Free A Bird on a Windowsill by Laura Miller

his hard jaw and easy smile remain unchanged.
    “Salem. Come in.”
    He turns, and I follow him into the little farmhouse, taking my cap off as I do.
    I know Vannah’s Uncle Lester. On top of me always hanging around his office with Vannah when we were growing up, he just interviewed me for the basketball story he ran in the paper last week. But it is a little weird being in his house. It’s as if I’m invading his personal space or something.
    The house is small—one floor, maybe only two bedrooms, and not much is on the walls. Stacks of paper fill several corners, and I can’t help but notice the yellow surrounding the landline phone and covering the refrigerator. It’s as if he went to war with a pad of sticky notes, and the sticky notes won. In fact, it looks a lot like his newspaper office—just in house form.
    Vannah’s uncle never married. Everybody always said it was because he married his job. He’s owned the only paper in town for as long as I’ve been alive.
    “Savannah’s in her room. Says she’ll be out in a minute. Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat.”
    “All right.” I look around the living room for a place to sit down. All the surfaces seem to be occupied by paper.
    Eventually, though, I find an older, leather chair with just this week’s newspaper lying on it, and I pick up the paper and sit down.
    “You know, I remember you and Savannah playing out behind the paper when you were only yea tall.” He holds his hand parallel to the floor, about waist-high.
    I lower my head and laugh to myself. “Yeah, I remember that, too.”
    He looks at me then, like he wants to say something or he’s waiting for me to say something or something, so I just start talking.
    “This is a nice place.”
    “Yeah,” he says, looking around. “It suits me. Been in the family for a long time.”
    I nod and notice a photo sitting on a table in the corner of the room. It’s of a guy and a girl. The guy looks as if he could be Lester—a young Lester with dark, shaggy hair and black-rimmed glasses. But I don’t recognize the girl.
    “Olivia,” he says, catching me off guard.
    “Sir?”
    “The girl in the photo. It’s Olivia Ryan.”
    “Oh,” I say, not really knowing what to say next.
    He sighs and walks over to the little table.
    “You know how they say we all have that one great love in our lives?”
    I’m not sure if he wants me to answer, but he’s awful quiet after that, so I just do.
    “I...I guess,” I stutter.
    He smiles.
    “Well, she was mine.”
    And if I didn’t know what to say a minute ago, I sure as hell don’t know what to say now. So, I just watch him as he picks up the frame and touches the photo, like he’s wishing he could bring it to life or something.
    “What happened to her?” And maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but it was quiet, and I don’t know what to do with the quiet sometimes.
    He sighs and sets the frame back down onto the little table. “She married some guy, moved to Colorado and had two children.”
    It doesn’t sound like a sad story. I was bracing myself for something tragic, like a car accident or some illness. Even so, the story sounds sad, coming from him.
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    “No.” He shakes his head. “My own damn fault. You live. You learn, huh?”
    He glances up at me, and I nod, slowly. “I imagine that’s right.”
    I watch him then as he walks back over to the chair across from me, picks up a stack of papers and takes a seat.
    “You’re wearing a chain,” he says, pointing to my chest.
    I look down and notice the key dangling from my neck. I immediately feel embarrassed. I always keep it tucked inside my shirt.
    “Yeah,” I say, trying to get it back where it belongs.
    “It got any significance?”
    He’s nosy, but I guess I probably should have expected that, coming into a newspaper guy’s house.
    “Nah. Not really.”
    He nods his head and makes a face like he’s satisfied enough with my answer, but I can’t