The Bird Listener

by Jeffrey Greene

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Isaac still wondered about that male voice and Claire’s, speaking together. If the strange bird, so gifted at mimicry, could only repeat what it heard, then where and when had that conversation taken place? Outside, perhaps, in someone’s back yard, where they could be overheard.

He was conflicted, because he and Claire had always been open with each other, and he’d have liked to tell her everything about the bird. But he knew he couldn’t. There would be doubts over his mental soundness, carefully concealed but there all the same. There was a thin possibility that he was the target of an elaborate practical joke, but what kind of person would do that? He could turn his back on the whole business, stay inside for the next few days, but he knew his curiosity would pull him out there again tomorrow.

Isaac was up before sunrise the next morning. It was chilly enough for a sweater, and the birds seemed to be vying for his ear in every tree, gifting him in his perpetual darkness with an avian ode to dawn. He heard the usual gaggle: Mockingbirds, a House Finch, a Song Sparrow, Catbirds, House Sparrows, Fish Crows, Blue Jays, Robins, Cardinals, Mourning Doves and Starlings. He sipped his coffee and waited for close to an hour, but the new bird didn’t come. So it was a creature of dusk, and maybe nocturnal as well.

After a long work day on the computer, he went for a neighborhood walk with Claire before sunset, mostly using his white mobility cane, though sometimes gripping her upper arm in less-familiar spots along their route. They had an early dinner, since tonight she was attending the monthly meeting of her book club. He was seated on the deck by seven, carrying only a note pad and a pen.

He listened to the birds for a few minutes, then he heard one land with a flutter of large wings on the roof behind him, its claws scrabbling for purchase. It began to sing its multi-octave song, which abruptly changed into a whistled excerpt from “Danny Boy,” a man’s strong whistle, if careening in and out of key. The whistling ended, and the bird did an astonishingly good impression of Claire laughing.

“Don’t stop,” it said in her lovely voice. “You’re good.”

“And you’re a liar,” said the man’s voice he’d heard the day before. “Truth is, I’m terrible at most things that matter, like whistling and marriage.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Okay, I’m pretty good at selling overpriced houses.”

“And at being a friend,” it said in Claire’s voice.

“Want to hear something sad, Mrs. Bellman? You’re my only friend.”

The bird laughed again in his wife’s voice, and Isaac felt his heart contract. “Now who’s lying?”

“It’s true. I have connections, acquaintances, associates, clients. But friends? You’re it, kid.”

“’Kid?’ We’re the same age.”

“But you look so much younger.”

“Okay, I think it’s time I went home to my husband.”

“Understood. All compliments verboten.”

The bird flew away, and he wasn’t sorry it was gone. In fact, he was beginning to wish that this damned freak of nature would leave him alone. He didn’t have to listen; he could have gone inside or shooed it away. But he had listened, with the most strained attention, and knew he would again. He sat there brooding until well after the birds had quieted, which was his way of knowing it was after dark.

So Claire had a friend her own age, an unnamed man with a pleasing voice, a friend she hadn’t mentioned. Well, so what? He had women friends from the past that she hadn’t met. Why couldn’t she have a male friend to visit once in a while, a sighted man who could appreciate her beauty in ways she might be missing in him? And apparently, from what the bird had picked up so far, she wasn’t crossing any lines. Maybe the friend had recently returned to the area and called her up. They’d gotten together a time or two, and she hadn’t told Isaac because she was afraid of making him jealous.

He wasn’t jealous, not really, not yet, but he was curious. Did he dare ask her who her friend was? But then she’d demand to know how he, a blind man with limited mobility, knew about her visits to... whoever this was. Would it change anything if he did know the man’s name and address? What could he do about it? A sightless person was perhaps the perfect cuckold, if the spouse was so inclined. Not Claire, though, never her. A little tempted, maybe, as most married people are from time to time. But after twenty years together, they had good reason to trust each other.

She came home about ten, as usual, and he asked about the book, her friends, and what the overall critical reaction was. She wasn’t used to Isaac showing much interest in what he had once called “a wine-soaked hen party,” but was willing to provide details, which apparently satisfied his curiosity.

They slept together most nights, except when his snoring drove her into the guest room, as it apparently had tonight, when he woke up and found her side of the bed empty. He rested his arm on her cold pillow, then pulled it to him and inhaled her smell.

He’d left the window open, and as he lay there trying to get back to sleep while utterly failing to suppress the rapid mitosis of his doubts and suspicions, he heard it again, the strange bird’s call, sounding eerie and portentous at this late hour. It was just outside the window, probably perched in the top of the Japanese spindle tree. The singing stopped, and his rising heartbeat filled the silence. Then it spoke, and he sat up in bed.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment I met you,” the familiar man’s voice said, with a slight metallic edge sharpening certain syllables that reminded him he was listening to something non-human. Was it even a bird?

“I shouldn’t be here,” ‘Claire’ said. “Why did I let you kiss me?”

“Because you wanted me to. I know, you’re married, happily, you say. But I won’t apologize for being attracted to you, Claire. I guess that makes me the bad guy.”

“No, Jack, just selfish and hard up enough to try seducing another man’s wife. But I’m much worse, because I love my husband and came anyway, knowing how you felt.”

“The truth is, Claire, you’re lonely, like so many married people. Believe me, I’ve been there. Don’t feel guilty about needing something he can’t give you.”

“How dare you! You know nothing about me or my husband.”

“Maybe not, Mrs. Bellman, but do you realize you’re flirting with me right now?”

“This was a huge mistake. I’m leaving.”

“Fine. Enjoy your little bout of conscience. I can wait.”

“Bastard.”

He sat there for a long time after it flew away, shivering in the chilly draft, then got up, closed the window and felt his way across the hall to her bedroom. She preferred leaving her door cracked, and he quietly pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was asleep, her deep, regular breathing mocking his shattered peace. He fought the impulse to wake her up and confront her. But what could he say to her that wouldn’t sound crazy? That he knew all about her affair with “Jack,” his informant an unknown species of bird that sang like a diva and also talked, a bird that remembered all their conversations and repeated them back to him, word for word? Of course it was insane. Why had it taken him so long to realize it? There wasn’t any bird. It was some kind paranoid hallucination, an unconscious projection of his fear of losing her.

The entire ‘affair’ was something he’d cooked up in his head. What was wrong with him? Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, nor had she ever expressed dissatisfaction. Their marriage had the usual ups and downs, but on balance, it was a happy one. He quietly slipped out of her room and back to bed. He was a long time getting back to sleep, caught as he was between shock at his own delusional jealousy and his shame over doubting her.

The remnants of a stalled tropical storm brought three days of much-needed rain to the area, and Isaac welcomed the excuse to stay inside and focus on his work, piano practice and being as kind as he knew how to Claire. While he was content living indoors until the weather cleared, Claire, more restless and social than he, went out on household errands, dance lessons and lunches with women friends.

She’d told him more than once that his being home most of the time gave her a feeling of security. But the unspoken message was that, as far as she was concerned, wandering around alone by himself, even in the neighborhood, was risky and dangerous, and it preyed on her peace of mind. Having mastered the art of patience long before he met Claire, Isaac acceded to her wishes with good grace and only a sliver of the envy he felt toward people who could move freely about in a world made for the sighted.

When the weather cleared, Claire went grocery shopping, and he, feeling cooped up in the house, took the opportunity to play hooky. His short street traversed a low hill that connected with a block-long lane at the bottom and dead-ended at a small wooded park at the top.

Armed with his mobility cane, he started downhill, the long thin stick continually testing the pavement ahead of him. When he came to a parked car, he would listen for any oncoming vehicles or pedestrians, then walk around it.

He was a familiar sight to most of his neighbors, many of them walking dogs, and some would address him by name and occasionally engage him in brief conversation, or take his hand and place it on their dog’s head, its warmth evoking memories of Sasha. The air, washed clean by the long rain and warmed by the late morning sun, blew in a stiff but pleasant breeze on his face.

At the bottom of the street, he was greeted by Maureen Hovik, a recently divorced woman in her forties whom he and Claire had known casually for several years, and with whom they’d irregularly socialized when she was married. Ms. Hovik, who enjoyed gardening, had, as described by Claire, a beautifully landscaped yard. Maureen had a friendly way of lightly touching him on the arm or shoulder to emphasize points of her conversation, that might have bothered him in someone else but which he accepted and even enjoyed in her case, because he knew she was lonely after the divorce and needed physical contact with another human being.

He knew people primarily through voice and manner and not by their faces, although some would allow him to explore their features with his hands. Maureen Hovik was one who had welcomed his exploring touch, and from what he knew of the topography of the human face, hers was a smooth, agreeable shape.

While they were talking, a car passed them, briefly slowing down, then continued uphill.

“That was Claire,” Maureen said.

“Did she see us?” he asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I waved, but she must not have seen me.”

“May I offer a proxy wave, Maureen?” he asked and did so. She laughed. “Claire doesn’t approve of me walking alone, even on my own street.”

“She worries, Isaac. You can’t blame her.”

“I don’t. Well, I should be heading back, Maureen. Nice talking to you.”

“Likewise. I’ll have you two over for dinner one of these days,” she said, though he doubted she would, still adjusting as she was to the changed symmetry of a newly single woman hosting a married couple. Couple friendships, he’d noticed, tended to thrive in even numbers, often withering in the subtraction.

When he got back to the house, slightly winded from the uphill climb, he called for Claire, but she didn’t answer. He went into the kitchen and drew a glass of water from the dispenser on the refrigerator. As he drank, he heard the faint sound of voices coming from the deck, and thought at first that Claire had a guest. The deck chairs faced the yard, so he knew that her back was to him, and he eased the door open just enough to hear better, and what he heard was his own voice and a woman’s, a voice he’d heard only minutes before: Maureen Hovik’s.

“This is a terrible thing to say, Isaac, and God forgive me, but I almost hate Claire for having you.”

“It’s her forgiveness you should ask for, Maureen. Truth is, I love both of you. I wish that... well it doesn’t matter. We can’t do this anymore without the whole neighborhood finding out. I’m surprised she hasn’t gotten wind of it yet. It’s a mess, and I’d do anything to avoid hurting either one of you. But you know I have to choose my wife; you’ve known that all along, haven’t you?”

“Yes. And I’ll get over it. Eventually. I think you’d better go, Isaac.”

“Of course. I’m so sorry, Maureen.”

A cold horror, beginning in his gut, had quickly spread through his whole body. This bird — this thing — it wasn’t in his head, it was real, speaking words that neither he nor Maureen had ever said to each other. And everything he’d heard about Claire and “Jack” was all lies.

He heard the flap of wings as the thing took off, then the sound of her chair scraping the wood. He stepped back as she entered. She didn’t speak, just brushed past him and up the stairs. He heard her moving about, opening drawers, closets. Packing.

He started up the stairs and heard the bedroom door slam, the lock pushed. He spoke through the door, explaining, pleading, and finally begging.

But her only answer was silence.