The Budgie

by Rick Jay

The disposition of Michelle’s things had taken three days, and one of the last things left was the budgie. Paul had almost forgotten it, and now he felt sort of guilty because he couldn’t remember if it had been fed or not since Michelle had died.

Paul peered at the bird, wondering if it was okay. It was a standard-issue greenish-blotched-with-other-colors budgie in a cheap cage that looked as if it had been purchased from a discount store. How long could a bird go without eating? It must have been four weeks now. It seemed okay, though. Paul poured some birdseed into what looked like a feeding trough. The bird eyed him warily, staying away from the food.

“Hon,” he asked Lauren, “what’re we going to do with the budgie?”

Lauren - Michelle’s sister, Paul’s wife - glared at it. “It’s not coming home with us.”

“So what’re we going to do with it?”

“Take it to the vet. Have them put it down.”

Paul gaped. “Holy crap, hon, it’s healthy. I’m not gonna have them put it to sleep.” He looked at the budgie again. It was still eyeballing him. “Actually, I don’t even know if they put birds to sleep.”

“I don’t like birds,” Michelle said. She was a dog person. Having her accept Paul’s cat had been hard enough.

“Okay, fine,” he replied, putting the cage down and forgetting all about it until the next day, when, having no other option, he had to bring the bird home.

Michelle had been only 33 and had been in perfect health, so it was a surprise to one and all that she had died in her sleep. The preliminary verdict was heart failure, which made no sense on the face of it.

Her bird, and its birdcage, now sat in a designated corner of Paul and Lauren’s rec room, perched atop one of the two ugly end tables that stood guard before a reclining chair. Next to them were three boxes of books, a large box of linens, and two boxes of random junk. Paul had been worried that Michelle’s stuff might move Lauren to tears, but her reaction was quite a bit different from what he’d expected, albeit just as negative.

“Get that goddamned bird out of my house,” she said.

“But, hon, I…”

“I don’t like it. That bird creeps me out. It ALWAYS scared me, even when we were kids. I don’t like birds.”

“Honey, it’s a live creature, I’m not throwing it in the garbage. I’ll find a kid who wants it or something,” Paul protested.

Lauren’s eyes were fire. “I DON’T WANT THAT THING HERE! IF YOU WANT IT, I’M LEAVING!” She turned and stomped out, and Paul stood there, impotent and shocked.

Paul’s cat, Lurk, sat there next to him, oblivious to the argument, staring at the bird and swishing its tail.

Two days later, Lurk was dead.

He had been fourteen years old and wasn’t in tremendous health, so it wasn’t a great surprise, but Paul found himself sobbing uncontrollably after leaving the dead cat at the vet’s. The month had been too much. He streamed tears over his steering wheel. He had decided not to tell Lauren, who, despite hating the cat anyway, probably would not take well to news of more death in the family.

Lauren, true to her word, had gone to her folks’ two nights before and had not yet returned. Secretly, Paul thought it was a serendipitous dispute; her parents needed the company anyway after losing their eldest daughter. Nonetheless, the house felt empty as hell.

Junior, the dog, greeted him with a dog’s slobbery enthusiasm, but even Junior didn’t seem to be happy with the emptier household. He’d loved Lurk, even though the cat had barely tolerated him, and of course he worshipped Lauren.

Junior didn’t leave Paul’s side all night, which must have been a boring task since Paul’s evening consisted mostly of watching baseball on TV, drinking beer, eating microwave pizza, and trying to think of a plausible disease he could call in sick with the next day. The pizza tasted like shit. Paul went downstairs for more beer.

The dark, musty rec room smelled sweet of rust. Paul frowned at the pile of Michelle stuff. It stank like hell, he thought; how did Michelle let her stuff smell like that? There’s something else out of place, too ...

... holy crap, the budgie cage is open!

The bird was sitting on the door of the cage, which was swung wide open. Seeing the loose bird, Junior began to snarl; Paul gave him an unenthusiastic kick and he backed off, still baring his teeth. Paul tiptoed towards the cage, hoping to herd the wayward avian in without spooking it. The budgie gave him its trademark stare and watched him all the way in. As he reached out to scoop it in, it leisurely hopped back into the cage and up onto its perch, never taking its eyes off him. It didn’t even chirp. Paul snapped the cage door closed.

Jesus, Paul thought, I left the cage open; how drunk was I? Or am I? A staggering, bleary review of the carpet revealed no birdshit, so Paul lurched back upstairs with more beer.

The next day, Junior was gone.

Paul searched the house high and low for him, and nothing. Nobody in the neighborhood reported seeing him. Paul drove around calling for Junior; nothing. A call to the pound came up snake eyes. Now Paul was in a state of panic; if Lauren came home and found her dog missing she’d go bananas.

Paul searched the house again, high and low. In the basement, he checked all Junior’s usual hiding places. The rec room smelled worse than ever, a sick sweet smell, like something spoiling, coming from Michelle’s old things.

Paul paused in thought.

What the hell WAS on that stuff? What was in the birdcage?

Michelle had died for no obvious reason; “Heart failure” sounded like a catch all. The cat was dead. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Paul had a migraine, thought that probably had more to do with the gallon of Miller Genuine Draft he’d consumed last night than it did with Michelle’s stuff.

But he’d read an article… what was it, mold? Yes, mold. People had reported getting weird molds in their ceilings, floors, attics. Stuff that made you sick as hell and you didn’t know what it was until they found it, if they did. It was a big concern, right? Molds. Fungi. Bacteria - hadn’t Legionnaires’ Disease started in an air conditioner? What if the bird brought it?

What if Michelle’s stuff had something on it, and it had killed her?

Paul ran upstairs as fast as he could, closed and sealed the door, and showered for nearly an hour.

Later, he called the number in the phone book for the EPA; they didn’t take him seriously, and suggested he write a letter. The veterinarian he called next assured him that birds can’t spread diseases to cat, dogs or humans. “They aren’t even mammals!” the vet said, which didn’t make him feel a whole lot better. The conversation with the doctor was a dead end - the family doctor hadn’t seen Michelle in a year, and Paul didn’t even know who to call who had examined her body.

His still being half-drunk had probably not helped matters.

Paul sealed the rec room door with plastic all the same, and shut off the central air conditioning. Tomorrow he’d go down to the damn EPA himself and get some answers.

As it turned out, Paul got his answer that night.

He awoke some time in the middle of the night. Something warm was soaking his chest, his neck, the mattress below him. There was a dull pain in his throat. Something was ON his chest, heavy, like five hundred pounds. He could barely open his eyes.

The budgie was sitting on his chest. Its eyes glowed a hellish, blazing red. In the sharp full moonlight streaming in the window, Paul thought it was wet, too, and it looked more red and green now. Just before he lost consciousness, Paul thought, its fangs are so white and sharp. Isn’t that something, I didn’t know birds had teeth.

“Chirp,” said the budgie.