“Good morning, Gertrude,” I say to the eagle.
Gertrude isn’t actually an eagle. She’s a six-foot-high wooden statue of an eagle, with strong brown wings that are extended as if ready to take off at any moment, a somewhat menacing open yellow beak, angry black eyes and a red, white, and blue-striped shield across her front. She was probably built to be some kind of turn-of-the-20th-century patriotic symbol. I don’t know where she spent her first years, but currently she is standing sentry in the center of the gallery known as the Artful Eagle.
The gallery takes up the basement floor of a brownstone in Manhattan’s Soho district. The walls of the single large room are hung with a variety of paintings, drawings, photographs, and quilts in a dizzying array of styles—all of birds. A watercolor painting portrays three barn owl chicks trying to push each other aside as their mother drops bits of meat into their gaping mouths. Two ceramic hummingbirds are caught in a moment of reproductive behavior. An elegant heron created from only four strokes of black paint searches for fish in a nonexistent lake. A flock of starlings soars through four separate framed photographs.
As the current manager / salesperson / sole employee of the Artful Eagle, it’s my job to oversee the lot of them.
I like Gertrude, and I think she likes me. Well, I think she would like me, if she weren’t wooden. So when Gertrude doesn’t answer, I just turn to the rest of the room. “And, of course, good morning to you all.”
My usual station for the day is the reception area, just to the left of the gallery’s outer door. Calling it a reception area is somewhat overstated; basically, it consists of a desk placed perpendicular to the wall, on which sits a computer and some pamphlets. Behind the desk is a small coat rack, a tiny refrigerator where I keep my lunch and bottles of water for visitors, and a filing cabinet that is basically there to hold the coffee machine. Next to the desk, a glass case holds a few small ceramic and blown-glass birds, and other lower-priced bird-type art for sale. I’d love to add some actual birding merchandise—some books and a few pairs of binoculars, to start with—but Rupert, my boss and the owner of the building, thinks that would compromise “the artistic integrity of the space.”
He inherited the basement gallery, and the three-story brownstone it’s in, from a great aunt to whom he’d been mildly attentive during the last years of her life. He now lives in her former apartment, which was made up of the top two floors. The only other resident is on the first floor: an elderly man named Adio Bailey who owns an equally elderly poodle, and who, as far as I know, first moved in sometime in the 1950s.
My usual routine in the morning is as follows: I put my stuff away and plug in the coffee machine. I check the bathroom to make sure the cleaning crew did a reasonable job and left enough toilet paper for the day. I look over all the artwork to see if the frames were dusted and the art itself undisturbed. I turn on the music that Rupert insists will bring in customers—unfortunately, Rupert, a would-be composer, fancies himself as the next Philip Glass, and has a long playlist of his own work which I try to keep at as low a volume as possible. Then I sit behind the desk and wait for Rupert’s call.
Which usually comes at about 9:30 a.m., unless he’s overslept. He calls on the gallery’s landline, which I think he keeps just so he can be sure that I’ve actually opened the place up. “Sharah? You there?”
“Hi, Rupert. Yes, I’m here.”
The usual answer is, “Okay. Call me if you need me,” and that’s it for the day. This morning, however, there is a pause. “Listen, I want to ask you something,” he finally says.
“Sure.”
“You know that you can count on me anytime you need something, right?”
“Um…yeah.” Rupert is one of the most untrustworthy people I know—I always cash my paycheck as soon as I get it to make sure it’s still good. Still. “Sure. Thanks.”
“And I hope you feel the same. That I can count on you if I need help with something. Right?”
“Of course.” Maybe he is just feeling needy. Everyone needs some assurance occasionally, even irritating bosses.
“Great. Thanks, Sharah.” He sounds relieved. “Okay, I may call back later. You take care, okay?”
“Okay. Take care.” And he hangs up.
“Well, did you hear that?” I ask Gertrude and the room at large. “Maybe he’s human after all. Meaning no disrespect to birds,” I add hurriedly.
At that point, a few real live customers wander in, and I try to look professional.
By 4 p.m., I’ve seen about 10 people in total, one $25 ceramic robin has been sold, and I still haven’t heard back from Rupert. In fact, I’ve pretty much dismissed the entire call as some kind of panic attack.
A few minutes later, Mr. Bailey comes in for his daily visit. He is a slight (maybe 5 foot, 3 inches), very dark gentleman with a gentle Jamaican accent and old-fashioned manners who always dresses in neat striped shirts and perfectly pleated pants. I just can’t bring myself to put him on a first-name basis. He always carries a thermos of ginger tea.
I’ve already placed a spare folding chair next to the desk and changed the music to a cool jazz station. Mr. Bailey sits and pours some tea into my favorite mug, which says, “Tea for two is always better,” and which I keep especially for these occasions.
“There,” Mr. Bailey says. “Have some of that. It keeps away the diabetes.” He pours his own portion into the cap of his thermos, I bring out a package of Oreos from a drawer in the filing cabinet, and we sit and sip the tea.
But my guest seems troubled; usually full of gossip, he just sits and looks around at the gallery. “Anything wrong?” I finally ask.
“Rupert went down to the bank today,” Mr. Bailey says, somewhat reluctantly. “He told me this morning that he’s running out of cash.”
“I sold two paintings last week,” I said. “He can pay his dealer with that.”
“No, he’s really running out of cash.” Mr. Bailey shakes his head in disgust. “He got an official-looking piece of mail yesterday. It looked like it was from the government. I think he’s in trouble with the tax man.”
He looks at me. We both know what that means. If Rupert’s defaulted on his taxes and can’t make it up, the building, and the gallery, are in peril.
“Are you worried?” I ask. I can probably find another job—although I’m very comfortable in this one. But Mr. Bailey has got to be somewhere in his 80s, and I’d hate for him to have to start apartment hunting. Or to have to move into some kind of nursing home.
But he doesn’t look worried at all. He smiles at me—a lovely, and somewhat mischievous, smile. “Oh, I’m safe enough,” he says. “I was very close to Rupert’s aunt. She was,” and the smile falters for a moment, “a lovely and incredibly vibrant woman.”
He sits for a moment, no doubt lost in memories, and then shakes himself. “Well, it is quite clear in the will that Mr. Adio Bailey is to maintain his residence in the building for as long as he wishes, paying for utilities only. If Rupert wants to sell the building, the new owner has to abide by that agreement, or all proceeds from the sale revert to the aforesaid Mr. Bailey.”
“That’s quite a will,” I say.
“It should be. I wrote it. I was a damned good lawyer in my day.” He looks at me. “But you, my dear, are more vulnerable. I’d hate to see you lose this job.”
So would I, but I’m not sure I want to talk about it. “Have you noticed at all,” I say, “how Gertrude the eagle seems to be listening when you talk to her? Sometimes I wonder if she wants to join in the conversation, but can’t.”
“Perhaps we just need to listen harder,” Mr. Bailey says.
I reach into the drawer of my desk for a small flask of gin that I have stored there for emergencies. “Maybe this will help us hear her.”
“It can’t hurt.” He holds out the cap of his thermos.
We raise our cups in a silent toast and drink. Then Mr. Bailey stands, screws the cap back onto his thermos, and looks at me. “Have you ever thought,” he says, “that you could probably manage this place a lot better than its current owner? You could lease it from him.”
“There’s no way I could afford a place like this!”
He smiles. “There are a variety of funds that are available to help small businesses get started. And with the right advice, you could manage it.”
God, what an idea. “Even if I could swing it, Rupert would never let go of this place, even as a rental.”
He turns toward the door. “Think about it,” he says. “I like that you’re working here. I’d miss you.”
“I’d miss you too,” I say, and I mean it.
After he leaves, I look around the gallery. “I’m sorry,” I tell the birds. “It looks like I may not be here much longer. The idiot who owns the gallery has gotten himself in a financial bind, and is probably coming here to tell me I’m out of a job.”
I walk over to the ceramic hummingbirds, who hang on the far wall. “The ironic thing is,” I tell them, “that Mr. Bailey is right. I could actually make a go of this place. Put in a larger stock of birding-related items, create a good online presence, invite environmental groups to meet here, have talks by artists and ornithologists—make this a center for the birding community. But that’s not happening.”
I do a circuit of the gallery, mentally saying goodbye to each work of art, until I’m back in front of Gertrude. She stands tall and imposing, her faded paint only enhancing her aura of invulnerability. I put a hand on her soft wooden wing. “I’ll miss you too. I’ll miss you all.”
By the time Rupert shows up, I’ve put his music back on, washed my mug, packed all of my personal items—my extra sweater, my personal stash of coffee, and a birding book that I keep around just in case—and am conducting a pair of Danish tourists around the gallery.
Rupert is a tall, pale, slightly overweight man in his late 20s with a shaved head, tattoos on his arms, and a carefully cultivated and totally unconvincing veneer of determined masculinity. He leans against the reception desk with his arms folded, tapping an impatient foot, making the tourists nervous. I tell them a bit about the artist who drew the heron, but they quickly make their excuses and leave.
“Hi,” I say to Rupert.
The wait has made him irritable. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “So,” he says, trying too hard to sound casual, “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but we’ve run into a bit of a financial problem. It would have been nice if you could have sold a few more artworks than you have; as a result, I’m a little—just a little—behind in my tax payments on the property. You wouldn’t believe what the taxes are on a place like this.”
Not to mention the cost of hash. “Yeah, the taxes must be a bitch,” I say. “Sorry about the sales. Things have been slow lately. Mr. Bailey told me you were at the bank today. Getting a loan?”
“Well, the thing is, I had a little bit of a credit bother a few years ago, so I’m having trouble there.”
I figure this is all leading up to a layoff, but he obviously needs to do this his way, so I just wait.
“However, I did a little research, and it turns out you’ve got really good credit. And you said I could count on you.”
The son of a bitch used my social security number to check up on me. I’m tempted to take a swing at him, but repress the impulse.
“I should have a good credit rating,” I tell him. “I’ve spent 30 years building it up. But why is that any concern of yours?” I think I can see where this is going. But I want him to say it. And then maybe I’ll take a swing at him.
“Well, I told the bank manager you’d co-sign for the loan. I did exaggerate our relationship just a little,” and he grins at me, the asshole, “but even so, the man said that you’d have to come down to the bank and sign the papers yourself, he wouldn’t take my word for it.”
Imagine that.
“You own this building. Why can’t you put it up as collateral?” I ask. It’s the only thing I can think of to say.
“Well, it would be hard to sell because I can’t get rid of Bailey, so the bank doesn’t want to take it as collateral. But they will,” and he tries his best at a charming smile, “accept your co-sign…”
“No,” I say.
There is a pause. “Look, I’m good for it,” Rupert says, with a tinge of annoyance in his tone. “As soon as the gallery starts paying off…”
“No.”
He forces the smile back onto his face. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, standing. “Why don’t I take you out to dinner…there’s a great Tibetan place just down the block…”
“No,” I say. “Just no.”
Rupert shakes his head, looking exasperated. “You’re not being clear,” he says, resorting to the passive-aggressive arguments he obviously likes to use when crossed. “Please talk to the point. No to the dinner, or no to co-signing the loan?”
“No to both.”
“You see, you have to be clear about these things,” says Rupert, warming to his subject. “How can you expect me to understand what you’re trying to say if you aren’t specific? How was I to know that you were talking about the loan if you didn’t say so? If you had only said so…”
“No,” I repeat. I am prepared to keep repeating it until hell freezes over. Or until I lose the job. Or both.
“There you go again,” says Rupert, obviously starting to fume. I wonder how he thought this would go. “And this after you told me that you would co-sign, and now suddenly you’ve changed your mind. The least you could have done was inform me.”
“I never said I’d co-sign a loan for you,” I tell him.
“Yes, you did,” says Rupert. “You absolutely did. This morning, when I called you and told you that you could count on me any time you needed something and I hoped you felt the same, and you said, ‘Of course.’ I can recite to you exactly what you said. Do you want me to tell you what you said? I have a perfect memory, and I can tell you…”
“No,” I say.
“You interrupted me again,” says Rupert. His arm is trembling slightly. He’s really getting mad, and I’m wondering whether I should start leaving now, before he officially fires me. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what—we’ll forget all about that. I’ll make reservations at the restaurant, and bring the papers with me…”
“She said no.”
It’s a shrill voice, so high that it’s almost hard to understand, and not very loud. The two of us stop and look around. There’s nobody else here. I stride quickly to the bathroom and look in, thinking that maybe I forgot a visitor who has been listening to our conversation the entire time, but nobody is in there.
I come out of the bathroom, and shrug. Rupert stares at me accusingly, his face paler than usual. “What are you playing at?” he demands.
“Me? I’m not playing at anything.”
We listen again, but there’s no other sound aside from a few street noises. “Probably somebody outside,” he finally says, as though just by saying it he can make it true. It isn’t, but I let it go for now.
And suddenly, I remember what Mr. Bailey said. Why not go for it? I have nothing to lose—he’s going to fire me anyway.
“You know,” I say, trying to put something resembling friendliness in my voice, “You’re right. I do have good credit. So I have an alternative suggestion. Give me a day or two to talk to a lawyer….”
Rupert brightens. “Of course! Yes, right after you co-sign the loan, we can get a lawyer…”
“No, listen,” I tell him. His face darkens for a moment; I’ve interrupted him again. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to get a lawyer, and we’ll all sit down, and I’ll rent the gallery from you, stock and all. I’ll get my own loan and make a going concern of this place for you.”
Rupert shrugs. “Of course, if you think it will work better that way, that’s fine. You’ll get the loan, and after I’ve used it to pay off the taxes, I could even raise your salary a bit…”
He can’t be that much of an idiot. “Listen to what I’m saying, Rupert. Just for once. Your credit is shot, you can’t sell the building, and you have no idea how to run a business. I’m willing to get a loan in my name and rent the gallery from you. You can use the money to pay off your tax arrears—I’m sure you can make some kind of monthly deal with them. Meanwhile, I’ll take over the management of the gallery, and with any luck, it won’t have to close down. The profits will come to me, and you’ll get a percentage.” A small percentage, I think, but I’ll talk about that with Mr. Bailey.
“Now, wait just a moment,” says Rupert. “You told me you’d co-sign…”
“Does the man never shut up?”
There is a flutter from the far wall. The female hummingbird turns its head and looks directly at me.
“What the fuck?” Rupert hisses.
“He never stops, does he,” says the hummingbird in that high quiet voice as her mate shakes his wings back into position. “Typical male.”
“Now, wait a moment…” her mate says in an injured tone.
Rupert steps back behind the desk and picks up my coffee cup. I don’t know why, maybe he thinks it will make a good weapon. “What the hell did you do?” Rupert whispers at me, his voice going up in pitch as his panic increases.
I’m as shaken as he is, but I’m not about to admit it. I just stand there, trying to decide whether I should scream, laugh, or get the hell out of there.
“She hasn’t done anything.” This is the heron, which has moved its head slightly. “Except talk to us. So we’ve decided to talk back.” It turns its inky head toward the hummingbirds. “Well, they decided to talk back.”
“Hey, it was time,” says the female.
Rupert raises the coffee cup higher, but pauses as if he’s not quite sure where to throw it. I concentrate on how angry I’ll be if he breaks my cup. It’s better than considering that I’m in a gallery full of talking artwork.
“It’s you. You’re doing this somehow.” Rupert finally says. “You’re ruining everything.”
His arm is really trembling now; he’s working himself up into a real anger, the kind I’ve always suspected he was capable of. He comes back around the desk and starts walking toward me, the cup still raised. In my head, I force myself to go completely calm. He’s a schmuck, but he’s bigger and younger than I am. I start backing toward the door. If he rushes me, I think I can turn and run; if he catches me before I reach the door, I can kick him in his knee…
“Hello, little frog.”
A deep, hoarse voice. We both look up. Gertrude has stepped off her pedestal and is walking slowly, majestically toward us. She ruffles her feathers slightly; they rattle like armor in the small space. Off her pedestal, she’s only seven feet tall, but believe me, it’s enough. She takes four delicate steps until she’s towering over Rupert, and she stares down at him, her head tilted and her dark eyes wide and hungry. The large yellow beak opens, and a pink tongue flicks out and back in. She is terrifying.
“I like frogs,” the eagle continues, calm, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world. “They croak a lot when I play with them, and their bones crunch nicely in my beak. And they slip smoothly down my throat. You are rather oversized for a frog; would you like me to play with you?”
Rupert’s Adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows, staring up at what must be a nightmarish view. Hell, I’m terrified, and she’s not even looking at me. “What are you?” he asks, and then, right afterwards, “You wouldn’t.”
“I might,” says the eagle. “I’ve never had such a large frog before, but I’d certainly be willing to try.”
“And if there is anything left,” says the barn owl, “you wouldn’t mind if I partook? My chicks take a lot of feeding.”
“Of course not,” says Gertrude.
Rupert looks back and forth between the two, his eyes wide and slightly crazed. “This is wrong,” he says again. “This isn’t happening.”
“Go, little frog,” says the eagle. “Go home. Before you are eaten.”
Rupert backs away toward the door. I step back, giving him a clear exit path. “What have you done to this place?” he finally squeaks. “You some kind of witch or something?”
Fuck it. I could be crazy, hell, we could both be crazy. But at this point, who cares? “Yeah,” I say, and follow him, matching him step for step. “That’s it. I’m a witch, and these are all my familiars. And if you go away, and don’t come back, I’ll give you fair rent for this place, and commission on each of the artworks I sell.”
“And what about them?” Rupert says, his back hitting the door.
I turn back and look at Gertrude. She puts her head down and pushes a feather into place. I’m hoping that’s eagle for, “I’m good with it if you are.”
“They won’t hurt you,” I say, still looking at Gertrude. “They’re just works of art.”
I pause and turn back to him. “Pretend this didn’t happen. Pretend that our deal was all your idea. Go home. Collect the money. Find something else to do.”
“You got it,” Rupert gasps. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that tab two years ago. I must be having a flashback.”
He turns, pushes through the door, and runs. I go after him and watch him dash down the sidewalk, frantically poking at his phone, probably calling for an Uber. “I’ll get my lawyer to call you tomorrow!” I yell after him.
At the door of the gallery, I pause. It takes me a moment to decide to go back inside, but I finally do so.
Everything is back in its place. Gertrude is on her pedestal, staring serenely out as if nothing at all has happened. The hummingbirds are once again mating in still life, the heron is nothing but several strokes of ink, the oil-painted owl is feeding its chicks. Nothing moves. Everything is just as it had been when I walked in that morning.
I take a deep breath. “Are you going to do this often?” I ask the room.
The eagle turns her head toward me. “Not very often,” she says.
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Barbara Krasnoff has published two books: a collection of associated fantasy stories called The History of Soul 2065 (which is in print) and a YA non-fiction book called Robots: Reel to Real (which is out of date and out of print). Otherwise, she has written a whole bunch of short stories which have appeared in a whole bunch of publications; one of them, “Sabbath Wine,” was a Nebula Award finalist. When not writing genre fiction, she works as an editor for The Verge and tries to create an occasional entry for her website Brooklynwriter.com. |