The Birdcage

one.

I was always thankful that we didn't live out in the country, because then it would've been much easier for my Pa to insist that I forgo school completely to work. As it was, when I turned eleven I had to get a job as a busboy in a dingy restaurant half a block from the apartment. Still, I was able to get an education. I couldn't be hidden away on a farm like cattle. I was seen daily, and no one in the city would have a child work during school hours. My father would look on with dead eyes when Ma would hand me my lunch before sending me off, right before they went to work in their respective plants.

If I had known just how serious our condition was, I would've tried my luck at skipping school to shine shoes. The financial situation wasn't stable - hadn't been since my birth - and five years after I started working I was told that we couldn't afford to live in the city we'd made our home. Factories were shutting down daily, it seemed, as the war-time production ceased to exist.

Human beings are inherently selfish, and I can recall several moments where I wished, truly, that the war hadn't ended. I didn't know what was happening on the frontline, in the trenches, in the camps. All I knew of those sorts of horrors was that as long as they existed both my parents were employed, and sometimes old rich folks would give me some money if I was sitting by myself, thin and dirty, in the park. War brought out altruism, even with everyone cutting back when they could.

There were few things that I took from the run-down apartment we lived in. I took my clothes, although I left the few that were unsalvageable. I packed my schoolbooks as well. We'd have sold them, or Pa would have, only no one was buying. The wealthy few that could afford to had tutors for their kids and no need for sloppily written notes and coverless books.

My parents had told me that whatever I took had to fit into one of the two suitcases we owned. I was lucky, then, that I had so little things I didn't need to part with any. Everything I left behind was for want, not necessity. A few of the more torn-up clothes, a few papers so smudged they were unintelligible - I left them stuffed in a vent rather than have my parents berate me for being so wasteful.

All three of us had scraped together enough money to afford train tickets, although at the time I was unaware of where we were going and that most of the cost was covered by my father's relatives. It was risky to send money in letters, but what had to be done was, I suppose. I gave my parents the meager change I had managed to collect throughout the months before we left, blindly trusting that they'd spend it well. They did, and they didn't.

The train was crammed, pungent, and hot from the packed bodies although winter was approaching. The air was thick, cradling the bitter smell of stale coffee and the stickiness of sweat. Initially I, red-faced, was coddled by mother and had to endure her gripping my hand. As she was sitting, I had to as well - the lone teenage boy masquerading as one of the women or elderly. I was sure that the burning gaze of every other passenger was focused intently on me. Eventually I decided just to stand, shaking off her hand, although the jerkiness of the cart and the lack of balance I possessed meant that I often was sent careening into the seats anyway.

We didn't have enough money to travel the entirety of the way, another fact I was blissfully oblivious to. Pa's plan was to meet his relatives halfway or so, as they hadn't wanted to send all the cash for the tickets lest we chose to stay in the city and spend the money on whatever city folk did. My father's cousin arranged to meet us after we switched trains a few times, in a car he had managed to buy before the war dictated that tanks were more useful to produce.

My clothes, which were already too large for me, stuck to my skin. The hairs on the nape of my neck were slick, and the moment I stepped outside the carts with my parents, the thin coat of sweat seemed to dry. I scratched at my jaw absentmindedly, holding the smaller suitcase, as my Pa began searching for whichever relative had been able to pick him up. He craned his neck up, turned his head this way and that. It was an amusing rendition of a meerkat.

After a minute or two, he reached out blindly for my mother's hand, gesturing for me to follow with quick eye contact and a jerk of his head. He weaved his way through the crowds, cutting a path for me as I stumbled along behind him. We reached the booth where they sold tickets, and I saw a man checking his pocket watch.

I had expected an old man, one old enough to escape the draft. A grandfather many times over, or a great-grandfather. Instead he was young, still with slight fat on his cheekbones. Not a soldier by any means, either; he was lithe and slight, and seemed too put-together. Wealthy. His clothes were posh, with a white button up under an argyle sweater vest and dark blue pants. The few soldiers I'd seen return were haunted, with purple half-moons under their eyes and hollow cheeks.

The man must have sensed us standing there uncertainly, because he glanced up. There was a glint in his eyes - recognition, perhaps - and he pushed off the wall. He rolled his shoulders back. "I was starting to get worried, William. It's not like you to be late," he said with a toothy grin.

"Apologies, John; the train ran late." Pa set the suitcase down and extended his hand, and the man paused for a moment before shaking it. "If I could've made it run faster, believe me, I would've."

John rocked back on his heels and tucked his thumbs into the front pockets of his high pants. "Well, it's no trouble at all anyway. To be truthful, I was running a bit late to the station myself. Only got here about five minutes ago." His gaze flickered between my mother and me a few times before he turned back to my father. "And your family, then?"

"That's right. My wife, Dorothy," he wrapped his arm around her waist while she smiled sweetly, "And my son, Harvey. Harvey, this is your uncle." I met the man's eyes and shook his hand with a soft greeting. His irises were so dark they swallowed his pupil, and his hand was clammy.

John smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his vest and looked over his shoulder. "The car's parked over there, I can take a bag if you'd like."

"There's no need," my Pa said, "Although I do appreciate it, just as I appreciate all you've been doing for us."

Uncle John - the name felt wrong on my tongue - turned away dismissively and walked to his car, clearly expecting us to follow. "Of course, of course. What else is family for? We're meant to stick together. You know any of us'd do anything for you."

I glanced up to my father. His jaw twitched.

The car was boxy and black and gleamed like it was new although there were quite a few scuff marks on the front of it. Uncle John ran his thumb along one particularly long one. "I've been meaning to get it shined, but why waste the labor? Not an issue anymore, though; might need to get it done then."

"Well, I'm sure you can find someone to do it." My father climbed into the passenger seat, leaving my mother and me to the back. I let the suitcase rest on my lap. "Where did you get this, anyway?"

The car started up, and I leaned my head back against the seat. "Oh, Frank gave me it when he got a new one."

"Awful kind of him."

"No doubt."

The conversation between the two withered away in a matter of seconds, and I rested my eyes. My mother reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it comfortingly. I could almost picture the tight-lipped smile she was wearing as well, corners of her mouth curled up but her eyes lacking any warmth. I squeezed back, and allowed the thudding of the car to haul me off the sleep.