Rob the Baron

But we suspected that Gina, the parakeet, had survived.

We had been led to believe that she was doing well. That she was living with seagulls now. The Baron would be most proud of the ease with which she adapted to being a part of a new community. A community of sea fowl. Perched on bridges and on the stone walls that separate the beach from the main road that connects one town from another. We believed many fables about Gina, and in our believing, we developed a newfound affection for the Baron.

And the Baron was our father.

And the Baron was a troubled man.

There were four of us, but only two volunteered to come sweep up the rubble that used to be a home. Located at 1148 Pistachio Street off Galloway Road, the house had stood for nearly sixty years. I had not been back since I left at the age of seventeen, but my sister, Berry, would go check on the Baron at least once a week since she lived nearby. I was the Bad Daughter. The Princess. Our two brothers had no royalty in them at all. In the middle of the night when our father would wake us up and make us recite our titles, he would simply have them say their names, and they cried and cried until we were allowed to go back to bed.

But I, I was the Princess.

Berry was the Duke, not the Duchess.

The Baron had strange logic when it came to titles.

He knew very little and detested reading or conventional education.

One time, on a Sunday, he stood outside the library and yelled profane words until the police were called, and he spent the night in jail.

I never knew why he made me the Princess.

He barely spoke to me.

He spoke more to Gina, and she spoke back.

I sometimes thought about harming Gina, but I would never harm an animal.

When I turned twelve, I rode my bike down to Surfer’s End and tried to look hopeless so someone would kidnap me.

An older woman asked where my parents were, and I told her to mind her own business.

She shook her head and left me alone.

The sun went down, and I was still standing on that giant rock where tourists take photos of themselves with the ocean behind them.

I could never seem to put the ocean behind me.

I left home in the middle of the night. The Baron was asleep in his room with Peter Frampton playing in the background. The house smelled of burnt popcorn, because one of the boys had entered 40:00 on the microwave instead of 4:00 and they’d only realized their mistake when smoke began to fill the kitchen. The Baron yelled “They’ve set the house on fire! Arson! Arson!” We opened a few windows and all was well aside from the clump of blackness that was meant to be a snack. “That was our last packet of popcorn,” the other brother said. They never went hungry, but they were rarely full. The Baron called them incompetent and that was when he retired to his room on the west side of the house. My room was in the attic. A perfect place for a trapped princess.

I don’t know why I left that night.

The Duke begged me to stay.

Berry didn’t want to be the only girl left behind, and I can’t

I can’t say I blame her.

When I left, I didn’t go far.

Just over the bridge and to the left.

Down to Narragansett where my boyfriend was living in a house with these other guys who were all majoring in the same thing he was, but I can’t remember what.

Something to do with technology, I think.

I broke up with him and dated one of his friends. I would go from one young man to the other so long as I needed a place to stay. By the time they all graduated, I had gotten a job in Jamestown bartending at a high end hotel restaurant that sold dry crab cakes and watered down chowder. The Baron was right over the bridge, and at night, I would go out for my smoke break and pretend to hear cannons firing and Peter Frampton singing about how much he loves the way. The way of what, I don’t know. What a unique method of expressing love. I love your way.

What way?

The arson that eventually destroyed the house and ended the life of the Baron was not the result of arson or popcorn, but a space heater that got a little too hot. It’s not advisable to use the same space heater for thirty years, but good luck telling the Baron that. He died by inhalation rather than immolation, but the distinction didn’t bring Berry or the boys any comfort. As for me, I just wanted a cigarette, but I’d quit the week prior. I was getting married and I didn’t want my lips to smell like nicotine on the big day. My fiance was in the navy, and he’d ship out shortly after the consummation. It was more of an agreement than an affair, but it would put money in my pocket and a ring on my finger that I could show to anybody who dared call me a failure like my old man.

Berry the Duke said there were sightings all over town of Gina. She rarely left the Baron’s side, but I nodded as we pushed aside charred wood and singed furniture looking for anything that might have value. The next day, a company that had purchased the land would come and bulldoze anything we didn’t cart away ourselves. Neither of us knew what we were trying to find. Berry said something about a music box that Mom had owned. I knew the Baron owned a gun, and I thought that might be nice to have. Nobody in my family had been invited to my wedding, and not because it wasn’t a real wedding, but because we weren’t a real family.

Berry picked up something small that looked like it had feathers. She stared at it for a moment, and then gingerly put it down. I watched her rub her fingertips together.

The Duke was bothered.

The Duke was haunted.

The Duke would be assassinated in an ethereal kind of way.

I walked over to her and told her that we should stop for the day.

She nodded in agreement, and I offered to drive her home.

My fiance had recently bought me a car. A 2018 Honda Civic. It was hardly fit for a Princess, but it got me where I needed to go.

Most days I knew where that was.