Free Treasure Island!!! by Sara Levine Page B

renting a van and helping me to pack.
    â€œLars, don’t make this awkward,” I said when it was almost time for me to depart. “My mom’s outside. Richard is a good bird and I want you to keep him as a souvenir of what you and I had together.”
    We were standing in his living room, one of us with a calfskin bag jauntily slung over her shoulder, the other looking rumpled and depressed in relaxed fit khakis. I wanted him to take the bird, but in no way feel he was doing me a favor.
    â€œWell, if you won’t take him as a gift, then take him to square the count. I’m sure I owe you something for these months, and he’s the only thing I’ve got that’s worth anything.” I shifted the bag on my shoulder.
    Lars looked at the floor and shook his head.
    â€œIt’s funny, Lars, I just got through telling Rena how different you are. I said, Richard’s like our child, Lars feeds him and holds him and plays with him, he would never just sail off like he never knew him. ‘I don’t know,’ said Rena. ‘You’d be surprised.’ ‘Come on, Rena,’ I said. ‘Think about it! Without Lars, whose glasses would Richard peck? I don’t wear glasses since the Lasik!’ And Rena said—”
    From the street came the husky belch of a garbage truck.
    I changed tack. “Look, I’ll give you fifty bucks if you’ll take the bird now, fifty bucks when I get settled, and five bucks a week for upkeep. You’re a fool if you don’t see you can turn a profit.”
    â€œWhat in god’s name are you talking about? I don’t want to make a profit!” Lars sank into a chair, whipped off his glasses and buried his face in his hands.
    I had seen him do this before—once when his great uncle, three times removed, had had a stroke; and another time when he was peeved at me for not understanding why he’d been so upset that his great uncle, three times removed, had had a stroke (I’d accused him of dramatizing). Then he’d covered his face with his hands for a full minute; now he curled into the posture and remained there, incommunicado, for almost five.
    The front door cracked open.
    â€œHalloo?” my mother said. “Oh! Is this a bad time?”
    Lars did not remove his face from his hands.
    â€œI came to get the keys to the basement. My goodness, is he all right? Don’t let’s drive off and leave him like that. Maybe I should call his mother.”
    â€œMy mother!” Lars said, as if she had thrown a bucket of ice water to break his enchantment. His hands found his glasses, his glasses found his nose; he jumped up and passionately smacked the wall. “Why would anyone call my mother? My mother isn’t even speaking to me!”—and then, as if suddenly remembering his manners, he broke off, excused himself, and went into the bedroom. He closed the door, but very quietly.
    â€œDamn! Do you know how close I was to wrapping things up here? I asked you to wait in the van.”
    â€œI came to see if there’s anything you want me to carry out of the apartment,” my mother replied. “To put in that van.”
    Hurriedly I gave her my fondue pot, my hairdryer, Lars’s Foot Fixer, which he never used, the keys to the basement and my calfskin bag, which contained
Treasure Island
. “Don’t swing it around like mad,” I said.
    â€œI won’t.”
    Lars came out from the bedroom.
    â€œExcuse my recent outburst. I can talk again about the bird.”
    â€œThat’s quite all right,” my mother said, as if the tiff had been between him and her. “Do you mind if I have a peek at Richard? I’ve never actually seen him.”
    â€œI thought you were going,” I reminded her.
    Lars pulled the cloth off the cage.
    â€œIt’s big, it’s hot, it’s back!” Richard shrieked.
    â€œOh my,” my mother said. “Look at