blur his purpose, and make things more difficult. The bitch'd made things easy only up to a point; even after death, she somehow managed to make things hard. Certainly harder than doing dogs and cats. In fact, thanks to her damnable sandwich and whiskey and doting, she'd made it the hardest thing Giles had ever had to do. Still, he congratulated himself on having stood his ground and having done the deed.
Earlier he had visually scouted the walls and shelves, any surface for photographs but found no family pictures. After taking Louisa's spine, he'd searched drawers and boxes and beneath her mattress for any personal letters or envelopes lying about. Aside from bills, nothing. Apparently she had no ties, just as his intuition had led him to believe. No one to miss her passing.
Giles had watched her go in and out of the building. Louisa only came out to cash checks, visit the corner grocery for birdseed, food and liquor. Her only recreation or joy at all appeared to be in feeding the birds across the street at that run-down children's park he stared at now through her apartment window. His artist's eye-studying the patterns of snow-laden November leaves-saw the mosaic of color, texture and line created about the dry earth, rendering ocher and orange amid patches still green with life alongside the blight of dirty snowdrifts piled high, each a counterpoint to the other like the tug of war between seasons.
Giles had begun to frequent the park, and had begun to follow her to the grocery, carrying his art supplies on his back. At the grocery, he'd watched her pay with food stamps and guessed that she lived on disability checks. A miserable life, yet one she prized more highly than he'd imagined. For two weeks now, he'd watched and waited, approaching with great care and a foolproof plan to play on her vanity-what little she still possessed.
Giles recalled how surreptitiously-how like old Archer still hidden somewhere nearby-he had encroached on Louisa's tree-lined territory there in the park to gain her attention. His sketchbook in hand, he set up at her favorite bench, where he busily replicated her birds. Giles suspected that her birds must be the only thing in life more prized than her drink. Certainly, she interacted far more with her birds than with anyone in the neighborhood.
“You're drawing the birds,” she had said to him only this morning.
“I find them fascinating.”
“Really? Someone of your generation?”
“My generation? I've read Conrad Deueval's books on bird behavior, how very much they are like-”
“-like us,” she finished for him. “Deueval is marvelous. God what insight he has into people as well as birds.”
Giles had read in the man's introduction that he had never known how to interact with his parents, was alienated all his school life, failed miserably at every endeavor, and could not stand working or living in the same environment with people. Giles easily empathized. But his interest here was in catching and dissecting Louisa Anne Childe for her spinal column with its sweet meats and juices. Still he got caught up in Deueval's musings. When the man came into money, he built a four-story house off Bird Cove Key on an island bird sanctuary in an apparent deal too good for the state of Florida to turn down. He had the house built with no doors and no glass in the hundreds of window frames, allowing free access to the bird population-video cameras everywhere, running twenty-four hours, seven days a week. The biggest birdhouse on the planet.
Giles learned all he could, to intersperse his knowledge into the conversations he hoped to have with Louisa in order to wrangle an invitation to cross her threshold. Once inside, he knew he could proceed with his own fanaticism which did not include birds.
“Conrad Deueval earned his doctorate in the natural sciences and with his Ph.D. and his books chronicling bird activity and behavior, he proved there is little difference in the working brain of a bird and that of people, especially promiscuous men!” she said and laughed, blushing red. Giles recognized the little girl in the aging face, amid the pudgy cheeks and crease of her smile from nose to chin.
“Have you… did you read his last book?” Giles asked.
“The Frightening Truth About Ourselves? I have it on order at the local bookstore.”
“I could get it far more quickly for you.”
“How?”
“I know the author,” lied Giles.
“No! You don't! How?”
“My uncle's roommate in college knew him.”
“But Conrad Deueval's never finished college. He bought his degree sometime later. He could not be confined and chained down by academic bureaucracy and ballyhoo. A great man, a brilliant mind.”
“Do you want the book tomorrow?”
“You have that kind of access to the man?”
“Well, two days. Give me two days.”
“All right, you're on, but I insist on paying for your troubles.”
“Only one kind of payment I would accept from you,” Giles replied, knowing he had her in his grasp.
“What… what exactly did you… that is… do you have… in mind, young man?”
“Oh, oh, please, nothing like that, ma'am, no! No way.”
She flushed, embarrassed. She pointed and spoke to cover her blushing cheeks in the frosty air. “Look at them.”
He followed her finger to the begging birds.
She added, “Watch how they play and fight among themselves.”
“Just like people. Just as Deueval says.” He went back to his sketching of the birds as if he'd forgotten something he had to either touch up quickly or lose to memory. This invited her to come near, to stare over his shoulder at the sketch book, curious.
In his ear, she made a sound with her teeth. “Is it for a book? A magazine?”
“What? This, the picture? No, I'm really not that good. It's just practice. I'm taking classes, you see.”
She examined the charcoal sketch he'd crafted.
“How much?” she then asked.
“Oh, I don't sell them. I'm not that good. Besides it's unfinished.”
She pursued him. “Name your price. I want at least four.”
“Four? One for each wall?” he'd asked, joking.
“Yes as a matter of fact.”
“Okay… Okay… I'll give you the bird sketches if you'll sit for me.”
“Sit for you? You mean as… some sort of-”
“As centerpiece to my homework, as an integral part of my getting a decent grade without having to hire some fake actor. I draw you, now, right here amid the-your birds.”
“Oh, they're not my birds. They're free. No one owns these footloose feathers.”
At that moment, she seemed to him more lonely than reclusive. “I've seen you out here before, feeding them.” He allowed her a closer look at the work. “It calls for you to be in it,” he added and smiled. “The final drawing… perhaps a painting to follow… you should be in it alongside the birds, really.”
“But if I sit for you, and you give me your work free of charge… what's in it for you?”
“I learn my craft. It's a… you know… a challenge.”
They exchanged first names.
Wasting no time, Giles had then speed-sketched her into the work in progress, having earlier left a space for her likeness. She fit perfectly, looking like St. Francis amid the birds. Louisa loved it, taking it to her breast and asking for three more pictures just of the park and the birds.
“When and where can I bring the other sketches to you?”
She pointed to her building. “One-oh-six is the number.”
He had watched her walk off, the November wind tugging at her coattails.
“She's the perfect choice, isn't she?” he asked the birds.
HE had choked on the stuffy air in her hallway. When he'd knocked, she was careful to call through the door, asking who it might be-as if she had frequent visitors-a pretense born of pride and embarrassment, Giles imagined.
“It's Giles… I have your finished drawings.”
She cracked the door, and seeing him, she threw it open. “You can't possibly be finished already!”
“But I am. They were easy.” He held out the charcoal sketches. “They weren't hard, really.”
She looked at each one, praising each in turn. “Let me pay you something for these. They're beautiful.” She
