Mark Dunn - American Decameron

“Goodbye, my dear,” said Pearl, donning her hat. “I’ll see you next week.”

“And I won’t see you!” tittered Leonora.

After hearing the front door to her apartment close, Leonora rose from her sofa to put away the tea things. She turned on the radio to listen to some music. She had heard somewhere that television was going to replace radio. All of her favorite programs would be gone, and she’d have to be content with a medium that was not kind to the visually compromised. “I hope, at least,” she said to herself, “they’ll still let me have my music.” Rosemary Clooney was singing “Come On-a My House.” Leonora stopped for a moment to allow the silly song to make her smile as it always did. She wondered if her late husband would have liked it. It was also a favorite new song of her friend Nancy Lyttle.

Leonora and Nancy were neighbors. Like Leonora, Nancy lived in the E line of their Philadelphia apartment building. Her apartment was only two floors above Leonora’s. The two women had met on the elevator one day and had taken an immediate liking to each other. Nancy had begun to invite Leonora to “Come On-a My Apartment” for supper every Friday night. Nancy was Roman Catholic and always prepared a different fish dish each Friday, and Leonora, whose father had been a professional fisherman on Lake Huron, loved fish as well.

Leonora agreed with her building’s superintendent Mr. Wachsel that Nancy Lyttle was an odd duck. She didn’t seem to make friends easily and was stingy with gifts to the buildings’ employees on holidays. She was also a very private person, and Mr. Wachsel was amazed that she allowed Leonora into her apartment. “ I’ve never been inside. Even when her kitchen sink backed up into her bathtub. She had a cousin or somebody come in and fix it.”

“Maybe she makes an exception with me because I’m blind, Mr. Wachsel. Did you ever think about that?”

Mr. Wachsel chewed thoughtfully upon his lower lip as he nodded his head.

Leonora went on: “You know that she has a parrot, don’t you? It belonged to her brother. That parrot is quite a prattling polly. Do you ever hear him from the hallway?”

“No. But I’m not on eight very often — not since we replaced all the valves on the risers and radiators on that floor.”

*

Friday came and Nancy greeted her friend Leonora at the door with her usual ebullience: “Oh my goodness, Leonora — we are having the most divine meal tonight: steamed sole with tomato-leek sauce. I hope you like dill. It’s my favorite herb. Isn’t it my favorite herb, Meshak?”

“Blow it out your ass.”

“You remember Leonora, don’t you, Meshak? Won’t you for once show some courtesy to our favorite guest?”

“Blow it out your ass.”

“It’s going to be one of those nights. I’m so sorry, Leonora. I fear that one of these times you’re going to say enough is enough, and just give up on me entirely.”

“How long do parrots live?”

“Well, cockatoos can live to be over fifty.”

“How old is Meshak?

“Touch my cock! Touch my cock!”

“I’m not certain. Perhaps he’s thirty.”

“Blow it our your ass!”

“I can put him in the other room if you like, Leonora.”

“You said he doesn’t like to be put away when I’m here.”

“That’s true. Believe it or not, he does like you. He doesn’t know the meaning of the words he says. He just gets excited when you’re here and says the things that my naughty brother taught him to say.”

“You fucking whore!”

“I have cheese and crackers for our appetizer. And I bought some Chianti. I know it doesn’t go with fish, but it’s very good. Let me have your hand. Isn’t this a lovely wicker cozy the bottle came in?”

Leonora rubbed her hand along the bowed contour of the bottle holder. “It’s nice. Nancy, I’m curious: the other guests to your home — does Meshak talk to them this way?”

“Oh good mercy, Leonora! He most certainly would. That’s why I can’t have anyone over. You are the only one. You understand. I’m not sure that there’s anyone else who would stand for it.”

“You fucking whore! Touch my cock! Touch my cock! You fucking whore!”

The fish was delicious. Nancy Lyttle was an excellent cook. After dinner, the two women listened to their favorite music programs on the radio over cups of Sanka. Nancy was happy to report that Meshak had fallen asleep. But when it was time to go — Nancy always accompanied her blind friend home late at night, even though Leonora could easily navigate the halls and elevator to get herself to her apartment door without assistance — the parrot was apparently awakened by the rustling and the sound of voices nearby.

“Eat shit, bitch!”

“Goodbye, Meshak. Nancy, may I pet him?”

“Just a gentle pat on his back. He doesn’t like to be handled by anyone but me.”

Nancy guided Leonora’s hand to the soft feathers. “That’s a good bird,” said Leonora. “Can you say, ‘I’m a good bird deep down’? ‘I’m a good bird deep down.’”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

Leonora laughed. “I’m not giving up on this old bird. Maybe you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but I might be able to teach Meshak to be just a little more respectful.”

“Amen to that! Let me get you home now, Leonora. It’s past both of our bedtimes.”

“Blow it out your ass!”

Several days later, as Leonora and her friend Pearl Patz were walking across her apartment building’s lobby so that Pearl could take Leonora to buy a new toaster at Wanamaker’s — her present one had a slightly frayed cord and Pearl was afraid that Leonora might accidentally electrocute herself — the building’s superintendent Mr. Wachsel called out to Leonora.

“Yes, what is it, Mr. Wachsel? Pearl, this is my super, Mr. Wachsel.”

“Hello there. If I might have a word with you, Mrs. Touliatos. It’s about Mrs. Lyttle in 8-E.”

“Is anything wrong? I just saw her last Friday night.”

“Well that depends on how you define the word ‘wrong,’ Mrs. Touliatos.”

“Has the bird — has Meshak, her parrot, died?”

“Yes, Mrs. Touliatos. But not recently. The bird I saw when I had to make an emergency visit to the apartment this morning has been dead for quite some time. He’s stuffed, Mrs. Touliatos. It looks like he’s been stuffed for years.”

“Stuffed, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh.”

For a moment Leonora got very quiet. Finally she asked if everything was all right. “What kind of emergency was it?”

“An overflowing toilet. Your upstairs neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, had themselves a little bathroom waterfall courtesy of Mrs. Lyttle.”

Leonora’s hand flew up to her mouth. Then she pulled it away to say, “Is Nancy — is Mrs. Lyttle still at work?”

“I would imagine. I had to use the passkey. If I had waited, the whole E line would have gotten flooded out — your bathroom as well. I took a minute to look through the rest of the apartment. There is no other bird. Just the stuffed one.”

“Oh my,” said Leonora.

Leonora didn’t speak to Nancy until she arrived at her door at the usual time the following Friday night. Nancy had prepared pepper-honey salmon steaks. There was no wine this night, but a nice pitcher of limeade Nancy had made from fresh-squeezed limes.

Leonora was not feeling herself. Each time the “parrot” spouted his depravities, she would cringe a little inside, but she tried her best not to let it show. She must have succeeded in hiding her concerns, because Nancy never said anything.