Bluejay in the Attic

About the Author

John C Cole was born in Waukesha, Wisconsin, in 1971. He was raised in Boston, Massachusetts, and he studied creative writing and literature at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. He currently teaches composition and writing courses at Colorado Mesa University and at Quincy College in Massachusetts. John is also the author of The Lost Words, a collection of short stories and prose.

Dedication

For Bob and Jo

May the wind always be at your back.

Copyright Information ©

John C Cole 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Cole, John C

Bluejay in the Attic

ISBN 9798889109587 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889109600 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9798889109594 (Audiobook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023921645

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[email protected]

+1 (646) 5125767

The following story is based on actual events.

Certain names and situations have been changed, fictionalized,

or dramatized for the sake of anonymity

and creative storytelling.

Saturday, November 13th, 2022

2:47pm

After Andy’s funeral, my mother and I sat at her kitchen table drinking hot tea with lemon and honey. We still had our black clothes on, and there was nothing much to say as we quietly sat there. I was wrapping the string of my tea bag around the spoon when we heard the fluttering and flapping in the attic. That damn bird, said my mother. This is the third or fourth time this month. Could you please do me a favor and go and try to get it out?

I finished my tea and changed my clothes. I pulled the string to the attic stairs and climbed the ladder. I tugged the pull-string light overhead and looked around for the bird. It stayed hidden and quiet for a long time, and I stayed hidden and quiet for a long time too. I spent nearly twelve hours in the attic that day. I eventually found the bird, but I found much more than that while I was up there.

We all deal with death in our own personal way, but sometimes we need help. Sometimes we need someone to show us how. My brother, Andy, was twenty-nine when he died, and this is the story of how he helped me come to terms with his death.

1

Six months is a long time to go without loving you, she said, and I’m not sure I can handle that.

Her mild threats had always turned me on, and it wasn’t the first time she said something like that to me. I pulled her down onto our bed for maybe the last time. She let me love her like we do, and her eyes revealed the silent war that was playing out in her mind. Will she wait for me, or will she leave me? I could tell she loved me and hated me all at once. She said nothing as I moved about her. I could see the tears forming in her eyes. I knew she questioned my love for her. I told her that I’d be back, but she turned her head toward the wall, telling me to leave.

So long, I thought, to my girlfriend and those long nights of waiting tables and tending bar. My time had come to go. She refused to smile as I packed my things on the bedroom floor. Her tears were like raindrops on car windows—the streaks left marks on her pale, dry face. She all but begged me not to go, and she wouldn’t promise to be there when I got back. She knew her mild threats had an effect on me.

My friend, Robert, honked out front as I shouldered my bag and looked at her naked in our bed. She’d been resenting me ever since I decided to go, and she’d been detaching more and more from me each day. We were both waiting for that moment of leaving, and when it arrived, it was like we were oceans apart, with nothing but unsettled water between us. I didn’t know what to say to the girl I shared nearly everything with. That moment of silence was like no other—it was dead wind at sea.

I cleared my throat before leaving. Perhaps I’ll see you in six months, I said, closing the door behind me. I walked down the driveway to Robert’s car, and I could feel the silent war taking place inside of me. I was sad to leave her, but excited for the months to come.

Robert smiled but didn’t say anything as he drove north on I-95 out of Florida. As we crossed the state line to Georgia, he said, I envy you, ya know. And I’d do just about anything to tag along with you.

I asked if you wanted to come, I said.

I know. I know you did, man. I’m just saying.

I get it, I said. Maybe next time.

The sun began to set as Robert adjusted the visor above the dash to keep out the sun’s rays. We drove quietly following signs to Atlanta. I stared into the darkening horizon as I rethought my reasons for leaving.

I’ve seen the same things and I’ve had the same thoughts for a few years now. I’ve talked over and over again with all the people at the bar, night after night, day after day, and nobody cares anything about adventure anymore. Nobody cares about taking off, exploring, and taking chances. Seems like nobody wants to go anywhere anymore. People have become so vanilla in the town I live in. Computer screen vanilla. Barroom vanilla. And the kids in my neighborhood walk around in boredom and torn blue jeans—earrings in their faces, as they stare into cell phones to check social media likes.

Everything seems to be dying in the town I live in, and the playgrounds there have rotted away with tall grass that needs cutting. The youth sit around on rusted-out swing sets and seesaws with untied shoes and cigarettes burning. They show off new tattoos and pictures of their most recent squeeze. To them, adventure means new ink on their forearms and maybe getting laid. Heroin is everywhere. Fentanyl is everywhere. The fog is thick, and the evening news speaks of so many kids never reaching adulthood.

When I look at the lazy, addicted days of this younger generation, I realize that I’m getting too old for rusted-out playgrounds and getting high. I’m too old for keg parties in the woods and getting my girl’s name branded on my Facebook forearm.

And that’s why I left her. I left when I did because I’m getting too old for all that shit. And, who knows, God just might see fit to put me in some corporate suit and tie sometime soon. I left when I did because I wanted to live a little bit before the nine-to-five office grind bogged me down. I left because I wanted to explore some of this world before she came to me with the proposition of a family and a mortgage. I wanted to stretch my legs and run around a little bit before that diamond ring shortened my bank account. I wanted to take some chances and breathe some fresh mountain air before the gray started showing up in my beard. The truth is, I left when I did because I never wanted to sound like Robert. I never want to say, I wish I’d gone with you, man.

Atlanta sparkled up ahead as the southbound traffic began to thin along the highway. I pulled two cigarettes from my pocket as Robert cracked the window and handed me his lighter. You gonna quit smoking out there? he asked.

We both sat back in our seats and inhaled the smoke. I dunno, I said. Sure would make things easier if I did.

You wanna stop off in the city for a drink? he said, nudging my shoulder, laughing.

Yeah, right, I said. We’ll never get there if we do that.

The lights of Atlanta sparkled as we passed them by. I felt captured by all my thoughts as the butterflies began to swim around in my belly. I smoked. Atlanta looked clean that night, and the passing cars used blinkers before they cut us off. Robert drove his rusted-out Honda at fifty-five miles per hour in the passing lane, but he didn’t care, and I didn’t care, because we both knew it would be a long time before I saw the lights of any city flicker like that again.

I met Robert a year earlier in a Jacksonville Beach coffee shop. I stood behind him in line one morning as he asked for a cauffee with sugah. The pudgy donut lady behind the counter leaned forward with that say again look in her eye, and Robert leaned in and slowly repeated, cauufffeee with sugggaahhh. The donut lady shook her head while pouring his cup, and I introduced myself as being from the same neck of the northeast woods.

Robert had grown up some fifty miles south of me in Providence, and he’d only been in Florida for three months before meeting me. Initially, he told me he was in Florida for work, but a month or so later, he told me the real reason why he was there. He owed too much money to too many different bad guys, and he was in too deep with the drugs and the alcohol. The ladies, the family bullshit, and the little girl of his that he never saw… I just smiled and laughed to myself because I, too, had similar reasons for being in Florida. We’d both grown up as bad kids in bad parts of town, and being tough guys was starting to catch up to us. We both knew that prison cells didn’t have doors that swung both ways, and we both wanted more out of life than the other kids in our neighborhoods. We both realized that hanging around on the streets of Boston and Providence would lead to nothing more than pregnant girlfriends and prison numbers. We liked each other immediately, Robert and me, because we both shared the common experience of getting out while there was still time. We both felt lucky that way.

Robert was at least half black, with dark skin and short, curly hair. He wore a thin beard that was tight to his face, and hoop earrings in both ears. He was thirty or so pounds overweight. Truth be told, Robert didn’t even know what his background was, or who his original parents were. Foster home gave him a number when he was still in diapers, and one day a Mexican couple looked through a window and said they wanted number forty-two or some shit like that. Hell of a way to come into the world, if you ask me, and Robert didn’t like talking about it much.

So, it must be tough leaving Jada like this, he said, flicking his cigarette out the window.

More than you know, my brother. More than you know.

Do you love her? he asked.

Ah man, I don’t know, I said. I’ve been asking myself the same thing for a while now, and sometimes I wonder who I’m running from, her or me?

Maybe you’re not running at all, man? Maybe you’re just doing something you wanna do?

Yeah, maybe, I said.

Ah, come on now, man! Don’t give me that ‘yeah, maybe’ bullshit. I mean, who was the guy that I listened to about being honest with myself and finding some hope in this fucked-up world we’re living in? It was you, man. It was you that I followed around like some lost fucking puppy dog while I was trying to get clean, so don’t give me that ‘yeah maybe’ bullshit! Do you love her or not?

I looked over at Robert as he drove but didn’t say anything.

Sometime later he said, And now I’m watching you take this fuckin’ trip, and man, you’re goddamn right, I’m jealous. And I wish I could go with you, but I can’t. I just can’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t admire what you’re doing. Hell, I admire the shit out of what you’re doing, because I’ll tell you right now, I don’t have the sack to do what you’re doing. If I had a girl like Jada at home waiting on me, and a place like yours to live in, there ain’t no way I’d leave. Sorry dog, but there ain’t no way I’m leaving that.

Tell it like it is, I said, trying to make light of things.

Fuck you, he said.

No, you’re right, I said. You’re right. It’s just kinda funny hearing all this from you. I mean, a few months ago, you were sitting there all full of self-pity and bullshit, and now you’re trying to live right and give a little something back. I’m gonna miss you, bro. I really am. But I feel like this is something I gotta do. And if she loves me, then she’ll be there when I get back. And if I love her, then maybe I’ll come back.

We both laughed. You’re coming back, he said, slapping my shoulder.

Yeah, I said. I’ll be back.

That is, if you don’t get swallowed up by some big fuckin’ grizzly or some shit.

You ain’t kidding, I said.

Signs for Gainesville, Georgia were up ahead, and I held my mini flashlight over my trail map because Robert’s interior light didn’t work. We lost cell service once we got into the mountains, so his phone couldn’t tell us where to go. Highway Fifty-Two should be up here on the right, I said, looking over my map, and Robert slowed the car down to like twenty miles an hour and started looking for the turn. A big truck grew impatient behind us and started flashing high beams, and Robert shouted for the guy to go fuck himself as he passed us by.

Fucking trucks, he said. People just need to relax.

You were going like fifteen miles an hour, I said, laughing.

Fuck you too, said Robert. "Hey, how come you didn’t have me drop you off in the morning or afternoon? I’d love to see these mountains in the daylight. I bet it’s some kind of beautiful up here."

I dunno, man. It is what it is. Come on, let’s go, I said. The road we want is up ahead.

But the air, man! Can you smell that? It smells so clean up here.

Yeah, I said. It really goes great with my smoking! Come on, let’s go.

It’s fucking cold, though, he said. It must be like twenty degrees or something. You sure you got enough clothes with you? I’d hate to see you freeze out there and then have some park ranger call me up saying my buddy is frozen solid to a mountain in Tennessee or some shit.

I have clothes, I said.

"You sure you don’t want my coat, man? Come on, take my coat. And every time you put it on, you can think of me working fifty-plus hours a week at the office. Come on, you want it?"

What are you, my friggin’ mother? I said. No, I don’t want your coat. My pack is heavy enough as it is. I’ll just keep moving if I’m cold.

Alright, alright, he said. I just hope I don’t get that call from Mr. Park Ranger. And what about my phone, man? You sure you don’t want to take a phone with you?

No, I said. No phones. No technology on this trip. All that fucking technology is destroying our society… Whoa, whoa, wait a sec, I said. This is it! Turn here! Turn here! This is it.

Amicalola Falls State Park was five miles up some dirt road on the right-hand side. The nighttime silhouette of massive mountains made the road much darker and harder to see, and no streetlights didn’t help much either. I felt intimidated by the depth of all the darkness. I could feel my heart racing. I said nothing as Robert’s Honda bounced along the dirt and gravel road.

We pulled into the park and Robert turned off the car in front of a log cabin headquarters type place. The front porch light was on, and several large bugs circled the exposed bulb. We got out of the car and stretched our legs. The air was cold, crisp, and clean. The small butterflies in my belly were now large birds chirping in my chest.

The months of planning and waiting were finally over. I was finally there. I knew that Robert would soon be getting back into his Honda and driving away. The wonder of it all was suddenly staring me in the face. The bleacher stairs I climbed every day for training at the Fletcher High School football field were now actual mountains looking down on me. There was no more anticipation or dreamy nights of not being able to fall asleep. I had arrived, and I was standing on the doorstep of the biggest adventure of my life. I was overwhelmed. I pulled two cigarettes from my pack and handed one to Robert. We sat on the front porch steps of the cabin, like old men sometimes do, and we smoked in silence. We listened to the sounds of some nearby waterfall.

You think you’ll be able to stay clean up there in those woods? he finally said.

I’ll get plenty dirty, I said, but I think I’ll be able to stay clean. We both smirked. What about you? I asked. You think you’ll be able to stay clean?

I sure hope so, man. I’ll have a year in April, so you’d better find a phone somewhere out there to give me a call.

No shit, I said. A year in April! Where’d the time go?

Sure does fly by when you’re not in a blackout!

You ain’t kiddin’, I said.

Robert helped me pitch my tent beside the log cabin, and then he hopped back into that piece of shit Honda and cranked the engine. That thing gonna make it back? I said, shaking my head.

Fuck you, he said, lighting another cigarette. After a moment of some kind of silence, he said, Take care, Birdman. Godspeed.

You got it, I said. Safe home. Robert cracked a smile and pulled away.

3:33pm

My parents named me John after my grandfather, but my mother and my friends always called me Jay. My grandmother called me Jay-son whenever she was around, and my father called me Weasel because I always stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. My sister called me whatever four-letter word was in her vocabulary at the time, but my brother called me Jaybird, always Jaybird.

2

The calendar said it was March 4th. The thermostat on the side of the log cabin said it was 24 degrees. The morning fog hung trapped in the valley like smoke in a small room, and the misty morning air made my tent damp and heavy. The beads of water that ran down the face of my tent reminded me of the tears on Jada’s cheeks the day before, and I wondered if I’d ever make her breakfast in bed again. The nearby waterfall sounded louder than it did the night before, and my wool socks scratched the hell out of my feet. My hiking boots felt large, heavy, and clumsy, and goosebumps came to my legs as I hurried to pack my things. A park ranger stepped out of the front door of the cabin and breathed deeply as he pulled up his trousers. He raised his arms above his head with that morning type stretch and he looked my way with a smile on his face. "Sleep