Two Chickadees

Normally, when Jeff gets depressed, he sits around, not really saying much. It could be Winter’s cold sweep of darkness, but I doubt that. He’s silent like this no matter what position our Earth is in. I know it’s not his fault, but what’s a girl to do? Sweep and wash a particular set of musty floor tiles or woodwork? Dust settles much faster nowadays. Perhaps I could wash all these dirty dishes? Or… shall I stare out this transparent otherworldly kitchen window?

There, in our backyard, where, basking in a blissful gleam of sunlight, my Grandmother’s bird feeder stands, momentarily without visitation. And as morning floods my eyes, I catch a spectrum of fluffy light, a pair of chickadees fluttering about. Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee land scrounging for a few pinches of sunflower seed, their cute little black heads bob around, their fluffy white bodies sway to Winter’s breeze. And in my mind, as a sudden repulsive emptiness shakes me, my breath slows to a halt.

Jeff hasn’t filled this feeder for our angelic visitors. He hasn’t done a thing in days. Wish he’d do something around here. Like, our garbage is full. It stinks beyond a questionable doubt. He should know. He’s here all day. Behind me, in our living room, I hear our television blaring. Horrid sounds of a newscast’s morning tragedies. All they do is blabber on about some awful thing unrelated to us, here in our countryside heaven. Sometimes I want to say leave us alone!

On screen, this rather handsome newscaster musters up a sincere wrinkled look of displeasure: “Her family and community will mourn for such a loss of a truly awe-inspiring young woman. We will, hopefully, have more answers on Monday. Back to you, Bill—” Click. There, it’s off. Jeff sees himself oh so very darkened in that lonely screen where, apparently, Bill should be but is not. Jeff shares that same look of displeasure in his pitiful face.

Leaning over our brown, worn fabric couch, with enthusiasm, I say, “Jeff. Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee are hungry.” He shifts to look at me, “Mr. and Mrs. what now?”

“You know, our angelic fluttering companions? Outside. Their feeder is empty,” I reply. He shrugs, “So?” To which I retain my urge to slap him, “So… can you fill it up? Please?”

Jeff looks away from me and sighs. I sigh with him. A warm smile presses on my cheekbone, “Come on. They’ll be so happy.”

After listening to me, he gets up and walks around me, his body groans, as if I were some nagging Mother. I hear our big ol store-bought bag of sunflower seeds crinkle in his hand. Oh. I yell out to him, “Hey! Why don’t you take that dang garbage out while you’re at it?”

I lean back onto a hardened wall, slide down to our kitchen tiled floor, and question my voice. I hope I don’t sound like a bitch.

Before Jeff and I moved into my Grandmother’s house, we were looking after his sister’s puppy. Fudge was his name. And one day, right as I was getting ready to go to work, Fudge shat on his Mother’s carpet. I got in to shower, thinking Jeff, like any normal person, would pick it up. But of course not. When I finished cleaning myself and returned to see him gaming, playing that mind-numbing Call of Duty, I was quite visibly disturbed. He sat around with zero regard for Fudge’s doodoo fragrance that lingered throughout his mother’s house. There goes my floral body scent. I stood and stared at him, all angry like, then walked away.

I didn’t want to be a bitch; I know it’s hard losing someone. Losing a sister to a dark, repulsive welcoming that is death. That can turn anyone sour, to hate this world and refuse to participate in it. I mean, eventually he picked up that clump of shit—or someone did, I don’t know, just not me.

Jeff’s lack of volition does bother me. But what bothers me more is that I can’t say anything about it. Even years later. He’s still depressed. Grieving for his dead sister. Meanwhile, I grieve myself, for who I could be—should be. Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee. As they fly free. Assembling a various collection of marvelous seeds. Fluttering all around Northeast America. It could be me. All warm in my tiny body. Protected by thickets and ice. A family huddled around without squall but definitely squawk. A fire sustained by our connection to each other. We’d be so very cute. Oh, and just think, how cute my babies would look.

No, Jeff doesn’t think about these things. Though…maybe he does. He doesn’t say much. We live in this old rickety countryside house. I work as a nurse at a hospital 45 minutes out in Bison City, so I’m not around much. He works as a writer, writing ‘speculative fiction’ here and there, all by himself, at home. His writings scare me—not because it’s shocking—because I can’t comprehend such detachment from this world. It is such a sad, lonely life being at war with reality. Perhaps I could tell him. She’s dead.

My head turns to an open door. Jeff walks in, “You comfortable there?” I reach my arm out to him, “Come. Sit next to me.” He hesitates but, with suspicion, sits against our hardened wall and slides next to me.

It’s hard being caught red-handed in an existential thought. It’s hard when it all spills out. I say, “Jeff. We’ve been together for a long enough time, I think we should start a family.” Dismay is the forecast of his face.

I continue with a force I cannot contain, “If you’re not for that, I’ll move on—I will, because I am sick and tired of this meaninglessness. Aren’t you?” My question is more desperate than my demand.

I’ve seen him stare up and off like that more times than I can count. Usually, that’s how he thinks. It reminds me of Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee when they look up to this world’s sky as if a sky can speak to them, how televisions speak to us. But nah, this time I can tell Jeff’s just annoyed, looking away to avoid me.

He says, “I’m not ready for children. I thought you could understand this.” I turn to him, sorta frantic, and say, “It’s been five years—she’s dead—let’s celebrate life with a new one.” His dismay turns evermore sour. He can’t see my future as sweet as it is.

He says, “I haven’t even celebrated death.” I scoff, “You’ve done that in your work. I should know, I’ve read what you’ve written. Like Stephen King except your stories are inhumane, tormented, lost, and all too saturated with such a dark realization that it’s trapped in an ever-persisting nightmare that… that…”

“What?”

“…that you’re dragging me into.”

I met Jeff in high school. He was average, conformist, quiet—a clean-cut boy that every annoying preppy blonde girl wanted. His Mommy prepped him well, I guess. While I, an anorexic, anxious type, stand against a camouflaged background. It was a fluke that I’d bump into him junior year prom. I tripped over someone’s foot in a barrage of flashing lights and bass bumping sounds, to then be appropriately caught by him. Sure, when he caught me, he had a girlfriend, but as time went on, I saw him more than he saw her. Maybe it was the fact that I was different. Or… maybe it’s because this boy has a thing for crazy frizzled-haired whackadoos like me.

My plan for this world has always been pretty straightforward: Job, House, Family. It never occurred to me that Jeff, as average as he appeared, would have a different plan. Whatever it is, it’s dark, it’s troubling, and not at all what I imagine when I stare out the kitchen window, when I make my way out to my car and drive a long, time-consuming way to work. And when my girls at work ask, “How’s your husband?” I say, “He’s great. We’re so happy in that old farmhouse.”

Jeff doesn’t seem to know what to say. I think he realizes I am right. Noticeably rolling my eyes, I push myself up from an, oh so very cold, floor and walk over to my kitchen sink. I flood hot water out into a cavernous ceramic white pit and begin washing these dirty dishes. He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my little waist, and lays his hairy, unkept head on my shoulder. What a pitiful puppy dog he is.

I look out at my Grandmother’s birdfeeder. I say, “Look, Jeff. Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee.” He lifts his head and says, “How cute. What do you think they are saying out there?” I smile and lean into him, “They are saying: That man gave us food. We will forever love him.” His body breaks from mine, and I look into his crystalline, clay-colored eyes. What is it?

His breath shudders ever so softly. An array of geese flies over our world. Our ceilings shield their sky, shielding us from their exploration and migration to places far beyond any imagination. While my feet lay on cold tile, my hands hold each other, and whatever exploration of mine shall come from a chapped smack of lips that resonate from my lover. It is that I base my whole world around his words. At times, that scares me, because I depend on his stories, on a resolution that may someday come. It never comes.

He looks away. Click. A moment washes over me. I say, “Jeff? Do you remember when you caught me?” He nods, “It was the moment I became sick.”

That he must surely mean, I became sickly in love with you, but, unfortunately, was not what he meant. I say, “Am I not a lover for you? Since I make you so sick?” He shakes his head, “There’s no lover to be for, I am no lover in particular. Don’t you understand? Bring a child into this world, and you are condemning them to suffer—then die. That’s what will happen. Those birds will fall from their sky one day and die. Death is certain, and you think it’s all fine to feed death with more life. Fuck you.” And he retreats to some faraway room in my Grandmother’s house.

Troubling, to say at least. At this point, I dare not bother any further. It’s early afternoon, I have work later, and I would really like to relax. But I can’t. My lips are becoming a trap for tears I wish to contain. Instead, I’ll stand catatonic beside my sink, neck kinking obscurely southeast, feeling desperate. His dark fantasies overtake this open heart, a heart I thought I could cherish. Instead, I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate, I hate.

My Grandmother’s house felt empty, though I know he’s still here, somewhere. I roam around creaking upon our living room’s wood and then down a hallway I have been avoiding. My Grandmother had a room down there that was for her cute little sewing projects when she was alive. She used it up until her death. Now it is an office. It’s where Jeff writes. I don’t usually go in there, but I think today is different from any other. From my conversations taking place here in my head and my conversations with Jeff, I figured that curiosity might find me a better woman for my husband.

Down here in my Grandmother’s house, there is a much quieter presence. It is furthest from our road and any sounds of blaring television noises. At end of this avoided hallway sits a large window. I remember nights staring out this window when my grandma needed help. It is a picture-perfect window to our country’s hillside. A field where crops once grew and a forest where mysteries once hid. I bet Jeff looks out this window for inspiration. I stop, look out, and breathe easy.

I turn to open this room’s door. Inside, a beautiful mahogany desk with papers scattered and wine bottles toppled. Despite that, there is a favorable ambience echoing in here. I feel peace, in a way patients feel when they’ve accepted a peculiar sorta fate, that their mind is sick, not their body.

Behind Jeff’s desk is a plump leather chair. I make myself comfortable on its plush, cold surface. Inside his large front drawer is a stack of empty papers. I move them aside to find a hefty manuscript titled: The Solution.

Is this a new piece of work that he is yet to tell me about? By far his largest of his few written novels. He must have been at this one for a long time. In my hands, it breathes an enchanting quality. What is The Solution?

If it is anything like what he said to me back there, I don’t want any part in it. It could be a force of evil that his depression stems from. I would be walking right down into his nightmare if I read this. Like, I am not a churchgoer, but there must be some creator. Why else would Jeff desire to create? He can’t create life like I, but he sure as hell creates life inside these stories. Though this one looks different.

If I were ever to write a story, it would be about Mr. and Mrs. Chickadee. I know, it’s not as interesting or logical, but it would be a story about love. A universe for lovers of seeds. Seeds that grow magnificent flowers in our stomachs and minds.

Carefully setting his manuscript on his desk, I flip to page one and begin my fluttering descent into my husband’s depression.

I read:

Don’t startle. This isn’t surprising. I know, stories have been told—and behind our loved ones’ backs, might I add. Words were said—though, not exact words. This language cannot escape itself. My story cannot escape itself. There is, however, The Solution. Albeit a sickening one. One that tells my story. Let this be a warning. Reading this, there is nothing good about it.

To put it bluntly, I am escaping what I did wrong. Like any young man would. And suicide an answer to be avoided. Yet, that is an answer worth considering. Although The Solution is always changing, this problem it contains always remains. I shouldn’t have done what I did.

So, I hide myself in here, out there, and everywhere. This world, then, looks strange—because I picture it without my tyrannical influence of what I did wrong. The Solution is my prison containing this undeletable memory of when I raped my now deceased sister…

Click. A rage possesses me, and my body convulses with unfathomable tears. I could not read any further because I could not breathe. Stranger, even, I begin floating. I see myself wailing against this room’s prison walls. Wailing into a dark oblivion.

Suddenly, I am standing naked in that mysterious forest beside our country’s fields. My hair is down, and I am sleepy. Whatever plague previously diseased me now keeps me staring up at this forest’s trees with a sense of clarity. Our world’s setting sun shines across a mystical horizon, with a gentle fog sweeping yellow bursts of light across Winter’s snow. I am not cold. But this is not possible.

Back in my body, in my Grandmother’s house. I make my way back to our living room. Still, Jeff remains absent. I need to get ready for work. I step into our bathroom and take a warm cleansing shower. My mind is numb, but I still think. There’s no use continuing this nightmare. For all that has happened, Jeff and I are done. Yet, with some clever allure and internal desire to mend broken people, I must allow The Solution. Should suffering continue to stay hidden, he may just as well kill himself. There is horror in this world, and we have crooked minds, but if I don’t accept him, how would I help him?

For now, I get dressed, put on my shoes, and walk out to my car. I take one last glance at my Grandmothers bird feeder. I look across the beautiful Winter sky and breathe in its cold, life-supporting air. A smile presses upon my cheekbone, my body shivers, and I look down. There, to a dismal, shadowed side of my car lay Mr. Chickadee, dead. He must have flown blindly into my window during a rather strong gust of wind. As I open this car's door and sit inside, I forget all that has transpired. Then I pull out and drive, drive far, far away.