Little Bird

Chapter Five

Our feet sink in the snow and after a few kilometres we realize its going to be a longer walk than we first anticipated. My legs and lungs burn and my head is throbbing. His sister leant me a toque before we left the house and the boy is carrying a small bag with two water bottles and a thermos of hot tea.

I breathe through my mouth, creating foggy clouds that fade into the frigid air.

"You okay?" He asks for about the fourth time.

"Yeah," I heave, and then realize, stupidly, that I still don't know his name.

"Umm," I say, "who are you?"

"What?"

I look away and huff a breath. "What's your name."

"Oh, sorry," he says, then coughs into his glove. "Peter."

"Hm."

"And you are?"

"Jacqueline." I automatically feel dumb for using my full name, then say quickly, "Jackie."

He doesn't respond. I look around me, trying to ignore the awkwardness. The sky is calm and blue, and the snow is at that middle point where it's wet but not melting. That means there will be ice when it gets colder and that makes shovelling the driveway into an almost impossible feat.

We're silent for the first half hour, leaving deep footprints in our wake. We stop at an intersection, plopping ourselves down in a snow bank for a drink. The water bottles are half- frozen, but the cold water feels good on my scratchy throat.

"So," he starts. Then stops.

"So," I parrot back at him.

"Sorry about what happened back there."

"What, getting stuck in a snowbank? Hey, it's not your fault," I say.

He shrugs. "I still feel bad. Seems like your family really needs you right now."

I look at him through the corner of my eye. He is looking down at the water bottle ice cube clutched in his brown mittens, a blue hat with a pompom over his ears. Tiny wisps of blonde hair curl around the rim.

"Yeah," I say.

He stands up. "We still have an hour or so to go."

I stand up, too.

For the next twenty minutes he tries to make conversation.

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Three."

"And your the oldest?"

"Yep."

"What's your favourite movie?"

"I don't watch tv."

"What type if music do you listen to?"

I pause. "Folk or alternative, I guess?"

"Me too," he says, and I know he's not just trying to be a suck up.

"I play a bit of guitar," I say.

I don't know what compelled me to tell him this, but I think if the guitar in the back of my closet, hidden by a curtain if hanging clothes, and feel embarrassed. Only my siblings know I pull it out at night and strum it softly, humming along. But even they don't talk about it. My father taught me how to play, and it's the only part of him I have left from when he used to be Daddy. Now I don't know what he is. A monster, maybe.

"Me too," he says. "And harmonica and sometimes bass."

"My brother plays harmonica," I say.

"Do you sing?"

I look down, thinking of the songs I've written and sang over and over in the moonlight, softly, for myself. Sitting on the edge of my bed, losing myself in the words, melody, chords. Simple notes on a 5-line staff.

"A bit," I say, quietly. "I'm not very good though."

"I bet you're better than you think you are," he comments.

I don't respond. The conversation dies again and we continue to walk in silence. A flock of confused geese navigate their way above our heads, calling to one another.

I think I'm about to collapse when we reach my street. He walks me to my driveway, past the wall of naked trees, now dressed in beautiful, shimmering gowns of white- the same path I walked with Rosie just yesterday.

We walk up the snow-covered driveway, and I'm a bit annoyed that Gabe didn't bother shovelling it. We stand, facing each other on the front porch.

"Isn't this..." He starts, looking around. "I mean... I recognize the house."

"Mhm." I jam the toe of my boot into the ice forming on the step and little shards of it go flying away. Like shrapnel. And I can't help thinking about how much I want him to drop this subject- no matter how he recognizes this house, it won't end well.

"Um... It just looks like, you know, Robert Williams ' house." He scratches the back of his neck.

I close my eyes. Robert Williams. My father. Anyone who knew anyone who knew him would know this house. Drama attracts people. Only three years ago, when they realized he was never here, did they stop coming. Demanding him to "pay up", exchanging money for little tin boxes and baggies, or to play a round of poker and get swamped with drink.

Those nights were the worst. I would hide in my room, the blankets pulled to my chin, listening to the shouting, banging, laughter. All slurred with drunkeness. Whenever footsteps passed my room I would tense up and pray that the doorknob wouldn't turn, that the door wouldn't open. But when it did...

My mind is racing as I ask Peter if he wants to come in for a drink or something to eat. To my relief he says, "no thanks." And then, "can I have your number for when to tow truck comes?"

I slip inside, grab a piece of paper, scribble down my phone number, my hand shaking violently, and hand it to him. Then I close the door. I crumble on the other side of it and pull off my winter boots. I wrap my hands around my sock feet to work some warm into them and try to fight images away from my mind.

Images of drunken poker games. A man with a bristly beard opening my door... His lips against my forehead... My scream and his leg hair brushing my calves... My father coming in and beating him off...

Another night when my father stormed in instead, after everyone had gone home and demanded to know why I wasn't smarter or prettier, why I never did anything.... The feeling of his hand around my wrist as he wrenched me out if bed... He cruel words almost as painful as the sound of his belt breaking the air....

When I heard my mother scream and laughter burst through the night and I crept out of my room... Found her covering her face, my father standing over her... And didn't do anything, my legs shaking as I leaned against the wall...

My stomach lurches and I throw up all the nothing I've eaten today. A small hand touches my cheek.

"Jackie? You're shaking."

"Penny, I'm okay," I try to say, but the words won't form themselves.