The 5th Dimension
Broken birds of feather
STEVE LOCKE
Limping on his left leg as he strode down the sidewalk to Grandma’s house, Alex stuffed his bare hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Zipped up to the collar and impenetrable to the late autumn wind, it was a godsend. Despite it and the hoodie he wore beneath, a chill knifed through and Alex tensed. This caused a spasm in the lower small of his back where three years earlier, bone processes attached to five vertebrae broke off. Trained by the chronic pain in his body, he snapped his left hip forward in midstep. Though it didn’t make a sound, he imagined the shift of bones above his waistline to resonate like peppercorns being crushed. Only one block to go, then a comfortable lunch with the arthritic old lady that babysat him for most of his childhood and looked after him while he recovered from the accident, broken and bedridden.
Grandma’s house stood pristine in the ghetto neighborhood, where almost every other house had boarded up windows and lawns littered with garbage. Looking above, to the fullgrown elm trees whose branches crossed some 10 metres above the street, Alex reminisced about the lonely walks he took when he first regained some strength in his body. Away from close friends who couldn’t possibly relate his condition — partying and travelling as if they took their healthy bodies for granted — he digressed from the life he knew. Mom and Dad’s house became a fortress of piercing solitude while they functioned as usual, working during the days. So Alex moved in with his Grandma, who like himself rarely left the house. Burdened with swollen joints and relying on a cane or walker for mobility, she possessed firsthand knowledge of his ailment. When he attempted to move around the house and showed visible signs of pain, she told him to rest. To take his time.
Now semi-recovered, able to walk quite a distance, he returned to school as his pursuit of a BA had been hindered by a couple of years. The feeling haunted him; the desolation spiked with physical pain. Often, in the midst of willing the ache out of consciousness, the memory returned of counting his painkillers and wondering if the whole vial would be enough to end it.
The crimson blur of a passing fire truck caught his eye and he sighed, telling himself I’m still alive. Barely. Following tires the size of a small child as they rolled past, his eyes shot wide at the sight of a stunned pigeon struggling to flap its wings by the curbside. Able only to manage pathetic twitches of movement, the fragile animal thrust itself against the curb and fell back, unable to attain a foothold.
Pity gripped Alex’s innards as he continued on, only two houses away from Grandma’s. Something in the bird’s sporadic movements looked familiar. He remembered looking down the length of his body as it lay in the street, waiting for the ambulance to show. Then it came back in a flash of shock and pain, of the car’s impact against his body. Brought to his knees in the path of another vehicle and struck from behind, the past three years disappeared from his memory. Moaning as violent quakes wrought his body, he was left helpless. Utterly helpless and alone.
Letting out a breath, he stepped from the sidewalk onto the strip of grass that separated it from the street. He checked for traffic and when clear, leaned down and took the bird within the bowl of his hands. It struggled for a moment, though Alex couldn’t tell if its movements were any different than when it lay on the street. The sleek body rested weightless in his palms as he ran his fingers along the smooth feathers to check for ruptures beneath. Though everything seemed to be in place, the bird shook like an electrical current had ran through its body, his racing heartbeat piercing through to the flesh of Alex’s palms.
He held the bird to his body and with a brisk yet careful step, rounded the corner and followed Grandma’s wire fence to the gate. He thought the pigeon might go at any moment; its eyelids fluttered as the neck went limp, but then seemed to groggily retain its upright posture.
Having approached the front door, Alex held the pigeon in one hand and knocked with the other. It tortured him to wait on the step while the animal faded in and out of consciousness. Then, the door opened to Grandma, propped up on a cane, wearing knitted slippers and a shabby blanket around her shoulders. Her reaction to his presence was of the norm, all smiles and bright eyes until she saw the bird in his hands and moved aside.
In her broken English mixed with old-country Hungarian, Grandma asked, “Where you find a birdie?”
“It’s very sick,” Alex muttered in intense anxiety, brushing past her and into the house.
In the kitchen, Alex looked for something to place the animal in while he thought of what to do with it. Taking her time up the three stairs from the foyer, she looked upon her grandson with concern, as he appeared to be lost and desperate. “Vat happen to a birdie?” She asked.
“It got hit by a car,” Alex replied, stroking the soft, delicate feathers of the bird’s neck and back, between its wings. “I need a box.”
“I have a box,” Grandma said, leaving the room on awkward legs. “Vat you do now?”
“I don’t know. I have to call the animal shelter or something.” From the doorway, Alex watched as his grandmother rummaged around in a hall closet, hunched over like a field worker. Gradually, he felt the pigeon relax as the tremors subsided and its wings rested against its body. All movement slowed. Looking down at the little head, Alex watched its eyelids collapse over fixed pupils. Its neck craned downwards then dangled limp between his fingers.
“I have a one shoebox,” Grandma said in an encouraging voice.
Alex lost his breath as the tiny heartbeat, like a fingertip tapping the middle of his palm slowed and finally ceased. “It’s too late,” he said.
“Oh, I’m so sorry darling,” Grandma said, waddling back into the kitchen with shoebox in one hand and the cane in the other. She placed the box on the counter and touched her grandson on his arm. Alex stood for a moment, lips quivering as needles of breath passed through them. Pangs of pity swelled into an ill effervescence as he continued to stroke the poor bird. He would have taken its pain as his own, never wishing another living creature to suffer as he did, but he couldn’t do any more for it. The bird’s death was absolute.
Alex laid the bird in the shoebox and placed the lid on top. Grandma suggested he take it to the back-lane garbage bin after he had some lunch. “I’ll go now,” he said, stepping out into the cold. Before he set the box atop the odorous pile of refuse within the bin, Alex removed the lid, took the bird in hand and kissed its lifeless body.
Hands in pockets, Alex appeared from the foyer and stood within the doorway, looking off to another world. Grandma rose from her seat by the window where she watched him carry the bird to its final resting place and offered open arms. She gently whispered, “I’m sorry,” and embraced her precious grandson. Alex clasped his hands behind his grandmother’s back, rested his head upon her shoulder and breathed; calm.
