Mrs. Margrove’s Almost-Friend………………………………….……………………………….…………. Cooper Nelson, V

Mrs. Margrove’s Almost-Friend

Cooper Nelson 23’

Mrs. Margrove’s living room was perfectly presentable. Placed loudly in the middle of the space, a concert grand piano acted as the centerpiece for the room. Despite being an antique, the keys were polished, paper-white, and appeared untouched. She could play a few short pieces if prompted by guests, but she didn’t care for the instrument, so her skills were moderate at best. The walls were an inviting shade of slate, even though Mrs. Margrove personally preferred green. The couches were aligned for conversation, with two facing each other and a knee-height coffee table in between. Aside from a narrow recession on the space closest to the window, the couches had no signs of use. The coffee table seated six but was only ever set for one. In the far section of the room was a cage, elevated off the ground and containing a kaleidoscopic parrot. The enclosure was labeled “Polly,” but in private, Mrs. Margrove called the bird Jane. This way, she could hear her own name repeated back to her when the bird was feeling

talkative.

She spent her hours tending to her house, cooking one meal a day (she cooked enough for three and had leftovers), and passing the time in her living room sewing. She sewed day and night, making clothes and quilts, her creations spanning the color spectrum like the feathers of the parrot that kept her company. With all the time that she had alone, she had grown quite skilled, able to weave intricately designed garments. Despite this, upon completion of her creations, she tossed them aside, using them as fuel for her hearth. Like the inside of her house, the exterior was closely manicured as well. The lawn was thriving and uniformly cut, and deliberately shaped bushes surrounded the house’s walls. The bushes, which she harvested herself, provided the cotton that she sewed with. The front door, a deep shade of pumpkin, was bright and inviting. Each window was clear, revealing the complementary interior. Everything was perfect, and everything was intentional. Mrs. Margrove did all of the grooming herself in hopes of putting on a good appearance. Every day, she would spend time trimming bushes, tidying the house, and mowing the lawn out towards the forest that encircled her house. The edge of the lawn formed the demarcation between the order inside and the chaos outside. Beyond the orbit of Mrs. Margrove’s efforts, trees were strewn without a pattern, interspersed amongst bushes of varying height, width, and shape. From those who had been through it,

the forest was said to make you feel alone; there was no faint inkling that you were being followed or stalked, just pure, pervasive, chilling loneliness. Surrounded by this entropic wilderness, it was this exact sensation that Russell Mann experienced as he stumbled out of the forest and onto the homogenous lawn. A slender man in his early twenties of about six feet, he was dressed in rugged outdoor clothing and wearing a small satchel that was deflated due to its partial emptiness. The chills from being lost and alone soon faded to confusion and then broke to relief, washing over him like a cool breeze. The house was an island in an ocean of loss, a lighthouse of hope. It seemed to reach out to him, grasp him in a sunny embrace, and beckon him to find solace inside its walls. He started towards the front door and then noticed a face staring out at him between the bars of one of the front windows. It was the face of an elderly woman, wrinkled with the burden of life. The edges of her mouth grimaced into a smile, and her eyes sparkled wide with the light of years of troubling wisdom. It was the type of expression that, just like the house, invited him in, welcomed him into its midst, and comforted him with the knowledge that answers were forthcoming. It offered a glimpse, an insinuation that its owner could expunge the tumult that had defined his last 24 hours. He walked to the front door, but before he could knock, the door swung open, and he found himself eye to eye with the woman he had seen in the window. “You’re lost. Please, come in,” she said, opening the door wider so that he could step through. “Thank you, ma’am.” he replied exuberantly as he stepped inside. “I’m Russell.”

She shut the door behind him. “Call me Mrs. Margrove. You must be famished,” she responded slowly. “There is plenty here, allow me to prepare you a meal.” “Oh, no need to go to all the trouble, ma’am. I’m not much hungry for anything. I suppose I’m just stopping by.” “But surely you must need to eat. We all do,” she insisted, unwavering in her demeanor. “No really, I’m quite fine. I appreciate your generosity, though,” he responded, not wanting to impose. She stared at him for a few seconds, with the smile remaining plastered across her face. Something about her eyes changed, like a candle being put out, leaving emptiness behind. Then the color returned.

“Just tea then,” she stated, “You can have a seat in the living room while I put it on the stove. Make yourself feel right at home.” Again not wanting to impose, he accepted, this time feeling that he needed to oblige her eagerness to accommodate. “Please. Do make yourself feel right at home,” she called as she left towards the kitchen. He took a seat on the couch, noting its firmness and unmarred surface. He could tell it had not been broken in. He examined his environment, confused at the peculiarity of the piano’s front-and-center placement and the chilling neatness of the room. He then peered down and jumped: the corpses of three mice lay in a pile near the foot of the couch. A repulsed expression spread across his face as he lifted his foot away from the rodents, but his confusion vanished when he noticed the bird. It stood motionless, staring at him through the bars of the cage. It was calm and subdued but stared at him in a way that only an animal can: with unwavering focus, like a lion staring at its prey. He was about to get up to look at the bird when he noticed Mrs. Margrove standing in the doorway. He did

not know how long she had been standing there. Like a sleeping beast awoken by a nightmare, she snapped into action. “I put the tea in the kettle, it should only be a little while. Please, don’t go,” she spoke as she limped over and sat opposite him on the couch. She sat upright, with good posture and her hands on her knees. “I suppose you might want to know what I’m doing out here” Russell responded. “If it interests you,” she replied. “I was looking for a friend of mine who disappeared yesterday. She’s a woman, about my age. 5’8’’ with red hair. She mentioned frequent walks in these woods, which is why I decided to search here. I’m grateful to have found you because I admit, I had lost my way. I imagine you haven’t seen-” “Don’t worry about your friend. I am confident she will be found,” she replied instantly, cutting him off. “Funny thing to do. For a friend to do. Running off like that.” “Well, I’m… I’m not certain that she ran away.” His sentence trailed off as she abruptly stood up and hobbled over to the birdcage across the room. Each of her steps creaked on the hollow-sounding floorboards.

“You see, a pet will never do that. I can open this cage, and she stays put. She is here for me, she speaks to me, and she finds joy in the little things. Do you agree?” The bird, melanocholy, not by circumstance but by choice, remained silent. The teapot in the kitchen began to whistle, disrupting Mrs. Margrove’s speech. It broke her rhythm for a moment, then seemed to reinvigorate her, and she continued her narrative. “Even after they die, they stay with you. Always in solidarity. In … mourning.” “I’ve never had a pet, I, I can’t relate. But I think the tea is ready. it’s making quite a racket.” She squinted, staring him down like a lion stalks a wildebeest that is just out of reach. After a few seconds, she lifted her head, her eyes widened to normal width, and her mouth curved into a smile. “Of course, how silly of me,” she said playfully. “I will go fetch that for you right now. Please, do make yourself feel right at home. She disappeared into the hallway, leaving Russell alone with the bird. It had not taken its eyes off of him, so he stood to take a closer look. “Polly” remained perfectly still, like a figure in a painting. Confident that the bird would stay put, his curiosity overtook him, so he reached forward and clasped the door handle of the cage, delicately swinging it open. As soon as the door was wide enough to fit a parrot’s abdomen, the bird dashed for the door as if it would never get another chance to see the light. Like a balloon rapidly running out of air, it flew around the room in erratic fashion, crashing into walls and glancing off of the furniture. It bounced off of the piano keys, creating an awkward chord that even Mrs. Margrove would be embarrassed by. It continued to fly, disrupting the order of the room, its claws tearing fabric and spreading dust. This hurricane of destruction squawked loudly like a regular bird as if it had forgotten it could speak. Its erratic sounds blended with the ever-louder whistle coming from the kitchen. Russell stood in the center of the room next to the piano, ducking periodically as the bird flew overhead. “Mrs. Margrove,” he called, “I need a little help.” He got no response. He turned to look into the kitchen but saw no movement except steam shooting out of the kettle. He spun around and was immediately hit in the face by the bird, knocking him off his feet. He reached to his cheek, and his hand came away tinted carmine. He winced and, now unsettled, called out again. “Mrs. Margrove, I should be leaving before dark,” he shouted. Not hearing a response, he got on his feet and hobbled towards the kitchen. Before he passed the doorway into the kitchen, he heard a muffled thud, and a quiet, sickly cry. Assuming his delicate host had fallen, he rushed to find her. As he