The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(27)



Jessie pursed her lips in thought.

“After the war, he drifted a bit,” she said. “Had to find his way again. Happens sometimes to men who see too much. When he came back, he built that little cabin of his and took a job at the café. Been there ever since.”

I wasn’t sure which war she meant—the Gulf War? Iraq? Afghanistan?

Before I could sort it out, Simon came bounding down the stairs, dressed now in jeans and a blue plaid shirt open at the collar. His hair was damp, the waves combed back from his face. He was freshly shaven, trailing a light scent of something warm and spicy.

“You smell nice,” Laurel told him.

“Not me,” he said with a smile. “That’s bay rum.”

Olin stood and stretched, his joints cracking. “Let’s dig in!”

Laurel claimed the seat beside Simon, stealing sidelong glances. He took the chair across from me. Soon he, Olin and Jessie began rattling on about who was traveling where, building what, spending time with so-and-so.

If I’d been uneasy before, it was all the worse now. Family dinners back home were strained, even on good days. Small talk only irritated Jim, and for me it carried risk. I never knew from one day to the next which word or comment, however innocent, might set him off. Silence became my sanctuary.

Suddenly I was picturing that table again—wondering if Jim was sitting there, a single plate in front of him, a single glass, a knife, a fork, a spoon. Did he even bother with such things anymore? Or did he just root through the fridge, then stand at the counter eating over the sink like a bachelor? Was he thinking of us, wondering where we might be, biding his time, stoking his rage?

I glanced furtively around Jessie and Olin’s table, only vaguely aware that Olin was regaling them with a story about a horse he’d had as a young boy—a big, feisty Appaloosa that first taught him to swear. The others were laughing—even Laurel, her eyes bright. I took the cue and forced a smile.

A faint ringing started in my ears, growing louder.

More words then, more banter, but coming as if from a distance—disconnected, like static buzzing on that old radio in the front room, the needle casting back and forth for a clear signal to lock onto.

I wiped cold sweat from my upper lip and sipped at my water, willing my hand not to shake, fighting the rising panic.

I’d dreaded—even resented—the thought of company tonight, as if it were an intrusion on me. But now it was clear that I was the intruder. I was the outsider, a stranger in every sense, not this man sitting so easy, so appreciated, at their table.

I took up my knife and fork and began to saw pieces of chicken—sweet with the pear glaze but tasteless on my tongue. I cut the bits smaller and smaller and smaller . . .

Finally I stopped and stared at my plate, now sliding out of focus. My chest was tightening, squeezing the air from my lungs. I could feel myself surrendering to the growing static, drifting with it, the voices fusing together, receding to a rushing noise not unlike that creek outside . . .

“How about you, Joanna?”

The sound of my own name cut through the panic—through the rattle and noise filling my head to bursting. It seemed to come from a far place, but it was coming only from across the table, where Simon was watching me, holding the wine bottle, waiting. I blinked at him stupidly.

“Sorry?”

“More wine?” he asked.

I drew a steadying breath. “Yes, please. A little.”

He poured a small glass. “I understand you like to write. You must like books, then.”

“Yes.”

He waited, apparently expecting I had more to say on the subject. I struggled to oblige him.

“I don’t read much anymore,” I said. “Not since . . . not for a long time.”

“What did you like to read, when you did?”

His expression was open, friendly. He was only trying to engage me.

“Poetry,” I said at last.

“Anyone in particular?”

At least that question was easy. “I always liked Yeats.”

Simon paused, then began to recite: “‘Where the wandering water gushes from the hills above Glen-Car . . .’”

I gave him a thin smile. This poem I knew—as familiar as Laurel’s favorite bedtime books, read and reread a thousand times.

I finished the line for him: “‘In pools among the rushes that scarce could bathe a star.’ That’s from ‘The Stolen Child.’”

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