Arthur and Marisol

The haggard man with the haunted green eyes shuffled to the small kitchen table and hoisted his travel-worn black case onto the pink Formica, placing it squarely in front of one of the two chrome-framed chairs.

He scratched the white stubble on his chin and looked at the only other occupant of the room. "Who are you?"

"I'm Marisol. I'm your pretty girl!"

"Yes, you are." He cocked his head and gave her a wan smile. Then he turned and made his way out of the room, returning moments later with a packet of typing paper.

His crooked fingers brushed over the faded overlapping travel stickers on the upper part of the case before squeezing the latch to release it and reveal the ancient portable Underwood typewriter within. He set the cover to the far side of the table, careful not to upset his glass of water or the clear pill case as he reached. A quick review of the items on the table confirmed he had everything he would need for the task he had in mind, so he pulled out his chair and maneuvered himself into it. Practiced hands disengaged the platen, inserted a single blank sheet behind the rubber cylinder, and aligned it with the metal tab at the left. After positioning the page to begin typing the first line, he washed down an assortment of pills with a single gulp of water.

"What shall we do today, Marisol?"

"We're starting a new story!"

"That's right," he affirmed. "It's going to be the last story we write together. Then my granddaughter, Erica, will come take care of you. You like Erica."

Marisol didn't respond. She just watched him without blinking.

"What story shall we tell? Should it be the story of how I found you after I spread Lillian's ashes on the black sand beach we loved? I sat beneath a ceiba tree pondering a future without her, and you tumbled out of your mama's nest almost into my lap. I was sure Lillian sent you to reassure me life would go on."

"Arthur misses Lillian."

"Yes, I have for a long time now."

"I'm Marisol. I'm your pretty girl," squawked the bright green parrot.

Arthur nodded and rolled the paper up and back down.

"Or we could tell how I smuggled you back into the country. You just cuddled inside my jacket, over my heart, without even a chirp. Your tummy was full, and you slept right through Immigration and Customs. Of course I told them I had nothing to declare—they would have taken you away from me, then we wouldn't have had all these years of telling the stories of our travels together."

Arthur pushed back from the table.

"I almost forgot! There's still a peach in the icebox, Marisol."

He stood and took three faltering steps to his refrigerator. A sheen of perspiration appeared on his forehead. The paring knife jiggled in his trembling hand. He sniffed the saucer of ripe, juicy peach slices before dumping them into the bowl attached to Marisol's perch. A quiet moan escaped Arthur's lips, and he winced as he settled back into his chair.

Marisol ruffled her feathers and whistled a phrase from "Lady of Spain" before snatching a piece of the fruit and gripping it in one claw. In between bites, she muttered happily to herself.

Arthur tried to straighten his shoulders as though to take a deep breath then took several shallow ones. "Lillian, I hope I've made you proud. I guess I'll soon find out, won't I?"

The parrot took the last bite of her peach slice and put her foot down. Cocking her head and looking at Arthur with one eye, she said, "Arthur misses Lillian."

"True. You're a smart bird. You'll remember all our stories, won't you?"

* * *

The rattle of keys accompanied the tapping on the door. It swung open, and a young woman stepped in, her brow furrowed.

"Grandpa? Are you awake?"

"There's my Princess!" said Marisol from the kitchen. "Hello, Princess, I'm in here."

The heavyset landlady just shook her head. "That bird." She trailed Erica through the apartment, noting her tenant had tidied a few things since the last time she had seen it.

"Grandpa!"

The landlady clasped her hands over her heart. "Oh no, my dear. I'm so sorry."

Arthur sat with his chin resting on his chest as though contemplating the first lines that should go on the blank page, but his hands dangled limply at his sides.

Erica glanced behind her with tears in her eyes then looked at the parrot, which paced back and forth on its perch. It bobbed as it squawked its favorite lines.

"I'm Marisol. I'm your pretty girl! We're starting a new story."