that my father—not a mythic hero, not a superman, but just a good man—was a
solitary traveler in the wilderness of anguish.
“I did everythin’ they asked me to,” he said. “Worked a double route.
Picked up the slack when it needed pickin’ up. Got there early and stayed late
doin’ stock work. I did whatever they wanted.” He looked up, trying to find
the sun, but the clouds were plates of iron. “They said, Tom, you have to
understand how it is.’ They said, ‘We’ve got to cut to the bone to keep Green
Meadows afloat.’ And you know what else they said, Cory?”
“No sir.”
“They said home milk delivery is as dead as the dinosaurs. They said
there’s no room for it in all those shelves of plastic jugs. They said the
future is gonna be easy come and easy go, and that’s what people want.” He
laced his fingers together, a muscle in his gaunt jaw working. “That’s not
what I want.”
“We’ll be all right,” I said.
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded. “Yes, we will be. I’ll find somethin’ else. I went
by the hardware store before I came here and wrote up an application. Mr.
Vandercamp Junior might need a truck driver. Heck, I’d work behind a cash
register. But I really did think that in three more years I’d be an assistant
foreman on the loadin’ dock. I really did. Dumb, huh?”
“You didn’t know.”
“I never know,” he said. “That’s my trouble.”
The water rippled as the wind swept across it, kicking up little
wavelets. In the woods beyond, unseen crows cawed. “It’s cold, Dad,” I said.
“We ought to go home.”
“I can’t wait for your granddad to find out about this.” He was talking
about the Jaybird. “Won’t he have a fine old laugh?”
“Mom and me won’t be laughin’,” I said. “Neither will anybody else.”
He picked up the grape juice jug and took another long swig. “Went by Big
Paul’s Pantry, too. I walked in there and saw all that milk. A white sea of
it.” He looked at me again. His lips were blue. “I want things to stay the way
they are. I don’t want a gum-chewin’ girl who doesn’t know my name to take my
money and not even smile when I ask her how she’s doin’. I don’t want
supermarkets open until eight o’clock at night and full of lights that hurt
your eyes. Families ought to be home together at eight o’clock at night, not
out at the supermarket buyin’ stuff that the big banners hangin’ from the
ceilin’ say you ought to buy. I mean… if it goes so far, even in the little
ways, we can’t ever go back. And someday somebody’ll say, ‘Oh, it’s so fine we
can go to the supermarket after dark and we can pick and choose from shelves
of stuff we’ve never even heard of before, but whatever happened to those
milkmen, or those fellas used to sell watermelons out of the back of their
trucks, or that woman who sold fresh vegetables right out of her garden and
smiled like the sun when you said good mornin’?’ Somebody’ll say, ‘Oh, they
sell all those things at the supermarket now, and you don’t have to go hither
and yon to buy what you need, it’s all under one roof. And why don’t they do
that to everythin’? Just put a whole town’s stores under one roof so the rain
won’t fall on you and you won’t get cold. Wouldn’t that be a jim-dandy idea?’”
My father worked his knuckles for a moment. “And then you’ll have stores and
roads and houses, but you won’t have towns anymore. Not the way they are now.
And you’ll walk into one of those stores under one roof and you’ll ask for
somethin’ and the gum-chewin’ girl’ll say no, we don’t have that. We don’t
have that, and we can’t get it for you because they don’t make that anymore.
That’s not what people want, you see. People only want what the big banners
hangin’ from the ceilin’ tell them to want. We only have those things, and
they’re made by machines a thousand a minute. But they’re perfect, she’ll say.
Not an imperfection in the lot. And when you use it up or get tired of it or
when the banners change, you can just throw it away because it’s made to be
thrown away. Now! she’ll say, How many of these perfect things do you need
today, and please hurry because there’s a line behind you.”
He was silent. I heard his knuckles crack.
“It’s just one supermarket,” I said.
“The first one,” he replied.
He narrowed his eyes, and for maybe a minute he stared out at the lake as
the wind scrawled patterns across its surface.
“I hear you,” he said softly.
I knew who he was talking to. “Dad? Can we go home?”
“You go on. I’m gonna sit here and listen to my friend.”
I heard the wind and the crows, but I knew my father heard another voice.
“What’s he sayin’, Dad?”
“He’s sayin’ the same thing he always says. He’s sayin’ he’s not gonna
let me alone until I come with him, down in the dark.”
Tears came to my eyes. I blinked them away. “You’re not gonna go, are
you?”
“No, son,” he said. “Not today.”
I almost told him about Dr. Lezander. My mouth opened, but my brain posed
a question: What would I tell my father? That Dr. Lezander didn’t like milk
and was a night owl, and Vernon Thaxter believed those were the qualities of a
killer? What came out of my mouth was: “The Lady knows things, Dad. She can
help us if we ask her.”
“The Lady,” he repeated. His voice sounded thick. “She pulled a good one
on Biggun Blaylock, didn’t she?”
“Yes sir, she did. She could help us if we go see her.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not.” He frowned, as if the thought of asking the Lady’s
help caused him deep pain. It was surely no worse than the pain already lodged
and festering. “I’ll tell you what,” he said as the frown went away. “I’ll ask
my friend what he thinks.”
I was scared for him. Very, very scared. “Please come home soon,” I told
him.
“I will.” He nodded. “Soon.”
I left him there, sitting on the boulder under the low gray clouds. When
I made my way to Rocket, I looked back and saw him standing on the boulder’s
edge. His attention was fixed on the water below him, as if he were searching
for the trace of a car in those terrible depths. I started to call to him, to
warn him away from the edge, but then he walked back to where he’d been and
sat down again.
Not today, he’d said. I had to believe him.
I pedaled home the way I’d come, and I had way too much on my mind to
even give a thought to the beast from the lost world.
The following days were gray and cold, the hills around Zephyr brown as
the grass on Poulter Hill. We entered December, the jolly month. Dad was
around some days when I got home from school, and some days he was not. Mom,
who suddenly appeared strained and tired beyond her years, said he was out
looking for work. I hoped he wasn’t back on that boulder, contemplating the
future in a mirror of black glass.
The mothers of my friends were supportive. They started bringing over
covered dishes, baskets of biscuits, homemade canned goods, and such. Mr.
Callan promised to bring us some venison from his first kill of the season.
Mom insisted on baking everyone cakes in return. Dad ate the food, but I could
tell it was killing him to take such obvious charity. Evidently the hardware
store didn’t need a truck driver, nor did it need another man behind the cash
register. Often at night I heard Dad up and about, rambling around the house.
It started being that he slept much of the day, until eleven or so, and
remained awake until after four in the morning. It was a night owl’s hours.
One Saturday afternoon Mom asked me to ride to the Woolworth’s on
Merchants Street and pick her up a box of cake pans. I started out, Rocket
easy beneath me. I went to the store, bought the cake pans, and started back.
I stopped in front of the Bright Star Cafe.
Mr. Eugene Osborne worked in there. Mr. Eugene Osborne had been in the
Big Red One infantry division. And Mr. Eugene Osborne knew German curse words
when he heard them.
This had been nagging at me, like a small little demon’s voice at the
back of my head, since the night we’d gone to the Brandywine Carnival. How
could a parrot know German curse words if its owner spoke no German? And
something else I remembered Mr. Osborne saying: Wasn’t just cursin’, either.
There were other German words in there, but they were all garbled up.
How could such a thing be?
I left Rocket outside and walked into the Bright Star.
It wasn’t much of a place, just a few tables and booths and a counter
where people could sit on stools and jaw with the two waitresses, old Mrs.
Madeline Huckabee and younger Carrie French. I have to say that Miss French
got most of the attention, because she was blond and pretty and Mrs. Huckabee
resembled two miles of bad road. But Mrs. Huckabee had been a waitress at the
Bright Star long before I was born, and she ruled the cafe with an iron
glance. The Bright Star was by no means very active this time of day, but a
few people were inside drinking coffee, most of them elderly retired men. Mr.
Cathcoate was among them, sitting in a booth reading a newspaper. The
television above the counter was on. And sitting at the counter grinning at
Miss French was none other than whale-sized Mr. Dick Moultry.
He saw me, and his grin vanished like a ghost at dawn.
“Hi, there!” Miss French said, offering me a sunny smile as I approached
the counter. If it weren’t for her buck teeth, she might have been as lovely
as Chile Willow. “What can I do for you?”
“Is Mr. Osborne here?”
“Sure is.”
“Can I talk to him, please?”
“Hold on a minute.” She went to the window between the counter and the
kitchen. I noticed Mr. Moultry’s huge belly pressing against the counter’s
edge as he leaned forward to get a look at her legs. “Eugene? Somebody wants
to talk to you!”
“Who?” I heard him ask.
“Who?” she asked me. Miss French didn’t move in my circles, and I didn’t
come into the Bright Star enough to warrant recognition.
“Cory Mackenson.”
“Oh, are you Tom’s boy?” she inquired, and I nodded. “Tom’s boy!” she
told Mr. Osborne.
My dad, like the Beach Boys, got around. I felt Mr. Moultry watching me.
He took a loud slurp of coffee, trying to get my attention, but I didn’t favor
him with it.
Mr. Osborne walked through a swinging door. He was wearing an apron and a
white cap, and he wiped his hands on a cloth. “Afternoon,” he said. “What can
I do for you?”
Mr. Moultry was leaning forward, all ears and belly. I said, “Can we sit
down? Over there, maybe?” I motioned toward a back booth.
“Guess so. Lead the way.”
When we’d gotten situated, with my back to Mr. Moultry, I said, “I was at
Miss Glass’s house when you brought Winifred in for her piano lesson.”
“I remember that.”
“You remember the parrot? You said it was cursin’ in German.”
“If I know German, it was. And I do.”
“Do you remember what else the parrot was sayin’?”
Mr. Osborne leaned back in the booth. He cocked his head to one side, his
hand with its U.S. ARMY tattoo on the fingers toying with a fork from the
place setting. “What’s all this about, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Nothin’ special.” I shrugged. “It just got my curiosity up, that’s all.”
“Your curiosity, huh?” He smiled faintly. “You came in here to ask me
what a parrot said?”
“Yes sir.”
“That was almost three weeks ago. How come you didn’t want to know before
now?”
“I guess I had other things on my mind.” I had wanted to know, of course,
but with the escape of the beast from the lost world and Dad’s losing his job,
I hadn’t given it the highest priority.
“I don’t rightly remember what it said, except for the spicy words I
couldn’t repeat to you without Tom’s permission.”
“I didn’t know my dad came in here.”
“Sometimes he does. He came in to fill out an application.”
“Oh. Gosh,” I said. “I didn’t know my dad could cook.”
“Dishwasher,” Mr. Osborne said, watching me carefully. I think I flinched
a little. “Actually, Mrs. Huckabee does all the hirin’. Runs this place like
boot camp, she does.”
I nodded, trying not to meet his steady gaze.
“That parrot,” he said, and his smile widened. “That blue parrot. Cursed
a blue streak. Not surprisin’, though, is it? Since he belonged to Miss Blue
Glass, I mean.”
“I guess not.” I hadn’t known any adults called her Miss Blue Glass.
“What’s this about, Cory? Really.”
“I want to be a writer,” I answered, though I don’t know why. “Stuff like
this is interestin’ to me.”
“A writer? Like writin’ stories and all?”
“Yes sir.”
“Seems like that would be a hard row to hoe.” He put his elbows on the
table. “Is this… like… research for a story or somethin’?”
“Yes sir.” I saw a ray of light. “Yes sir, it sure is!”
“You’re not writin’ a story about Miss Blue Glass, are you?”
“I’m writin’… a story about a parrot,” I said. “That speaks German.”
“Are you, now? Well, how about that! When I was your age, I wanted to be
a detective or a soldier. I got my wish on one count.” He looked at his
tattooed fingers. “I think I might’ve been better off bein’ a detective,” he
said with a quiet sigh that spoke volumes about what real-life soldiering was
as opposed to playing out scenes from Combat in the woods.
“Can you remember what else that parrot said, Mr. Osborne?”
He grunted, but his smile was still friendly. “If you’ve got to have
determination to be a writer, you’re well on your way. Is knowin’ all this so
important to you?”
“Yes sir. It’s real important.”
Mr. Osborne paused, thinking it over. Then he said, “It was all jumbled
up, really. Didn’t make a whole lot of sense.”
“I’d just like to know.”
“Let’s see, then. Got to crank my mind back some. I’ll tell you a
secret.” He leaned forward a little. “When you work with Mrs. Huckabee, you
hear a lot of blue language.” I looked around for her, but she was either in
the kitchen or the rest room. “I remember the parrot sayin’ somethin’ about—”
He closed his eyes, bringing it back. “Who knows?”
“Can’t you remember?” I prodded.
