It’s started to rain, the snow on the side of the roads turning to mush that grabs at my tires. Winter in Dogwood Bay means you never know whether to expect rain or snow, or sometimes both. I’m a half hour late, but it won’t matter. Mrs. Carlson, a nice old lady who lives with her cat and bird, always leaves in the morning to visit her sister on cleaning days. I follow the garden path around the side of the house. The rain is melting snow off the shrubs and trees, chunks hitting the ground with a muffled thud. I squeal as one almost hits me.
When I unlock the door, the house is freezing cold. I fiddle with the thermostat, bumping it up a couple of levels, then set my boots on the mat, slide on my slippers, and put my tray down on the kitchen counter. Something smells burnt, like toast. The dish rack holds one plate and teacup, and a knife. A small plastic Christmas tree sits in the corner of the living room, hung with a few brightly colored ornaments. There’s already a stack of presents underneath.
I start on the kitchen, scrub the counters and sink until they gleam, then mop the floor. I hum Christmas carols as I work and think about when Sophie and I should put up our own tree. We always get a fresh one, then decorate while watching Elf and drinking hot chocolate.
I move into the living room, wipe every surface with lemon-scented cleaner, fold a knitted blanket, fluff the pillows, vacuum the cat fur off the back of the couch and from under the cushions. I haven’t seen Gatsby, but he’s probably sleeping under the bed. Next I vacuum the carpet so the lines are all in the same direction, backing up as I go, careful not to leave a single footprint. I grab my tray and move down the hall, then pause halfway when I hear a noise behind me. I turn quickly, my body stiffening. A streak of white. Gatsby.
I make a kissing noise and call his name, but he doesn’t come running like usual. He must be chasing a spider.
When I’m finished in the master bedroom, I make my way to the spare room at the other end of the house. Mrs. Carlson rarely has guests, but the room always needs dusting because of her budgie, Atticus. It’s my least favorite room—the dander from his feathers makes me sneeze and Atticus screams the whole time I’m cleaning, but today he is remarkably silent.
As I push open the door, a cold draft whistles toward me. The window is open. I hurry over and slide it down. So that’s why the house is so cold. When I turn around, rubbing my arms to get warm, I spot Atticus hunched into a ball at the bottom of his cage. He’s always perched on his wooden branch, screeching at me or ringing his bell. I frown, take a tentative step. “Atticus?” He doesn’t move. I take another step. His eyes are closed, his tiny chest unmoving. I look back at the window. How long had it been left open? Mrs. Carlson’s going to be devastated.
Back in the kitchen, I rummage through my purse on the counter for my phone, knocking it over in the process. My lip gloss rolls out. I don’t stop to retrieve it. Mrs. Carlson’s sister answers and I have to repeat my name. Finally she puts her on the phone.
“Mrs. Carlson, I’m so sorry, but Atticus…” I pause. How do I put this? “Atticus has passed away. I’m so sorry,” I repeat.
“Oh, no!” she says, her voice quavering. “Whatever happened?”
“I think he might have gotten too cold.”
“The window! I was sure I closed it—I always let him have some fresh air in the mornings so he can sing to the birds outside.” I don’t know why she had the window pushed all the way up at this time of year, but I’m not going to make her feel worse by asking questions.
“Poor Atticus,” she says. “I’ll have to take care of him when I get home.” Her voice is starting to break and I can tell she’s near tears. “Perhaps I should bury him outside under the lilac bushes. They’re so pretty in the summer. Do you think that’s a nice place?”
“It’s a perfect place.” I can’t just leave her to take care of it on her own. “Would you like me to do it?”
She pauses, and I hear her blowing her nose. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh. That’s very kind. I’d like that.” She catches her breath, a hiccup of sound. “I’m going to miss him terribly. The house will be so quiet without his beautiful singing.”
“He was a lovely bird.” She sounds so shaken. I’m glad she’s with her sister. I’ll bring her flowers this week, stop by and have tea with her.
“Thank you, dear.” She blows her nose again. “Can you say a prayer for him?”
“Of course.”