What is? I said.
That Frenchie is and Walkover Gal is, he said. And you are.
And yet, I said. What color is my blouse?
Pink, he said, wondering at the fact that he knew this.
Pale pink, I said.
Yes, he had to admit.
How odd, he felt: an imaginary woman manifesting so specifically.
What are you then? he said. Ghost?
Oh, dear man, I said. A friend.
A friend, he said.
Of sorts, I said. Here to comfort you. In your hour of need.
Doing a bang-up job so far, he said. You want to comfort me?
Yes, I said.
Keep Frenchie out, he said.
I’ll do my best, I said.
But even as I spoke, the Frenchman fell in through the ceiling, so emaciated as to be nearly unrecognizable, all but lost in the familiar pair of mechanic’s overalls.
He got up, dusted himself off.
Madame!he said. Tell me: How long does it seem to you? That I’ve been gone? To me? It seems like five years!Vraiment!Five years of toil. Resulting in a tremendous achievement. As you will now see! Let us begin.
Begin what? I said.
In response he performed a stiff, hideous dance of anticipation.
Sweet Christ, my charge whispered.
Steady, I said.
Commençons!the Frenchman shouted.
—
A bird swooped into the room, a single bird.
It landed on the bedpost at the foot of my charge’s bed, let out a bright, summoning call.
More birds arrived, of various species, zipping in through the walls and ceiling until they were positively everywhere: hotfooting it along the mantel; offering rapid-fire bows while perched on the rim of the floor lamp’s shade; formed into orderly, phalanx-like rows across the bed (even across the frail body) of my charge.
Hooded warblers,s’il vous plaît!the Frenchman called.
A pair of birds crossed the room and landed, one on each of the Frenchman’s shoulders.
From beneath the female (yellow and green like the male but lacking his black hood), the Frenchman drew a creamy-whiteegg, brown-spotted at one end, out of which a new example of the species began to peck its way.
