A Songbird on a Windowsill

By Jada Strome

Margaret Thimble was a woman of the ripe, old age of 33. This meant that she was much too young to really be respected by the snooty, matured women of her Southampton country club; however, she was much too old to get the same attention she’d received from her husband in the beginning of their marriage, which began nearly eight years prior. Harold was a businessman who worked in all the hustle and bustle of Wall Street, but Margaret didn’t know exactly what he did, and she’d never really asked. All she knew was that it brought in the money that afforded them their comfortable lifestyle, and that was all that mattered. The one time she did ask him a question about his work, Harold had pulled his cigarette from between his lips, pressing the butt into the ashtray on the end table.

“Now,” he’d started, giving her a quizzical look. “When did you start worrying about things like that? My work’s not something for you to worry your pretty little head about. Besides, it’s not really something a woman’d understand, anyhow.” Margaret didn’t really bother to ask him much about anything after that, even if it wasn’t related to his work.

Her days typically weren’t spent doing much of anything besides going to the country club. The town car would drop her off there first thing in the morning as soon as the nanny arrived to take care of the children, then pick her up again mid-afternoon so that she’d get home before Harold did in the evening. She didn’t know how to play golf, and she didn’t have any interest in learning. The country club was just a place where she could drink wine and smoke cigarettes all day— but of course, it was perfectly acceptable and ladylike to do it since it was in a fancy-shmancy place that probably cost Harold the same as the down payment on their penthouse in order for them to get their membership. Of course, that was just a guess; it wasn’t like Margaret had asked how much it cost because Harold wouldn’t have told her, anyway.

When she arrived home in the afternoons, the nanny, Mariam, was usually getting Oscar ready to head to the elementary school to pick up his two older siblings, Harry Jr., and Abigail. If 5 you asked Margaret what she thought of naming their oldest after her husband, she’d have said it was the most idiotic thing she’d ever heard of. But just as she never really asked Harold about much of anything, he didn’t bother to ask her about anything, either. Not even how she felt about their son’s name. He’d let her name Abigail because he hadn’t had a name in mind for a girl, considering he’d never wanted one. Truthfully, Margaret had just picked the first name that had come to mind. She hadn’t wanted a girl, either…or even a second child for that matter. In fact, she’d never even really wanted the first. When she got home on a particular Friday, Mariam and Oscar were already gone. She was grateful for that, considering Oscar was walking and babbling more and more often now, and it seemed like no matter where she was in the house, he’d come straight to find her so he could grab at her pearls, her hair, her breasts— even though she’d switched to bottle feeding him as soon as she was able to. It was all rather annoying, but she hoped that soon enough, he’d be quieter like the older ones were. She sat down in front of the dining room window, cracking it open before placing a cigarette in her goldwired cigarette holder, striking a match to light it. She blew the smoke out from between her red lips and peered down at the bustling city below her, but before she could fall into the deep, hypnotic spell watching such a thing often brought her, something else caught her eye. A fluttering in the corner of the window until it moved down, a tiny little Song Sparrow perching itself on the windowsill, staring up at her. It was a tiny, round thing with a white belly and a brown freckled back. It wasn’t pretty like a robin or a hummingbird, but even so, it’d do for some company. “Hello,” Margaret said softly, leaning in to get a closer look at the little bird. She’d half expected it to fly away the moment she did so, but it didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by her presence. “You’re a brave little thing,” she commended, taking a puff of her cigarette, and it seemed like the bird was watching her do it. “What are you up to? You don’t have any worms to eat, or something lol the sort?” She didn’t know why she was talking to a bird, of all things. Even talking to herself probably seemed a little less crazy at this point, but it wasn’t like people didn’t already think she had a few screws loose— what was a few more, if one of her neighbors 6 heard her chatting with a bird through their open windows? God only knew the nosy bastards heard worse whenever Harold drank too much. The sound of the front door startled Margaret, so much so that the little bird immediately took flight, flapping its feathered wings furiously until it could glide out of sight. Margaret sighed, plucking her cigarette from its holder to flick it out the window, slamming the window shut more harshly than she’d originally intended as the sound of little footsteps filled the room. She turned as Harry and Abigail dropped their school bags and coats on the floor, prompting Mariam to immediately pick them up to put them in their proper places as soon as she’d set Oscar down. “Good afternoon, Ms. Margaret,” Mariam greeted her, and Margaret did manage a small smile, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. Mariam was always kind to her. That tension, however, returned to her as soon as two sets of arms wrapped around her waist. Her smile turned tight and she gave a small pat to Harry’s shoulder, then Abigail’s before gently pulling herself out of the embrace. Oscar toddled over to her, holding his arms up toward her to be held. She looked down at him in silence before she reached to give a hesitant pat to the top of his head, but he still didn’t put his arms down. Margaret walked away from him, and eventually Mariam picked him up instead. “Did you have a good day, my loves?” Margaret asked her two older children, but she didn’t exactly wait for their reply before heading towards the kitchen. Of course, they followed at her heels, staring up at the back of her head until she stopped at the nearest counter to pretend to tidy things. “Yes, Mama,” Harry Jr. answered his mother, and Abigail rounded her mother in order to be in her field of view, holding up a slightly crumpled piece of paper with a drawing of six stick figures, a sun, some clouds, something that might be a tree— Margaret didn’t exactly try her hardest to discern what exactly it was. 7 “I drew this for you, Mama,” Abigail explained to her mother, her little voice tight with anticipation as she held the drawing up higher, expecting her mother to take it. Of course, her mother did no such thing. “It’s me, and then—, then you, then Daddy, Harry, Oscar, Mariam. I drew the grass, the clouds—“ she explained breathlessly, but Margaret cut her off before she could finish. “That’s very nice work for a kindergartner,” Margaret assured her, and as Abigail’s small arm grew tired, she slowly began to lower it. “First grade,” Abigail said softly, and Margaret looked up from the pile of magazines she’d been ‘organizing’ now for the last minute or so, directing her gaze down to the red-haired little girl in front of her. “Hm? Yes, well,” Margaret said, paying no mind to her mistake. “Your hair’s a mess. It should be up in a bun.” “Will you help me?” Abigail asked, and Margaret looked back down at the magazines. “Ask Mariam. Mama’s busy right now.” With that, Abigail was heading back into the living room. Harry had long since forgotten about pining for his mother’s attention, simply having returned to his nanny as soon as Abigail had started to show her mother the drawing she’d made of their family. Margaret peered at the four of them through the entryway connecting the kitchen and the living room. She couldn’t quite hear them, but she could see Abigail showing Mariam all her drawings, pointing them out excitedly. Mariam nodded her head along with each one, Oscar cradled in her lap as his little hands reached to play with her dark curls, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. Margaret huffed a little. She didn’t understand how someone couldn’t be bothered by such a thing. She made her way to the ice box, pulling out a jar of olives they kept around for cocktails, using a toothpick to stick a few and pop them 8 into her mouth before returning the jar to its proper place. She’d wait to have a drink until it was a little closer to Harold getting home. Her heels clicked against the linoleum floor of their kitchen, the sound changing into soft thuds as she made her way onto the carpet of the living room, then down the hall where the bedrooms were. “Mariam,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re staying with the kids tonight.” “Yes, Ms. Margaret,” she called back as Margaret made her way into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She took down her hair and opened up her cedar wardrobe, pulling out a gown for the banquet they were attending that evening. She undressed herself and changed into fresh undergarments and stockings before slipping on the wine red dress. The hem was flared outward and the waist cinched inward to accentuate her shape, the bust holding a V-shape over her chest with straps that crisscrossed in the back. She pinned up her hair and reapplied her lipstick, trading out her pearls for diamonds and her black heels for red pumps before she finally took the chance to look at herself in the mirror. To any outsider, she’d likely have been considered a pretty sight— even she knew that, but she couldn’t get over the one aspect of her outfit she hated. Well— it wasn’t part of the outfit, per say, but part of her body. With the V-neck cut of her dress, the top of her bosom was exposed. There were slight wrinkles in the skin since they were being pushed up and together by a tight brassiere, and just looking at them made her feel ill. These were breasts that had gone through three pregnancies, nursed three babies into health. The memories of sniveling, crying infants sucking at her engorged and misshapen breasts that were swollen with milk she’d never wanted to come in made her clench her fists, french-tipped nails digging so harshly into her palms she could swear she was close to drawing blood, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mama?” There was a knock at the door, and Margaret could swear she’d seen red other than her dress in the mirror in those moments. She stomped over to the door, wrenching it open so roughly the door handle slammed into the drywall, leaving a crumbling hole once the 9 door swung back into Margaret from the force. She caught it with her hand, her chest heaving as she stared down at the child in front of her.

“What?” She asked Harry in a broken voice, but before he could answer, she just kept going. “What is it? What do you want from me!?” She shouted at him. The boy cowered in fear, his face crumpling before he turned on his heel and ran down the hall, crying out for Mariam. Of course— of course he was crying out for Mariam. Margaret slammed the door shut, pushing pieces of stray hair away from her reddened face. She returned to the mirror to look at herself, and somehow, she hated what she saw even more than she had before. She hated how wild her eyes looked, how her red hair had begun to frizz, how her mascara began to run when tears slipped down her rosy cheeks. She reached for her hairbrush and wound her slender arm back as far as she could, throwing it with all her might at her reflection in the mirror. It shattered with a loud crash, shards of reflective glass joining the solid brass hairbrush on the floor, but she could still see herself.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

Margaret crumpled down into a heap on the floor, letting out an agonized, ear-piercing wail. She tore her pumps off her feet and tossed them at the wall hard enough to dent the drywall, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them close to her as she cried. She could hear rushing footsteps and the opening and closing of a door— it was likely Mariam getting the children out of the apartment.

Margaret was alone. Completely, utterly alone.