Claws

// Megan Atwood

Gretchen knew the parrot would murder her. She knew it from the first time she went into the pet shop, knew it when she bought it, pulling the well-thumbed copy of “Parrots and Their Families,” from the sweaty, twitchy pet shop owner. Knew it from the ratty feathers, and the look—the look—the parrot gave her from the very first moment she walked in.

She named it Cat. From the get-go, they had an uneasy relationship. She fed it the way she was supposed to, as told by the pet shop owner, pureeing vegetables, organic only, mixing seed and protein, putting the thing on a schedule. She bought a stand and a cage almost as big as her apartment. She bought toys. She considered getting Cat a dog to keep it company, but discarded the idea when she thought about the hair strewn everywhere, and the neediness, the absolute neediness of the dog. Still, though, Gretchen and Cat eyed each other. The haughty, ratty thing.

Now, sitting at the wedding, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about Cat. She hated the thing—she really did—but its ratty little feathers kept floating behind the backs of her eyes; the crooked little feet walking on the counter. Gretchen imagined Cat scratching out a plan to murder her, and she smiled. Maybe it tipped over the flour, used a talon to make a map, fashioned a weapon out of the toaster. Oh, Cat. It had better clean up that flour.

The breastfeeding woman next to her leaned over and said, “I know, aren’t they cute?”

Gretchen blinked, then realized the woman thought she was smiling about the wedding couple, dancing their first wedding dance, smiling their wedding smiles. “Oh sure,” she said, trying not to look at the woman’s breast. She took a swig of her wine, and after an uncomfortable pause added, “They look happy.” She felt the strap of her dress dig into her shoulder, and flapped her arm impatiently.

“I’m Anna,” said the woman attached to the breast, “and this little fellow is James.” Anna smiled big and detached the James-baby. Gretchen could only see its head, but she looked at it. She knew she should feel something maternal, but all she could do was picture Cat perched on James’s head; beady little eyes staring, god knows what going on in the tiny little brain. She eyed the baby head. “He is really cute.” The fucking strap would not stop digging into her shoulder. She found the wine bottle and poured herself another glass, drinking half of it immediately, refilling. She looked over at Anna and smiled, realizing she should be sheepish.

With effort, Gretchen mustered, “How do you know the couple?” Of all the questions to ask, she thought. Anna did complicated things with her dress, simultaneously swinging the sleeping baby head to the other arm, and for a second, with it sleeping like that, Gretchen thought she might actually have meant that it was cute. Cat’s image flickered in and out–on the baby head, off the baby head, on the baby head, off the baby head. Gretchen was transfixed, had to reach for her wine glass blindly.

Anna answered, “I went to college with Katie. We’ve been friends for years now. I was so happy when she met Brian! He’s just fabulous.” Gretchen nodded absently, then caught up with the sentence.

“Oh, yes. Brian. Fabulous.” Swig of wine, refill.

“How do you know the couple?”

She’d rehearsed for this question—the answer was there somewhere. She searched back in her memory for the response she’d crafted, but all she found was Cat, standing on a baby’s head. She stammered for a moment and then accidentally said the truth. “Brian and I dated for awhile.” Then she added, like a waterfall, like an avalanche, like the beginning of a slip on ice at the top of a flight of stairs: “He works on my team at M—– S——.”

Gretchen laughed high and loud, short, staccato bursts, hoping she could pass it all off as a joke. If she laughed hard enough, yes. If she just kept laughing, it would be a joke. Anna looked horrified. Wine gurgled in Gretchen, a burp of language formed and spilled over.

“I bought this parrot. Its name is Cat. I think it’s going to kill me.”

Anna said, “Oh, I think they’re going to do toasts,” and turned away from Gretchen, shielding the James-baby with her body.

Crazy isn’t contagious, Gretchen thought, annoyed. How illogical for Anna to think that way. She waved a caterer over, asked for more wine. It’s what always bothered her about Brian, too. Irrationality. Impracticality. She was not a robot, just smart. Seasoned. Practical. Sharp. He would undoubtedly cry at this stupid wedding; an event in time that probably cost more than a luxury car, and would be an albatross, a joke, a punchline when the divorce happened. Diminishing returns. That’s what their relationship had been. Two, long, stupid years of diminishing returns. Cat flashed in her head, beady eye staring at her. “Shut up,” she said aloud, garnering a look from a neighboring table.

In way of explanation, Gretchen waved the newly delivered wine bottle still in her hand and said, “My parrot.” Nodded her head to punctuate.

The first insipid speech started. “Blah blah best friend blah blah best thing to happen blah blah happy.” Gretchen could practically say the words with them. Trite, so trite. Speech two was the same; “Daughter blah blah funny story blah blah heartfelt chokey tears.” On speech three, Gretchen realized she had to pee and got up from the table, knocking into it and making the waters splash. Quick looks, irritated flashes, then eyes on the speeches. Gretchen made a soft raspberry sound with her lips, molded a sloppy smile to her face and made her way out of the banquet hall, clip-clopping heels to the bathroom. Clink clunk. Clink clunk. Clinkclinkclinkclunk. Slippery floors.

She made it to the bathroom, peed, then stood near the doorway, feeling her pantyhose dig into her thigh, cattywampus, twisted, unnatural-feeling, like mismanaged baby-swaddling. “Cat” she said aloud, enjoying the taste of the word on her tongue, rolling it around in her mouth. Cat knew.

Gretchen had an urge to tell Brian about Cat, to let him know she had a pet now, that she’d bought it toys. She knew he’d like Cat, would have been great with it, as he was great with all things little, all things that needed something. She was not great like that. She was not great like that at all. She was smart. Efficient. Sharp. She could scratch out results. Brian’s new wife now. Brian’s new wife was soft, like cotton candy, like clouds, like underbelly. She was tender. She would coo to her pets, her babies.

Still, it was better this way. It was better to confine it all to work, better to just get on with it, just breeze past it, like a highway sign or a mistake. And, besides, she had Cat now; she had that little ratty thing, that beady-eyed, taloned thing, plotting against her, too smart, too smart to be happy, that thing, eyeing her for the next move, eyeing her for the right moment, the moment for her demise. Now, they had each other.