Betty walked out her door, into the Mississippi sunshine. It didn’t hit her like it used to in Nebraska; it was insolent here. It had the audacity to hug her without permission, to create sweat and wetness in her most personal areas without so much as an invitation. She liked that kind of intrusion better from the sunlight than she ever did from any person. In her glossy Crocs, she bent down to start her midday gardening, an act Steve would have ridiculed. Fuck Steve, she thought to herself.She yanked the hairy crabweed from her garden bed. It took itself so seriously, with its thick shoots; she had to find its heart—the place it most pulled the soil to itself—and tear it from there.
Dripping and victorious, she returned inside. Her ceiling fans ran full speed all day, and sweet tea glasses condensed droplets into water rings on every surface. She didn’t like sweet tea much before, but she was trying to take up the habit now that she lived here. She moseyed her way to the shower, pushing sweat away barehanded. As the water heated, she undressed. Fog began to muddy the image in the mirror—her naked form. She caressed her hip. The wrinkles and loose skin were starting to show all over, but her darker Mississippi tone did her favors. Even my tan lines are sexy, she thought as she flipped her graying auburn curls upside down to remove her head scarf. Righting herself, she saw her face disappear into the mist just as she winked at her own reflection.
*
At the restaurant, the room was abuzz. It was a popular place, and it was Saturday night. The host walked her through the room, past the rows of full tables—couples, business meetings, yacht club wives on a ladies’ night out, about everything except families. The walls were windowed; a round shape encased in the scenery of the gulf shore, an ever-so-slight tint to keep the sunset glow from overwhelming guests. She sat at her table; she was there first, as she planned. She perused the menu with a sigh of satisfaction. Filet mignon, crème brûlée—the sound of quality helped her relax. She glanced around, realizing she might be underdressed in her floral maxi skirt. She was careful to pair it with solids—a black top, a purple headscarf, and she left her Crocs at home in favor of her nice flat sandals. But it was not a match for the smart suits and flirty cocktail dresses all about her. She scoffed and returned her gaze to the menu.
“Betty?” a warm voice asked. Looking up, she saw the fit man with a scruffy, graying beard, whom she was expecting. Thankfully, he was also a bit underdressed, in khakis.
“Robert? Oh, you look just like your picture!” She rose and greeted him with a little hug, patting his shoulders.
*
“Pets? Really? I didn’t know you wanted a pet, Mom,” Cassie said through the phone.
“Oh, it’s just a thought I’ve been having.” Betty glanced at the twenty open tabs on her browser window—puppy breeders, animal shelters, local pet stores. Maybe if she listened better, she’d know that.
“If you still lived here, I could keep up better, you know?”
Was she reading my mind? “Cassie, I was alone there every bit as much as I was alone here; you know that. When was the last time you visited me?”
“Ouch. But fair. At least you came to see me when I needed you. Look, I know I get busy. I’m not going to get promoted if I don’t put in the extra time—oh, and finish my master’s. It’s a lot, that’s all.”
“Oh, honey, it’ll be okay. We’ll still see each other every bit as often; it will just take more travel when we do.”
“Sure, no big deal at all.” She paused. “So you think a pet will fix everything? That’s why Robert got the axe?”
“Well, if he doesn’t want them, that’s okay. He’ll meet someone else.”
“What about you? You want to eliminate everyone on date number one for trivial shit?”
“Language, dear! It might not be so trivial. Who knows?” She sighed.
“Hey, I’m on a call!” Cassie shouted at her roommate. It sounded as if a blender was running. “Hey, I should go. I’ve got to—”
“Say no more. Love you, sweetie. Good night,” Betty said.
Cassie hung up.
She leaned back in her tufted orange armchair, her favorite mug in hand—the one covered in sage green botanical print with daisies. Kids grow up; they move out; they get their own jobs. But they still manage to make you feel like the mom. At least, looking around the room, she saw no children’s toys or huge man shoes cluttering the floor. She heard the rhythmic hum and click, click of the fan and its dangling chain. There was also silence, too much silence. But there was no one to tell her how to remedy it. The sounds in her home were the growths of her own garden—the silence creeping across and overtaking it like henbit only a weed if she said it was, only when she said it was, and only the old remedy for chronic pain if she said it was, when she said it was; the decision of whether to adopt a pet was hers, and hers only. Whether it be a bird, or a cat, or a pathetic gaping little fish in a bowl forgotten in the corner. Or whether she adopted the deafening deadness of empty air. It was hers. After a moment in the quiet, she clicked on the TV, and a commercial for erectile dysfunction blasted her.
“I could never have erectile dysfunction,” Steve had proudly proclaimed, early on in their relationship and the entire way through. “Not with you around,” and he’d squeeze her breast or pinch her thigh, as if it were as casual as a pat on the hand, as unquestionable as flipping on a light switch. He’d nuzzle in and nibble at her ear, and she would scrunch her chin to her shoulder, nudge him away with a laugh. It would usually be about then that a welcome distraction interrupted them—a shirt-tugging, chocolate-cheeked Cassie later on, or a change of subject by Betty early. He wasn’t the worst at breaking down her defenses, not at all, but she was a professional at rebuilding them. Still, their child, their marriage, existed—evidence of his victories, spoils of his battles.
She turned off the TV. No, TV was a stupid idea. She stared at the couch for a moment. The tough upholstery—she’d bought stain-resistant fabric, not a plush velvety texture for comfort. She had been thinking of an animal. If a dog or a cat lay there, if a puppy had a piddle, a kitten a hairball, that was all okay with her. She’d be ready. But she stared into the corner and wished, actually, for conversation. Who can I shit-talk to about Steve’s arrogant erections? Pets don’t talk.
Unless they do. She moved to her computer and began investigating talking bird breeds. Perfect little companions, maybe. She could speak to one, teach it what to say back. “Bwaack! Fuck Steve. Bwaack!” She smirked. And Cassie, so quick to get her off the phone but so quick to make demands when she needed something, oh the delight she’d get hearing that in the background. Maybe a talking bird was just the pet she needed. They must be oh-so-low maintenance, too, she assumed, perfect for her full-time days away from home, where she filed paperwork and kept client databases for the accountants. It only took her a few minutes to be satisfied. She found a pet store open all weekend, not far from her. They had parrots in stock. She would go tomorrow, she decided. And with that, she moved back to her chair and reached for Gone for the Night, her latest romance read. A young woman named Amelia was trapped in a rehab facility, lusting for an escape and for the young cleaning man, James. He knew the building, knew how to scheme to satisfy her need for freedom but provide her a safe return every morning to the rehabilitation she required. But how long could they keep pulling it off? It was a page-turner.
*
Keep reading; it’s your only chance; She was clinging to her paperback, huddled into the couch. Every inch mattered. Humphrey holds Roselda in his arms, smelling her raven tresses. Remember to take the car to the mechanic tomorrow; oh, remember to marinate the chicken before bed; I have to sew up the hole in Cassie’s leotard before Wednesday. Steve squeezed closer. I have to make sure to be fifteen minutes early for work tomorrow, they’re slammed; Roselda is what again? She scooched harder into the arm, claiming back an inch. He snatched her hand.
“Steve,” she began.
“I think we need to talk about our retirement account.”
“What?”
He closed the gap again, stroking her hand. “If we increase the withholdings from my paycheck, Billingsworth will match up to ten percent.”
She pushed her hip harder against the couch. There was nowhere left to go. “Sure, we can do that with the retirement account; whatever you think is best.” Wait—Roselda loves Simon, why the hell isn’t she stopping Humphrey? Oh, I can still get a full night’s sleep before work tomorrow if I do the dishes now. Betty got off the couch, Steve clinging to her hand as she pried it away.
“Where are you going? Can’t you tell I want some time with my wife?”
“Can’t you tell I need you to leave me the fuck alone?” She dropped Romance in the Dungeon, and its open pages hit the wooden floor with a swishing thud. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
*
The door jangled as she pushed into Ned’s Pets and More. The scent of about thirty different varieties of feces, mingled with sawdust and aquarium water, confronted her as she swept inside. It was bright, and the walls were lined with cages and shelves of pet supplies, the middle a labyrinth of the same along with families—children reaching into open top enclosures, chasing wiggly guinea pigs with their strangling fingers, mothers scolding them to be careful, fathers laughing but saying, “How much does that one cost?” looking for a price. The clerks were behind the counter at the front, ringing up a long line of customers, mostly buying paper bags of dog and cat food. She knew the birds would be here somewhere, so she continued scanning. She worked her way toward the back, passing dainty little bird cages, white plastic-coated wires enclosing purple and yellow-headed cockatiels, chirpy parakeets, pairs of rosy-cheeked lovebirds twiddling a song. Then she heard it, primal and loud. “Kwwaaawk!” To her right, down a narrow aisle lined with bird seed, was the glorious parrot cage.
Three parrots shared a gigantic home, in their own carved-out area among all the smaller birds. A skylight just above it lit their space with a white glow that dominated the yellow tungsten of the rest of the shop. She eyed the feathered creatures, all remarkable in their plumage. One was almost completely red—only flecks of a warm blue dusted its wings and tail, its beak a solid black. Another was candy apple green, yellow-beaked, a rainbow array of feathers on its wings, a stunning sight spread out to fly across the cage from one perch to another.
“Did you know parrots don’t have vocal cords?” A roaming clerk popped up beside her, wearing a red “Ned’s Pets” polo and a name tag—Drew.
“Really?”
“Yep. They change the shape and depth of their trachea to alter their sounds and speak. No vocal folds like mammals.”
“Incredible,” Betty said. She had read something about this online already, but it still impressed her. She gawked, watching the parrots interacting.
“Peek-a-boo!” one chimed in. Both Betty and Drew chuckled. It was the third parrot, a lackluster, gray-feathered fowl that hadn’t drawn her attention yet. As it hopped closer to them, she spied a pop of scarlet—its undertail feathers were a statement piece. It perched near them, twisting its head side to side as if assessing them. Its eyes were bright, a light taupe that reminded her of Cassie’s.
“We call that one Chinga,” Drew informed her. “She wants to see if we have a treat.”
“Oh, do we?”
“I’ll be right back,” Drew said.
Once Drew was gone, Betty whispered, “Fuck Steve.” Chinga craned her head. “That’s right. I think you can pick it up!”
Betty wasted no time after they treated the bird. “What do I have to sign?”
“We’re so happy you’re interested!” he said, pulling out some papers from a shelf underneath the cage. He rattled on about the price (she didn’t care), the delivery (you had to buy or provide a parrot-sized enclosure that they use to bring the bird to you), options in case Chinga got sick or injured (Betty was not foolish enough to fall for pet insurance), and proper regular parrot care (mostly obvious shit). She took the clipboard and lifted the pen. She could receive the delivery today or any evening this week, she told him.
“Before you sign,” he stopped her, “there is one more thing. For the sale of parrots, we do require a written plan of deceasement.”
“Excuse me?” Betty said, pointing the pen at him. “Am I supposed to plan the bird’s death?”
“No, no,” he laughed. “This is a plan for what you will do with Chinga once you die. Her species, the African Gray Parrot, can live up to eighty years. She is twelve months old right now.”
“Oh. I—uh, I hadn’t thought about that yet.” She handed the clipboard and pen back to him.
“Of course,” he said, peeling a sheet of paper away from the clipboard and handing it to her. “It’s not something everyone can figure out right away. Take this home with you and come back tomorrow. We’re open until seven.”
Betty nodded, taking the paper in both hands and stumbling away from the aviary, glancing back at Chinga’s face as it twisted to view her retreat.
“Peek-a-boo!” Chinga squawked again.
Betty smiled sadly. “Goodbye.”
*
“Thank you, goodbye,” she ended the call and set her cell phone on the counter with a soft clunk. She’d just sorted out the water bill. Steve glared at her from his seat at the table.
Step.
Step.
She walked to him, pulled out a creaky oak chair of her own.
He waited. Hands folded under his chin.
Her breath stalled. She sat and took the pen, rolling it between her index finger and thumb, rubbery, at her command.
She looked at him—he was staring hard at the paper in front of her. His signature sat there, glossy in wet blue ink. She imagined it smudged; what if her hand accidentally rubbed against it, after all?
Click. The pen tip protruded. Twenty-one years. Twenty-one years of beckons, demands of all sorts of minutiae, of handling the dinners and dance classes, of signing the papers together and ringing up the water company now, yes right now, because that was when it was convenient for him. She glanced up from the paperwork at him once more. She smiled, ripe and flirty. And signed her name.
*
Betty unfolded her rickety plastic chair and set it on the beach. The white sands had flown into her face when she tried lying on her towel, so she spread the mandala-decorated cloth across her seat and settled in, safe from the stinging grains. She sighed. Marianne, whom she knew from days like today, lounging on the private neighborhood beach, marched up the path with her dog on a leash.
“Happy afternoon, Betty!” Her dog, a black and white long-coated beauty, rushed up to her, nosing her face in wetness.
“Hi, Roxy!” Betty said, roughing up her soft coat. Roxy turned over, baring her belly gladly, and Betty obliged her with a generous rub. “And hi, Marianne! How are you?” Betty took her towel and covered her own bikini-bared belly, turning on her side to face Marianne as she pulled out her own chair. Marianne was kind, in her fifties too, but always busy with her tiny grandkids, it seemed. Her husband had passed away from a terribly aggressive cancer, and she lived here alone like Betty. But it didn’t ever seem she was quite as alone. She was plump and shapely, always smiling.
“Always blessed,” she said. “What have you been up to this weekend?”
Betty thought of Chinga. She thought of Cassie, isolated from her by both judgment and distance. She thought of Robert, whom she didn’t bother to get to know, his scruffy smile. She reclined her chair, popped on her sunglasses, and pulled out Gone for the Night. Marianne would know it was reading time and only offer an occasional quip. She let the towel fall away from her stomach as she nestled into her book.
“Relaxing,” Betty responded. “Just relaxing.”
Loria Harris’s poetry and fiction are published or forthcoming in Oyster River Pages, Club Plum, JAKE, and more. Her poems have received the Alyson Dickerman Prize and the Jim Haba Award. Loria holds an MFA from Lindenwood University where her fiction was nominated for the MFA in Writing Award, and she currently reads for Iron Horse Literary Review. Find her on IG at @looksbooksandloria or on Bluesky at @loriaharris.
The Orange Rose 