The Hummingbirds Page 5

  Next to him, April’s heels clacked against a sidewalk grate. They passed by a punk couple wearing spray-painted denim jackets and sporting Mohawks. Their expressions were fierce but they held hands tenderly. He glanced over and noticed the thin strap on April’s purse that split her blouse between her small breasts, accentuated by her hands clasped behind her back. He imagined what it would be like to undo the blouse, button by button, and let it fall limp around her body and shoulders. Why couldn’t he love this woman? Here she was, beautiful, smart, a friend.

  “Someone would be lucky to have you,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Then what was all that at the diner?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t pretend.” Her arm brushed his.

  “It just didn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel right. Listen. I’m sorry I’ve made things weird. You really are great. I mean it. I’m just not at a place where I can take things anywhere.” It was true. It had always been true. But this wasn’t good: even to be talking about what they could be was intimate. “I’ll walk you to your car. And then you can drive me to my car. We don’t have to talk. To be honest, I’d rather not.”

  To be honest, he’d rather duck into one of the empty storefronts and stare into her eyes, run his fingers through her hair, hear her quick breaths through her nose as they kissed.

  They jaywalked across the intersection. This block was lined with three-story apartment buildings huddled around pools. The streetlights hummed and bugs zipped around in the glow.

  He again felt her presence. The hairs on his arms stood on end, reaching out toward her.

  “Listen,” she said. “I know you have a thing for Maria.”

  He stopped. “What? You’re kidding.” He laughed and continued walking in an attempt to downplay the idea, but felt terror. How on earth did she come to that conclusion? Did Bryce believe it too? Did Maria?

  “It’s obvious. Don’t worry, I mean, she doesn’t . . . well, you know Maria. She doesn’t pick up on these things.”

  “That’s absurd,” he said, about her suspicions. But it occurred to him why it would make perfect sense. April read his disappointment in the diner as him liking Maria. He briefly considered turning around and running back to clear it up.

  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk next to an empty Vietnamese restaurant. “They don’t know. And it’s okay. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “Honestly. It’s really not that.” He leaned against the window and felt it give just the slightest bit from the weight of his body. The words were on his lips, the desire to tell her how he really felt. Why wasn’t it ever enough to just feel the truth? “It’s just that sometimes when I see people happy . . . I don’t know.”

  He could see in her eyes that this was exactly what she’d wanted, what she’d hoped—his words were an invitation. Maybe he’d misread her. Maybe she didn’t really suspect he was into Maria, but had just thrown it out there, because she knew it had to be something—or someone.

  She started walking again and he followed.

  “I feel a bit of that too,” she said, as she pulled the purse strap across her chest with both hands.

  He looked away, feeling under attack, just like he had the other night with Sybil outside his window. An empty bus hurtled by.

  She stopped at a gray sedan. “My car.” He walked around and got in. As she sat down in the driver’s seat, her navy-blue skirt tightened. He turned toward the passenger side window so as not to see any more. But he could already feel it roiling inside him. Everything smelled of vanilla and rose.

  She turned the ignition. The car hummed to life.

  Ezra turned toward her and she kissed him hard and he could taste the sour of wine. His head turned to fluid, his insides swam. God, her soft lips.

  He began to pull away, but she’d reached down and unbuckled his belt. He forced his eyes shut and tried to imagine this was someone he didn’t know.

  She stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. This is overwhelming.”

  She kissed him hard in response, and he gave in to the desire, the feeling. Oh! Not just to know you’re wanted, or to feel that you’re wanted, but to experience it. He felt her blouse slipping from her shoulders, and it wasn’t anything like anything he could compare it to—it provided a new definition, the slick, watery feel of her clothes being shed like some sort of skin between his fingers, the buzzing in his chest, the soft, warm feel of her skin to his touch, the encouragement of her tongue spelling words of desire in his mouth, and on his cheek, on his neck, and down.

  He knew a better man would have stopped this, would have said no out of respect and duty, so as to not lead anyone on. He wished he didn’t have a choice in the matter, that it was beyond his control, but he knew exactly what he was doing, and he did it anyway. When she looked up and for a moment they locked eyes, he could tell that she mistook his anguish for joy—if there was indeed a difference.

  SIX

  Ezra slogged to the kitchen at around seven the next morning and flipped on the coffee maker. His body felt sticky. His eyeballs and sinuses felt dry. His throat had that prickly feeling that often preceded the flu.

  April was in the other room, still asleep on her back, mouth propped open to reveal a transparent retainer covering her top row of teeth, through which her breath every few moments whistled, but that wasn’t what had kept him awake through most of the night. After an inelegant, grunting intercourse—an exercise that took ten minutes, total—she’d popped in the night guard and fallen asleep, leaving him to toggle for most of the night between varying degrees of arousal, fear, and shame. And the times when his nerves weren’t partaking in that unholy trinity, they’d relax into a deep melancholy over Maria and Bryce’s upcoming union.

  At three a.m., during one of those drowsy fits, he’d dreamt he was standing up front at their wedding ceremony when lush locks of thick-bladed grass began growing from every pore on his body. He floundered and gasped for breath, and when he woke, realized that his sweat-drenched pillow and sheets were spun around him like a cocoon.

  The coffeepot beeped. Ezra poured some into a cracked ceramic mug. He looked out the window onto the grounds, and for a moment conjured Sybil Harper in the pool. He muttered to himself as he took a sip. He’d been thirty less than two days and it felt as though already more had happened than in the previous decade. Everything was changing. Maria. Bryce. Their names already sounded like laments. It could never be the same. Unless he coupled with April—and he wouldn’t, the previous night had sealed that—his break with Maria and Bryce would be like a zipper slowly tearing apart at the teeth. Soon they would develop a new group of like-minded couples. They’d try to keep him involved, but then they would get pregnant, or adopt, and at most he’d get a great relationship with their kids, his role becoming that of a babysitter so they could go out and have fun without him.

  Ezra sipped some hot coffee. It turned his tongue to cake. He walked back to the dim bedroom and stood above April. She lay spread-eagle in bed, covered by a sheet, flannel blankets flung to the floor. There was no show here, no posturing, and he found himself more aroused because of it.

  Memories of the previous night rippled through his mind. Time was already changing them from fumbling intrusions into scenes from a quality porn. April rustled lightly in her sleep and a part of him thought it could work with her. She would never understand him, and he would never be able to be himself around her, but weren’t many lifelong partnerships built upon weaker foundations?

  But who was he kidding? There was a guy who would charge ahead, and it wasn’t him. The truth—he could almost hear his mother’s heels clacking across the linoleum—was that he’d taken advantage of April’s vulnerability. And now? She wasn’t just some code on a screen blipped from existence with a click of the mouse.

  Ezra picked up his camera from the nightstand, snapped a picture, and walked t
hrough the house to outside. Morning mist dampened the air. He took a deep breath that still felt too shallow. The dim sunlight let his eyes relax. He focused on the lawn, cool beneath his bare feet. He tried to care about his red Marvels of Peru, whose tubular blossoms only puckered before the onset of the midday heat. He wondered for a moment what Hudson was doing in Vancouver, whether he was at that moment behind a camera as well. Whether he expected Ezra to find anything.

  He sat down a few yards away from the blossoms, back to a palm, camera in one hand, coffee in the other, and tried not to think. A hummingbird helicoptered toward the grove of Marvels. Ezra struggled to lock it into his viewfinder. It had the signature iridescent gorget surrounding its face and neck, changing colors with every sharp move. What a gift, to be able to truly present yourself in whatever light you wished. Another hummingbird flew into sight, this one flashing a turquoise gorget covering nearly its entire breast. It zipped to a flower and stuck its head inside the lobes. He imagined its slick tongue lapping through its long beak into the chalice.

  Then a chill rushed through him. A panic attack. Could he get a break? His heart galloped and his throat clenched. His fingers tingled and then his hands, and he quit breathing through his nose and began to pant. Here it was, the thunder following the lightning of the previous night. As always, waiting for the most peaceful time to boom.

  The door to the pool house opened behind him. He pretended to take photographs while listening to April’s flip-flops thwack against her heels. She stopped just behind him. Through the corner of his eye he saw the faint etchings of her shadow.

  “I’m surprised you’re up,” she said.

  He kept half his face snug behind the camera. “Me too.” He heard her yawn and imagined her lithe body stretching. “There’s coffee inside.”

  “Already got it.” She sat down just behind him.

  A small female hummingbird sparked into view, colored beige and gray with a few white specs and a glossy, understated pink breast patch. Ezra tried to zoom in close but he kept missing the angle or losing sight of it altogether. Pretending to care about taking photographs was much more difficult than caring about taking photographs. His hands shook with yesterday’s nerves. The hummingbird darted up to a cluster of red blooms, hovered, then zipped out of the yard just as the sun crested over the hedge bordering the pool house. He set down the camera in the grass.

  April was in a bathing suit, a simple yellow two-piece. She must have had one stashed in her car, with her mouth guard, and—now that he thought about it—probably ample supplies just in case of an earthquake, if not a week in Cabo. She sat Buddha-style, towel beneath her, mug of coffee still steaming in her palms. Her olive skin looked soft in the dawning sun.

  “Taking a swim?” he asked. A little quaver from the panic attack affected his voice.

  “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

  “No. It’s fine. Just a little amped on coffee.”

  “I can get you a coat,” she said.

  “I’m fine.” He fidgeted with the camera. Her comment frustrated him more than it should have. It was a small knockoff of what his mother would do: never listen, come to a conclusion about how things were with him and push until he gave in.

  But no—as he watched her—there was another reason he resented April, far stronger than any comparison: she was gorgeous. God, there was a power to a beautiful woman that mocked all reason, a power far greater than anything based on hard work or achievement. Anyone who said otherwise was lying to themselves. All throughout history, musicians wrote songs, poets wrote verse, businesspeople made money, politicians grabbed power, and generals launched thousands of ships, willing to kill and sack and pillage and burn, willing to sacrifice the lives of those in their stead, the lives of their loved ones, even their own lives—yes, the world was built and the world burned because damn that woman was beautiful.

  April took a sip of coffee and stood up. As she walked over to the pool she passed her hand behind her bottom in what seemed like a subconscious attempt to hide it. She slid in and dunked. Then she lay back and began floating, her legs and arms strumming the water.

  Have mercy. He began removing his shirt to get in with her, but stopped: it felt like he was being watched. He glanced toward the mansion and there stood Sybil in that huge window on the third floor, wearing a bright purple robe.

  “What’s up?” April asked.

  “My boss.” Now he did, in fact, feel cold.

  Sybil vanished from the window.

  April remained standing in the pool, the failed arch of her back making her look both noble and tragic. “Is it okay that I’m in here?”

  “Yeah.” He turned back to the mansion. “As long as they aren’t using it.”

  April smirked. “Think she’s jealous?”

  He turned and winked at her, something he’d never done before—a wink?—but it felt like the best way to be nice. She was fishing for compliments, not that he could blame her.

  The door to the patio slid open. Sybil strolled into the courtyard holding a flute of something green. She drew closer and lifted the rim to her mouth, then wiped her lips with her fingers. “Am I interrupting?” She spoke only to Ezra while nodding to April in the pool.

  Her voice was familiar, and it wasn’t. Not as clear and strong as when he’d heard it in movies, but soft, gentle even. “Not at all,” he said.

  “I can get out,” April said.

  “No worries,” Sybil said. “Mind if I join you?”

  The request appeared genuine, as did her smile.

  “We’d be honored,” Ezra said, and immediately regretted how stupid that sounded. He didn’t know exactly how to do this. Nor did he know what this was.

  “Honored,” Sybil said. “Well.”

  Ezra pretended to look around at the yard and at April treading water, but his eyes kept coming back to Sybil.

  She began tapping away on her phone. Her blossoming lips mimed the message at hand and she swiped at the screen with her finger. Little lines fanned the corners of her eyes and a few others creased the circles beneath, and in Ezra’s eyes she seemed to shrink. She blinked a few times and stuffed the phone into the pocket of her robe.

  But then she was back. The confidence. The swagger! Her hands crossed over her waist and loosed the tie around her robe, which opened to reveal a matching two-piece. That sense of watching himself from above returned. She released one arm from her robe before the other so she wouldn’t have to set down her flute. It was a small, effortless move, but its elegance was staggering. The robe dropped in a mess on the grass.

  From behind, he heard April clear her throat. But he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Sybil, who set down here drink and dropped into the pool, feet first, barely making a splash. She rose from the surface and combed back her hair, with her fingernails painted white.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself,” she said to April. “You must think I’m rude. I’m Sybil.”

  “April. You’re probably used to people recognizing you.”

  “You’d be surprised how few do. At least when I have clothes on.”

  Ezra laughed.

  April glided to the side of the pool. “I hear that’s rarely an issue.”

  Sybil glanced over at Ezra and chuckled. “Exactly.”

  Ezra turned the camera on and off, on and off, the lens spinning. He walked over and perched on one of the recliners.

  “Are you paparazzi on the side?” Sybil floated to the edge of the pool.

  “Hah,” he said. “I’m not. Never.” He couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious. Did she know about Grant’s request? “I photograph hummingbirds. Nature photography.”

  “Is that what you’ve been doing? I see you sometimes and it looks from up there like you’re taking pictures of the hedges. I thought it was a gardener thing.”

  “Groundskeeper,” said April.

  “Ah,” said Sybil. “Apologies. Groundskeeper.” She grabbed her drink and floated to one of t
he shallow curved ledges beneath the water and lounged sideways. “I should have asked you guys if you wanted something to drink. Another reason to think I’m rude.”

  “We had coffee,” said April.

  “Well, then you’re also rude for not offering.” Sybil smiled.

  No one spoke, though Ezra was trying to think of something, anything to steer the conversation away from whatever this was.

  “You know, I worked with your manager the other day,” April said.

  “Rob?” asked Sybil.

  “Yeah, he also works with Coral Massey. I filled in once for her makeup artist.”

  “I don’t know her, really.”

  “Funny,” said April, touching her lip. “She didn’t mention that.”

  Sybil took a sip of her juice and set it back on the ledge. “Well, isn’t this pleasant.”

  “You know,” said Ezra. “Before April did makeup, she used to act. And modeled for a handful of clothing companies.”

  “It’s only acting if you get a part. And the modeling was mostly just department stores,” said April. “Dresses. Corporate casual.”

  Ezra noticed that the way she said it was with pride, as if posing for department stores made her one of the people, as if she would have turned down a high-end boutique on principle.

  Sybil looked her over. “Yeah, makes sense. You’ve got the serious professional look going on. You know, back in the day those places wouldn’t even return my calls. Probably still wouldn’t.”

  April looked incredulous.

  “No, I’m serious. I’m too Hollywood.” Sybil dunked her head under the water again, pushed off, and came back up a few feet down the pool. The sun emerged from behind the hedges and its light danced in the water. “That’s how it goes. I’ve carved a niche in the market and now I have to live there.” She said it like it was casual, but clearly it wasn’t. She drifted slowly back to the shallow end of the pool and reached for her juice.