Sarah Lotz
Sarah Lotz was born in the UK and currently lives in Cape Town, South Africa. She is a writer/screenwriter. Her interests include eating, driving too fast, reading, classic horror films and anything sci-fi or zombie-related. She says of ‘Pigeon Fancier’: ‘This story is probably based on true events and is dedicated to pigeon fanciers everywhere. If it makes people smile, then I’ve achieved what I set out to do. If it doesn’t, my apologies.’
My cell phone started beeping the second I stepped into the shower. I knew from the ringtone – the theme tune to Jaws – that it was Lucy calling from Jo’burg, and my already fragile stomach clenched. My sister rarely phoned just to say hello, and a call at this time of the morning could only mean one thing: Mom was up to her old tricks again.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I scrambled to answer it before it died. ‘What’s she done now?’
Lucy sighed. ‘Hello to you too, Levin.’
‘Well?’
‘She hasn’t done anything. Well, at least I don’t think she’s done anything. I’ve just phoned her and she sounds, I dunno, weird.’
‘So what’s new?’
‘I mean, she’s saying some seriously crazy stuff.’
‘Like I said, what’s new?’
I transferred the call to loudspeaker while I finish towelling off. I really wasn’t in the mood for this. I’d been out drowning my sorrows last night and my tongue still felt fuzzy from too many double Jamesons.
‘Can you go over there and phone me back when you’ve seen her?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine.’ It was all right for Lucy, she was safely fifteen hundred kays away in Melville. I’d stupidly stayed in the Cape, so it was always up to me to pick up the pieces. ‘I do have a life you know, Lucy.’
‘Yeah. I know. Look, please, Lev. It’s just ... She really does sound different. And after, you know, what happened last time –’
I cut her off mid-sentence. It was way too early for emotional blackmail. ‘What do you mean, “different?”’
Lucy paused. ‘She sounds happy.’
Shit. Not good. ‘I’m on my way.’
Mom’s tiny townhouse is only a ten-minute drive from my Kalk Bay flat, and I made it in record time. The roads were deserted, the sensible people of the world still enjoying their Sunday morning lie-in.
I’d barely hauled myself out of the car when a halo of brassy red hair appeared over the neighbouring gate. Avril. The nosy neighbour from hell. Avril had slithered into Mom’s life a few weeks after Dad died, always ready with a box of cheap wine and a gob-full of racism masquerading as reborn Christianity. The aura of bitterness that surrounded her was every bit as palpable as the stale fag smoke that blasted out of her pores. And she was never without a snide comment about what she called my ‘alternative lifestyle’.
My hangover stepped up a notch as she let herself out of her gate and joined me on the pavement, a whorl of her cigarette smoke drifting my way.
‘Everything all right, Levin?’ Avril said in her nasal twang. ‘Didn’t expect to see you up this early on a Sunday.’
‘Avril. How nice.’
She looked me up and down, pursing her wrinkled mouth into an anus-like ring. ‘You look a bit rough. Had a late night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your sort like partying the night away, don’t you?’
I pretended not to hear her last comment and pressed the intercom gate buzzer. No answer. My head was thumping, protesting the absence of its usual two cups of strong coffee. I rang again. Still nothing. Grabbing the top of the gate, I hauled myself up and yelled: ‘Mom!’
‘I haven’t heard her going out this morning,’ Avril said. ‘She should be in.’
I rang again. Nothing.
Avril clamped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no! You don’t think she ...’ But I wasn’t fooled by this show of concern; her eyes were glinting with excitement. ‘What if she’s –’
‘Don’t say that,’ I snapped. But I couldn’t ignore the sudden lurch of panic. Impossible to erase the memory of that horrible afternoon spent in the corridor of Fish Hoek Hospital’s Casualty ward, trying not to gag at the stench of cheap disinfectant while I waited for the doctors to pump Mom’s stomach.
I pressed the buzzer again, this time holding it down. Finally I heard the tinny sound of Mom’s voice floating through the speaker. Thank God.
‘Hello?’
‘Mom! It’s me!’
‘Who?’
For fuck’s sake. How many sons has she got? ‘Levin.’
‘Oh. Hello, dear.’
I waved away a plume of cigarette smoke that Avril had exhaled my way. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in, Mom?’
‘Oh! Right. Sorry!’
The gate clicked open.
‘Shall I come in with you?’ Avril said. ‘Just in case?’
‘No.’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t your sort be heading to church?’
I slammed the gate behind me and made my way up the path. The small neglected garden looked naked and sorrowful compared to its neighbours. A couple of months ago Mom had decided to rip out all the plants that bordered the lawn, leaving mini open graves that collected pools of fetid water whenever it rained. The latest in a long line of eccentricities.
I waited while she fumbled with the front door’s security gate.
‘Are you okay, Mom? I’ve been buzzing and buzzing.’
‘Sorry, dear.’
She certainly looked fine. Her hair was newly washed and combed, and she was even wearing a smear of lipstick. Her sweatshirt was inside out, but still, it was a major improvement over her usual dishevelled appearance. She threw her arms around me and gave me hug. She smelled of the L’Air Du Temps perfume I’d given her for her birthday.
‘He’ll be so glad to see you!’ she said.
‘Who will?’
‘You’ll see!’ she said in a girlish sing-song voice. She grabbed my hand and pulled me through to the lounge. The room looked exactly as it always did, maybe slightly cleaner, but there was a faint feral odour in the air. There was something familiar about the smell, but I couldn’t place it immediately.
And then I saw it.
‘Mom? Why is there a pigeon in your lounge?’
‘It’s not just a pigeon, Levin.’
‘Okaaay.’
She looked at me, eyes shining with what looked suspiciously like joy. ‘It’s your father.’
‘What?’
‘He’s come back to me!’
Oh Christ. ‘Mom, what the –?’
‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
What to say to that? I fumbled for the right words, settling on: ‘How long has it been here?’
‘He, Levin. Don’t call him it. You know your father wouldn’t like that.’
As far as I could remember Dad hadn’t been particularly fussy about personal pronouns, but what the hell. ‘Okaaay. When did he arrive?’
‘Well, last night of course. I’d been out with Avril. She called and said that she wanted to go see that new movie at the Longbeach Mall, the one with Sandra Bullock. And you know I don’t really like that actress, especially after all that business with the Nazi boyfriend. I know Avril says it’s all media wotsit, but still, a thing like that, well, you don’t –’
Typical Mom, off on a tangent. I took a deep breath and tried to steer her back on course. ‘Mom! The pigeon?’
‘Oh! Well, when I came home, he was here waiting for me. Must have flown through the window. Through the burglar bars. I knew it was your father immediately.’
‘Why?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Look where he’s sitting!’
True enough it was perched on the back of my father’s old Lazy Boy. And it had clearly been making itself at home. The scuffed leather was splotched with white bird droppings.
‘He went straight to his old chair.’ She looked at me accusingly. ‘I knew there was a reason why I wouldn’t let you throw it out.’
‘That’s hardly conclusive proof!’
‘Oh Levin. Why do you always have to be so difficult?’
‘Me? I’m not the one claiming my dead husband’s a pigeon.’
‘Don’t raise your voice to me in front of your father! And how do you explain the thing with the television?’
‘What thing?’
Mom grabbed the remote and started flicking through the channels until she found a rerun of Top Gear. The moment Jeremy Clarkson appeared the pigeon ruffled its feathers and started strutting along the back of the chair, bobbing its head up and down.
‘See? Your father hated Jeremy Clarkson. Wouldn’t have him on.’
‘Christ.’
‘Don’t blaspheme! You know your father hated bad language.’
Mom turned the channel back to National Geographic, and the pigeon seemed to calm down. It wasn’t an attractive member of its species. One of its ankles was a clumpy mess of knobbly scabbed flesh, as if it had the bird version of gout. Then I noticed the racing ring partially hidden beneath the scar tissue – a bright red circle of plastic. Strange, it didn’t look like a racing pigeon; it had more in common with the raggedy scavengers that hung around the Company Gardens tea room begging for scraps. Perhaps it had got lost en route.
As if it was aware of my close scrutiny it puffed out its chest. I supposed there were some similarities between it and Dad. Same barrel chest. Same beady know-it-all eyes. Same way of strutting around as if it owned the place.
‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ Mom said.
Mom had always been eccentric, but this was going a bit too far. I reached over and took her hand. ‘Mom. Listen to me. I know you’re in pain. I know you really miss Dad.’ I paused. ‘We all do.’ Not strictly true, but now wasn’t the time to go into that. ‘But Dad’s dead.’
She looked at me in exasperation. ‘I know that, Levin! Do you think I’m crazy?’
I wisely kept silent.
She cocked her head on one side, looking, for an instant, just like the bird on the back of the chair. ‘But now he’s back. Really, Levin,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of reincarnation?’
Fuck.
‘Now, I’ll go and make you a lovely cup of coffee, give you a chance to spend some time alone with your father.’ Before I could speak she bustled off to the kitchen. I plonked myself down on the couch, pulled out my phone and sent my sister a text: <It’s worse than we thought.>
I stared at the pigeon. The adverts were on and it had recommenced its strutting.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I said experimentally.
Fuck me if the pigeon didn’t stop and stare at me with its round black eyes. Then another sliver of white shit dropped onto the leather couch. My father and I had never exactly seen eye to eye, but he hadn’t tended to react this strongly whenever we met.
I could hear Mom singing in the kitchen, blasting out an out-of-tune version of ‘I Could Have Danced All Night’. The pigeon and I shared another glance, and it bobbed its head in a gesture that was eerily like one of Dad’s impatient shrugs. I almost expected it to squawk out: ‘Stop that racket, Doll, I’m trying to watch the rugby.’
Mom had done strange things before, of course. She’d always had peculiar ideas and fixations, her mood swings barely kept in check with cocktails of tranquilisers and anti-depressants. But Dad had known how to deal with her, and he’d ruled the household (and all of us) with an iron fist. She’d depended on him for everything, deferred to him on every decision, let him control the finances, accepted his decision that her place was in the home – even though I suspected the reason for her various neuroses was the lack of an outlet for her intellect. Aside from looking after Dad and us kids, she’d never had a job, and after he’d died, I’d had to pick up the slack. But I couldn’t replace him in her life. Not even close. I suppose it was understandable that she was so lost without him. They had been together since she was seventeen.
Mom returned, humming under her breath and carrying two cups of coffee. ‘I’m cooking his favourite tonight. Lamb! You know how your father loved lamb chops. But do you think it’s okay for him to have meat? I mean, he did have all that trouble with his digestion.’
‘Mom. You can’t feed lamb to a pigeon!’
‘But it’s his favourite!’
‘Mom. Look at its leg. The racing ring. It clearly belongs to someone.’
But she wasn’t listening. ‘What do you think, Graham?’ she said to the pigeon. ‘A nice bit of lamb for your supper?’
The situation was going from the surreal to the ridiculous.
‘Mom! You have to stop this!’
‘Stop what?’
I knelt down in front of her. ‘Mom. Listen to me. Dad died. He had cancer. We went to the funeral. You remember? We scattered the ashes on Fish Hoek Beach. It’s not Dad. It’s just a pigeon.’
‘Of course it’s your father. Stop being so difficult, Levin.’
‘Mom, listen to me. You need help.’
‘Look at me, Levin. Don’t I look fine to you?’
‘Well ... yes.’
She took my half-full coffee cup out of my hand. ‘You must have things to do. Say goodbye to your father.’ This was new. Normally she tried to keep me in the house for as long as possible.
‘But Mom!’
‘Say goodbye, Levin.’
I couldn’t remember ever hearing her sounding so forceful. Christ. It didn’t look like I had much of a choice. ‘Bye ... Dad.’
The bird nodded its head dismissively and turned back to the television.
‘It kind of makes sense if you think about it.’
‘What the hell do you mean, Lucy?’ I cradled the phone on my shoulder while I ladled a third teaspoon of instant into my cup. I needed the boost.
‘Well, Dad was always a pigeon fancier. It makes sense that if he came back he’d be a racing pigeon.’
‘It’s not funny, Lucy.’
‘I’m not being funny. Think about it.’
‘Have you any idea how nuts that sounds?’
‘Totally. But ... I dunno.’
But she had a point. Before we relocated from the Natal South Coast to Cape Town, Dad had spent every second of his free time in the pigeon loft he’d constructed in the back garden. My preteen childhood was peppered with weekends spent driving for miles, the bakkie stacked with baskets of chirruping birds, the car humming with the smell of bird shit and a warm feathery odour. It was the only time I remembered connecting with my father. The only time he seemed to let his guard down and stopped nagging me about ‘being a man’. We never said much during those long trips, but the silence was comfortable, non-judgemental, and tinged with excitement, both of us looking forward to the pay-off – the opening of the baskets – when the pigeons would burst out in an exploding cloud, their wings whooshing past our faces.
After the racing pigeons had been sold, the silences we shared were never comfortable again.
I shook off the memory.
‘And, seriously, is it crazier than any of the other things she’s done?’ Lucy was saying.
‘Yes.’
‘But she sounds so happy.’ She paused. ‘I can’t remember ever hearing her sounding so happy. Not even when Dad was alive. Can’t we just let it lie?’
‘Not really, Lucy, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Think about it. What if it flies away?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if it dies? How long do pigeons live?’ I couldn’t remember. Five years? Ten? And that pigeon clearly wasn’t a spring chicken.
‘I didn’t think about that.’
‘If she lost Dad again ... well, you know. That might put her over the edge for good.’
I returned the next morning, not sure what I’d find. To be honest I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Mom holding conversations with the furniture, or convinced that Gran had come back as a rain spider.
She buzzed me into the garden. Avril was outside, leaning against the lounge window frame, smoke drifting out of her mouth as if she was slowly burning from the inside.
‘Back again, Levin?’ Avril said, doing that horrible arse mouth thing again.
‘What are you doing out here?’ I said.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Apparently your father doesn’t approve of smoking.’
Maybe the pigeon was good for something after all.
Mom poked her head out of the front door. Today her hair was pinned back from her face, and she was even wearing mascara. She looked years younger – the mom I remembered from my childhood.
‘Hello, Levin. Aren’t you going to come in and say hello to your father? I’m just cleaning the kitchen. You know how he likes a clean house.’
‘Just now, Mom.’
She smiled at me and breezed back in. Lucy was right. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her so happy. If it wasn’t for the small matter of the pigeon reincarnation, I’d have been relieved.
I peered through the lounge window. The pigeon was at its post on the back of Dad’s chair, beady eyes fixed to what appeared to be a National Geographic programme about tree felling. I could hear Mom singing again in the background.
‘So,’ I said, turning to Avril. ‘What do you think about all this?’
She shrugged. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’
‘I didn’t think Christians believed in reincarnation.’
‘You jealous?’
‘Jealous of what?’
‘Your mother’s happiness.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Maybe you don’t like that she’s found some happiness. Specially now that your ... partner has left you.’
‘How did you know about that?’
She smiled nastily at me. ‘Not much about you I don’t know.’
‘Maybe it’s you who doesn’t like it, Avril.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Smoking might not be the only thing he doesn’t approve of. You know Mom shouldn’t be drinking while she’s on the meds.’
‘It doesn’t hurt. She likes a bit of company.’
‘Yeah well. Now she’s got company, hasn’t she?’
A swish of movement next to the fence caught my eye. A large tabby cat snaked its way through Avril’s bougainvillea bushes and slithered onto the lawn. It was approaching the lounge window, creeping along on its belly.
‘Shit.’ I waved it away from the open window. ‘Shoo, kitty.’
‘That’s Calico, my cat,’ Avril said.
‘Well keep him in your own garden!’ I fumbled for the catch and pushed the window shut.
‘Your mother will have to keep the windows closed all the time from now on,’ Avril said, jetting twin streams of smoke out of her nose.
I used my foot to herd the cat back to the fence. It leapt up on top of it and narrowed its eyes into yellow slits.
‘You didn’t get on with your father, did you?’ Avril said.
‘None of your business.’
‘That’s what Lena says, anyway. She said you weren’t close.’
That was a serious understatement.
‘Look, Graham,’ Mom said from behind me. ‘Levin’s come to visit. Isn’t that nice?’
I whirled around. Mom was making her way towards us, carrying the pigeon in her cupped hands.
The cat twitched its tail, and slid back down to the lawn.
‘Mom, what are you doing with the ... with Dad?’
‘I thought I could show him the garage. All his tools are out there, just as he left them.’
Avril choked back a laugh, a mouthful of smoke going down the wrong way. I couldn’t help the stab of glee as she doubled over in a coughing fit.
‘Mom,’ I said. ‘That’s not a good idea. There’s a cat around here.’
‘Oh don’t worry, Levin. Your father could always look after himself.’
True, Dad had never backed down from a fight, but I was pretty sure that this time the odds were stacked against him.
‘Mom, take Dad back inside.’
‘But he really wants to see his tools!’
‘Just do it, Mom!’
The cat was creeping closer, body flattened in stalking position, its eyes following Mom’s every movement. The pigeon began struggling, flapping its wings and bobbing its head. ‘Graham, what are you doing?’ Mom said. The pigeon was really wriggling now, and Mom wouldn’t be able to hold onto it much longer. I reached out to help her, but I was too late. She dropped it, and it tumbled onto the grass, shaking out its wings as it fell.
I sprang at the same moment as the cat. I’m not the most agile of people, but fuelled by a spurt of adrenaline, I managed to grab hold of its tail and back legs before it could pounce on the bird on the ground. It wriggled and lashed out, catching me a swipe on the back of my hand with its claws. I held onto it as long as I could, before half-throwing it in the direction of the fence. It darted off, ears back.
‘Fuuuuck,’ I breathed out. ‘That was close!’
Ironically, Dad would have been impressed with my flying rugby tackle. But the bird on the grass didn’t move. It puffed out its chest as if nothing had happened.
Mom bent down and gathered it to her chest.
‘Mom! Take the fucking pigeon back inside!’
‘Levin! There’s no need for that language.’
Cooing to the pigeon, she made her way back into the house. I stayed sitting on the grass, waiting for the adrenaline to fizzle out.
Her coughing fit now over, Avril wiped her streaming eyes and lit another cigarette. She looked at me balefully through the smoke. ‘This is only going to end in tears,’ she said.
‘No shit,’ I said.
Something had to be done. There was no way Mom would remember to keep the windows closed, and that cat had meant business.
‘She won’t listen to me, Levin,’ Lucy said. ‘We were on the phone for over an hour. She’s convinced it’s Dad. I’ve tried everything.’
‘Can’t you fly down and see her in person?’
‘Hello? I’m seven months pregnant.’
‘It was a close call with that cat. That pigeon isn’t going to stay put forever. What the hell am I going to do?’
‘I’ve no bloody idea. But we’ve got to come up with something. Can’t you shock her out of it?’
‘How?’
But a glimmer of an idea was beginning to form in my mind.
A familiar waft of fag smoke floated over the fence as I waited for Mom to buzz me in. As I knew she would, Avril scuttled out to join me. It was only nine-thirty, but she was clutching a half-full glass of red wine.
‘Visiting again, Levin?’ she said. ‘How nice for your parents.’
‘Where’s your cat?’
‘Inside.’
‘Good. Keep it that way.’
‘I can’t shut him away all the time,’ she said. ‘It’s not right. It’s not fair that my cat has to suffer.’
‘Thanks for your sensitivity, Avril.’
She straightened her back and took a lung-busting drag of her cigarette. ‘It can’t go on.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m going to try to do something about it.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I’m your mother’s best friend. It is my business.’ She was speaking with extra care. I was pretty sure the glass of wine wasn’t her first.
‘Some friend.’
The gate clicked open and before I could stop her, Avril muscled her way past me. ‘I’ve got to see this,’ she said.
Mom was waiting at the front door. For the first time in months she was wearing a dress; a far cry from the sweat suits she’d taken to wearing after Dad died. I could hear the drone of the cricket commentary floating through from the lounge, and caught a whiff of something meaty roasting in the kitchen.
‘Hello, Avril,’ Mom said, eyeing the cigarette. ‘You’ll have to put that out. You know Graham doesn’t like smoking.’
Pursing her lips, Avril ground her cigarette into the lawn.
Mom gave me a hug. ‘And Levin! So nice to see you. Your father and I were just talking about you.’
She ushered us through. The pigeon was perched in its usual spot, beady eyes seemingly fixed to the television.
‘And he’s so excited about Lucy. Just think! Our first grandchild. I was just saying that maybe we should fly up and visit when the little one comes. Help out. You know how good your father is with babies. So practical.’
‘At least you won’t have to buy him a plane ticket, Lena,’ Avril muttered. For a second I could have sworn the pigeon twisted its head to glare at Avril.
If Mom had heard the snarky comment, she didn’t show it. ‘Now, I’m just making a lovely lamb stew. I know it’s really a winter dish, but I thought, well, why not? And dumplings of course.’
It was now or never. ‘Mom,’ I said. ‘This has to stop.’
‘What has to stop, Levin?’ She actually looked genuinely confused.
‘This crazy business about Dad coming back as a pigeon!’
‘Oh not that again.’
‘Mom. I’m going to prove it to you. I’m going to prove to you that it’s not Dad.’
‘Oh, Levin!’
‘I’m going to do something I should have done years ago.’
‘What?’
‘Watch this,’ I said. I dropped to my knees in front of the pigeon. Even though I knew it was only a bird, I couldn’t help the swirl of nervousness.
‘Dad,’ I said, staring straight at the pigeon. ‘There’s something you should know.’ The pigeon bobbed its head slightly, but kept its eyes fixed to the test match on the screen. ‘Something I should have told you years ago.’
I glanced up at Mom and Avril. Mom was gazing lovingly at the pigeon, and Avril was smirking at me over the rim of her wine glass.
‘Dad,’ I said, pausing for effect. ‘I’m gay.’
The pigeon shook out its feathers, but other than that, it didn’t react. Avril choked on a mouthful of wine. ‘Jislaaik,’ she said when she recovered. ‘Did I just hear right? Did you just come out to a pigeon?’
‘Get out, Avril,’ Mom said, her voice flat.
Avril’s eyes widened in shock. I was pretty sure she’d never heard my Mom use that tone of voice before. ‘But –’
‘Just go. You’re not welcome here.’
Without another word, Avril fled.
Mom turned to me. ‘Now. Are you staying for lunch, Levin?’
‘Mom. Didn’t you hear what I just said? And look, the pigeon didn’t react.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Of course it does! Even Jeremy fucking Clarkson got a reaction! If I’d have told Dad I was gay when he was alive he’d have freaked the hell out, you know that, Mom.’
Tears were forming in her eyes. Shit. Had I gone too far? ‘Oh Levin. Your father knew you were gay.’
‘What?’
‘He knew for years. We both did.’ She smiled at me. ‘He was waiting for you to have the backbone to tell him in person.’
I felt my mouth dropping open stupidly. ‘He knew?’
‘Of course he knew, silly! You’re his son.’
Still reeling, I got to my feet and headed to the front door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the tool shed.’ I was sure there was still some chicken wire in there that I could use to cover the windows. My Dad might have been a controlling paternalistic son of a bitch, but I supposed he’d done his best for us. He’d always looked after us. And now it was up to me to keep him safe.
‘Besides,’ Mom’s voice followed me out. ‘You know he never listens to anyone when the cricket’s on.’