The Sparrow
Green light filtered through the window. It made the room feel like it was under water, or on some foreign planet. Andrew dropped his arm over his eyes trying to block it out, trying to will himself back to sleep for another hour. Or three. Nobody was counting.
A sharp pip sounded from somewhere outside. A minute passed, and it sounded again. And again. Andrew dropped his arm and glared out into the greenish dawn. A little bird hung from one of the branches of the giant vine that clung to the side of the house. It stared at him, cocking its head to the side, bright eyes considering. Pip!
âYouâre an asshole.â
The bird gave a self-satisfied pip and flew off. Bastard. Just what he needed, an alarm clock with a mind of its own.
He yawned and stretched, taking inventory of what hurt. Knees. Left thumb. Right hip. Better than yesterday. He left his cane where it was, leaning against the wall.
Going down the narrow stairs that his physical therapist had assured him were a terrible idea, he entered the tiny kitchen and grumbled at the landscape of boxes he could see stacked in the living room. The coffee maker was the one thing he had set up yesterday, and he listened to the gurgling sounds as the water dripped through while he looked over the boxes. Finding the one labeled Dishes, he dug through and pulled out a bowl and a mug.
He took his meager breakfast out onto the patio. The cracked concrete was shot through with weeds; the abandoned furniture peeling and rusted. The little pipping bird was back to sitting in the vines. He couldnât figure out why it was there; other than the vines that were assaulting the house and a few coarse weeds, the yard was bare dirt, hard and unwelcoming and littered with junk. It was ugly as hell, but Andrew didnât really care. All he had to do was lift his head, and the view was spectacular: rolling mountains, the caps slowly baring themselves to the spring sun, the slopes a mix of trees and green expanses that he knew from photographs were covered with flowers. Someday, heâd walk there. Someday, heâd reach the top.
Scoffing at himself, at his stupid impossible dreams, he creaked to his feet and went in to take his medications.
~
Andrewâs house was full of strangers. If he hadnât just bought the thing two days ago, it wouldâve been tempting to set it on fire.
They werenât technically strangers, as Allison had pointed out, given that he worked with them. But when Renee had said sheâd be stopping by to help him unpack, he wouldâve preferred it if sheâd mentioned sheâd be bringing half the town. He glared across the room at Renee, who pretended not to notice while she helped her girlfriend unpack cooking supplies. There was banging overhead where Kevin and Matt were putting together his bed. On the one hand, he was glad he was going to be able to stop sleeping on his mattress on the floor. On the other handâŚ
Movement outside caught this eye, a flash of reddish brown in his front yard. âWhatââ
Renee paused in her silverware sorting and followed his eyes. âOh good! Neil came.â
âWhat, you hadnât brought enough people?â
His words were punctuated by a crash from upstairs, followed by Mattâs voice calling a strained, âEverythingâs okay!â
âNeilâs a gardener,â Allison said, as if that should have been obvious.
âGreat.â More help he didnât want. He made his way outside, but Neil had disappeared. Grumbling, he walked around the house, only stumbling twice. A slender man stood at the edge of his backyard, facing the mountains. Andrew tried to pretend that the man didnât improve the view considerably, and stepped up to his side.
The man gave him a slashing glance, then a matching smile. âYou must be Andrew.â He held out his hand, shrugging when Andrew didnât take it. âNeil. Iâm a friend of Allisonâs.â
âWhat fresh hell do you have in store for me?â
Neil laughed easily. âDepends on what you want. Clean all this trash up to start; after that itâs up to you.â
âUp to me.â So far not a damn thing had been up to him, despite Reneeâs lip service. âIn that case, can you get rid of the assholes who have taken over my house?â
âSorry, no,â Neil said, grinning. Andrew couldnât take his eyes off of him, and he cursed himself for his weakness. âYou know how it is. Once youâre in Reneeâs clutches, you will help people and you will like it.â
âI most definitely will not.â
Neil laughed again and turned back to the yard, picking up one of the discarded plastic buckets that littered the space. âI better get started.â
It was rapidly becoming familiar, getting dismissed in his own house. He would have stayed just to watch Neil work, but Dan called his name and he headed back inside to prevent a book-arranging disaster.
~
The rumble of a truck pulled Andrew out of the mental cocoon he went into whenever he started working on his book. The week had been blessedly quiet, save for his avian alarm clock, but it appeared that was at an end. Grumbling, he forced himself to his feet, leaving his cane leaning against the couch.
Neil was standing on his front walkway, rubbing a hand sheepishly through his hair. âMorning.â
âWhat are you doing?â
âIâm here to figure out what weâre doing with your yard. Didnât Allison tell you?â
Andrew thought of Allisonâs parting words on Friday. âYouâre welcome!â He hadnât known what she meant and hadnât cared. Evidently he should have. âWhy?â
Neil looked at him, nonplussed. âBecause having that yard basically being a wasteland of dirt is criminal?â
âHey, itâs my wasteland of dirt.â
That damn smile made a reappearance. âYou deserve more than that.â
âThatâs such bullshit. Nobody deserves anything.â
Neil cocked his head to one side. âDo you really believe that?â
Andrew studied his face, the faded scarring across his cheeks, the stubborn set to his jaw that made the smile a lie. âHow much is Allison paying you?â
He looked genuinely startled at that. âNothing. I volunteered.â
âWhy? What do you get out of this?â
Neil looked away, color staining his cheeks like a sunrise. âEveryone deserves a little beauty in their lives.â
Andrew wondered what it was like, going through life with the evidence of other peopleâs viciousness on your face, and believing in beauty anyway.
~
Slowly the garden took shape, each Sunday adding a little more. When Andrew greeted him the third Sunday leaning on his cane, the truckload of gravel went back to where it came from without a word. The next week, he came outside to find Neil laying out paving stones in a sunburst pattern where the concrete had once been.
Neil was interesting and unpredictable, some days working for hours in silence, others chattering at length about plants and birds, on this continent and others. Sometimes Andrew helped, raking the dirt in the raised beds, then setting the native perennials Neil had picked out gently into the sun-warmed soil. Sometimes his hands wouldnât close on the tools, and he sat in the shade of the house and talked or read aloud from the book he was writing. Once he stopped, uncertain if Neil was even listening; his friend raised his head from where he was setting out a bird bath. âIs that it?â Neil asked, disappointment coloring his voice, and Andrew bit back his smile as he turned back to his book.
Neil arranged shrubs around the house and planted a couple of flowering trees for shade. Soon Andrewâs little pipping bird had friends of his own, and he woke to a melodic cacophony each morning. One afternoon, they sat in silence on the new furniture Andrew had ordered, sipping lemonade and watching fat bumblebees tumble in and out of hot pink flowers. The garden was almost done; the summer had already passed its peak. Andrew looked at Neil, at his summer-sky eyes and his autumn hair, and he swallowed back the grief as he realized these Sundays were drawing to a close.
~
The singing was not enough to stir him. He heard it, dimly, through the haze of pain, but he closed his eyes and drifted back into the darkness.
~
âAndrew?â
He knew that voice; it wrapped itself around his heart and pulled, forcing him into consciousness. Stifling his groan was impossible, and Neil was at his side in a flash. âHow can I help?â
âI need to take my meds.â His voice sounded like gravel, and he tried to clear his throat but it was too dry to make a difference.
âBathroom?â
Andrew hummed, and Neil disappeared, only to reappear in a second with his pill case and a glass of water. âCan I?â Neil asked, hovering an arm over Andrewâs shoulders. Nodding didnât hurt, at least, and Neil slipped an arm gently behind him and coaxed him into a sitting position against the headboard. He held the glass so Andrew could suck some water through the straw, then handed him the pills, one at a time. When he was done, they sat there like that for a while, Andrew avoiding Neilâs eyes. He hated this, hated that Neil found him like this. Hated that this was the new reality of his life, where he could be going along okay and then suddenly be incapacitated by pain.
It hadnât struck him down like this since he first got sick; he would never forget that panic, being alone and unable to move without screaming, having to drag himself to the bathroom. Then the weeks of doctorâs visits and tests, the medications that helped the pain but messed him up otherwise, until they finally found a cocktail that worked, more or less beating his immune system into submission. He had moved here out of sheer stubbornness; maybe he should call it stupidity. But he needed this. He needed the mountains out there, calling to him. He needed to believe that one day he would climb up there.
âWhy are you here?â he asked, shattering the silence.
âItâs Sunday.â
But the garden is finished, he wanted to say; you are wasting your time with me.
Neil reached out like he was going to touch his hand, but refrained when he saw the red, swollen joints. âDid you think I was just coming for the garden?â
âWhy else would you bother?â
âAndrewâŚI could have finished that garden in two weeks, if Iâd wanted to. That was my plan, at first.â He laughed, shaking his head as if at himself. âBut then you wouldnât let me cut down that damn vine because that sparrow likes itâŚâ
Andrew closed his eyes, hearing the unspoken words behind Neilâs soft tone. âI will never be more than this, Neil.â
âYouâre Andrew. What more do you need to be?â
~
There was music in the trees. A symphony composed of wind through tree boughs, of the singing of birds, the chattering of squirrels, the baseline of leaves crunching underfoot. Andrew paused for breath, gulping down some water. The early springtime air traced cool fingers through his hair, and goosebumps erupted down his arms.
Recapping his water, he followed the sound of footsteps in front of him. His walking stick was worn smooth where his hand rested, and he rubbed his thumb in the glossy spot as he negotiated his way over some roots.
âItâs just up ahead,â Neilâs voice called from somewhere out of sight. Andrew took his time, even though he knew he would follow that voice anywhere. He had waited a year for this; he could wait a few minutes longer.
The trees finally opened up to a scene out of a movie. Flowers, blue and purple and white and yellow, all bowed before the wind that tore across the meadow. Neil stood on a little rise, one hand shielding his eyes, staring west. Andrew climbed up to stand next to him. He could see their house from here, the windows glinting in the sun. When he squinted, he could discern the blossoms on the flowering cherry Neil had planted near the bedroom. The tree was still small, barely taller than they were, but it bloomed with reckless abandon. Warmth crept through him that had nothing to do with the springtime sunshine as he thought of their tiny tree, and the nest the sparrows were building in its branches.
Neil bent down and kissed him, soft and lingering. âItâs beautiful, isnât it?â
Andrew nodded, looking at the riot of color all around him. Up above, he could see the peak of the mountain looming white; once, he had longed to reach the very summit. Once, he had thought he would never set foot in the woods again. His free hand found Neilâs, tracing the familiar calluses and scars. âBeautiful.â















