Free Winter Birds by Jamie Langston Turner Page A

sound to hear every word they speak to one another, follow them home to record private discussions concerning the disposition of money and goods. Note the difference between their public and private faces during these few days of official grieving. Look closely and you will see many dollar signs in their eyes. Finding a family to participate in the show would not pose a problem. Most people are willing to do almost anything for the right price.
    The program would be what they call “a hit.” The major problem would be getting a funeral home to cooperate, for if the public were to see the indignities performed in the embalming room and observe the cheap imitations of sorrow, the funeral industry would be out of business in short order. Family members would begin hurling the bodies of their dead relatives into canyons or dropping them into the ocean. Do not speak to me of desecrating the bodies of the deceased. It happens daily in funeral homes all over the continent of North America.
    For the past five days my meals have continued on schedule. I assume they have been an inconvenience for Rachel, though I have heard no complaints. On Monday her stove and refrigerator were moved into the garage, where they were plugged into a 220 outlet. The meals have been simple and the desserts have suffered, but they have arrived on time, morning, noon, and night. A few have been purchased by Patrick elsewhere and brought home to be transferred to a plate, then onto the tray, and delivered to my bedroom by Rachel. I do not know where she and Patrick have taken their meals. I have not heard any part of their mealtime conversations—another small part missing from my daily routine, another reason for the week’s slow passage.
    Rachel has plodded through the week silently, doing her duty. I cannot imagine having to cook in one’s garage. She is cleaning the last set of wooden blinds now, bending to reach the lowest slats. She is wearing a pair of denim jeans and a sweatshirt with OCTOBER BALLOON FESTIVAL printed on the front and a large colorful hot air balloon pictured on the back. This event was held last month, a few days after my arrival at Patrick’s house. Patrick urged me to go with them to the festival, but hot air balloons in the sky and crowds of people on the ground were of no interest to me.
    A week after the festival he brought the sweatshirt home to Rachel, telling her they had hundreds left over and were selling them for five dollars each. Perhaps it was because of the unpopular color, a bright orange, or perhaps because the order had been mixed up—the picture of the balloon intended for the front and the name of the event for the back. Patrick’s generous impulses soared when he saw the bargain, and he bought one for his wife. Gaudy colors and reversed designs do not matter to Patrick, nor apparently to Rachel, for she wears the sweatshirt frequently.
    She is finished now. She steps back and turns slowly, taking in the entire room, as if looking for areas she may have missed. It is nearing four o’clock. Danno has already successfully booked another criminal on Hawaii Five-O , and Gomer Pyle has been making a fool of himself for almost a half hour, cheerily countering every exasperated outburst from Sergeant Carter with his usual countrified simplicity. Gomer says, “Shazam, that shore is nass of you, Sergeant Carter!” and Rachel glances at the television.
    “I’m sorry we’ve had to put you out this week,” she says. “I sure didn’t know Patrick was planning on having all this work done. Looks like we could’ve done it before you came.”
    This is a long speech for Rachel. I also realize it’s as close to criticizing her husband as she is likely to come.
    “There is no way to know what a man is going to do next,” I say. “And there’s no reasoning with them when they get something in their minds.”
    As if wishing to restore her husband’s good standing, she says, “Patrick says he’s bringing