortment of cookies and muffins and slices of cake on top, with stacks of paper coffee cups and a thermal canister of what I presumed was coffee next to it--regular not decaf was probably the octane. No need giving old folks decaf; they needed the caffeine to keep them human. Sammie followed close behind her to help inventory just how many sweet things they were going to devour.

  "This is nicer than any apartment complex I've ever lived in. It's, like, luxurious," Nat said, still amazed. I wasn't surprised by it anymore. What do you expect to get for $4,000 a month? The residents had it all: a limo, fresh-baked goods whenever they wanted, around the clock dining, comfy places to sit and talk, and nice living quarters. It was a retirement paradise.

  "Yeah, it's nice, huh?" I stepped over to the welcome desk which, at that moment, was unoccupied. On it were stacks of brochures about the kind of life you would expect your parents or grandparents to get if you decided to place them in the loving hands of the staff at Autumn Grove, as well as some ballpoint pens with the name "Autumn Grove" on them, and a shiny, stainless-steel table bell. I pressed the button on the bell and it dinged a soft, pleasant note. The elderly couple on the couch looked our way, smiling, pleased that there were visitors in their midst. For a quick moment, a picture of my parents appeared in my mind--next to the actual scene in front of me--and I imagined my parents sitting there on the couch, together, in the welcome den, talking and laughing and eating cookies and drinking coffee, in the autumn years of their lives that was never to be. This daydream was abruptly interrupted by Sammie and Jessie, arguing over who would first try the baked treats, each elbowing the other, jockeying for position. I ignored them, not giving any credence to their petty argument, and held Nat back from breaking up their argument. It was the right move because Ms. Robyn appeared behind the welcome desk, all smiles and open arms, as usual.