Summer 2004

     Since my wife left, I mostly talk to people I don't know very well. It's funny how you can get to be my age and suddenly your conversations are with strangers. My kids call every once in a while, but mostly they phone their mother, or don't talk to either of us, which worries me a little. I never have figured out how much grown children are supposed to communicate with their parents. Rachel and Ellen are in their early thirties, and Eddie will turn forty in a couple of years. I want them to call, but when they do, I feel as though we're about to get caught at something.
     So I talk with my neighbors, who are mostly about the same age as my kids. I live on a city street, but it's kind of out of the way, so there are more people out than cars. Across the street in a skinny apartment there is a couple who owns a cat. I think they're getting married in the fall. I'm too embarrassed to tell them I don't know their names, but they always say, "Hey Hal," when they pass my house and I'm out on the front steps, and we talk for a few minutes, until there's nothing left to say. Maybe someone told them who I am, or maybe I introduced myself once — I can't remember. But these two are friendly. I like to think of them as my young friends. I borrowed an egg from them one time. They even hold hands when they walk down the sidewalk; it's very romantic. I feel silly, but when they stroll past, I can't help but think of myself at that age, of my wife, our hopefulness.
     When my wife and I were twenty–three we went skinny dipping. Frances and I were on vacation together, engaged to be married the next year, and we sneaked down to the motel pool after midnight and left our clothes by the shallow end. I don't remember much about it except that I was convinced someone was watching us from the nearby balcony. I remember trying to stay close to Frances, more to protect myself than to protect her from being exposed, but she would have none of it, and kept pushing out into the dark deep end.
     I think that was the last time we ever did anything so risque. I just wasn't very good at it. I felt like I was noticing too much of my wife, as if her breasts were magnified for viewing, or her shoulder blades were gigantic boomerangs I had always missed before, angles that might fly free, and I had no idea how to catch them when they came back. Naked observation has never been my strong point; I'd rather we were all clothed, layers protecting us from having to see too much. On the other hand, if I ran into my wife now, I'd want to be able to say I've changed, or at least that I'd like to go swimming with her, even if we wore our suits.
     I don't run into Frances now, ever. She lives in Dallas, a few miles away from our son, and she never comes back north, says she doesn't like all the trees. Or at least, that's what I imagine she says; she always did like open spaces more than I do. I haven't talked to her since she left six years ago; but then, we didn't speak much in the few years before she left. I know that in those years after the kids were grown and moved away, but Frances I were still married, she would talk with the kids once a month; she really enjoyed that because our son got a contraption built into his phone line where he could call three houses at once and they'd all talk together. He'd call Frances, then they'd call the girls, who were sharing an apartment at college. From my armchair I'd listen to Frances's half of the conversation, but when she would ask me if I wanted to get on the line, I'd decline, and say something like, "Oh go ahead, Fran, you just tell them I said hello and study hard." Later when she'd hung up she would remind me that Eddie wasn't in school anymore — he had a job in real estate.
     "Right," I'd say, because of course I knew that. "It's just a general expression for doing well. You know, study hard, work hard, get ahead."
     My wife would look at me blankly. "Hal," she'd say. What she really meant was, "I see right through you."
     That was the part I never adjusted to once we had a family; I felt as though they all expected me to see through them, to know what they were thinking all of the time, to notice every detail of our five lives. I couldn't do that — my children and wife wanted to be skinless bodies, showing me their hearts pulsing and organs functioning madly — and I couldn't do that for them. It was too difficult to see all of the parts of them, to keep them straight, to know which belonged to which, which life required what response. I didn't know how.
     I moved into a smaller house once Frances left. That was the only part about her leaving that I liked — I picked out this fine brick place with steps in front and a lovely sycamore tree on the side. Technically, it wasn't my tree, but I benefited from its shade.      Otherwise, I didn't see how life had improved any since she left. I missed her, although I don't think she reciprocated. Eddie told me she got a dog when she settled in Dallas, a nice little miniature collie. I was glad, because she had wanted a dog as long as I'd known her. It turns out that she and Rachel wanted one the whole time, that they both shared a love of animals, that they both wanted some kind of furry creature in the house. She told me about that the night before she left, when we were sitting out in the backyard, when I didn't know she'd be gone the next day. We were drinking coffee out of old, white mugs. We liked to go out back and talk, or sit in silence, have a smoke, and drink some coffee so we'd feel as though we were alive. We were the only people our age who didn't drink decaf after dinner. I think we were adept at doing things at night, when everyone else was asleep; it was the only way we felt we could be together, like we had been the time we went skinny dipping. But mostly, after the kids were gone, we would just sit there, not saying much.
     And then she said, "I'll bet you didn't know that Rachel always wanted to be a vet." Right out of the blue she said that to me, and for a minute I thought she might be talking about some other Rachel. It had been a popular name when our oldest daughter was born.
     "Our Rachel?" I said, staring out at the black backyard.
     "Who else?" she said, and I thought about answering, but didn't.
     "Hunh," I said. "Veterinarian. I think I remember that phase."
     Then Frances said, "You think you remember that phase." She said, "Hmm." She scared me a little, because she was talking coldly, as if she didn't have any connection to what she was saying.
     "I know Eddie thought about being a dairy farmer, once he saw that milk movie in school. I remember that." I knew I was being too smug, but I didn't know what Frances wanted from me.
     "Rachel wanted to do that one thing all her life, and you didn't ever know it, did you?"
     I saw now she was crying, so I said, "She seems happy now, with that new firm, don't you think, honey?"
     "Sure, Hal," she said, and she flicked her cigarette onto the patio and got up to go inside.
     I don't know if my young neighbors got the cat together, or whether one of them brought it when they moved into the apartment a year or so ago, but these days I can hear either one of them calling his name when it's time for supper.
     The cat's black and white, and so muscular that when you pet his back and sides it feels as though he's stuffed with bricks rather than organs and flesh. This cat is an indoor and outdoor cat; I imagine he likes the comforts of the couch in the living room, but he loves to roam the neighborhood at night, sniffing bushes and batting at bugs. He occasionally slithers past my front steps, and once was found in another neighbor's apartment.
     Maybe he had something to do with the baby blue jay that fell out of its nest this spring. I hear that mother birds sometimes push their children away when something is wrong with their formation, so perhaps this mother knew to nudge her baby to its death. I don't know what caused the fall, but I found the bird on the path by the side of my house, under the sycamore tree. It was tiny and perfectly formed, eyes closed, heart beating. I felt like I was really doing something right as I bent down to inspect it. I had a newspaper in my hand, so I scooped the blue jay onto the paper and carried it inside to the kitchen. I had never had an animal inside my house, much less a sick one, so I decided I'd better get some advice about how to care for it. I found the number for the local aviary, but they directed me to a type of wildlife hotline, one that might give tips on nursing animals back to health. I watched the bird while the phone was ringing. He, or she, I don't know, had blue smudges on the very tips of its wings, and the little papery legs kicked slowly back and forth. Then a recording came on over the phone, and a woman's voice said things like, "If no birds are coming to your feeder, press one now." Option four was something about finding wild birds, so I pressed that one and heard a speech about where to take injured birds. The bird didn't look injured; it simply looked sleepy. We didn't fit into any category. So I hung up and went over to see if I could find anything broken or damaged on the bird. Its eyes were still shut, and the beak was slightly open. I flipped it over to look at the other side. I did this gently, but I felt as though I were preparing some sort of pancake.
     I think my daughter would have been a wonderful veterinarian. Rachel would have rescued stray cats, put splints on injured dogs, and reluctantly, tenderly put old horses to sleep. She would have scooped up stray birds on the sidewalk, and she would not have made the mistake I made. When she flipped over the baby blue jay she would not have seen what I saw, which was a dead bird. What I had thought was the heartbeat was actually a whitish worm, pulsing inside the bird, which wasn't really a bird anymore, only a shell. The worm made a repetitive bumping against the bird's neck, much like a vein. It squirmed against the belly of the bird, causing the feet to kick slowly back and forth. I thought about this mistake I had made, wanting so badly for life to be present. I thought about my daughter, with her dream of veterinary school, thought about the other kids, living so far away. If the bird had been alive, I would certainly have done all I could.      Years ago I might not have let the kids bring something like that into the house, but here I was, wanting to cure a dead bird. As it was, I took it outside on the newspaper, and tossed it into the bushes out back.
     And so the other day I was talking to my neighbors while I sat out on the steps. They were on their way somewhere, but the girl smokes too, so she bummed a cigarette from me and they sat for a minute to talk. I don't know if they felt sorry for me or not, sitting out there all alone, but I didn't much care; it was just nice to watch them talk, nice to hear myself talking. I told them about the blue jay. That surprised me, because I hadn't told anyone else. It made me feel very foolish. But when I related the story to the couple they were quite sympathetic. When I was finished, the young man started telling me a story about the cat, because I guess he assumed I am an animal lover. He might have felt the need to exchange another pet story. And I did want to know.
      It turns out that the night before, their cat had gone out as usual, slinking under cars and sprinting through the light of streetlamp as if it were poison, darting into the shadows. At five a.m. a man found the cat, and, believing it lost, took him inside and searched the tag for information about the cat's home. My young friends' phone number was on the tag, and so the finder of the cat called immediately. At five a.m. when the phone rang, my friends were still asleep.
     "We're early risers," the woman interjected at this point in the story, "but five in the morning? No way."
     So, my friends said, they ignored the first few rings, and waited to hear a voice broadcast over their answering machine. Instead, the man with the cat hung up the phone.
     At this point, my friends began to stir a bit. When someone does not leave a message at five a.m., this usually signals some sort of trouble, a trouble which is too dire to report to an answering machine. It needs to be said in person.
     "I'm thinking stroke, heart attack," the young woman said.
     I said, "Car wreck," lifting my eyebrows, and she said, "Exactly."
     The potential of bad news began to pry open the eyelids of my sleepy friends. The phone rang again, but the man hung up after two or three rings, just when they were rolling out of bed to answer the call. Finally, it rang a last time and the young man answered the phone, only to find out that this guy wanted to report a lost cat, which was not really lost in the first place. My friend said, "Just put him outside. He'll come back."
     Of course the cat came back, because the cat always comes back. He knows how far to go, but within that circumference he is at liberty to stroll. He knows where home is, and who will be there to greet him. The man who found the cat, however, did not understand this homing instinct of cats, and he was immediately frightened; so frightened, in fact, that he felt it necessary to call my friends at five in the morning. He did not want to wait until he was reasonably sure they were awake.
     I've been thinking about this man more than I'd like to admit. My first reaction was one of ridicule: how could someone get so agitated, so fast? He should have known the cat was probably not lost, but what's more, he should have waited to call. Even I would have known to give it a little time, and I said as much to my two young friends. I'd like to call my daughter and tell her this funny story I heard about a cat, and maybe that way she'd know that I understand.
     Later on, though, when the couple had gone and I was back inside, I began thinking about why the man phoned like he did, so early, and why he was so frantic to make contact with the owners of the cat. I had to admit a little sympathy for this guy. It seems that if he had been secure in the comfort and safety of his own home, knowing that the cat would be well-cared for, if only temporarily, he would have kept it for a few hours, or at least until the sun had come up. But I can imagine it: perhaps he didn't trust his own ability to nurture the cat, to stay with it until it was light. Perhaps he was allergic. Or perhaps this man felt lost himself, felt the same panic the cat might feel on the rare and sudden day when he does step beyond the circumference of the known. He might have twitched nervously, or let out a tiny cry, once he realized that he was far from home, and most likely would not find his way back.

Julie Albright is the director of The Writing Studio in Pittsburgh, where she helps kids write stories and poems. When she's not editing stories about vampire chickens or answering the question "Can my story have swearing in it?," Julie writes for a local newsweekly. She received her MFA in fiction writing from the University of Pittsburgh in 1996.