The cage was rectangular, some ten feet long with an arrangement of tree branches inside. The two dozen jewel-colored birds were as lovely as real jewels. They were vibrant, swift, enticing. They were every combination of colors: red and purple, orange and green, peach and turquoise, each as rich and spectacular as the jeweled birds of Circe’s Grotto. Their chirping voices were hypnotic, and she was drawn irresistibly by their constant darting flight. The fast hush of feathers made her stomach constrict and her hands clench. She could smell bird, almost taste bird. She tried to study her menu, but could not keep her eyes from them.
For nearly a week she had been docile, had stayed away from the cliff, had not darted her hands into the shallow sea to catch the little crabs that scurried there. And at night when she heard the mouse scratching she had pulled the pillow over her head and clenched her teeth and ignored the little morsel. But the mouse was bold; she found its droppings in front of the dresser and around her suitcase. And with the pressure of restraining herself she had grown irritable, and their lovemaking had suffered. And now Braden had, innocently, seated her next to the birds and she wanted to snatch at them, to rip the wire and grab them.
“What will you have? What looks good?”
“Melissa?”
“I—the lobster would be nice.”
“But you’ve been eating lobster all week. Well, I don’t care…”
“The—the crab, maybe?”
“That would be a nice change,” he said caustically, watching her, his eyes faintly narrowed. She lowered her gaze to the white tablecloth and laced her fingers together in her lap, hard, to keep them still, fighting the passions of the little cat.
But soon her gaze wandered to the birds again. The cat was nervy, demanding, like a bonfire inside her threatening to take over, take charge. When she could stand it no longer she excused herself and rushed to the ladies’ room.
She stood looking into the mirror at her haunted face; she could see the cat’s passion and hunger looking out. She tried to calm herself, tried to drive the little cat away and ended up crying, her thoughts out of control. And why did she keep wanting to curl down into dark places? Everywhere they went, she was drawn to the shadows behind chairs, to the dark caves under tables or beneath bushes. On the beach among the rocks she would stare into little crevices, wanting to crawl into them. In the lobby, it was the secluded darknesses behind the tall ceramic planters. The little cat had never been so drawn to darkness. What was happening to her?
She returned to the table feeling wrung out, weak, and still the birds flitted and darted. She got through dinner taut and uncomfortable, and it was that night, nervy and upset, that she began to save scraps for the mouse, tucking a bit of bread into her purse beside the roll of bills.
From then on, at each meal she tucked away a crumb, tiny morsels that she put down late at night after Braden slept. Each night she told herself she wouldn’t do this anymore, and each night she placed her bait closer to the bed.
Each night the guilt, the furtive slipping out of bed then back again to lie listening. She was being very stupid; he was going to find out. And the mouse became bold—it would run out, snatch her offering, then sit up holding the bread in its paws, eating right in front of her. And at last the night came when she could no longer lie still.
She could see the mouse across the room in the faint hint of moonlight. She rose, her fingers curling and straightening with the need to make claws, and she knew she dare not change. Half-naked in her panties, she slipped toward the mouse, light and quick. It was just behind Braden’s shoe. She could see it and smell it, could see its whiskers twitching. She crept close and crouched and snatched it in her cupped hands.
She drew her hands up, ecstatic with the feel of the mouse squirming against her palm. She stood up, gripping it tightly; she shook it and felt it wriggle with terror and she smiled and turned…
Braden was awake, watching her.
She backed away from him. “I—I heard it scratching. It was—it was so loud. Scratching at something. It woke me. I—I don’t know how I did this. What—what shall I do with it? Oh, it’s moving in my hand, it’s horrible.” Its movement excited her unbearably. She wanted to loose it and chase it, wanted to bat at it and play with it. She looked at Braden pleadingly. “What—what shall I do with it?”
He looked back at her, expressionless.
