The Best American Short Stories® 2011 by Geraldine Brooks Read Free Book Online

I met my mother's parrot, he clung to a wrought iron perch on the front porch as we ate breakfast outside. Claiming the house was too quiet, Mom adopted Carnie from a neighbor one month after Dad's funeral, and constructed an extensive cage for him both indoors and out.
    Carnie could already imitate the sound of oncoming traffic, an ambulance siren, leaves rustling, the way Pete Sampras hit a tennis ball on TV. He could replicate my mother's voice completely, her contralto imitations of Judy Garland and Reba McEntire, the way she answered the phone.
What are you selling? I'm not interested.
    The bird moved from his perch to my shoulder without permission.
    Mom, I said. Get this damn bird off of me.
    Language! she warned. He's a sponge.
    I was still grieving Dad, and it was strange to watch Mom find so much joy in this ebony-beaked wiseass.
    What are you selling? he said. I already
have
car insurance. Carnie spoke with perfect inflection, but he addressed his words to the air—a song, not conversation.
    You can't take anything personally, Mom warned.
    The man of the house is
not
here, Carnie said. He's dead.
    You really take it easy on those telemarketers, I said, looking at Mom.
    Dead, dead, dead, Carnie said.
    That night he shredded the newspaper in his enclosure, which smelled like a stable. Lights out, Mom said, and tossed a threadbare beach towel over his cage. Carnie belted out the first verse of Patsy Cline's "Walkin' After Midnight," then fell silent for the evening. His parlor tricks seemed cheap, and I hated the easy way he'd endeared himself to Mom.
    Later that week, Carnie became violently protective of her. Wings clipped, he chased me on foot through the halls and hid behind door frames, not realizing his beak stuck out beyond the molding. As I tried to shoo him from the kitchen counter, he savagely bit my wrist and fingers. Then, days later, as if exchanged for a new bird, Carnie lightened up, and preened my hair while perched on the back of the couch.
    I'll take him to a specialist, Mom said, mildly apologetic for her bird's bipolar antics. She was a perfectionist, and I knew she wanted a bird she could be proud of. But I think part of her was flattered by Carnie's aggressive loyalty.
    Show me how you pet the bird, the behaviorist had said.
    Carnie, inching left and right on Mom's wrist, cocked his head to one side and shot us the eye. Like a whale, he gave us one side of his face at a time, revealing a tiny yellow iris, one that looked out at the world with remarkable clarity, ensconced in a white mask the size of a thumbprint.
    Mom ran her pointer finger down Carnie's chest.
    I don't know how to tell you this, the behaviorist said, but you've been sexually stimulating your parrot.
    Mom blushed.
    Inadvertently, the behaviorist said. Of course.
    He thinks I'm his mate? Mom asked.
    Less cuddling, the specialist said, more cage time.
     
    I called three places to find Carnie—the plumber who took him after Mom, the bird sanctuary he'd pawned the parrot off on, then the roadside zoo. Now the car is too warm and I'm falling asleep, but I don't want to blast Ike with the AC. He's playing card games on the console.
    Are we leaving so that people can move into our house? Ike asks.
    We're going to Ted's Roadside Zoo, I say.
    Go fish, Ike says. What's at the zoo?
    There's a bird I want to see, I say.
    What, he asks, is gin rummy?
    We pass a couple in a sedan. The woman is crying and flips down her visor.
    It's hard being a single mom, but it's easier than being a miserable wife. I hardly knew Ike's father; he was what I'd call a five-night stand. We used to get coffee at the same place before work. A director of the local college theater, he was a notorious flirt but already married. Separated, he'd claimed. He sends a little money each month, but doesn't want to be
involved.
The upside to our arrangement is simplicity.
    I put some pressure on the gas and pass a school bus.
    Did I tell you about Louis's mom? Ike says.