Ask the Parrot

4

Usually Fred spent Sunday afternoons in fall and winter watching football games by himself in the living room while Jane read in the enclosed back porch that was a greenhouse in summer and the best view of the outside world in winter. Today, though, when she got home from Tom Lindahl’s place with the rifle, though Fred was in the living room as usual, the television set was off and he was just sitting there, in his regular chair, slumped, not even looking toward the set but downward, past his knees at the carpet on the floor, brooding. He barely lifted his head when she walked in, trying to be chipper, saying, “I never knew this thing was so heavy.”

“Oh, you got it,” he said, though without much animation. “Good.”

“Should I put it in the closet?”

“Sure. Okay.”

She started out of the room, but couldn’t help herself, had to turn back and say, “No football?”

“Ah, it’s just same-old, same-old,” he said, and shrugged, and didn’t exactly meet her eye.

She herself had always thought football games were very much same-old, same-old, the same movements seen every Sunday, like ritual Japanese theater, only the costumes changing, but she didn’t like to hear that sentiment come from Fred. She only nodded, though, and went to the bedroom and put the rifle in its place at the back of the closet, upright, leaning against the left rear corner. Then she went back to the living room, where Fred had not moved, and said, “I saw that man.”

He roused a bit. “Uh? Oh, him.”

“He’s very strange, Fred.”

“He knows what he wants,” Fred said, which seemed to her a strange kind of remark.

“He did say something,” she went on, “that I thought was odd, but maybe it was a good thing to say.”

No response. She waited for him to ask what the strange man had said, but he didn’t even look at her, so she had to go ahead without prompting. “He said George will want to see you when he gets home.”

“George?” Not as though he didn’t remember their own son, but as though he couldn’t imagine why they’d been discussing him.

“Tom told him,” she explained. “And he said George would want to see you when he gets home.”

“Of course, he’s going to see me,” Fred said, starting to get irritated. “What do you mean?”

“Well—just that we’ll be together again.”

He frowned, trying to understand, then suddenly looked angry and said, “Because I wanted my rifle back? It’s my rifle.”

“I know that, Fred.”

“It’s in the closet. You asked me, and I said put it in the closet. What do you people think of me?”

“I told you, it was just this odd thing he said, that’s all.”

“He’d like that, wouldn’t he?” Fred said, looking sullen now. “Solve all of his problems for him, wouldn’t it?”

“What problems, Fred? Now I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing,” he said, turning farther away, brushing the air with his hands. “It isn’t anything. Thank you for bringing it back.”

Which was clearly a dismissal, so she went away again, paused at the kitchen to make herself a cup of instant coffee, and then went onto the porch, where the book she was currently reading waited for her on the seat of her chair.

Jane loved to read. Reading invariably took her out of the world she lived in, out of this glassed-in porch with its changing views of the seasons, and off to some other world with other views, other people, other seasons. Invariably; but not today.

Jane tended to buy best sellers, but only after they came out in paperback, so the excited buzz that had greeted the book’s initial appearance had cooled and she could see the story for itself, with its insights and its failings. She was a forgiving reader, even when she was offered sequences that didn’t entirely make sense; after all, now and again the sequence of actual life didn’t make sense, either, did it?

Like that man Smith, staying with Tom Lindahl. What could possibly have brought those two together? And how had Tom, a man she’d known for probably thirty years, suddenly come up with an “old friend” nobody’d ever heard of before?

No; that was the real world. What she was trying to concentrate on was the world inside this book, and finally, after distracting herself several times, she did succeed, and settled in with these characters and their story. Now she concentrated on the problems of these other relationships and intertwining histories and didn’t look up until the room had grown so dark she simply couldn’t read any more.

Turning to switch on the floor lamp to her left, she glanced at her watch and saw it was well after seven. Oh, and they hadn’t done anything about supper.

Usually, by now, Fred would have come back to tell her the game was over, and sit with her to decide about Sunday supper, which was a much looser arrangement now that Jodie had gone off to Penn State. But today there was no football, no end of game, and no Fred.

Was he going to just sit in there in the living room forever and brood? It had to be much darker in there than out here on the porch, but when she looked toward the doorway, she could see no light at all from inside the house.

Was there something frightening in there, in the dark? Was there something unfamiliar in there, like an unread book, but not one she would enjoy? There was something frightening somewhere, she was sure of that, something she didn’t like at all, like a horror movie at the moment when you know something bad is about to happen.

But that was nothing at all, that was just nerves. That was her house in there.

Had he fallen asleep? That might even be a blessing, and even more so if he woke feeling better about things. But she should make sure, so she put the bookmark in the book, got to her feet, and moved through the house, switching the lights on along the way.

The living room was empty. She looked toward the bedroom and called, “Fred?” No answer.

Suddenly really frightened, in a more horrible way than any book or horror movie had ever frightened her, she went to the front door to look out. Their garage was full of junk, so the Taurus was always parked in the driveway. It was very dark out there now, and the Taurus was black, so she had to switch on the outside light to be sure the Taurus was not there.

Where was he? What had he done? More and more afraid, almost not wanting the answers to the questions that crowded her mind, she hurried to the bedroom and opened the closet door.

The rifle was gone.