Birdy Joe tried to think up ornithological facts on his first day as a valet at the Capitol Plaza Hotel on J Street. They usually put his mind at rest. His new boss, Monty, at barely five feet tall, was stationed at a cashier's window that looked like a cage, taking in the money and doling out the keys. Birdy Joe had recently done a two-year stint in Folsom for a botched burglary, and when he was released his PO got him placed at the hotel. Lucky as crap, the PO told him. Most guys ended up knee-high in blood in the meatpacking district. Birdy Joe was glad to have decent work, but not so sure about a job that public. He assumed all eyes would be on him, in utter disbelief that an ex-con could be trusted alone inside a hotel guest's car. But he'd come with statements from a psychiatrist, a priest, and his PO extolling his rehabilitation and subsequent reliability. In addition, he was living with his sister, Lisa, who, since her divorce, had stopped drinking, and taken to saving her brother as part of her redemption. Sharing a room with her five-year-old son meant he couldn't be all bad. Still, Birdy Joe figured, letters of reference and living accommodations meant little to anybody other than himself.
An hour into his first day he finally recalled one fact: The nest of the Brown Creeper is unusual in that it has a separate entrance and exit. The entrance faces downward. The exit, up.
"It'll be slow this morning," Monty announced. He sat on a stool, leaning back with his hands behind his head. His elbows flared out like wings. "The restaurant tells me they're quiet on lunch reservations. The hotel's got empty rooms, and no one's checking in until three. Slow this morning, boys. Slow this morning. Always that way the week before Thanksgiving. Slow."
"Maybe I can cut out early, Monty?" Charlie asked, a minor leaguer from the Stockton Ports who worked three days a week out of season, supposedly training the other four. "I'm pulling a double today."
"Time will tell. Time will tell."
Birdy Joe knew the code. Slow meant Monty was ready to try the con that he'd developed. Birdy Joe's stomach turned, realizing what he was about to get himself in to. He wanted to believe his letters of reference could be true. That he'd been rehabbed, and it was still possible to live up to his father's hope of rising above his heritage. But he'd always been susceptible to the promise of the easy dollar, or vulnerable to a half-baked plan whose logic seemed sound but left him ass-exposed. It was the one flaw he'd hoped to shake in jail.
Monty must have read that weakness. On Birdy Joe's third night at the Capitol Plaza, Monty declared to him that God had answered his prayers by bringing him a resume worthy of his plan. Birdy Joe had shook his head, starting to say he couldn't. But before long Monty made the con sound good. And in Monty's fast talking eloquence, he'd convinced Birdy Joe that he'd be a fool not to try. It was that simple. Birdy Joe had nodded, not feeling right about it, but too sucked in to resist. He said he'd try once. When the timing was perfect. Once. When Monty had walked away, Birdy Joe pushed his fingers against his temples. Maybe there was something they could cut out in there.
Monty's plan went like this: During a slow spot, he could afford to lose Birdy Joe for a while. First Monty would check with the restaurant to see which locals had reservations. When the car came in, he'd look it over, trying to size up their status, and then make small talk about their plans. The perfect mark had the whole family with him, and planned to be out for several hours, shopping and such. Perfect. The mark inevitably would hand Monty his key ring, who would then call in Birdy Joe to take over. Once he had the car, Birdy Joe would find the address on the registration card, drive there in the mark's own car, park a block or two away, and then walk up to the house and right through the front door. Fifteen to twenty minutes was plenty of time to boost enough goods to nicely augment a couple of working saps' salaries.
On this slow November 22nd morning in 1963, Birdy Joe watched a brown Mercedes pull up to the hotel entrance. Monty waved off Charlie, and went out personally to greet the driver. He leaned into the window, smiling while he talked, even once throwing his head back in a laugh that seemed painfully acted. By the time the mister emerged from the car, with his wife and junior high daughter, Monty already was jangling mister's whole key ring in hand, motioning for Birdy Joe. "We'll take care of her like she's our own," he heard Monty call out. "Enjoy your lunch and your shopping. She's safe in our hands."
As he handed Birdy Joe the keys, Monty whispered, "Let's make the first one a charm."
Birdy Joe felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his chest. It scared him how that Jekyll and Hyde shit could make his body more commanding than his brain. Just took him over. Started running him out of control. "I'll be back long before the end of my shift," he said. "I've got to pick up my nephew from daycare. Fifty cents more for every minute extra he has to wait. That's what they charge. Can you believe that crap?"
"You'll have parked three more cars before that time comes. Plenty of time." Monty patted him on the back, and walked off to say something to Charlie.
Charlie rushed up to Birdy Joe. "Monty tells me I can go after you park this one. So don't dillydally, man. I want to get home for a little rest before I need to be back here."
Birdy Joe laughed, and pulled down on his sleeves. "I'm just parking a car, Mickey Mantle. How long can it take?"
It surprised Randy that he even had an uncle. Birdy Joe recognized that in his face the first night he'd arrived, when he stood before his nephew in the boy's bedroom. Randy's head cocked somewhat quizzically, part in resentment and part with the excitement of acquiring something new. Birdy Joe had put down his suitcase near the doorway, and Randy, without speaking, told him the suitcase needed to go on the other side of the room. Birdy Joe dutifully picked it up. "This good?" he said, once he set it down. The boy just nodded, standing like a guard, arms crossed over his chest.
Lisa's apartment on Capitol and 18th was cramped. She'd been lucky to find a two-bedroom flat in her price range, but in order to afford it she had sacrificed space. Besides the kitchen and the bathroom, the only common area was a small living room, big enough for her hand-me-down couch and a TV set. A small breakfast table fit into the corner of the kitchen, but with three of them, most meals were taken on the couch.
Birdy Joe tried to stay away as much as possible. He'd work doubles if they were available, sometimes just walking around and looking at birds in McKinley Park or on the Capitol grounds. Lisa still kept the bird guide that her brother had treasured as a kid. And when everybody was sleeping, he'd leaf through that childhood bible, finding the birds he'd seen, and reading the names and characteristics as though it were a bedtime story. Trying to memorize the facts. This life was comfortable enough, at least for a temporary one. A transition. But Birdy Joe had no idea what lay next. He wished he were a scientist who could reinvent himself. Trouble was, he had no idea what that would be.
He tried his best to be grateful, even when Lisa was hassling him. As part of her rehab she always was trying to make peace with everything, and took to bugging him about calling their dad. "He knows where I am," Birdy Joe would say. "He knows right where I stay."
"But daddy's proud, you know that."
"I can't help it if I shamed him."
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
"Well, I guess I'm just not as smart as you."
"It's nothing to do with smarts, Joey. That was hardly your problem, Mister The-Big-Hope. It has to do with facing up to those affected by your actions. It's about sweeping the ghosts away. That's the only way you'll take back any power in your own life. It's all about a mutual acceptance."
Birdy Joe would try not to roll his eyes. "He knows where I am." And he'd stop there, because he was afraid he might say something he didn't mean, and despite Lisa's holier-than-thou nagging, she had taken him in with the only condition being that he help with Randy when she worked the three to eleven shift at Mercy General. She hadn't even asked for rent money. He'd left that in an envelope on his own. She never refused it, nor did she ever thank him.
Birdy Joe would crawl into bed after Randy had gone to sleep. He never wanted to disturb the boy, looking sadly peaceful, as yet untouched by real worry. For the first few mornings, Birdy Joe would wake to Randy's breath on his forehead, his face two inches away, just staring. Birdy Joe would pretend to sleep, hoping the boy would go away from boredom. After all, Randy had said barely a word to him. But by the fifth morning, the boy was standing with the ragged bird guide. When he saw his uncle's eyes, he handed him the book. "Mama said this used to be yours. Said you liked birds. Wanna show me one?"
Birdy Joe stayed on his back. He reached his hands out of the covers to grab the book. "Let's see," he said. Randy looked out the window. "I thought you wanted to know about a bird."
"I do."
"Well then pay attention . . . Okay, I saw one of these yesterday in the park. Over by the tennis courts. Spizella arborea. The American Tree Sparrow. Now, it's a small songbird. Nests on the ground. And oh, this is pretty neat." The book slipped from his hands, falling open-faced against his chest.
"What is it, Uncle Joe?"
"Let me get the book back here. All right, now . . ."
"What's the neat thing?"
"It says that this bird, the American Tree Sparrow, only looks for predators out of its left eye. It just spots them from one direction."
"So it's better to sneak up on the other side, then."
"As long as you're not the sparrow . . . I guess it does all its thinking on the right. It'd be better off if it could just use the whole thing, don't you think?"
As he slid across the cocoa leather seats of the Mercedes, Birdy Joe inhaled the luxury. He'd never known anything like it. It smelled crisp, like freshly printed money. The engine barely made a noise. A smooth rumbling. The registration named the owner as Lorne Valentine. 3660 Munroe Drive -- one of the money pockets off Fair Oaks Boulevard. Gripping the steering wheel, Birdy Joe could only imagine what it must be like to look out the bedroom window everyday and see a 300 SE sedan in your driveway on Munroe Drive.
He tried to map the directions in his head, but the radio blared so loud he could barely think. Birdy Joe stared down the red marker at 1530, trying to will it to another station. KFBK was playing some hits show out of New York, probably at the insistence of the daughter. It hurt his ears. But rule number one when parking cars was that you never changed a thing in the interior. Never moved the seat. Rolled down the window. Adjusted the temperature. Nor turned the radio station or volume. Patrons were picky, and even the slightest tweak could end up with a handwritten complaint and a refund. They were always trying to find ways to avoid being charged.
He stepped on the gas, knowing he needed to move quickly.
The car was getting hotter.
The radio insufferable.
He pictured himself like a dog, wanting to stick his nose out the barely cracked window.
As a boy, Birdy Joe had always watched birds, later studying them. No matter what the surroundings, he always noticed birds. He could pick them out of trees, both moving and still. Sometimes it was just the edge of their wings. Or their feathers. Or their colorings. Or their body shapes. Sometimes he swore he could just hear their hearts pumping, twice as fast as the rest of the world. He'd read up on them day and night. At any opportunity, he'd spout off ornithological facts, which his father liked to show off to friends, announcing that their family had its first bona fide genius. The old man would laugh it up, but it seemed he did believe it. Believed that Birdy Joe was the first of their family who had a chance at getting something better in this life.
At the stoplight near the college, Birdy Joe looked at himself in the mirror. What was he doing? Hadn't he learned yet?
Maybe he ought to drive in circles for a while, and then return to the Capitol Plaza, telling Monty that the Valentines' doors were bolted from the inside, or that somebody was there, or a cop was eating his lunch out front. Monty would bust his balls, and probably ride him until he quit. Imagine that. A guy tries to earn an honest living, and gets sacked for not being dishonest enough.
Or maybe he'd just drive to Reno before anyone noticed. There he could fence the car for a bus ticket and a couple of week's worth of spending money.
Either way, how could he go through with this? Smothered by the noise of the radio. The heat. The leather smell.
The Valentines' house was the third one in. Munroe Street was quiet for being so close to such a major road. Part of a wooded neighborhood, the sidewalks disappeared, and the homes were set behind hedges or long curving driveways. He drove past their house, turned the car around, and parked just before the boulevard.
He strode toward the Valentines', trying to keep out of the street, yet not walk on any neighbor's property. Each branch and twig Birdy Joe stepped on sounded like an announcement. He stood straight, trying to look natural. Doing a little work for the Valentines, he'd say if anybody asked. Lorne needs the help. In his slacks and white shirt he might've been mistaken for a professional man, but up close he was clearly secondhand. Still, if the conversation went any further he knew he could talk his way out of it by listening. If you let people talk long enough, they'll eventually make up your story for you.
He paused at the doorway of the Valentines' two-story Tudor. A scaled down model of an English estate. There was solidness to the house that felt paradoxically delicate as he approached it; the rocks in the driveway almost breaking under his feet, as though they could loosen and tumble the foundation.
Birdy Joe rang the doorbell. He hoped someone would answer.
A bird's song came from a pine tree to the right -- two quick peeps followed by a trilling insect-like buzz. He recognized the songbird's tune, and stopped to look for the Grasshopper Sparrow. He could hear it singing in the tree, but couldn't quite see the bird. Its small brown body camouflaged well against the branches. There had been a time in his life when Birdy Joe had practiced birdcalls, but had long ago given it up after enough junior high mocking. But to this day he could still feel a bird's song on the roof of his mouth and his tongue. The bird trilled again, still hidden. He didn't remember much about the Grasshopper Sparrow, other than that the bird got its name because of the way it fed its nestlings; ever so particular and mannered, the mother bird first strangled a grasshopper, and then amputated the insect's legs one by one before feeding it to her children. He made a mental note to tell Randy about the sparrow, and together they could look up more information at bedtime.
He took a deep breath. Held it in. Turned a little lightheaded. As he exhaled, Birdy Joe jiggled and twisted the key, while pressing down on the latch. Stepping across the doorway was like walking backward in time. Only now with extra years on him, he had a clear awareness of his own stupidity. Like an old companion.
He swallowed, thinking he could throw up.
Monty's plan was simple: take small goods that would not be missed for a while. Items that one could easily assume were misplaced. Don't empty the whole jewelry box, just take a ring and a necklace. Boost a few coins from the collection. It could take months for a mark to put two-and-two together. By then, there would be so many possibilities no one would know where to begin. The secret was to take a little where there was a lot.
Beams of sunlight struggled through the entry hall, shadowed by dark wood floors and archways. Even the off-white walls couldn't brighten the room. His heart beat so crazy that he swore it rattled his bones. He took a slow breath, trying to hear the sparrow's song.
As Birdy Joe climbed the stairs, a gray and white tabby weaved in and out at his ankles. It stayed with him down the hallway. Over the squeaking floorboards and Persian runner. He tried to push the cat away with his foot. It wanted company.
The master bedroom looked like a luxury hotel room. Floral throw pillows on a gold bedspread. Six-drawer dresser. Chiffarobe. End tables. All matched in dark cherry wood, each anchored by small silver-based lamps. Boring paintings of rowboats and fruit baskets.
Mrs. Valentine's antique jewelry box sat on top of the dresser. Two photos bordered it: a small 3x5 snapshot of the couple on the deck of a boat, and a baby photo of their daughter with a pink ribbon in her hair. He regretted looking at the photos before he unclasped the latch. The Valentines seemed kind. Like a TV family.
He noticed the pearls right away. His mother wore a similar strand in the only photograph his father ever displayed of her, a hand-colored portrait of his parents before they'd had children. Lisa had always wanted the pearls, but they'd disappeared along with his mother. Maybe she was buried with them. He couldn't remember. He pinched the strand with his thumb and forefinger, took it out of the box, and dropped it into his coat pocket. Remembering Monty's rule, Birdy Joe rearranged the remaining jewels, and closed the box.
He went through both end tables, grabbing the most expensive looking watch from Mr. Valentine's side.
The cat jumped up to the window, scaring him to death. It hunched down, craning its neck forward, with a guttural growl. Birdy Joe shushed it. The cat didn't listen. Refused to notice him.
Birdy Joe moved quickly, pulling out Mrs. Valentine's top drawer. Feeling beneath all the neatly folded socks, he found a slim mahogany box. He opened it with some anticipation. His head thoughtless and light. A box full of diamonds. Broaches. Necklaces. Rings. Bracelets. Earrings. The familiar surge charged through his body.
He glanced over at the snarling cat, about ready to smack it off the sill. Then he followed its line of vision. The Grasshopper Sparrow sat on a branch just outside the window, oblivious to being watched, a large flat head on a tiny brown body. Its markings were fall colors with streaks of red, chestnut, and black. The cat growled again, and then meowed frustratingly, batting at the window. The bird never looked back. It flew off immediately, shaking the needles and branches.
Birdy Joe swatted the cat, which jumped down and retreated under the bed. It then ran downstairs, and Birdy Joe heard a flapping sound that he knew to be a cat door. As a kid his family had had one. Their cat, which was both large and obese, brought mice into the house on a daily basis. Just left them on the kitchen floor. His mother had always apologized for her, saying it was the cat's way of saying thank you.
The diamonds had the look of heritage, probably originally worn by Mrs. Valentine's grandmother. Taking them was pretty crappy. But what else was he supposed to do? His palms broke a sweat. He looked over at the photos on the dresser, and told them he was sorry for what a shit he'd become. Then he picked out the bracelet and necklace that looked as though they had the least history, and shoved them in his pocket. Along with the watch and the pearls.
Walking across the driveway, Birdy Joe dug his hands into his pockets. He didn't feel the luxury or value of the take, only the sharp reminders of his stupidity. When he got back, he would just dump the loot on Monty's desk, walk out, and go get Randy. He was going to have to quit the hotel anyway. Give his PO some lame excuse that the valet gig just wasn't working, and take a job in the meatpacking district, where at least he'd be safe from Monty and his plans; then maybe his own weakness could be grounded for once.
Birdy Joe focused on each step, as though his legs had forgotten how to work. Gears and levers and joints. Hopefully his oncoming headache would not explode into something bigger. He tried to think about bird facts. Fact. Fact. The Chimney Swift flies almost constantly. Fact. It even bathes itself while flying, sliding its breast along the water's surface, and shaking the water off on the ascent. Fact.
The stones crackled beneath his feet, one step and another. After about four strides, he noticed the brown lump at the edge of the driveway. It looked tenderly buoyant, almost like a water balloon. Blood trailed over the white stones. The sparrow lay limp along the driveway, its tail featherless, small black eyes staring upward. The bird's right wing flapped once or twice from reflex.
A trail of feathers splayed across the lawn and into the hedges. Under the bushes the cat peered out. Crouched and proud. Wanting some recognition of the gift she'd given.
Birdy Joe walked as fast as he could without looking suspicious. In his mind he was running. As fast as he could.
On the first Wednesday after his release, Birdy Joe had found himself sitting in the backseat of Lisa's car, while Randy rode shotgun up front. She had just picked them up -- Randy from school, her brother from work -- and was on the way to her weekly dinner with their father. "I can't believe I have to ride you home," she'd said to Birdy Joe. "Why can't you just come to Daddy's? I'm telling you, he will be glad to see you."
"I'm just not ready."
"It makes no sense."
"That I don't feel ready?"
"And that I have to drive back up to the apartment and then all the way to West Sac, when I could be going right there, and you could be going to surprise your father who wants nothing more than to see his son . . . Talk a little sense into your uncle, Randy. Could you, now?"
Randy didn't say anything. He hadn't started talking with his uncle yet.
"C'mon, Joey," Lisa said. "You can't heal this if you never see him."
"What healing?" He had been tempted to say more, but stopped himself. Getting straight had been good for Lisa, and if she needed to proselytize to keep the rehab going, then he supposed he could take it.
"You're really gonna make me drive you all over god's green earth, aren't you? . . . I'll tell you what. For me. Go see him for me, if you don't care about amends. Do it for your hardworking, crap-taking sister. Do it for me, so I don't have to drive across town."
"You're not crap-taking, Lisa."
"Then you'd go. If you believed that then you would go."
"All right. What the . . . All right. Just don't expect me to do anything but go. No gestures of anything. Just going. For you."
Lisa glanced up into the rearview mirror. She smiled. "Well, that's a start down the right road."
Initially his father had defended him, believing his son's story -- first about being not even being at the break-in on 44th Street, and later to being forced into participating by threat. And why shouldn't he have believed his own son? They hadn't been real close growing up, but they'd been close enough. His father had worked out at the Farmer's Rice Cooperative as long as he could remember. First weighing and bagging the rice for transporting, and later being promoted to a shift supervisor when Birdy Joe was about twelve. The money had been much better, but it forced him to work second shift, often not getting home until past midnight. After that time, Birdy Joe had little memories of his father other than being hunched over his coffee at the breakfast table, and dressing for work when he and Lisa got home from school. Birdy Joe knew that his father only took the promotion for the extra money. You'd have to have been deaf not to hear his parents' fights about spending. But a part of him sensed that his father wanted to be away. That he looked forward to the quiet of the second shift. By Sunday nights, the old man always seemed a little agitated, going down to his basement workshop, or taking on tasks such as rearranging the boxes in the garage.
And the time when Lisa had fallen in the backyard and cut open her forehead, Birdy Joe's mother, too frustrated and panicked for busy signals, had told him to ride his bike over to the mill to tell their father that Lisa was going to the Emergency Room. When he got there, Birdy Joe saw a different version of his father. He straddled the back of a folding chair, his legs open and relaxed, laughing while he told a story to some of the guys, looking like almost a rubber-faced version of himself. It made Birdy Joe both relieved and distressed.
On the one hand, his father did have spirit in him; it just wasn't meant for his family. Still his father always told Birdy Joe that he trusted him. Said he was impressed by the boy's ability to study and make sound judgments. Said it was impressive that a boy his age knew so much about birds, and surprisingly once went into work late in order to watch his son do bird calls at the local library. He even nicknamed his son, Birdy. A name that under other circumstances may have been pejorative, the young Joey saw as endearing. And when Birdy Joe's mother died, his father said that with two children in high school, he could only keep his supervisor's hours because he trusted Birdy Joe. That he knew the boy would always do right. Been blessed with smarts and focus.
Four years later, when it was made clear at the trial that Birdy Joe was just as complicit as the other guy, his father walked out of the courtroom. That was the last that Birdy Joe had seen nor heard of him -- other than Lisa's ongoing insistence that this all be reconciled.
Birdy Joe barely recognized the house when they pulled up. It was smaller than he remembered, much more boxy. The paint was peeling a bit off the stucco, and although mowed, the lawn seemed more mussed. Looking at the house through the car window, its porch light burning orange, the black metal rails going up the steps, there was the strange sensation that he had never been in that house before, much less ever lived there.
Lisa turned to Randy. "Remember, check with Papa before taking anything off the shelves. He likes you to check with him."
The boy nodded his head.
She turned around. "Daddy seems to get more and more particular these days. Makes him nervous when Randy wanders around the house, although I don't know why. It's not like there's any real valuables in there. But it makes him nervous, it does. He wants everybody checking with him on everything. Like when Randy went into your room and found the bird book. Daddy shot me a look."
Birdy Joe didn't respond. He had no sense that he had a room in that house, much less one with propriety. And why would his father care about preserving the bird book? It hadn't been touched in years.
He looked out the other window. These neighborhood houses that he'd been in and out of a million times looked unrecognizable. It wasn't even a half-familiar movie where you struggle to remember the title. He felt cold. And his head started to hurt.
Lisa said, "All right, let's get going."
"Going to see Papa," Randy sang. "Going to see Papa."
Halfway out of the car, Lisa looked back. "Well, let's go, Joe. Come on, now."
He shook his head, trying to stop her from looking at him. "He doesn't want to see me, Lisa."
"Not this again, Joey. Not again."
"He doesn't."
"For the love of . . ."
"I'm just going to wait here for a while. Just wait a little bit. Prepare myself."
Randy was already running up the steps. "I've got to . . . But you are coming in, aren't you?"
Birdy Joe just bobbed his head. "I'll try."
Lisa rolled her eyes.
"I said I'd try."
"Sooner or later you have to accept the things in life you can't change."
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
She chased after Randy, looking back once at the car. Birdy Joe watched the front door open. His father must have been standing behind it, as he saw nothing other than a dark rectangle.
Birdy Joe didn't get out of the car that night. Once or twice he saw the curtains part, but it was always Lisa's face that peered out, squinting. He didn't know what he'd do if it were his father. Part of him was afraid he wouldn't even recognize the old man.
He had closed his eyes, trying to will the headache away. He thought about birds. Anything interesting. Facts. Facts. The Bohemian Waxwing. An Alaskan songbird that only crosses into the most northern areas of the states in winter. An unusual bird, in that it has no breeding territories. And by leading a lifestyle without a territory, the Bohemian Waxwing has no true song of its own.
Facts.
Facts.
Facts.
It was a relief being back in the Mercedes. The stiff leather seats and their equally stiff smell now comforted. Before starting the car, Birdy Joe leaned his neck against the headrest. He felt his face flush, and then he began to shake. It started in his forearms, and worked it way down to his torso. The jewels rattled in his pocket. He felt cold. From the inside.
After a few minutes, he turned the ignition. A voice blasted out at him from the radio. Birdy Joe's first instinct was turn it off, but he remembered the valet's rule. (Here he was driving a stranger's car to burgle his house, yet Birdy Joe still felt inclined to follow procedures. Strange world.)
He rolled toward Fair Oaks Boulevard. Although he wasn't listening to the words, the tone of the radio announcer sounded passive. Usually they were barking, trying to rile you up into some type of enthusiasm. But this tone was laconic. Almost melting. Then he noticed the announcer was crying, his voice having turned to a whisper.
Birdy Joe leaned forward to hear the words. That's when he learned what was happening in Dallas. He listened long enough to get the details that nobody knew much about yet, and then turned down the volume, forgetting about the valet code.
Birdy Joe wasn't one of those who had got caught up in the whole Kennedy thing. In fact, he spent nearly all of Kennedy's term in Folsom, far removed from the glory and the glamour. He had nothing against the president, it was just that he never felt affected by the promise. It didn't mean anything to him. But driving down Fair Oaks, he did feel an intense pity for the Kennedy children. They must have been left behind in the care of some Washington nanny, while across the country their father took a bullet in the head. What must that be like? He had an image of Mrs. Kennedy on the day they were leaving Washington. She was crouching down, her skirt pulled over her knees, a hand on each of her children's shoulders. They must have looked misty-eyed and bewildered, as their father hurried around with his usual group of men, talking and reading papers at once, only pausing for a quick wink and a goodbye. But their mother would have gently kissed each of their cheeks. She'd have told them it was a quick trip. Next week would be Thanksgiving, and nobody was going anywhere. For some reason she would sense worry in their faces, and she would not ignore it. She would look them dead on. We'll be back before you know it, she must have said. You can trust me, she'd have said. You can trust me. Then she would have risen, and said she loved them. The children would back up into the legs of their nanny, leaning against her like she was a wall, as they watched their mother back away, bent forward and blowing kisses. Then, Birdy Joe imagined, she'd turn around and walk a pace behind their father, looking less and less like a mother, and more like a lady. How could they ever trust her again?
Fair Oaks Boulevard felt hushed. He drove as if were gliding. Almost aimless by instinct. Birdy Joe's chest felt empty thinking about those kids. He thought about how only 25 percent of American Robin fledglings ever survive past November, and that American Woodcock chicks don't leave the nest after they hatch, instead they're completely reliant on their mother for food, while their father, who gives no care, continues to display before the Woodcock world.
And where he should have continued straight down J Street toward the hotel, Birdy Joe turned left on 44th, driving slowly past the mansions. The house where he'd been busted was at the end of the block. A big fat mansion that his friend Earl had said was foolproof. Because Earl's rich cousin lived across the street, Earl had been able to watch it for a while, and, he said, the owners were ghosts in the winter. When the skies went on the rack of their car, they could be counted on to be in Tahoe for weeks at a time. A neighbor checked on the house at 5:15 everyday, picking up the Bee, often doing little other than to cup his hands over the window and peer in. Foolproof. Earl said the guy who owned the place was a downtown mucky-muck, with a house full of rich man's stuff, like silver and coins and stamps and art. Earl knew a guy who would trade them for cash with no questions asked. Foolproof.
The mansion looked as empty as the day they'd gone into it. The windows were dark, the steps dusty and scattered with fallen leaves, bordered by naked trees.
Just as tempting.
He stared at it with some kind of judgment on his past self, an idiot kid who'd had no control over temptation, but always managed to justify it with his dreamy notion of freedom. And he started to laugh at this righteous self, sitting there with a pocket of full stolen goods in a stolen car. He didn't know what freedom meant to him anymore, especially now that he understood how no one is ever really free. His father with his expectations. Lisa waiting to be spooked by her ghosts. Even the people in that mansion must still feel a twinge of anxiety each time they cross the threshold into their house, wondering if its been robbed again. Same as those poor Kennedy children will feel every time someone says I have something to tell you.
The burglary had been botched from the outset. Earl hadn't accounted for the leaves not blocking the house, and when they turned on the lights, they were in full view of the neighbor walking his dog. Earl, with pockets full of coins and stamps, was greeted by a policeman's pistol as he came down the stairs. Birdy Joe had been rummaging through the dining room for silver when he saw the flickering blue and red lights. He had managed to escape out the back door, but was picked up three blocks over without incident, denying any complicity. He didn't have anything on him, which accounted for his two-year sentence. Earl, on the other hand, because he was loaded with valuables and a prior record, was not due out until March of '65.
He watched the house for a few more minutes, then turned up the radio again. Kennedy was pronounced dead in Dallas. He shut it off.
Everything felt wrong. The mistakes weren't just from within him. The whole world had decided wrong today.
He put the car in gear, and drove up to Folsom Boulevard, where he turned right, and headed downtown. Only forty minutes gone but it seemed like a year had changed over.
The streets were quiet with little traffic. Barely one o'clock and it felt like the middle of the night. He crossed Alhambra at the Coke-Cola bottling plant, where Folsom Boulevard turned into Capitol Avenue. A few blocks after Lisa's apartment, he passed Randy's preschool, with the rainbows painted on the windows. He slowed down, trying to peer in. It looked no different than usual.
He parked the car in the valet lot on 14th Street, and broke into a quick jog for the hotel.
After a block, Birdy Joe turned back. He walked up to the Mercedes, and opened the passenger's door. Bending over, he took the jewels from his pocket and placed them in the glove box. He shut it hard. And then locked it.
He should have turned the radio back up.
"Hell have you been?" Monty said, with a barking whisper. "Don't you know what happened? Whole place is nuts."
"I heard on the way back."
"Well, they've been waiting on their car for twenty minutes. Whole place has gone crazy, and all the hotel just wants out. I've been stalling them. Telling them we're backed up . . . So? How did it go?"
"I waited and waited," Birdy Joe said. He paused. And then swallowed. "There was a cop eating out front. I tried to wait him out, but he never left."
"Son-of-a-bitch . . . Unbelievable . . . Imagine the . . . A cop?" He swirled his mouth around like he was making spit, breathed loudly through his nose. " Now go get the car, will you?" he muttered. "Before they start to get any more suspicious."
"Can you send Charley? I've had enough association with that one."
"Whatever." Monty called out to the kid, holding up the Mercedes keys. He turned back to Birdy Joe. "Then you go get this Impala. Keep everything normal looking."
"You got it."
Monty looked at him once more. There was a little suspicion in his eye. "You couldn't get in? Not a chance?"
"Cop wouldn't budge."
"Right." Monty shook his head. "Right."
Birdy Joe watched Charley deliver the keys to Mr. Valentine. Valentine gave him a handful of singles, said something, followed by a pat on the shoulder. Charley walked over and tried to hand two bills to Birdy Joe. "You parked it," he said.
Birdy Joe waved him away.
"You're turning down money?"
"I had a bad feeling about that car. I don't need a reminder."
Charley shoved the bills into his front pocket. "Suit yourself, then. I thought she rode smooth as honey."
"Hey," Birdy Joe said. "What did he say to you?"
"The guy with the Mercedes?"
"What'd he say to you?"
"Said, People gotta watch out for each other on days like this."
Birdy Joe shook his head. He'd hoped for something a little more meaningful.
They worked up until the last minutes of the shift. Everybody wanted their cars at once. Customers were in a between state -- impatient and dazed, doling out bits and pieces of news updates. Birdy Joe worked fast, anxious to get to Randy a little sooner, and find out was going on. Charley grumbled the whole time, his main concern that he had to stay on for the next shift, saying his legs were aching and he was sick of smiling and giving directions to Highway 50, and he couldn't wait until spring training. Monty told him it was sure to be slow for the rest of the night. He could watch the news in the lobby until another car came.
Putting on his coat, Birdy Joe wished Charley good luck, and told Monty so long. Their eyes locked for an extra moment. Bound by a duplicitous event that didn't play out. They both knew they had something on the other, but at the same time nothing. He could tell Monty thought he was bullshitting about the cop, pulling an old fashion double-cross, where the only victor is the last man holding the bag. Birdy Joe figured Monty's beliefs would be further reinforced when he didn't show up for work tomorrow. He suspected Monty knew he wasn't coming back. The stare was hard and final. Unlike the warden's, which had said, I know we'll be seeing each other again. Soon.
Birdy Joe's the only person on the street. He walks quickly, wanting to get to Randy's school early. Through apartment windows he sees people crying. Pacing. Gathered around television sets. The air is still, but heavy. As if he has to part it with every step.
Everything's on the brink. Too much weight to one side could tip the world completely over. Think up a fact. A fact. Hammond Flycatchers will fight in midair to protect their territory, often becoming entangled and frantically falling toward earth with a panicked flutter. Fact. Think up other facts.
He walks faster and faster. Trying to get to his nephew. Terrified that the news of the assassination has reached the boy. That the first crack in the shell has already broken. And worst of all, that he won't be able to do anything to protect him.
Sometimes thinking about the boy makes him sad. He can just look at him and feel sad. A father not even in California. An uncle who went to prison. A grandpa who freaks when he touches anything, probably just as scared of the boy as the boy is of him. Even still, Randy believes in everybody around him. It doesn't matter that his mother had to fistfight with a three year long drunk. Because when he is cuddled in her arms, feeling her heart beat against him, he knows his world is safe. But what makes Birdy Joe sad is that there is a rest of the world. He can't face the idea of Randy growing older. That sweet face that sleeps beside him at night. Who doesn't know the cruelties between the weaves of the world. Who doesn't know how they can seep inside you and turn you against yourself.
When he finally gets to the daycare, Birdy Joe is glad to find out that the teachers have not said anything to the children, deciding that is a discussion best held between parent and child. They have run off a dittoed brochure called Grief and Your Child - A Parent's Talking Points that they are handing out at the door. He rushes to Randy, scoops up his items, and gets out of the school as fast as he can. "Are we going home?" the boy asks. "Did something bad happen today?"
Birdy Joe grips his hand harder as they cross the street. He tries to speak calmly. "Have we looked up the Eastern Phoebe yet? It's a songbird that lives back east. She likes to nest in places like bridges and other structures."
"Like houses?"
"Like houses. It's how she has learned to live in a world that humans are always changing. She lives in the things they build. She knew she had to change with the humans, not be driven away by them."
"And they don't get hurt on the bridges? Run over by cars or trains?"
"No. But they do end up living most of their lives alone."
"That's a bad thing?"
"Depends on how you look at it."
Randy stopped at the next streetlight, and looked up at his uncle. "Uncle Joe," he said, "where are we going?"
"Home. We'll call your mommy to check in with her. But we're not going to turn on the TV. No TV today. I want us to go through the bird book. Look up the Grasshopper Sparrow. I saw one today, and I wanted to read all about it with you. And after that we'll call Papa, and we'll tell him what we've learned."