Free Bird by Noy Holland Page B

says.
    And drops his pants from the bridge.
    â€œHey, take a little one of me.”
    What to do? Lock your babies in a closet in the dark all day and slide rice under the door? Keep them out of the sun, keep the wind from their eyes, keep them off the country road. From TV, keep them, and victorious boys, heroes hoisting the flag. From the man in a hood with the white of his palms opened skyward, wired, by head and foot and hand. From that. The next war, war to end all wars, first war of the brand new century, the unrelenting brassy gong. The poor pagans, the un- and under-chosen, the great sweeping cry to arms. To Swords! Face the Nation. From that, keep them. From the static of indecision. From desire and the absence of desire. The fly in the web that does itself in by flying. By tattered wings, by tiny dry ambitions. From that, keep them. From me, Bird thinks—goer-between, meddler. Damp consoling shade.
    She could write a letter, fat chance. Scrub commodes. Here’s that respite, the solitary hours—before suppertime, before the school bus comes. What to do, what to do. Try the treadmill—right.
    â€œYou’d feel better,” says her husband, says Suzie.
    â€œBetter than what?” Bird says.
    â€œYou think I’m fat?” she asked her boy. “You think Mama’s too fat?”
    He looked her over.
    â€œTo do what?”
    The baby’s arms swing up, silly baby, asleep: she thinks she is falling out of a tree.
    Bird washes a fork. Pays a bill and walks it to the mailbox. Comes back and picks up the phone. She won’t answer, Bird thinks, but Suzie answers.
    â€œYour poet?” Bird asks.
    â€œElsewhere. He went out for chips and beer.”
    â€œAnd he’s behaving? You’re okay?”
    â€œYou worry too much.”
    â€œIt’s a habit. It’s a reason for living.”
    â€œAh, that one,” Suzie says.
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    â€œBet you five bucks I’ll never.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’ve been drinking, Bird. I hear it. You’ve been thinking and it isn’t good. The world’s done for. We’ve trashed the planet. There won’t be water when your babies are grown.”
    â€œI can’t help it.”
    â€œSugar, you have to. Walk.”
    â€œI just did.”
    â€œDo it again. Get out. Try dancing. Make Doctor Said So keep the babies and go out and have a high time. I’ll set you up, sugar. It’s Italian you want, you want a Frenchman? In a heartbeat, with that hair of yours, I could find you aclassy Latin. Why not? Dance a little, sugar. Let him sweat on you. Let him back you into the back of the room.”
    â€œEnough.”
    â€œEnough?” Suzie laughs. “It’s almost nothing.”
    â€œI don’t know why I called,” Bird says.
    â€œYou’re drunk, is why. And you’re lonesome. You want someone to say his name to, but you won’t, not even to me.”
    â€œIt’s easy for you. You talk to him.”
    â€œI do what I want. That’s me. You’re afraid to want anything. You say his name and the scenery goes to pieces. What I think? You should get in your car and find him. Leave your babies. Go to him. Find out who he still is. He’s in—”
    â€œCut it out, Suzie Q. Don’t tell me.”
    â€œWhy not? He’s in church next door in his underpants. He’s in Ushuaia, look it up, where I saw him last, at the far away tip of the world.”
    â€œYou loved him, too, don’t forget.”
    â€œFool me once,” Suzie says, “many years ago.”
    â€œThat worked nicely.”
    â€œDon’t gloat,” Suzie says. “I wanted sunshine.”
    â€œYou wanted Mickey. A kitchen sink and a gingham apron. A patch of grass to mow.”
    â€œI’ll let you go now, Bird. I’m going.”
    â€œYou wanted to make little red-haired babies!”
    â€œThe one time and never