He could almost hear her. She was right, usually, he grudgingly admitted. He had once spent an entire day in the Elliott Bay Bookstore, looking at the shelves, and no one had asked him to leave. He’d had a tie on.
His pigeons dipped and wheeled to meet him; his black mood lifted slightly. Then he noticed the heaviness of the clouds that made up their backdrop. It was going to rain today, rain as only Seattle knew how. “Like a cow pissing on a flat rock,” someone had hitched to him once. He tried to catch the fleeting memory and got a confusing image of a triple-canopy jungle and a sweating black man with rain dripping off his chin. He blinked away the non sequitur and sat on his bench to begin his methodical scattering of popcorn. Lost in thought, he watched the feathered backs before him as the birds pecked and scrabbled for the feed. Their tidy industriousness sank him further into bleakness. He was failing today, defeated by himself before he had even confronted the grayness of Mir. If only he had a cup of coffee.
He was unaware of the woman until the pigeons swirled up in alarm. He shot her a quick scowl as she seated herself on the end of his bench with her own sack of popcorn. It wasn’t so unusual for this to happen, but usually it was a kid who didn’t have the patience to dole out feed a bit at a time and acquire his own following of birds to feed. He didn’t muur-it when kids honied in on his flock; kids weren’t supposed to have patience. But this woman was a grown adult and should have had more courtesy, if not patience. She was almost as rude as those who walked right through the middle of a flock of feeding birds.
He glared at her again and felt the bottom of his stomach tilt. He knew her. He scrabbled frantically through memories, his alarm building. He had no business knowing her; she wasn’t even a street person. It was as dangerous for him to know a regular person like her as it was for him to be known to one.
He turned slightly away from her and tried to calm himself.
He was being foolish. Maybe he had sat next to her oh the bus last week, or stood behind her in line at some coffee shop.
Maybe. But he didn’t think so. She was danger.
“Bet you thought you were cute yesterday,” she said.
Wizard stiffened. Carefully he took another handful of popcorn from his bag and scattered it for his pigeons. He had not heard her.
“You coulda cost me my job, you know that? I don’t know why I didn’t give the whole thing away. Yes, I do. It was because I was so pissed at Booth for right away assuming it was me. And because I knew he woulda knocked you right outa your chair. He loves to show his muscles when he gets mad. Showed them to me once too often. So I showed him mine.” The quaver in her voice belied the toughness of her words.
“He came home from the night shift, and found his junk piled up on the staircase. So he comes down to where I’m working and tries to raise a fuss. So I tell him to leave my key, ‘cause the lease is in my name, and if he doesn’t, I’m calling the cops. Booth knows he can’t afford to talk to me cops about nothing. He’s got a bunch of speeding tickets in the glove compartment of his car. Oh, he still thinks he’s tough. He phoned me last night and threatened to come by and ’see‘ me.
But I told him I had told Mrs. McWhirter to call the cops if she even seen him come in the lobby. And I did, too, and she will, too. So he can blow it out his ass for all I care.“
Worse and worse. Wizard’s hands shook slightly as he scattered popcorn. Should he stand up, gather his bag, and leave?
That was admitting too much. Silence and the back of his shoulder for her. He wasn’t even listening to her monologue.
The pigeons pecked at his feet-
“I'm sposed to be working afternoon shift today. But I forgot and got here early, so I thought, what the hell, I’ll go feed me pigeons and kill a little time. Then I seen you out here already feeding them, and figured I’d let you know (hat I knew what went down. Waitresses aren’t as dumb as most people think.
You gotta really know people to be a waitress. And you gotta have a good memory, especially for thatching up faces and orders. That black one sure has a funny tail, don’t he?“
The black pigeon’s mother had been a full fan-tail, but Wizard wasn’t going to chat about it. She was a talker. So let her talk as much as she liked, and when she ran down, she’d leave. She’d have to go to her job soon, anyway. He’d never set foot in Duffy’s again, and that would be the end of this whole sorry mess.
She had already fallen silent. He saw, from the corner of one eye, a handful of popcorn pelt the ground with more than necessary force. A short moment later he heard a light gasp, as if someone had poked her with a pin. She took a husky breath and was silent again. Now she would go away. But she didn’t. He wished he could stop thinking about the waffle and me strawberries and whipped cream. It wasn’t as if he had asked for it. She had given it to him, of her own free will, and (here was no reason for him to feel guilty or obliged to her.
He intended to take only a quick peek at her, to see if she showed signs of leaving. But when he turned his head for a glimpse of her, she was already staring at him. Her eyes were too shiny; he saw her stuff a tissue back into her pocket.
“So go ahead and stare,” she said bitterly. “Stare at a stupid woman who sits on a bench and talks to some bum like he’s listening and then starts to fall apart. Go ahead and stare. See if I give a damn.”
He had snatched his eyes away as soon as their gazes met, but that was already too late. She had seen him look at her and knew she had his attention. Now she would talk until the clock made her go to work. It was through his own fault, his most grievous fault, and his penance would be to listen to it. He threw more popcorn.
“I don’t know why I keep going. Why the hell should I keep going? I get up. I go to work, I get my pay, I eat, and I sleep. What the hell kind of a life is that? You know how bad it is? It’s so bad that when some shit like Booth treats me so lousy that I throw him out, after he’s gone, I cry. You know what my sister says when I’m like this? She tells people, ‘Don’t mind Lynda, she’s just between men now.’ She says it in this bitchy, whiney voice, like someone else would say, ‘She’s on the rag.’ And she’s my own sister. She thinks it’s just terrible that I’m not married. So is that my fault? I like men. It’s not my fault I haven’t found the right one just yet. Does that mean I’ve got to live like a nun to keep her happy? Women have needs. We’re not supposed to, but we do. you know. When Booth welted on me and I called her up. do you know what she said? You know what she said to me? She said, ‘You sure can pick ’em, Lynda, can’t you? You got yourself into it with that creep, so you get yourself out of it.‘ And she hung up on me. Well, I did get myself out of it. I wasn’t asking for her goddamn help anyway. I just wanted someone to talk to. C’merc, birdie.”
He felt more than saw her abrupt movement. He kept his eyes on the ground before him. hoping she had missed. For a moment all was silence and he started to relax. Then he heard the frantic flapping of wings. It was the crisp sound of wing pinions beating against hands, of delicate flight feathers bending against a relentless grip. Wizard’s stomach turned over.
“Let him go.” He spoke before he knew he was going to, turning to confront her. She held his gaze, their knees nearly touching as they shared the bench. The pigeon she held was a young one; its beak was shell pink and looked too large for its head. Its feathers were white with gray splotches and an even shading of black across the end of its tail. It was frantic. It struggled with all its strength against Lynda’s hands, panic in its round orange eyes. Lynda had one wing pinned neatly to its body. She had partially trapped the otherwing with her hand and was trying to fold it back down. But the struggling pigeon was still trying to open it. Lynda was pushing on it, not roughly, but relentlessly. It folded beneath her strength, but not naturally.