Tripping over a pile of dress shirts on the floor, I race for the square metal birdcage that sits atop my dresser. As the door slams into the wall, Lolo pulls back, wildly flapping her beige wings and bobbing her yellow head from side to side. Watching her reaction, I catch myself and quickly find my calm. Lolo does the same, lowering her wings and grinding her beak. Her head sways slowly as I catch my breath. Just seeing her, just the sight…
“Hi, Melissa — whattya doin’?” my cinnamon cockatiel asks. She’s got a bright orange circle on each cheek and a pointy yellow crest on her head that curves forward like a feathery tidal wave. “Melissa, whattya doin’?”
The joke’s too old to make me laugh — Lolo’s been calling me by her old owner’s name for almost seven years — but the counselor was right. Focal points are good. Though familiar voices are even better.
“Crap away,” I tell Lolo, who for some reason was trained to poop on command.
True to form, three tiny runny droppings splatter through the bottom of the cage onto the waiting newsprint, which I quickly replace, along with fresh food and water.
The bird was my dad’s idea. It was six months after the accident, when light switches and repetitive prayers were starting to overwhelm me. He’d heard the story from one of his students about a rape victim whose parents bought her a dog so she wouldn’t feel alone when she came home every night. I rolled my eyes. And not just because I’m allergic to dogs.
Still, people never understand. It was never just the bird. It was the need. The need to be needed.
With a quick flick of the lock, I open the cage and offer my left pointer finger as a perch. Lolo hops on immediately, riding it up to her usual spot on my right shoulder. I turn my face toward her, and she tries to bite at my cheek, which means she wants to be scratched. I crouch down to my tan-carpeted floor and cross my legs into Indian position as the stress of the day starts to wash away. Lolo nuzzles in close, her feathers tenderly tickling the grooves of my face. For all their vaunted eyesight, birds don’t see scars.
Her talons loosen their grip on my shoulder, and she lowers her crest, slicking it back Elvis-style. Within a minute, she’s already calmed down, and on most nights, that’d be enough to get me to do the same. But not tonight.
In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. As I check caller ID, I also see that I got two new messages just during the ride in the elevator. Scrolling down, I see all the old numbers. Current call is L.A. Times. Messages are CNN and Fox News. My answering machine at home is no better. Nineteen new messages. Family, friends, and the few reporters smart enough to track my home address. They all want the same thing. A piece of the action… piece of the story… piece of me.
The front door to the apartment swings open down the hall. “Wes, you still up?” Rogo calls out. His voice grows louder as he turns the corner. “Your light’s on, so if you’re touching yourself, now’s the time to stop!”
Lolo’s talons dig deep into my shoulder. I know exactly how she feels. The last thing I need is another person reminding me about Nico and Manning and Boyle and every other time bomb ticking in my life. How you doing? How you feeling? How you holding up? Enough with the damn—
My bedroom door opens slowly. Rogo’s been around long enough to know if he kicks it in, it’ll send Lolo flapping.
I look up from the carpet, just waiting for the onslaught of questions.
Rogo scratches at his bald head and leans his meatball physique against the door frame. “So… uh, I rented Purple Rain,” he says, pulling the movie from the red knapsack he calls his briefcase. “Figured we could… I don’t know… order some pizza, maybe just hang — and then, of course, spend some time rewinding the part where Apollonia jumps naked into the river.”
I sit there for a moment, digesting the offer.
“Hi, Melissa — whattya doin’?” Lolo squawks.
“Shut up, bird. I ain’t talking to you,” Rogo threatens.
A tiny smile lifts my left cheek. “Apollonia gets naked? You sure?” I ask.
“Wes, when I was sixteen, I wanted my first car to be a purple motorcycle. Now, who’s ready for some bad pizza and Prince doing that pouty thing with his lips? C’mon, Melissa, time to party like it’s 1999!”
He runs back up the hallway before I can even say thank you.
37
Nico knew they’d have them.
“Maps?” Nico asked, stepping into the gas station minimart and holding up the map of Michigan he took from Edmund’s truck.
“Back left,” a ponytailed attendant with peach-fuzz sideburns said without looking up from the small TV he was watching behind the counter.
Before Nico could even take a step, a loud chime rang from where he crossed into the electric eye of the automated doorbell. Wincing at the sound, he still wasn’t used to being out in public. But the way his heart was jackhammering with excitement, it didn’t slow him down.
Counting three surveillance cameras — one by the attendant, two in the aisles — Nico hit the brakes and eased his pace to a walk as he headed for the spinner rack of maps in the back. It was no different from his old assignments: No need to rush. Don’t look around. Disappear in the mundane.
He read most of the maps from halfway down the aisle. California, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware…
It was a good sign. But not half as good as stepping in and seeing that the central spine of the spinner rack was made up of dozens of intersecting metal crosses. Exhaling with relief, Nico practically laughed out loud. Of course his map would be here. Just like with Wes. As in the Book, God’s will was always clear.
Tucking his Michigan map under his armpit, he gave the spinner rack a confident whirl, going straight to the end. Sure enough. Second from the top. Right between Washington State and West Virginia. Washington, D.C.
Lightning bolts of adrenaline surged up Nico’s legs. He covered his mouth as his eyes flooded with tears of joy. Even though he never doubted… to finally see it after being denied for so long. The nest… the devil’s nest… the M Men buried it so long ago. And now the proof was back. “Thank you, Father,” Nico whispered.
Without even hesitating, he pulled the D.C. map from its metal tower, replacing it with the Michigan map he’d brought from the truck. Fair trade.
Wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm, he took a moment to catch his breath. Slowly heading back for the door, he tipped his baseball cap at the attendant. “Thanks for the help.”
As the ding-dong of the automated chime sounded, the attendant nodded without even looking up.
Outside, a deep gulp of the crisp South Carolina air chilled Nico’s lungs, but it didn’t come close to cooling the rising thrill bubbling inside his chest. Seeing Edmund pumping gas at the back of the flatbed, Nico darted for the front. As he ducked into the narrow gap between the front grille of Edmund’s truck and the back bumper of the truck in front of them, Nico blinked a fresh set of tears from his eyes. For eight years at St. Elizabeths, it was the one thing he never spoke of. The one truth they’d never understand. Sure, they figured out the crosses through observation, and the whispering to himself that he used to do in the early years. But this… like Number Three taught… Some secrets weren’t meant to be shared. And when it came to the nest…