The Birds of Brookside Manor

By Addison L. Jones

Beverly Grady may just be the world's loneliest woman. Her husband is dead, she hates her sister, and she has no friends-other than the birds she watches every day in her yard.

 

When she finds out her late husband left behind mountains of debt, she has no choice but to downgrade her lifestyle, moving from her dream house to a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blydyn Square Books
• Release date: Nov 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781088120699

Book preview

Part 1:

A Bird in the Bush

1

Birder’s Journal: March 2

American Robin (Turdus migratorius)

Identification: Males have dark gray or brown back and wing feathers, reddish-orange chest; females have same color pattern, slightly duller

Length: 8–11 inches

Wingspan: 12–16 inches

Weight: 2.7–3.0 ounces

Habitat: Open woodlands, fields, yards, and gardens

Diet: Eats a wide variety, including fruits and berries, worms, caterpillars, and grubs

Robin redbreast. First of the season. What's that old song? Robin redbreast, have you any wool?

No, that's not right. What is it?

Beverly!

I turn.

Jesus, Beverly, I've called your name four times. Do you need a hearing aid? I wouldn’t be surprised, at your age.

My age? She’s two years younger. If I’m old, then Eve is, too. I sigh. No. I don’t need a hearing aid. I was just looking at the robin outside. Sign of spring.

She shakes her head. Whatever. She digs through a box and pulls out my binoculars—my precious binoculars. Beverly, what the hell? Do you really need all of these?

Of course I do.

"Three pairs of binoculars? Really? Unless you're cop on a stakeout, one pair should be more than sufficient."

I suck back another sigh of disgust. For a younger sister, she has always been remarkably willing to question my older, wiser judgment. Isn’t she supposed to look up to me, maybe even idolize me a little? Ha! Not in our family. I’m lucky they remembered to feed me, that I even survived childhood at all. And Eve was no help along the way. I want to lash out, say something nasty, get her off my back, but that’s not my style. Never has been. So I just say softly, You don't understand birding.

You're damn right about that, Eve mutters.

Most of the time, it’s just not worth picking a fight—or, rather, letting her start one. But it is fun to play with her a little, so I pretend like I didn’t hear her. What?

Nothing. She shoves the binoculars­, all three pairs, back into the box and drops a piece of bubble wrap (much too loosely for my taste) over the top of them.

She wipes her hands on her slacks. "You do understand that you’re moving to an apartment, right? No woods, no fields, probably not all that many birds."

The robin outside the window has caught a worm. Good for you, buddy, I think. I barely manage to suppress a cheer.

There are birds everywhere, I say, forcing myself to turn away from the window and look at my sister. They're basically dinosaurs, you know.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever.

I hate when people say Whatever. It's so rude and dismissive. I would go so far as to suggest that it’s the worst thing you can say to another person. One of the worst, anyhow. To say whatever means you don’t care enough about the other person to be part of the conversation. You should say what you really mean—don't just end the dialogue. That’s cowardly. Not that I should talk about cowardice. I could probably win some sort of timidity award, if there happened to be such a thing. Too bad there isn’t. I could use any sort of cash prize that might come with it.

Beverly!

I shake my head hard, trying to reset my brain. Sometimes, mostly on the rare occasions that I have to be around other people, I realize I have far too rich an inner life. Then again, I find myself—and my birds—a lot more interesting than most people. Yes?

What do you say we pare down a bit? Just two sets of binoculars?

I sigh. Whatever, I say, wishing she would notice that I'm being sarcastic. Knowing she won't, I suddenly feel even more alone. I wrap my arms around my elbows; it feels like a chill has just run through the room. Just make sure you don't throw away the Nikons.

She sneers, holding them up. These? They're all scratched up and crappy.

I take a deep breath and force myself to count to ten. It's anger management.  I read about it in a magazine once, back in the olden days when I could still afford luxuries like magazines. One . . . two . . . three . . .

Beverly!

I blow out a stream of hot breath. The Nikons were David's. I want to keep them. You've already given all his clothes and everything away to Goodwill. I’m keeping his binoculars.

I see her flinch out of the corner of my eye. She hates when I mention David. She doesn't want to be reminded that my husband is dead. She doesn't like to think that anybody she knows well could die. It means she’ll die someday, too. People like my sister (I think they’re called narcissists) are always afraid of death.

Okay, she says. Fine. Whatever. I'll just put all three pairs back in this box. Sort them out yourself. I can’t be bothered with your birdy nonsense.

I smile to myself. It's the first battle I have ever won with her. Sixty-five years. I guess I was due.

So, do you like the new place? she asks, moving on to start packing another box. Her voice is too chipper—it sounds false, like a human being trying to mimic a bird call. I fight the urge to slap her—though I guess you can’t really call it an urge if you know there’s absolutely no chance in the world you’ll act on it. More like a wish. A dream. What is that line? A dream devoutly to be wished? Something like that . . .

Beverly! Christ, I’m serious. Are you getting senile? You’ve always been vapid, but this is ridiculous.

I have to shake my head like a dog next to force myself to pay attention to her. What?

I asked you a question. The new place? It's nice?

I sighed. It's a lousy little apartment, Eve. There's nothing nice about it, except that it's cheaper than here.

I envy you, she goes on, pretty much ignoring me. She’s talking to hear herself talk. Makes sense. She is her favorite person. I don’t even make the list. You get a fresh start, new place, new people. It's exciting. Her voice still has that overenthusiastic, fake quality: the same tone it usually has when she’s talking to other people, not just me. Realizing she’s using her other people voice on me suddenly annoys me. She's just not . . . genuine. I may not be cool or smart or confident or any of the words somebody might put on a list of desirable human qualities, but at least I am what you see. I don’t try to be anything else.

I don't like people all that much, I say to her, turning back to the window. The robin is gone; only a small patch of dirt is left, the hole from which he must've pulled his worm. Good for you, little guy, I think. Good for you.

You're antisocial, Beverly, Eve says. Always have been.

Maybe I wasn't popular in school like you, but that doesn't make me antisocial, I say.

It kinda does.

"Kinda? You sound like you're fifteen years old, I say. Even I know it's creepy, or whack or whatever the kids are saying today, for someone registered with AARP to talk like that."

Age is just a number.

My sister is a walking version of a badly embroidered pillow; she’s chock full of pithy, saccharine sayings.

Whatever, I whisper. I wish I had the guts to say it loud enough for her to hear, but despite six decades of constant friction between us, I’ve never found the strength to really stand up to her. Or anybody. It just seems easier to let other people do what they like and hope they’ll leave me alone. It’s the human version of playing possum. Heck, it’s gotten me this far. Why change now?

Eve takes over when we get to the new apartment. I have to admit, I’m almost grateful she’s here. She's bossy with the movers, pointing and shouting, and, at times, giggling and flirting with the one who seems to be in charge. He's older than the other movers by a good three decades, but he’s still too young for her. Not only that, but Eve seems to have forgotten that she's married. It's none of my business, I guess. But she does look like an old fool. That makes me smile a little. I’m always happy to see Eve get some much-deserved comeuppance, especially since I’m no good at giving it to her myself.

I let her feel important, let her direct the orchestra, so to speak. I don't care where all my stuff goes. Not really. As long as the movers don’t put my bed in the kitchen, I'll be fine. Fine, fine, fine. Just me, alone in a new place. All fine.

I suppress a shudder of terror, and wander to the back of the apartment. The tiny dining room will barely hold my table, much less the sideboard and wine rack David and I bought right after we built our home. At the back of the room are some sliding glass doors covered by cheap-looking white plastic Venetian blinds. I pull them open, trying to ignore the awful, human-like squeal they make as I drag them along the metal track, and look outside.

The courtyard is gray and depressing. Maybe it's just the leftover traces of snow on the ground. Or the fact that the view is of the back end of all the other apartments. Which means, since it's technically still winter, the patios are just storage bins full of covered-over grills and rusted-out lawn furniture. Or maybe it's the lovely focal point management has seen fit to set up at the dead center of the yard. No, it's not a fountain or gazebo or even a bench. Not even close. It's a dented, hunter-green metal garbage can with a dispenser full of kelly-green plastic bags for cleaning up dog poop, and there’s a huge sign attached reading, Clean up after your pet, with a line drawing of a human being cleaning up after . . . is it? Yes, it is: a cat. Because doesn’t everybody walk their cat on a leash around an apartment courtyard? Huh, I think, as I lean forward and peer out the window. Apparently, nobody but me has noticed the bags and the garbage can because I can see, plain as day even from this distance, several huge mounds of dog poop cluttered around my barren patio. At least I hope it’s dog poop, because I really don’t want to see the size of a cat that takes a crap that big.

Stay positive, I tell myself. Thoughts are actions. What you think becomes real. Real, real, real. Lah dee dah. Maybe I’m the one who’s a walking embroidery pillow.

I read all this self-help garbage. Eve sends it to me. She thinks a pile of books on grieving and anger management and positive thinking will help me. But I don't need help. I'm perfectly fine, except for the fact that my husband is dead. If it weren't for that one thing . . .

Beverly?

Eve's voice is all sickeningly sweet and cooey like a mourning dove’s song. At first, I'm surprised she's being so nice—I’m pretty sure this is the first time today she hasn’t yelled at me—but then I remember that the movers are still here and she has some desperate need to impress them, to make them think she's a hip old lady (or not-so-old lady) who is kind and generous enough to help her poor, pathetic, widowed sister.

I answer without turning away from the window and my gorgeous view of the poop piles. Yes?

Where do you want the guys to set up your television?

I sigh. It doesn't matter. I didn't even sign up for cable, so I wasn't planning to use it much.

Beverly, you need cable. How can you function without television? How would you watch the news and your shows?

I turn and face her, arms crossed over my chest. I notice that the mover she likes best is standing right behind her, observing our conversation with what looks like a glint of amusement in his eyes. He’s right to be amused. It must be hilarious to watch two old ladies arguing over something as silly as television. We’re creeping up closer to death every day and we’re wasting time talking about TV. The mover’s probably wondering if we remember when TV was first invented, and I don’t want to admit that I almost do.

Beverly! Clearly, Eve has let the nasty tone in her voice get away from her; she turns with flushed cheeks to smile apologetically at the mover.

What shows? I ask.

Oh, the kind of stuff we always watch—History Channel, war movies, football on Sundays, of course . . .

She keeps talking, but all I can think is that I've never seen her watch any of these things in the sixty-some years I've known her.

". . . maybe a little Jersey Shore . . ."

"What in the world is Jersey Sure?" I ask.

Oh, it's great. All the kids watch it.

Wonderful, I say. Just put the TV wherever you want. On the wall to the right of the front window. Okay?

Eve makes a huffy sound. Whatever.

I hear her chirping away as she leads the head mover back into the living room, with her hand planted firmly on his slightly withered bicep—he may be too young for her, but he’s no spring chicken. Or robin. I turn back to the sliding glass door. I know it's only early March, still cold, but there are no birds here. Not even a stray sparrow or a black-eyed junco foraging among the twigs and debris of the courtyard. This is not a good sign. With David gone, birds are my only . . . well, I know I shouldn’t say friends, but friends. I'll never make it here with Eve as my only connection to the outside world, especially when you factor in not only the obvious (the fact that we can’t stand each other) but also the reality that she lives five hours away.

I need my birds.

2

Birder’s Journal: March 10

Great Horned Owl (Bubo virginianus)

Identification: Gray-brown with reddish-brown face and a white patch on throat

Length: 18.1–24.8 inches

Wingspan: 39.8–57.1 inches

Weight: 32.1–88.2 ounces 

Habitat: Fields, wetlands, pastures, croplands, forest; found all across North America

Diet: Prey ranges from rodents and scorpions to skunks, hares, geese, and raptors; mainly eats mammals and birds

Trying to squash the contents of a four-bedroom house into a two-bedroom apartment kind of makes you feel like you’re moving from a mansion into a sardine can. Maybe that’s a cliché, but that’s what it feels like. I’m not a writer, just a bird lady. I don’t know how to describe normal things. This is my bird journal, after all. It’s not some diary like a regular person might write. Want to know the wingspan of a tree swallow or get a description of the color of a great horned owl’s eyes at twilight? I’m your gal. But other stuff? Can’t say much about it.

Eve says I should move to an assisted living facility. In case you’re young and you don’t know, that’s a nursing home with a prettier name. Eve may be only two years younger than I am, but she seems to think I’m about twenty years older. To her, I’m a decrepit little old lady and she’s a vibrant woman of middle age. Personally, I think I look younger than she does. Maybe it’s because I’ve always stayed out of the sun—except when I was birding, and then I’d either be in a bird blind or under a big old sun hat that protected me from stray rays. Or, maybe it’s because I never had any children and so I never lost my figure—that is, what little bit of a figure I had to start with. I swear, Eve’s boobs must hang down to her knees if she’s not wearing a bra. No joke. I have to shudder a little when I look at her, because I can’t help imagining what the heck is going on under her sweater. And it’s not just her looks that have gone downhill. Her personality stinks, too. Her own two kids won’t even talk to her anymore—haven’t in years. I have to ask myself, since I’d never get up the nerve to ask her, as much as I’d like to, as much as I know it would slay her: Was it worth it? Maybe that’s the good part about being all alone in the world: perky breasts even in old age.

Eve also says I don’t need two bedrooms. She says I should be more economical and pare down my things to fit into just a one-bedroom, or even a studio. She actually suggested that: a studio. Like I’m a nineteen-year-old girl trying to waitress my way through film school. Or I’m hoping to catch my big break in the porno industry.

Moneywise, I admit: She’s probably right. But a studio apartment—using my bed as counter space and cooking meals on a hot plate, since there’s no real stove in one of those galley kitchens—that just wouldn’t work for me. I’d rather scrape by, barely have enough money to eat, than have to feel like I don’t have enough space for myself and my things. Maybe when you have kids you get used to having no place that’s just your own, but I need my things around me and I need a spare room to keep them. Eve says I’m becoming one of those hoarders. I say she’s becoming a nasty old bitch. But not to her face. That’s another of the many things I keep to myself when my sister—or anybody else—is around. I just don’t have the energy to fight. Heck, I didn’t have that kind of energy back when we were teenagers arguing over who would get to use Dad’s car for the weekend. I knew I couldn’t win back then, either.

I’m working on the spare bedroom today. I guess calling it that is a bit of a lie. There’s no bed in it (and it’s pretty darn unlikely I’ll ever put one in, since it’s even more unlikely there’ll ever be any guests to sleep over). In reality, this is going to be my birding room. I have all my binoculars, including the crappy Nikons of David’s that Eve wanted to toss in the trash, hung up on a neat little oak shelf I nailed to the wall (holes be damned; I’ll probably die here, so management will have to worry more about getting the stench of decomp out of the carpet than a few nail holes). And I have all my field guides and notebooks lined up in perfect order on the wrought-iron antique bookshelf that David and I bought in London when we were on our honeymoon. If I’m a hoarder, I’m an exceptionally neat hoarder.

I picked this room to hold my birding stuff because it’s the one that faces the courtyard out back. I still haven’t seen any birds—not even a mean old crow or a boring sparrow, and it’s been a whole week. But I assume the courtyard, as opposed to the parking lot in front of the building, will give me the best chance at spotting some good species. What I wouldn’t give for a simple house finch! Heck, that sounds like something from Shakespeare, but not quite as poetic. My kingdom for a finch! Don’t laugh. I told you before, I never was any good at writing.

I take a small pair of binoculars off the shelf and sit down in the overstuffed red chair I put by the window. I lean back and close my eyes. This was David’s chair. If I breathe deeply and block out any other distractions, I think I can almost still smell his scent on the fabric. Mmm. Old Spice and body odor—the smells of home, of marriage. Eve says this chair is ready for the landfill. Sure, maybe it has a small tear in one of the arms and the upholstery is a tad faded on the seat, but it’s still a good chair. And, after she made me get rid of David’s clothes and most of his other things—You don’t need a man’s straight razor and sharpening strap, Beverly; don’t be a fool for once in your life!—this old chair is one of the only things I have left that still feels like my husband. Don’t I deserve that?

Not if Eve has anything to say about it. You’d think she’d give a little, after the childhood we shared. Then again, it was really only me our parents laughed at, put down, locked in the closet for bringing home a B+ on a math test. I was the one who was supposed to be perfect and failed. Eve was supposed to be funny and wild, like my parents themselves. And she succeeded.

Eve doesn’t understand how I feel about losing David, the only person I really ever had in this world. Maybe she will someday, when Jerry dies. But I don’t know. Something tells me not even losing her husband will affect her a whole heck of a lot. She’ll just find some single moving man somewhere, like the guy who unloaded my furniture the other day, and move on. Move on with the mover. Sounds like a bad rock song.

Is it a sign of insanity to have such an active internal monologue? Is it normal to talk to yourself as much as I do? I don’t know, and it’s not like I have anyone to ask. If I mentioned it to Eve, she’d say (again) that I’m going senile and put me in that nursing home she suggested, whether I liked it or not. It’s not worth the risk.

I open my eyes. I think I’m only imagining the smell of David in this chair. Eve Febreezed the upholstery within an inch of its life the other day, so it should really only smell like Citrus Mist or whatever awful chemical scent she used. But I swear, I do smell him. Or maybe I just feel him. I must really be lonely. This sure isn’t what I expected. All those years I was married to David, I assumed he’d be the first one to go, but somehow, I thought it would be—I don’t know. Kind of a relief, in a way. Don’t get me wrong. I knew I’d miss him, but I thought it might be easy, kind of like a break, not to have to worry about all his nitpicky wants and needs and dinner preferences for a change. Besides, I thought I’d be right behind him, that we’d be old(er) and gray(er), and I’d only be alone (and alive) for a little while. I thought it would feel freeing, pleasant even, to have some time to myself. But this isn’t pleasant at all.

I miss him. I know that’s a stupid thing to say. Of course I would miss the man I lived with for over forty years. But it’s more than that: David was my whole world. For four decades, it was just me and David and the birds. That’s all.

Now, it’s not like we didn’t have any friends at all. We did, sort of. Once in a blue moon, we’d meet a new couple—someone new moving into the neighborhood, or a new colleague at David’s work who wanted us to meet his wife—and David would consent to go out to dinner or play cards with them. But it never really went anywhere. It was kind of like dating, only for couples. You go out once or twice and see if you click, and if not, you move on and keep looking. After a while, I guess we pretty much gave up on looking. I think David liked it better that way, anyhow.

And really, it’s not all that easy to make new friends once you’re past a certain age. (For me, I think that age was three, or maybe even younger.) You either go through the awkwardness and get out there (wherever there is—some kind of old folks’ bocce ball league, maybe), or you just learn to accept the solitude. I’m working on doing the second one. Other than missing David so much it hurts in my stomach, in the very depths of my soul, almost all the time, being on my own isn’t all that bad. Maybe I just haven’t ever really liked people all that much. Sometimes, I don’t know what aspects of my personality are really mine and which are David’s . . .

Eve says I’m an idiot for still thinking David was such a great guy. She says I should be cursing his memory because he left me in this situation. She also says I should have known better, that I should have known all along. Maybe she’s right, but she has no idea what it’s like to be really, truly happy with someone. I’m still convinced she only married Jerry for his little bit of money. She doesn’t know that when you really love someone, when you find your soul mate, you can overlook all the little bad things and only see the good in him. With a love like that, you don’t question things. You just enjoy every minute of it.

Still, I have to admit that I do wish I had known five years ago what I know now. Maybe things would have been different. Sometimes, when I’m alone in the house—or now, here, in this dreadful little apartment—I imagine that things did turn out differently. When I let my mind wander (which, as you can probably tell, is a lot), sometimes I imagine that David’s just at work, that he’ll come through the door at the end of the day and everything will be back to normal. Sometimes I could swear this is all just a bad dream (I know that’s another cliché, but I’m trying to be honest, not write great literature or something). I do think David’s death, my loneliness, all of this, is just a dream. And then I look around this shabby apartment and out at the barren courtyard with its single dead tree and the dented metal poop can and I wonder if maybe Eve is right for a change. Maybe I should hate David for all he was ever worth.

3

Birder’s Journal: April 15

Turkey Vulture (Cathartes aura)

Identification: Looks black from far away but up close is dark brown in color, with a featherless red head and pale bill

Length: 25.2–31.9 inches

Wingspan: 66.9–70.1 inches

Weight: 70.5 ounces

Habitat: Open areas—farmland, forest, shrublands, wetlands

Diet:  Eats carrion, mainly mammals but will also eat birds, reptiles, amphibians, and fish; prefers freshly dead carcasses

Whenever I’m alone (and lately that’s all the time), I think too much for my own good. I think I do it when I’m around other people, too; it’s why David always said I was his little dreamer and Eve accuses me of having Alzheimer’s. But I think I indulge in my flights of fancy, as David used to call them, even more when I’m alone. And the longer I sit here, in David’s old chair, the more I think about him. And the more I think about him, the harder it is for me to stay rooted in the present. I keep finding myself drifting back, sometimes years, even decades, back to the good times. But sometimes (often, really) I go back to the worst times, right after he died.

I lean back in his chair, close my eyes, and I’m back there, a little over a year ago.

I’m sitting in a lawyer’s office, and I’m not sure why I’m here. I thought I had already signed all the paperwork for David’s life insurance and whatever else there was. But then this lawyer called me up yesterday and asked me to come in, so I wonder if maybe I forgot to initial something. It has to be something like that. There was no will, and other than the house and cars and our everyday stuff, David didn’t have anything to leave behind. He wasn’t the kind of man who took risks on investments. Maybe if there had been some kind of bird company, something he could support on an ideological level, that would have been different. But my David was a simple man—not some kind of wild risk-taker. We had that in common, no doubt.

I hate when people like doctors and lawyers leave you sitting alone in their offices. It’s like they want you to wait long enough that you’re tempted to start nosing around through their stuff. I admit, there have been occasions when my doctor kept me waiting so long before a checkup that I passed the time by opening up his cotton-swab