I walked brusquely along the dirty sidewalk, absently studying the cracked cement. I thought of my duties when I got home: work, and the mess that abided in my apartment. I had fulfilled the same daily routine for 3 years, and I refused to break it, so I stubbornly continued my morning walk. I glanced at my watch and quickened my pace, I had only five minutes to get home and not be late to work. I turned quickly around corners and nearly jogged down the road. I passed an unusually large tree and marveled at it from the back of my mind.
I began to continue my walk without another thought about the oversized tree. I was just barely in hearing range of the tree, when it emitted a faint rustle of leaves and an inhuman screech. I thought about carrying on with my walk as planned, but curiosity bested me, and I stopped to investigate. I approached the tree cautiously, and as I did, I heard more leaves rustling. I searched the branches from afar, looking for the source of the noises. When I did, a white blur came toppling from the branches, plunging toward the concrete coated earth.
I dove. I was able to get my hands underneath it just before it came in contact with the ground. I stared at my hands; in it lay a half-starved shadow of a dove, brown with dirt. Upon closer examination, I discovered that it also had a broken wing, which explained the sudden fall.
I took it quickly back to my apartment, doing my best to conceal it, painfully aware of the no-pets rule. I entered my kitchen, and fiddled with the first aid supplies. I made a make shift splint for the dove’s broken wing, and then set out a dish of fruits for it to eat. I made sure all the windows were shut and ran out the door, hoping traffic was better than normal.
I got to work, slightly late, but there nonetheless. I went through the day, absentmindedly thinking of my little dove at home, hoping he would recover in time, and that today he didn’t find a way out of my apartment. On the way home, I picked up a bird cage and bird food, then hurried home. On the way home, I thought of a name for my little friend: Whitness. I had always taken a liking to the name Whit, and I thought it fitting to call him this for short.
Upon arriving home, I discovered Whitness asleep on the counter where I had left him. I set to work preparing his cage so he could sleep in it that night. Nearly an hour later the cage was complete, and I finally filled the dishes with food and water. I gently picked Whitness up and placed him in the bottom of his cage, where he resumed his nap.
I made my own dinner and went to bed. The next morning, as I was checking on Whitness’s progress, the phone rang. I answered, mindful of how unusual it was for me to receive a call at that time in the morning.
“Hey, Kevin” said a familiar voice.
“Hey, dad! How’s it going?” He sounded sad, apprehensive.
“Kevin, we need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait, Dad? I have to be to work in half an hour.”
“No, Kevin, we’ve put this off as long as we can, it has to be now.”
“Put what off?” I said warily.
“Your mother and I--“ he spoke haltingly, as if it pained him to speak “Your mother and I have decided to get divorced.”
I was silent for a long while as the shock subsided. When I finally did speak, all I could force myself to say was “Why?”
“Well, son, we’ve talked about it before, but it was never the right time. We just….We just don’t get along anymore.”
“When?” was my next question.
There was a short pause, then “Tomorrow afternoon the papers will be complete.”
I said a mumbled goodbye and hung up. I sank down in the nearest chair, letting my father’s words sink in. It wasn’t possible. My parents had just been too happy. I couldn’t remember ever seeing them fight. I just didn’t understand. I looked at the clock and realized that I had to go to work. I made sure my dove was secure in his cage, stumbled out the door and found my way to the car. My mind lingered on my father’s words throughout the day. It was lunch time before I recalled his mysterious words, ‘we’ve talked about it before, but it was never the right time.’ What did that mean? Did it mean that they couldn’t get divorced, and if so, for what reason?
I arrived home exhausted. I took momentary delight in taking Whitness out of his cage and providing it with some extra attention. Although he was still very suspicious of me, I managed to get him to take some food from my hand in one swift peck. I put him back in his cage, fed him and straightened. As I did so, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, son”
“Oh, hi dad,” I answered, cursing myself inwardly for not checking the caller id before blindly answering the phone.
“I just wanted to make sure you were all right, you sounded a little shaken up before”
“Maybe I was.” I responded ruefully.
He sighed, “I know this is tough on you, but it was something that had to be done.”
I figured that as long as he had decided to bother me, I might as well ask him the question that had been burning in my gut all day. “Dad, earlier, when we were talking, you said--you said it was never the right time for you and mom to get divorced, what did you mean?”
There was a long pause. “Are you there, dad?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Another short pause, “your mother and I had talked of divorce when you were a child, but we both agreed that it would be best for your childhood if we stayed together.”
“So…..so you didn’t get divorced because of me?” I said, comprehension slowly creeping into me.
“We thought that you needed two parents around, so we waited, we waited until—“
“Until I was 25 and so used to you guys being together that it would hurt me even more?!” I spat, ruthless in my rage.
“That’s not how we meant it to be, son, you must understand that—“
“I have to go, I have things to do.” I lied.
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” He said. I could hear the pain in his voice.
I hung up without a goodbye. I put my head in my hands. I was angry, angry at them both for withholding this from me, for waiting so long to do it. But more than that, I felt guilty, guilty for taking so much time away from my parents that their relationship suffered, guilty for making them suffer. I felt hot tears of pain rise in my throat. I blinked them back, rose, and continued my duties.
The next day was miserable. I rose, performed my morning tasks, fed and watered Whitness, and went to work. I inattentively worked, excruciatingly aware of how long the day seemed to be. When at last the work day ended, I hurried home to Whitness, hoping he could bring me some short-lived relief. I played with him, temporarily forgetting my troubles.
In the ensuing weeks I talked to neither my mom, nor my dad, wishing to remain in our forced silence. I did not call them, and they refrained from contacting me. Although I enjoyed the break, it also gave me time to think. It finally sunk in that my parents were officially separated, and it also registered even more painfully that it was my fault. That they would still be married had it not been for me. I knew that this feeling would never subside, but would become a part of me, blend with my character.
Whitness took my mind from my problems. He grew stronger with each passing day. He became healthier, and his feathers grew white and powder soft. Though I knew it would be several more weeks before he could fly, I took pride in his progress and in his smooth, flawless coat.
Two weeks after the divorce, my parents called me and invited me to a dinner out with both of them. I, at first, refused, but they insisted, and I reluctantly agreed. I arrived at the restaurant knowing how different things might be. And it was different, but not as much as I had imagined. Although they didn’t sit right next to each other and exchange knowing smiles, they were both genial, and, I could tell, it was for my sake.
I went home feeling worse. I took Whitness out of his cage, and he sat on my shoulder as I went about my business. The bird’s presence comforted me. It gave me reassurance that I had at least one friend in the world. He gently pecked on my cheek, as if sensing my problems. I raised a hand and stroked his sleek feathers. I put him back in his cage and retired for a long, restless night.
I rose, feeling slightly better, and went to do my chores. When I arrived at work I learned that my boss had, apparently, noticed the recent change in my behavior. I was called into his office.
“Is everything…..all right, Kevin?”
“Yes, of coarse it is.” I lied; I didn’t want to talk about my problems to anyone, least of all my boss.
“Okay, I’ve heard that you aren’t paying attention to your work, and your productivity has decreased. Can we work on that, please?”
I knew it would be a deadly mistake to refuse. “Yes, sir, I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask. Very well, you may leave.”
I obeyed and shuffled out of the room as fast as my feet would carry me, I didn’t want to be in there any longer than I had to. The rest of the day I tried to live up to my promise, but I still felt horrible. I went home feeling even less productive.
In the next weeks I felt steadily better, although my issues never went away. My parents tried to contact me repeatedly, but I got in the habit of checking the caller ID before I answered the phone, and refused to talk to them.
Finally, five weeks after I had found him, Whitness was ready to fly again. I had grown more than a little attached to him, and was reluctant to let him go. I took him out of his cage and placed him on the table. I removed the splint from his wing gingerly and found it in perfect working order. I stared deep into his amber eyes, and he pecked fondly and my hand. I smiled, and knew, for the good of Whitness, I had to let him go.
I took him to the park where I had found him, carrying him in the cage I had bought for him. I lifted him out carefully, and prepared for my final goodbye. I stroked his silky white down, and he hopped on my shoulder. I realized, then, that it wasn’t my fault. My parents had divorced because it was something they had to do, and they could’ve done it at anytime. And I knew that I had to let it go. I cradled Whitness tenderly in my hands, and thrust him into the warm summer air. And as he soared into the clear blue sky, he took with him my frustration, my anger, and my guilt. My pain I kept with me, though, for that was to remain a part of my being for years to come. Although it would diminish, it would never be completely forgotten.
And as I walked slowly home, the tears finally came. I cried for my pain, my hurt, and everything I had lost. But I did not cry for my guilt, and that was what mattered.
