The Company We Keep Page 2

  Dead quiet means predator approaching.

  “Hey, Rico. It’s me, Gwen. Remember?”

  She kept up a foolish banter as she walked into the family room. From the farthest corner of his cage, Rico was taking her measure with what Gwen interpreted as hostile indifference. She wondered if hostility and indifference could coexist in a parrot—or in anyone, for that matter. She had invaded Rico’s space, his home. Perhaps he was formulating a plan to extend and sustain the mood as long as possible. Small black pupils stared. Rings of white around the black. A white mask was fitted to perfection around the eyes and above the beak. Chain-mail hood of soft grey. She had not attempted to smooth a finger over those intricately layered feathers. He will allow you to pet his head, but give him time—don’t try right away. He’ll learn soon enough that you are his source of food.

  He tried to press himself against the back corner, but he was already at the far end of the perch. His perch—one of several in the large cage—was thick, made of braided rope. In the short time since Gwen’s morning visit, pellets and seeds had been scattered in a wide crescent over the tiled floor.

  “Beady,” she said. “Your eyes are beady.” She, too, could be hostile—or indifferent. “And you’ve made another mess for me to clean up.” This observation was unhelpful; he turned his back. She knew he was watching.

  Vision is his strongest sense.

  He began to examine every angle of the room except the one where she stood, but she knew he could see her. She went to the kitchen to get the broom.

  This was her third day, sixth visit. Duties included preparing and providing food, as well as supplying him with fresh water. Visits were twice a day, every day. Her most important task was to converse with the parrot one full hour every morning and a second in the late afternoon. Rico needed to socialize. Rico needed flock.

  He had not yet spoken. He’d created a variety of sounds—certainly screeching when she approached the house—but no utterance had come close to resembling a human word. Cecilia Grand had told Gwen over the phone that he’d be talking before the end of visit one.

  Cecilia, a stranger to Gwen, had failed to provide hands-on orientation, a distinct disadvantage. An emergency had come up; details were vague. Cecilia and her husband had a daughter in LA who was undergoing a crisis, and they were compelled to depart a week earlier than intended. That’s what Gwen was told when she’d received a frantic phone call. The house key would be stashed under an upturned wheelbarrow at the side of the garage. The Grands had no choice but to leave for the airport before Gwen could get to the house to meet them or the parrot.

  When Gwen had first replied to the ad by phone, she was told that she would be meeting the parrot and shown what to do. When the well-intentioned plan fell through, Cecilia, in emergency mode, had written instructions on both sides of a piece of foolscap and fastened the sheet to the fridge door with a magnet. Every detail of care was squeezed onto those two pages. A separate sheet on the kitchen counter contained a recipe called Rico’s Chop. Gwen had never heard of a parrot’s chop, but she was to prepare said chop and pack it into a plastic container in the fridge. With lid. To keep it fresh. Every three days. Fortunately for her, Cecilia had made chop the day she departed, so at least Gwen knew what it looked like in its prepared state. To make the chop, she was to choose from a long list of vegetables that included carrots, snap peas, Brussels sprouts, cucumber, radish—the list went on and on. Fresh herbs and cooked pasta could be added. No celery—strings too dangerous. And only 10 percent of the diet was to be fruit. Today was chop-making day. Vegetables were in the crisper drawers, money for extras in an envelope on the kitchen counter.

  The parrot-sitting job was meant to last seven weeks, possibly eight. Gwen would be notified by phone as soon as the Grands had booked their return flight.

  Was trust not a factor? Didn’t they care about hiring a stranger who would be wandering in and out of their home for seven weeks? “I trust you,” Cecilia Grand had said over the phone. Now Gwen wondered if she was the only parrot-sitter who’d responded to the ad. Well, of course she was. Maybe the Grands had skipped town and abandoned a parrot who’d become an unbearable responsibility.

  Gwen reconsidered. Everything had sounded sane and reasonable during the preliminary phone call. Cecilia answered Gwen’s questions and inquired about her previous work record. She asked for a work reference, which Gwen supplied. Cecilia might even have taken the time to check with her former boss. Gwen imagined the staff in the accounts section of Spinney’s Office Furniture hooting with laughter over supplying a reference for her role as parrot-sitter. Don’t be paranoid, she told herself. They probably don’t give you so much as a second thought.

  When Cecilia had called Gwen about the crisis and early departure, she’d said, “I’m truly sorry I won’t be able to meet you to provide a proper orientation. But I can tell the kind of person you are just by talking to you. I know you’re honest. I’m completely confident.” Before Gwen had time to think up a reply, Cecilia rang off because she and her husband were short of time and facing a two-hour drive to the airport.

  GWEN HAD FIRST come across Cecilia’s ad on the noticeboard at Marvin’s and had pulled off one of the tear strips for a lark. She’d taken it home and stared at the phone number. She imagined introducing herself to a parrot: I am Gwen. Recently retired, age sixty-three.

  Maybe the job would not be entirely dull. Better than sitting at home imagining a replacement at her accounting desk in what used to be her tidy and familiar office. Better than thinking of the golden handshake and early retirement. Better than standing in the doorway of Brigg’s clothes closet, wondering what to do with his as-yet-undistributed belongings.

  How difficult could it be to talk to a parrot? The job was about conversation, companionship. She had snickered to herself when she first read the ad.

  Gwen knew, or believed she knew, what her former colleagues thought of her. Nondescript, quiet, fair-haired-but-greying Gwen. Five-nine, thin—perhaps a little too thin. Hard-working, good at keeping books, never a problem with accounts. Honest as the day is long, her manager said during his final tribute to her. When it became known that she’d put in her notice, the fourteen employees on staff, including the drivers of Spinney’s two delivery trucks, took up a collection and presented her with a painting: a tranquil scene of rolling hills and a placid lake. She thought it lacklustre as a piece of art. She wouldn’t want to travel to or be inside that particular scene, but what could she say? Without faltering, she thanked her workmates for the gift. The presentation took place during a farewell dinner at an Indian restaurant called Spice. Over the years, the company had often used Spice for seasonal celebrations or promotions, and when paying tribute to departing employees. The group sat around an extra-long table in one of the restaurant’s side rooms.

  Gwen visited the hairdresser the morning of the farewell dinner, and the stylist convinced her to have ginger-toned highlights put in so she’d look her best. Both Gwen and the stylist were pleased with the result. At the restaurant that evening, after the presentation of the painting, Gwen choked on a lump of killer-hot green pepper during the main course and was forced to rush to the washroom, tears streaming down her cheeks. Janey, the company receptionist, followed to ensure that she was okay. But she wasn’t okay. Her insides had ignited, her nose was running; she didn’t want to go back to the table. She wondered why she’d bothered about ginger tones in her hair because grey continued to announce itself at the edges. She felt half-dyed, a retiring scarecrow with a head of straw.

  After hacking and gagging and staring at her red face and brimming eyes in the mirror for more than five minutes, Gwen returned to the table. She couldn’t exit the restaurant without walking past the room of colleagues. There was no escape. She sat down, nose still running, tissues bunched in one hand. She picked over the rest of her food. Her boss was telling an off-colour joke. After the punchline, he guffawed and looked over at Gwen and said, “You get me?�
� But she’d glazed over. No one at the table seemed to get the joke. Gwen, completely depressed, felt a headache coming on and began to count the minutes until she could leave.

  The others, oblivious to her flaming esophagus, began to tease about what she and Brigg would do now that she was joining him for extended leisure time. They didn’t know that he’d bullied her into retiring. He wanted someone to golf with, someone who would make the necessary arrangements and then travel with him so he wouldn’t have to look after details. Gwen harboured an intense dislike of golf and would have preferred to stay with her job.

  She retired in February. Brigg had a stroke in early March and died in late April. His rapid decline over that two-month period was unexpected, shocking. He was older than Gwen by seven years, and though they’d been married thirty-six years, she had never understood what he saw in her in the first place. Their sons—twins born on Halloween—returned for Brigg’s funeral. They were both involved in high-tech work, and at the end of their university years, not used to being separated, they’d moved to the same town in the farthest corner of Texas, as far away as they could banish themselves. The grandchildren—each son now had one daughter—did not attend the funeral. There were mutterings about the children not wanting to miss school. The girls remained in Texas, along with the wives. Gwen and her sons were the only family members present to mourn. All told, a dozen people attended, including five men from the local golf club.

  But Gwen and her sons had little to mourn. Arm in arm, in unbearable silence, the three followed Brigg’s casket out to the hearse. They had done their grieving decades before. After the service and the mercifully short reception, Gwen returned to the house and had the twins gather up the golf clubs—every one—and drive them to the Sally Ann.

  IN THE GRANDS’ KITCHEN NOW, Gwen reviewed her parrot duties. Four items were capitalized at the top of the list.

  FOOD

  WATER

  FLOOR OF CAGE/CLEAN DAILY

  (plastic gloves in box on kitchen counter)

  CONVERSATION X 1 HR TWICE A DAY, A.M. & P.M. (allow time for response)

  Beneath these items, the list went into an unreasonable amount of detail: Wash pellet bowls and food dishes. Replace cage-floor papers. Monitor Rico’s intake accurately. Wipe down cage wall weekly. It’s important to wipe perches. Supplies are under kitchen sink.

  This was a cosseted parrot, accustomed to princely care. The back of the page contained threatening information in red about what Rico was capable of if he lacked companionship and satisfactory conversation.

  If he clings to the side of the cage and beats his wings rapidly, that means he’s upset.

  He’ll work at keeping his feathers in good condition. If he’s stressed or bored, he could start pulling them out.

  Plucking feathers was a true threat. Gwen hoped Rico would not become petulant and start plucking on her watch.

  Before you leave the house each day, turn on the radio, preset to CBC—soft voices, good mix of music and conversation. A parrot can DIE from loneliness. Turn off the radio during your visits to allow for exclusive interaction with you. On weekends, a favourite is Michael Enright’s Sunday Edition. A good mix of human voice and music.

  If you feel confident after a few days, let him out of cage for brief periods. You’ll have no problem getting him back inside. He returns for food, treats and water. Remember that cage is home. He likes his home.

  I’ve left new foraging toys in a basket. Change toys in cage as you wish. You’ll know when he’s bored. Some toys have a nut hidden inside. Add treats.

  Gwen dug into her shoulder bag and pulled forth a clump of tough-looking kale. She hacked off a two-inch chunk and fastened it to a metal clip. Kale is a treat, she reminded herself, though she was doubtful. She went back to the family room, kale in one hand, broom in the other. Rico was staring hard. Gwen understood that he needed to know where she was at every moment.

  “Come on, Rico,” she said. “I’m not so bad. You’re a pretty boy, did you know that? A pretty boy. Look at those tail feathers. What a gorgeous red!”

  He flipped his bird body and walked upside down toward her, his parrot toes easily grasping the top bars from inside the cage.

  She changed her tune. “You’re a dude, Rico. A real dude.” Rico is highly intelligent, Cecilia Grand had written. Challenge this intelligence!

  What did Cecilia know? Well, maybe he really was.

  He continued to stare with his head upside down. No matter where Gwen stood in the room, she could be seen. Rico climbed down a bar of the cage sideways, as if to prove something. His entire body remained horizontal; he was still staring.

  She stared back.

  He righted himself and edged his way to the far corner again while she clipped the kale to a bar of the cage. He hunched, a sullen attitude. Muttered. She had no idea what a parrot’s mutter was supposed to sound like, but she was certain that he had muttered.

  Petulant bird, she thought.

  “Show-off,” she said aloud, hoping that teasing might get a response.

  At the sound of the word “show-off,” he righted himself and began to preen.

  “Eat your treat, Rico. I went to Marvin’s on the way here so I could buy one piece of kale—just for you. Tomorrow, I might bring broccoli.”

  She remembered that on her way out of the store, she had torn a strip from a notice on the community board. GRIEF DISCUSSION GROUP. There wasn’t much information on the tear strip—only location, time and date. She felt for the strip in the pocket of her cardigan. The first meeting was to take place the following Tuesday at Cassandra’s Café.

  Gwen had been to Cassie’s—that’s what everyone called the place. Long ago, Cass—well known in town—had taken over the old Belle Theatre, Wilna Creek’s earliest movie house, so that she could prevent its destruction by developers. She and her partner, Rice, had transformed it into a flourishing live theatre, and after several decades, they sold it to a trio of actors who had new energy to invest. When Cass and Rice gave up the theatre, they purchased the café. Less work, less responsibility, they told everyone. They could close the café for weekends when they felt like doing so. They could take off for a week or two and drive away from the place. Cass didn’t have to schedule performances a year in advance. She didn’t have to collaborate with half a dozen or more people the way she’d done for every production while she’d managed the theatre. All this had been written up in the Wilna Creek Times.

  The previous December, Cass had held a sixty-ninth birthday party for herself at her own café. She took out an ad in the paper and invited patrons to drop by for a piece of cake. Gwen didn’t go because she had no one to go with. Brigg would have had no interest. She didn’t bother telling him she’d like to go.

  Now a person in town—man or woman, no way of knowing—was organizing some sort of discussion group about grief. The group would be meeting in Cassie’s backroom. Gwen weighed the decision, considered Brigg, considered grief. Maybe she would show up. After the first meeting, she could make up her mind about continuing. She hadn’t been part of a discussion group since university days. She’d certainly never joined any sort of club. During Brigg’s illness—to distance herself from his anger and constant demands—and later, after his death, she had begun to stop in at the café to sit for long periods over a drawn-out latte while reading a book from her late mother’s library. With time to herself, she was beginning to discover the contents of that library. She’d started with Arthurian tales translated from Middle English, recalling a day when her mother had held out a book and said, pointedly, “Gwen, this is not a translation. This is an exciting story that happens to be told in an earlier version of your own language—English.”

  For whatever reason, excitement or scholarship or both, her mother had committed herself to the Arthurian legends. After Gwen’s father died—from a lingering war wound in the late fifties—her mother continued the research and became an accomplished and renowned scholar.


  Cass never bothered Gwen at the café. Never asked her to move or give up her table. Gwen associated that welcoming place with losing herself in the adventures of King Arthur.

  She had inherited her mother’s books, some of which she did consider to be translations. Gwen had studied mathematics and accounting at university and was not skilled at reading Middle English, though she loved to read and had plowed her way through excerpts from The Canterbury Tales. Even those required frequent checking of footnotes. A first-year scan course in English literature was the only arts class she’d taken during her time at university. She’d forgotten the details of the Tales, but remembered Chaucer’s bawdy humour.

  She’d never finished sorting her mother’s books. Some were packed in boxes, some displayed on shelves along the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. Brigg had been all for selling the lot to a second-hand bookstore. He had pressured, for a time, but Gwen dug in her heels—one of the few times she had. Those times—of defiance—could be counted on the fingers of one hand. And now, out of nowhere, into her thoughts dropped the word “roundheels,” causing a noise to erupt from her throat, a half snort. With a cold, old shudder, she shook from her mind one memory that represented all memories: the number of times she’d half suffocated under Brigg’s heavy, lumpy body. Who else would have endured what she had endured? Did that mean she was weak? Spineless? She laughed aloud, and Rico squawked.

  Again, she felt for the strip of paper. What sort of grief would she talk about among strangers?

  “Woe came upon the people,” she said to Rico, recalling a line from an Arthurian tale. She tried to envisage a group of wailing strangers. She would be expected to say something. Wail along with the crowd. Or maybe there’d be no wailing; maybe there was a possibility of laughter.

  She would become still and listen. Perhaps she would become friends with someone. A person who, like her, had been cast adrift. Someone with a heightened awareness of this new lone state. Gwen didn’t know which had been more upsetting: her retirement or Brigg’s death, which had made her a widow. The two events were muddled and inseparable.