Short fiction by V.J. Hamilton has been published in The Antigonish Review, The MacGuffin, and The Galway Review, among others.
She won the Hart House Review Literary Prize and the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest.
Penthouse Parrot
By V.J. Hamilton
When he died their father had two requests. Thomas and Nora must properly dispose of the home they’d grown up in, a.k.a. The Pile, and they must arrange suitable lifetime care for his dearest companion, Jimmy.
During her father’s final years, Nora dropped by daily, so she was intimately acquainted with The Pile’s plumbing problems, electrical issues, and crumbling plaster that fell in chunks after every heavy rain. On the melancholic drive from the downtown Kingston lawyer’s office to The Pile, she said to Thomas, “I suspect we’ll get more for the land than the house itself. Changes in zoning mean that developers can put up multi-family units.”
“Sounds like good timing,” Thomas said. “Let’s empty The Pile and demolish.”
“Demolish?” Nora said. Merely the thought of clearing Pops’ book-lined study overwhelmed her.
“We’ll complete his first request ten times faster,” he said, “if we can skip the cleaning and repair.”
She fell silent because her thoughts had strayed to the final expression on Pops’ cold face. Puzzlement, as if wondering why Thomas’s plane always arrived late. Or maybe wondering what would happen to Jimmy. His final love. Her lip quivered. Stay calm and carry on, she told herself sternly.
“You’d better wait outside,” she said, unlocking the front door of The Pile, which resembled a freeze-frame from a movie of a brick tower collapsing. Thomas peered through the storm-door pane while she entered. “Jimmy! Where’s my Jimmy?” she called in a boisterous voice—her music-hall pirate voice, her parrot-speaking voice. She stood in the main hall, looking around at the tops of picture frames and cabinets, all diligently gnawed by the same beak.
AWK! With a great screech, Jimmy swooped down and grabbed her beret in his talons, then flew back to the dining room chandelier. He cocked his head at her in his smug parrot way and pooped loudly on the newspaper spread over the table below. He dropped her beret an inch away and flew down to snack on fresh mango and raw peanuts that she’d put out first thing that morning.
“Ages since I was here last,” Thomas said, stepping inside.
“Watch out,” she cried, slapping on his head a Dodgers cap pulled from the jumbled front hall table. “No scalp is safe in Jimmy’s domain.”
AWK! Jimmy tore off Thomas’s baseball cap and retreated to his perch.
“Aw Jimmy! Up to your old tricks!” Thomas called out. He donned an Orioles cap.
“Go ahead, have a look around,” Nora said.
He lingered, studying the photos on the mantel while she went to the kitchen, turned on Opera-Mania FM, and clattered about. AWK! Jimmy flitted from the top of one cupboard to another, eventually perching on her shoulder, where he squawked duets with divas and accepted slices of orange from her. She made ramen noodles for lunch while keeping up a running conversation with Thomas. “How is Abu Dhabi? … You still jet-lagged?”
“Here, have some worms, Jimmy!” Thomas said, letting the parrot gobble his noodles.
They decided to camp out at The Pile for the week Thomas was in town. “Just like old times.” Except not. Although Thomas had been a meek child, easily bossed around by his big sister, he now managed twenty people, ran a ten-million-dollar budget, and built skyscrapers for a living. Using the kitchen whiteboard, he sketched out a flowchart for emptying The Pile, disposing of its contents, organizing a demolition, and arranging Jimmy’s care. “Basically, how fast can we fill a dumpster?”
Several career setbacks had turned bossy young Nora into a negotiator. “It would be nearly as fast—and a fair bit more profitable—to sell his antiques,” she said. “Plus, there’s a lot that should be donated or recycled.”
Thomas glanced at his watch. “Sorry, but my time is more valuable than sorting tin cans.”
Since she was between jobs, she knew who would be sorting tin cans. She shrugged. “Pops would want us to do this ethically. I’m just saying.” She’d stockpiled empty moving boxes in the garage. The siblings began filling them with books, kitchenware, and foodbank donations.
Jimmy started dive-bombing them, so Nora shooed him into a bedroom. When it came time for supper, she opened the door. And shrieked. Toppled lamps, shredded curtains, and ripped-apart pillows: everything pointed to the destructive power of one panic-stricken parrot. “Jimmy,” she called. “Jimmy?” The raw papaya she’d put out was untouched.
Nora, aghast, searched every nook and cranny and discovered Jimmy under the bed, curled in C, eyes half-shut.
“Well, that solves request number two,” said Thomas, forcing a chuckle. He glanced at his watch.
“Don’t say that!” She lightly blew the dust balls from the bird and, using a chopstick, gently pried his beak apart and eyedroppered sugar-water onto his tongue. He soon rallied and climbed up to nuzzle her hair.
Thomas, looking humbled, announced, “Time for worms!” and prepared ramen noodles for all three.
“I’ll ask Luella to take him for tomorrow,” Nora said, referring to a neighbor who understood parrots instinctively. “In fact, she’s my top candidate when we have to find a loving caretaker for Jimmy.”
“I was assuming you would take Jimmy,” Thomas said. “You understand him better even than Luella does.”
“In my basement bachelor? Hah! Jimmy would die of claustrophobia.” Besides, Nora did not want to be tied down to a pet, now that Brownie had scampered off to that great off-leash dog park in the sky. “You better go sweet-talk Luella.”
* * *
The siblings competed shoulder to shoulder in a championship of chores: packing boxes, arranging pick-ups and valuations. “Co-ordinating this demolition is nuts,” Thomas groaned. “They want all appliances removed so I’ve contacted the scrap metal dealers.” Protesting mightily, he extended his stay by a week,
“Yes, but the demolition will get done,” Nora said. “Our bigger headache is Jimmy, because he’s not a one-time project. He’s an ongoing burden.” She gasped. “I mean, an ongoing process.” Dear Pops meant well, she reminded herself. He wanted to share the joy of Jimmy, not impose headaches and obligations on us.
Over dinner, they reminisced about Pops’ oft-repeated Legend of Jimmy, especially his origin story. Some posh lady had bought a parrot as a piece of interior décor, a lady who was unaware that a parrot demands complete devotion. He craves stimulation, calls and whistles, and little neck rubs. Jimmy felt so unloved that he pulled out all his feathers and curled up in a ball to die. And Pops had coaxed him back to life.
“By the way,” Thomas said, glancing at his watch, “Luella is moving to Finland and can’t take Jimmy. Things would be easiest if you took over the bird. Just for the time being, huh?”
“Like I said, my space is teensy,” Nora said. “It’s so small I have to go into the hall to change my mind.”
He smiled. “Maybe we can upgrade you to a ground-floor two-bedroom apartment,” he said. “Let’s check with Pops’ lawyer.” Within hours the lawyer replied, “Your father estimated the bird could live another twenty to fifty years. He invested a generous sum that will fund a yearly stipend, covering food and accommodation.”
Fifty years? Despite herself, Nora smiled.
“He’s a trust-fund parrot now,” Thomas said, moving to the whiteboard with all the checkboxes filled in—except one.
Nora knew she was standing between him and project completion. Fine; let him sweat.
* * *
That night, Thomas had a dream.
He came to breakfast with wild hair and moist, darting eyes. He couldn’t explain the dream; it had that fuzzy, shape-shifting quality making it impossible to put words around. But the upshot was that he wanted to invest all the proceeds from selling The Pile to honoring Pops’ final request. “A parrot needs sun and sky and jungle, Nora. I have a friend in real estate, Roy LePage, who could swing us a sweet deal on a penthouse arboretum.” He opened the newspaper to the Sotheby’s rental ads in the real estate section.
Nora sat back, shocked. She’d come to breakfast that morning realizing, in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t turn Jimmy away. She was prepared to agree to the two-bedroom flat. (Okay, she would also negotiate for a furniture allowance, so she wouldn’t look like a total pushover.)
“I never in my wildest fantasies thought Thomas would agree,” Nora later told her best friend, Charlene. “But he’s determined to lavish the parrot with all the love and attention that he should have given Pops.”
“Just don’t develop a taste for penthouse living,” Charlene said.
“Oh, come on,” Nora said wistfully. “Haven’t you ever wanted to ‘live large’?”
“Parrots don’t last forever. Careful you don’t sign a lease you can’t get out of.”
* * *
To Nora’s relief, Thomas flew back to Abu Dhabi and his skyscrapers, but regularly made time for Skype calls “so I can say hello to Jimmy.” Or maybe this was his project-manager side coming to the fore: monitoring an ongoing operation.
Nora moved her single carload of possessions into a 14-room spread at the top of a ritzy address. She expensed the purchase of umbrella trees, areca palms, bamboo, eucalyptus and dracaena shrubs. Inspired by Henri Rousseau’s exotic painting, she turned the heat up high, bought a divan and lay on it like the nude woman in “The Dream.” Every night, Jimmy slept in his “bedroom,” a large cage draped with a black velvet curtain to eliminate drafts. Every day, she and Jimmy called to each other AWK? AWK! even as she watched Bridgerton and web-surfed and Zoomed with friends. She stalled on preparing for her law school admission test.
* * *
Nora’s life was fit to be shared, social media style. She set up a YouTube channel, “Penthouse Parrot,” and promoted it via Instagram and TikTok.
Jimmy flourished: the window walls! the skylights! the nature soundtracks on the sense-surround speakers! He was in paradise.
Nora thought one thing was lacking: Romance. Through a specialty pet shop, she located a young female, Ginnie. Just as bright and beautiful as Jimmy. Hopefully the duo would produce some eggs. Nora planned to set up a nest cam once the chicks appeared.
“What is it they say about not counting eggs?” Charlene said.
Alas, Jimmy came on too strong. Ginnie turned painfully shy—comfortable only inside a cardboard box. After a month she was sent back and Nora deleted all speculation of parrot paramours from her social media.
* * *
A memo arrived: The property management had to upgrade all the plumbing. Fine; Nora planned to keep Jimmy in his “bedroom” during daytime renovation chaos.
The plumbers came and replaced the pipes; the next day the pest control officers came and dusted potential problem areas; then the drywallers repaired; then the painters beautified. Every evening, Jimmy emerged like the starring act in a Las Vegas casino, eyes glittering under the track-lights, singing loudly to his fans. AWK? AWK!
Finally, the foreman inspected and signed off. Everything was “better than new,” he said.
However, the workers had neglected one crevice above the pantry. The hole was not visible to a person standing in the kitchen. But an inquisitive parrot could easily find it—and would perhaps sample the tasty roach bait within.
The next morning, when Nora drew back the velvet curtain, Jimmy was lying cold and still on the floor of the cage. She noticed fine white powder caked around his beak and a small dribble of dried blood. She wept bitterly. She, the dutiful daughter, the capable birdkeeper, the one who’d been so adamant about high quality care. Sadness gave way to fury. Why did I let my guard down? …And those others! The so-called professionals: the uncommunicative pest control officer; the sloppy drywaller; the inattentive foreman! A court case, suing for wrongful death of a pet, would be long and expensive. But she felt it could be won.
She dried her tears. She would need to preserve the proof, so she tucked the stiffened bird in a translucent Ziploc bag and put him in the freezer.
Her next thought was of Thomas. He should be the first to know. Joking aside, he would be heartbroken, too, because it was the end of an era. Nora poured herself a stiff drink and prepared to deliver the grim news. The call was postponed, though; Thomas had a work emergency. She went for a long walk, rambling among the red-brick buildings of the university. She missed the bustle and excitement of classes and readings.
She went for coffee with Charlene and agonized. “Should I crack open the lawbooks?” She steered the conversation well away from Jimmy.
That night she came home to a dark, silent penthouse. The window walls reflected her wraithlike form as she wandered from room to room, touching the doorjambs, preparing to say farewell. I’ll have to give up paradise.
The Skype alert sounded, startling her. She settled in front of the screen. “Thomas, I have some bad news.”
“Yep, it’s awful. I got their letter today. A jump in rent—due to infrastructure refurbishment. Did they actually do anything?”
“Er, yes, they replaced substandard pipes…”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; rents are going up everywhere. We ought to have purchased a condo outright.” He brandished his clipboard. “My friend Roy is selling a comparable unit—price just reduced; owners need to sell for divorce proceedings—it would be like investing Pops’ nest egg.”
“I don’t think…” Nora fumbled.
“Yeah, I know it’s a pain,” he said. “I know Jimmy’s a territorial creature. Not simple to move. But you eased him nicely into it. You’ve become a pro, Sis. You should write a book on parrots. Like, a spin-off from your channel. By the way, I love the shrubbery and all the tips you give. You’ve got, what, a million followers?” He leaned into his camera. “Oh, don’t get so upset. A decent book on parrots would be a favor to this misunderstood creature.”
“When they replaced the pipes,” Nora said, “I had to keep Jimmy out of the way.”
“I can see that.” Thomas shouted, “Jimmy! Jimmy!” without warning, making Nora jump. By reflex she said, AWK!
Thomas grinned and called, “Atta boy!”
She fumbled for words. “The workers were loud and took over the place. And when they left, they didn’t—” Now she should tell him. But no, she couldn’t bring herself to destroy the illusion. Stay calm and carry on, she told herself sternly.
“Yeah, but the work is over and done with,” Thomas said. “Jimmy will rise again. Listen. Talk to Roy; he’ll set us up. Might as well buy property. Rent is just an expense bleeding the trust fund dry. This is an investment. NTE – Nora Thomas Enterprises. We’ll incorporate and buy a wonderful place where Jimmy can live out his remaining five decades and, in the meantime, Penthouse Parrot will become a revenue stream, what with the coffee-table book and ad revenue from the videos. And at the end of Jimmy’s gloriously documented life, we’ll sell the ‘celebrity’ penthouse for a tidy profit.” A doorbell sounded in the background. “Oh, here’s the food delivery. Gotta run. G’night!”
* * *
Nora convinced herself: she wasn’t lying to Thomas; she was helping expiate his grief and guilt. And a condo would be a good investment. She needed time to think. She could contact the specialty pet shop and invite shy Ginnie to do a cameo… maybe bring her on, full-time. How fortuitous that “Jimmy” and “Ginnie” sounded virtually the same.
In the meantime, she posted a blog announcing her “creative hiatus” while developing a book. She visited Roy LePage and asked about the plumbing at the new place. He mentioned the price had dropped even more.
She took it as a sign.
Within weeks, the channel restarted. Regular viewers were permitted a glimpse; deluxe subscribers received a full tour. With the dramatic change in surroundings, no one noticed subtle differences in the parrot. Except that the parrot was timid, “which is completely understandable, given the trauma of relocation,” she assured her audience.
* * *
Four years later Thomas grew disillusioned with the hectic project manager lifestyle in Abu Dhabi. He decided to pay a surprise visit to Nora in her “new patch of paradise,” as she’d taken to calling it.
He was impressed by all she had done with NTE and her staff of five.
“Hey, he’s lost his dive-bombing habit,” Thomas said about the parrot on the first night.
“He doesn’t feel threatened,” she said. “He’s become mellower.”
“Shall we have ramen noodles?” Thomas said. “Jimmy loves those!”
“What? Oh sure…” Nora said.
The parrot was uninterested in the noodles.
“I’m kinda sick of noodles, too,” Nora said.
“What other treat could we give him?” Thomas asked. “How about frozen pizza?” He turned on the oven and went to the freezer.
“No!” Nora shrieked. “Let me order fresh pizza!”
AWK! Ginnie replied.
“No,” Thomas insisted. “I’ve already got the oven warming.” He opened the freezer compartment.
Her thoughts strayed to the final expression on Jimmy’s cold face. Puzzlement, as if wondering where he could get more of the delicious bait. Or maybe he had a vision of the nice old chap who’d once saved his life. His first love. Her knees grew weak. Stay calm and carry on, she told herself sternly.
She lunged toward the freezer door, about to close it. But Thomas’s hand was already touching the translucent Ziploc bag.
The End
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