her hands inside the big canvas purse.
The gull hadn't moved. I dropped into a squat, started toward him.
'Wait!' Blossom's voice. She came up behind me, handed me a pair of thick leather gloves. 'Use these. That boy's got a beak like a razor.'
I slipped on the gloves, wondering how she knew what I had to do.
I moved in again. Duck-walking. One slow step at a time. Feeling the blacktop through the soles of my shoes. Talking softly to the gull.
'It's okay, pal. The punks took off. We faced them down. You're a hell of a gull. Boss bull of the flock you'll be when we get you fixed up. Everything's okay now. Easy…easy, boy.'
He let me get to about ten feet away, flapped his good wing, and faked a run to his right. I was already moving to my right when the beak lashed out at me. I moved just out of his way, talking to him. He centered himself, watched. I let him have my eyes, willing him to feel the calm. 'We're not all alike,' my mind called to him.
My legs were starting to cramp when he moved. Toward me. Dragging the broken wing, eyes stabbing into mine. He was out of gas. Coming to trust or to die. I held out a gloved hand. He took it in his beak, experimentally. I felt the pressure, didn't move. Rubbed the back of his neck. His head bowed, eyes blinked. I reached back for the good wing, pinning it to his body as he flapped the broken one, shrieked his battle cry, and ripped at my gloved hand. I pinned the beak closed, stepped over and smothered the bad wing, holding him close, crooning to him.
Blossom. She snapped open a roll of Ace bandage. Left it on the ground as she manipulated the gull's bad wing, carefully folding it against his body. I got what she was doing, held him as she wound the bandage around his body. He had most of the leather glove ripped open when Blossom slipped a heavy rubber band around his beak.
'Hold him— I'll be right back,' she said.
She came trotting out of the drugstore with a carton. It said Pampers on the sides. 'Give him to me.' I handed her the gull. She cradled it against her. 'Take off your shirt— he needs a bed inside the box before we close him up.'
I dropped my jacket to the pavement, unbuttoned my shirt, piled it into a soft cushion on the bottom of the box. Blossom slowly lowered the gull inside, closed the top, leaving him in peaceful darkness.
She held the box on her lap as I drove. Told me to turn on McCook Avenue, off 173rd. 'The gray house, the one with the shingles…see it?'
I pulled into the pebbled driveway, up to a closed single-car garage. Followed Blossom around to the back door.
She put the box on the kitchen table. Left me standing there. Came back with a leather satchel. Filled a copper-bottomed pot with water and put it on to boil.
'Let's take a look at him,' she said, opening the top of the box. I lifted the gull out, carried him to the counter next to the sink. Sound of metal being tossed into the pot. Blossom deftly made a circle of white surgical tape, fastened cotton balls on the inside, and slipped the soft hood over the bird's beak to cover his eyes. She poured off the boiling water. I glanced in the sink. Gleaming surgical tools: scalpel, scissors, probes.
'I'm going to cut the bandage loose on his bad side. Hold the other wing in place— I need to spread him out, see what the damage is.'
The broken wing covered a good piece of the counter. Blossom talked to the gull as she worked, hands and eyes one perfect unit. 'Take it easy, boy. We'll have you chasing girl gulls in a short piece. Let me take a look, now. Don't fuss.'
More probing. 'Here it is. A clean break. I can set it after I cut away these little fragments. There!'
She wrapped the wings together again, tip of her tongue peeking out between her lips as she concentrated. 'There's some old birdcage in the basement. Big enough for a parrot or something. In the left corner off the stairs.'
I found the cage. The handle came almost to my chest. I carried it upstairs. 'Put it out on the back porch— we'll have to hose it down.'
I did that while Blossom shredded newspapers for the flooring. She handed me a pair of pliers. 'Take out all that other stuff— give him some room.'
I removed the perches until the cage was an empty shell. The door wasn't big enough for the gull— I pried the bars apart to make room. Blossom gently lowered him inside. He made no move to fight. Watched us.
'There's some salmon in the cupboard. Open a can for him while I get him some cover.'
I opened a can, dumped the salmon inside the cage. Filled the empty can with water and put that inside too. Blossom came back with an army blanket. Cut it into strips with the surgical scissors and draped it over the top of the cage.
'Have yourself a nice rest, boy,' she said. 'In a couple of weeks, you'll be back to work.'
69
I SAT AT THE kitchen table. Blossom stood next to me. 'Let's have a look at that hand.'
Blood across the knuckles, one finger sliced cleanly. 'Wash it off in the sink. Cold water, no soap. Make sure the blood runs clean.'
She dried off the hand, spraying some stinging stuff across the open cut, put a butterfly bandage in place. 'Won't even leave a scar,' she said.
'You were a nurse once?'
Her turquoise eyes searched my face, a smile rippling across her wide mouth. 'No. No more than you're a real estate speculator. Be right back.'
70
WHEN I HEARD the rush of the shower, I knew she'd be a while. I cracked a wooden match into fire, lit a smoke. No ashtray on the kitchen table. I went looking. Four small clay pots on the windowsill, clogged with thick greenery. Looked like parsley. A twig planted in each one, standing tall and clean above the growth. Looked closer. Thick-bodied black-and-white-striped caterpillars, one in each pot.
I opened the dishwasher. No ashtrays, but I found a drinking glass. Opened the tap, poured a half inch of water inside. It'd do.
Blossom came back inside, wearing a tightly belted pink terry-cloth robe, a towel wrapped around her head.
'You want some coffee?'
'No, thanks.'
'A beer?'
'No.'
She busied herself with making coffee, pouring ground beans into a filter. The beans came from a plain white bag, no brand name. Somebody had handwritten Kenya AA on the side.
A motorcycle snarled in the street. Mother calling her kids inside for dinner. Dogs barked conversationally. Safe sounds.
She sat across from me, cradling her heavy white coffee mug in both hands, unselfconsciously plucking at the opening of her robe. At home, unhurried.
Maybe I couldn't mend a broken wing, but I could outwait a stone. Tossed my cigarette into the water glass and settled down into myself.
'You're not curious?'
'About what?'
'About why I asked you to come and talk to me. About what I said about you not being a real estate speculator.'
'Curious enough to take the ride.'
'But…'
'I can't play a hand until it's dealt.'
