Little Birds: A collection of short stories by Hannah Lee Kidder

Author:Hannah Lee Kidder [Kidder, Hannah Lee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2018-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

I crank the heat higher, knowing full well my 1998 Gallant isn’t going to spit more than lukewarm air under the pressure of an Ohio winter night. But I rub my gloved hands together in front of the vent anyway.

I’m parked against the curb at a residential intersection. If I take a left and drive three houses down, I’ll be at the end of her driveway.

I slap my windshield wipers to clear the snow. The light is still on upstairs. Her bedroom.

I shove the wrapper from a burger I just ate onto the floor of the passenger seat and find my scope. It’s fogged, so I swipe at the lens with my glove.

Her curtains are closed, but they’re sheer—lavender lace with the little bird shapes she loves, like the one tattooed on her wrist. I can see shadows when anyone passes in the half of her room closest the street.

I keep the scope at my eye and reach for the radio tuner with my other hand. It can’t catch FM anymore, but a couple AM stations come through on this block. I stop on 1330—half weather, half local bands.

No one is by the window. I’ll bet she’s doing her hair in the bathroom. And he’s probably sitting with his back against the wall in the hallway, watching her. His name is something soft and adventurous, like Dakota or Matthew. Matt.

The bathroom is small and can’t fit more than her standing up, especially with her elbows in the air, running a flatiron through chestnut hair that falls past her shoulders when it’s straightened. She smiles at Matt—he’s reading a text from her mother out loud. Her mom is mad she’s not flying home for Thanksgiving, but they have plans with Matt’s family this year. His legs are stretched on the carpet in front of him, and you can tell he’s tall even when he’s sitting. His eyes are blue like mine.

Half her hair is still pinned, little strands falling out by her ear when she steps into the hall and bends to kiss Matt’s forehead. She tucks the strands back into the clip and he can see the bird on her wrist. He likes it, but he doesn’t know she got it after her uncle died because his favorite song was Black Bird.

A shadow passes the window.

I grip the scope and lean against my steering wheel. The silhouette shrinks as it gets closer. It looks like a man, but it’s not him. This one walks with a stoop.

The strange man’s shadow lifts a box to his shoulder and disappears. The light turns off. A moment later, the porch light turns on. The man emerges, holding several empty cardboard boxes stacked inside each other. He walks across the street, leaving stark footprints in the snow, to a U-Haul parked on the curb. He throws the boxes into the truck and pulls the rolling door shut before disappearing inside the house again.

The shutters look freshly painted in the porch light. The tin mailbox is empty and there are spaces by the door where her kitten planters used to sit.

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