Strange but True (45 page)

That's when he noticed something odd: the apartment was silent.

Philip didn't hear the sound of Sweetie scurrying around her cage or whistling or singing or making flushing or farting sounds or asking for a martini. Nothing. His stomach knotted as he stepped closer to the bathroom and opened the door.

The birdcage was empty.

The snake tank too.

Philip reached inside the tank and lifted the top of Baby's hide-box, but she was not there. His eyes darted around the bathroom until they landed on the gaping black hole of the drain at the bottom of the tub. He always kept that hole plugged just in case, so it could only mean one thing. Philip put his hand to his mouth and stood motionless, a feeling of guilt and remorse sweeping though him. He had been trusted to guard something precious to Donnelly—albeit a silly old pet snake—nevertheless, he had failed. And then the question entered his mind: What about the bird? The instant the words came, Philip felt a cold wind press against his face. He turned toward the open window and looked outside, where Sweetie was perched on the fire escape in the dark.

If you make a promise to someone who has passed on you have to keep it, whether you believe they're watching or not
.

As quietly as possible, Philip reached inside the cage. At the bottom of the bird's dish was a small chunk of leftover pineapple, the sides turned brown from sitting there all afternoon and evening. Using the kind of careful precision people normally reserve for a pair of tweezers, Philip plucked out the fruit then went to the window. With one hand outstretched, he called, “Come here, Sweetie.”

The bird flapped its wings but did not take off.

“Come here, Sweetie,” Philip called again. “I have some nice fruit for you here inside. Pineapple. Your favorite.”

“Make me a martini,” she squawked. And this time she flapped her wings and flew over to the neighboring fire escape one floor below, where there was a tangle of rusted barbed wire, a collection of smashed terracotta pots, and a long-forgotten hibachi grill.

Philip didn't like this at all. But he stepped up on the toilet and slowly lifted one leg, then another through the narrow window. And then the rest of his body. Out on the fire escape, the icy air pricked the skin on his arms. A chill shot down his back. In the distance, he could hear the din of horns honking. Far away, sirens wailed. Of all the fears that lingered in the recesses of his mind during his years of inviting strangers over, never once had Philip imagined that this would be the danger he'd find himself in. He looked below at the alley, which was littered with a lopsided white stove, an upside-down shopping carriage, and a striped mattress with coils popping out every which way. In the dim light from the neighboring apartment windows, Philip could make out the words
Suck My Cock
spray-painted on the brick wall of the building next door. Donnelly's bird had pecked him so many times that Philip should have felt happy just to just let the creature go. But he thought of his promise to Donnelly, and Donnelly's promise to Edward, and in a single fluid motion Philip extended his arm all the way across and down the narrow alley, as far as he could reach.

“Come here, Sweetie,” he called once more.

This time the bird flapped its wings in a great scurry of noise, startling Philip so much that he lost his balance. The last thing he remembered was the sting of the barbed wire slicing into the soft skin of his neck as he looked up to see that bird disappear into the New York City sky before everything went black.

Now, as he lies on the cold cement floor in the Erwins' basement, Philip watches as the bird outside continues pecking at the ground. He looks around at the rows of makeshift support columns and at the shadowy lump of Gail's body rising and falling with her every breath. He wants to do something to get them out of here, but what? Even if he could free himself, which he has been trying unsuccessfully to do for hours, he is far too afraid to face that monster at the top of the stairs.

He thinks of his mother again and remembers when they used to go to those daredevil shows at the old town airport where they later buried Ronnie. Watching those men walk out on the wings while the planes flew so high overhead used to frighten Philip, so she would take him to the car where they would wait until it was over. He can still recall how happy it made him to rest his head on her lap, especially when she wore one of her outfits that he liked best—a knee-length skirt covered with miniature daisies. To Philip, it was like lying in a field of flowers as he gazed up at her and she stroked his hair.

“Don't be afraid,” she used to tell him on those occasions. “Everything will be okay.”

The memory makes Philip think of all the fears he has let hold him back in life. There was the panic he felt when faced with the bullying from Jedd and his friends so long ago. There was the dread about submitting any of his poems after that first round of rejection letters. There was the trepidation about going over and introducing himself to that man and woman with the baby who he used to see at Aggie's Diner. (Philip always told himself he might work up the nerve to do it next time, but then, a little over a year ago, he showed up at the place to find that it was closed for good. He would never see those people again.) Finally, there was the anxiety that consumed him when faced with the prospect of seeking out a relationship. The reason, Philip supposes, is that he doesn't want to be proven unworthy of someone's love the way he had been by his parents.

And now there is the terror of trying to escape.

Don't be afraid
, his young mother says in his memory.

It's a smart idea for you to face your fears
, Donnelly tells him through the cab window on that very first day in New York.

Philip looks around the basement and decides to attempt something—anything—to get them both out of here. Even if there is only a slim chance that he will make it, he is going to try. Since he heard the rattle of chains on the storm doors last night as Bill Erwin locked it, Philip knows that is not an option. He sees his only choices as the window or the stairs that lead up into the house. When he considers exiting through the window, though, Philip realizes that it is too small and high off the floor for him to get up there and slide through. He settles on the idea that his only hope is to make it up the stairs and past Bill Erwin. The prospect brings a strangled feeling to his throat, but he only allows himself to focus on the first step of this plan: finding a way to free his hands and legs.

Across the room, not far from where Gail lies on the floor, there is the tool bench that Philip had seen from outside the window last night. If he can get over there, he might find something sharp to cut through the fishing wire. Slowly, Philip draws his body over to a wooden support column several feet away. With every push and pull, he is more aware of the battering Bill Erwin has done to his body. His shoulders ache. His arms are stiff. The wound on the back of his neck burns. It takes him a long while, but eventually he manages to stand, using the support post for leverage. A stray nail sticking out of the wood pricks his back, but the pain is slight compared to the agony he feels at the moment. Once he is standing, he shuffles, inch by inch, across the floor, listening to Bill Erwin's footsteps pace back and forth above him. The sound brings the brief memory of Philip's mother again. She is stomping her feet on the red and gold carpet in the library and raising her voice to imitate the monster, “Boom! Boom! Boom!”

Inch by inch, Philip shuffles across the floor, the bottom of his cast scraping against the cement, until he reaches the tool bench at last. It is so dark in this corner of the basement that he has to lean his face as close as possible to the jumbled pile of tools in order to see. He makes out some sort of a handled tray filled with screwdrivers, nails, and wrenches of all sizes. Beside it, there is a toolbox with the lid flipped open. Inside he sees a spool of wire, a spool of twine, a chisel, more screwdrivers, a greasy adjustable wrench, what looks to be a number of shiny fishing lures, and a pair of garden shears.

His eyes lock on the garden shears.

For a long moment, he stares at them, trying to devise a plan as to how he will maneuver the handle in order to cut the fishing wire around his wrists. He is at a loss, so he gives up and continues searching until he spots a small saw. This time Philip reaches out and runs the tangled clump of wire that binds his hands against the serrated edge. It's no use, though. The saw is pushed away every time he applies pressure. He decides to pick it up with his elbows, figuring he might be able to secure it somewhere, then cut the wire. But just as he lifts it from the bench, the saw slips from his grasp. Philip moves to try to catch it, knocking two screwdrivers, those fishing lures, and some nails to the floor in a loud clatter.

Bill Erwin's pacing comes to a sudden stop upstairs.

Only the sound of Gail's ragged breaths fills the basement.

Philip looks up at the wooden slats of the floor above, his heart slamming in his chest as he waits. And then, to his relief, the pacing continues. He swallows, the synthetic taste of that wool sock scratching his dry mouth and throat. More than anything, he wants to free his mouth so that he doesn't have to taste that sock anymore. With that thought, he remembers the nail jutting out from the wooden support beam, the one that pricked his back while he was trying to stand. He doubts it's substantial enough to slice through all the fishing wire, but he wonders if he can at least cut through the duct tape over his mouth.

As quietly as he can, Philip moves back to that post. When he feels around for the nail, he realizes that there are actually several sticking out of the wood. He bends down and pushes the duct tape into one of the points, forming the tiniest opening. He drags the duct tape across the point, back and forth, until the opening begins to tear. Soon, he creates a tear large enough so that he can open his mouth—only slightly at first, but wider as the tape comes apart in the center.

Philip spits out the sock and gasps for breath.

His first instinct is to scream for help, but he holds back, since he doesn't know who will hear him other than Bill Erwin. Instead Philip stands there, taking the chilly air into his lungs until he catches his breath. When he is ready, he returns to the tool bench and looks down at its surface once again. There are those garden shears, but he still has no idea how he can manipulate them, even now that he has the use of his mouth. He is about to try anyway when he spots that saw. This time Philip uses his teeth to pick it up. Clenching it in his mouth, he manages to sit down among those screwdrivers and nails and lures he dropped on the floor. Carefully, he positions the saw between his legs. Once it is secure, Philip runs the fishing wire back and forth against the edge until he feels it loosening.

The instant his hands are free, he reaches up and grabs those garden shears at last. A single snip slices through all the wire around the bottom of his legs. He goes to Gail Erwin and looks down at her blank white face. Her eyes are open, though when Philip speaks to her in the softest of voices, all she does is let out a faint groan. He presses his hand to her forehead and feels the heat of her skin, then glances at her swollen legs. There is no way she will be able to stand and walk out of here. And since Philip cannot carry her, he decides to try to get out first, then find help. He tells her his plan, then walks to the staircase and looks up at the door. From here, he can see the shadow of Bill Erwin's footsteps in the small crack of light beneath when he passes. Just the sight causes Philip's heart to race harder. His body feels older than its years, too broken to fight Erwin.

Don't be afraid…

It's a smart idea for you to face your fears
…

Philip stands there a long while, feeling the ache of his muscles and the sting of his skin where that wire had bound him. Finally he forces himself to return to the bench in search of a weapon. He locates a hammer and picks it up. He grabs a screwdriver, tucking it into his cast just in case. Even though he is still not certain he believes in God, Philip finds himself saying a prayer for the first time in ages. He prays for his safety. And he prays that if his brother Ronnie is indeed watching from some heaven after all, that he look upon Philip now. Donnelly too.

Once he is finished, Philip moves, one careful and awkward step at a time, up the staircase and toward the closed door. Halfway to the top, he pauses to be certain Bill Erwin hasn't heard him. Philip tries to count the seconds it takes for the man to pace the room. There doesn't seem to be any clear pattern, though, and Philip keeps going. At the top, he listens to the frantic, scattered mumbling on the other side.

“… Put them with the others… Don't think of her as your wife… Think of her as the others… It will be easier… Put them with the others … Put them with the others…”

Philip knows that there is no more waiting. He also knows that the only thing he has on his side is the element of surprise. He must catch the man off guard then take him quickly, otherwise there is no hope of taking him at all. So the next time the shadow of boots come closer, Philip shoves open the door. The sudden explosion of noise and motion causes Erwin to stumble, and Philip whacks him in the chest with the hammer. The man staggers backward but does not fall. Philip steps into the living room, raises the hammer once more, and swings. But Erwin blocks it with his arm. Again Philip swings, bringing it down in a solid thud on his shoulder this time. A loud moan escapes Erwin's mouth before he lunges forward. He locks his thick arms around Philip's legs, and they both go tumbling across the room. The sheer weight of the man's body causes Philip to collapse on the floor beside the blazing mouth of the fireplace. As he feels the heat of the burning logs near his skin, Philip realizes that he has dropped the hammer. In the seconds before Erwin stands and comes toward him again, Philip glances across the room and sees a faded John Deere cap on the wagon-wheel coffee table. Tucked inside is his cell phone. It is too far away for him to reach, however, and Erwin is standing above him now, holding the fireplace poker in his hands.