Free Byrd by Kim Church

can’t remember the name of. Something with soft, damp petals.
    She’s swishing around him like a nervous cat, singing that song, “Up on the Roof,” by James Taylor or Joni Mitchell or Carole King, one of the people she listens to. He should learn the song so that next time, if there is a next time, he can play it for her the way it ought to sound, jazzy and light—the way you feel when you’re on a roof.
    He packs the food in his gym bag, the peaches and eggs and smoothies and fries and wine and barbecue. He strips the orange blanket off the sofa bed. Then they climb out the window and up the metal ladder, past the fourth floor—only one flight, but in the wind, carrying their picnic, it feels like more. An outing , his mother would call it. Addie goes first, clinging to the rail. A warm breeze is blowing. Her cotton skirt balloons above him; he can see her legs all the way up to her lace panties. Her legs are like stalks, thin and straight and pale. No one in L.A. has legs so pale.
    â€œRoland,” she says, her red hair whipping around her head, “if I let go, will you catch me?”
    â€œSure, baby.”
    He isn’t in love with her. Nobody’s talking about love. But if she fell, yes, he would catch her, because she believes he could. She has known him forever and trusts him anyway, and for that he would give her everything. His groceries, his coke if he had any, his roof, his big warm California sky, his ocean.
    The picnic does not turn out as he’s planned.
    Addie sits stiff as a queen on the orange blanket, nibbling at her sandwich, now and then flapping her hand in the air to shoo a swooping gull. If she’d just finish eating, the bird would leave her alone. He doesn’t know why she’s taking such tiny bites, why she chews and chews and chews, unless it’s to avoid talking. She’s too quiet, not her usual chatterbox self.
    He tries pouring wine into her cup and she stops him.
    â€œWhat are those mountains?” she asks.
    â€œThe Santa Monicas.”
    â€œThey look like elephants.”
    â€œElephants?”
    â€œIt’s a Hemingway story,” she says. She sounds impatient, irritated with him. “‘Hills Like White Elephants.’ Except those hills aren’t white, they’re sort of brownish-gray. Taupe.”
    â€œ I read a book,” he says. “I saw a show on public TV about John Steinbeck and the next day I went out and got Of Mice and Men . Fucking blew me away. I loved that guy Lenny.” What he doesn’t say, what he’s afraid to say, is that he watched the show and read the book for her .
    â€œThe one you ought to read,” she says, “is The Grapes of Wrath . The greatest road book ever written.”
    â€œIsn’t it like ten thousand pages long?”
    She squints at the horizon. “Those hills don’t really look like elephants.”
    He opens the peaches and they eat them out of the can. “Last one’s yours,” he offers, but she pushes the spoon away.
    â€œThe Hemingway story,” she says, “is about a girl who gets pregnant. She and her boyfriend are trying to decide what she should do.”
    â€œWhat do they decide?” He’s being polite. Why the hell is she still talking about this story?
    â€œNothing, Roland,” she says. “Nothing. I’m pregnant.”
    â€œOh,” he says. “Oh.” Fuck. Of course. A girl who gets pregnant . That explains everything—her nervousness, her moodiness. Her not-drinking. He can’t believe he didn’t figure it out himself. Even her coming back so soon. Of course she would think she had to tell him in person; that’s Addie. Dutiful, pale, pregnant Addie.
    He imagines her packing for her trip. Choosing what to wear. Picking out the story she would use.
    If only he were a reader.
    She’s starting to cry now, but not hard. He puts his arm around her. “It’s