Room for Owls

 
I drop two Tasty-Tarts into the toaster and look out my kitchen window. The sun makes a blue line over the hill. Dew is on the grass. I can still hear the song from my dream, and I’m happy.
 
Minutes before, I was inside a cruise ship, wearing a tuxedo, feeling elegant. The interior of the ship was ornate and beautiful, and outside the windows, the evening sun played on the water. My band and I were on stage in front of other elegantly dressed people, mingling and holding champagne flutes. I heard it, then: we played the most beautiful song, and everyone watched us, rapt. Then came the alarm, and the world rushed in, tearing like water through the luxury liner, consuming everything. I tried to play on and go down with the ship, but when the second alarm sounded, I knew the day meant business.
 
Here, at my kitchen window, the song echoes in my mind. It gives me the happiness of being included in something special, like receiving an encoded message meant only for me. I hope it stays. Life is hard, but I have it okay. My house is modest, but it’s mine. Some people would trade an arm and a leg for what I have; I know that. These are the places my mind goes as I massage the knots in my lower back, look out the window at my yard, and think about Kylee and Erminda, who are still asleep, both of whom I feel were meant for me. The song is here all the while. There is a keyboard somewhere, a guitar with dead strings in a dusty bag downstairs. I could try to play the song, but once these tarts pop up, I’m gone.
 

*

 
I stop to get coffees for the guys. It’s getting brighter. In line, I see Jimmer. We knew each other when we were little. He was a great swimmer, won multiple state titles. Jimmer, the swimmer. I can’t make this stuff up.
 
“Hey, Eduardo,” Jimmer says. He’s smiling. He looks good, tall, with red cheeks. Jimmer has on a sports coat and slacks. He’s in town to see his parents and one client who lives here. He tells me he’s an advisor.
 
“Nothing much,” I answer when he asks what’s new. “Still grinding,” I add.
 
“That’s life!” he says. Now he’s laughing.
 
“Ain’t it?” I say. Now we’re both laughing.
 
Neither of us is lying, but we’re laughing for different reasons.
 
We grab our coffees. Mine’s on one of those biodegradable trays with three other large coffees. The rain starts, but it won’t stay.
 
“It was great seeing you, man,” Jimmer says. “If you need an advisor, I’d be happy to sit down with you for free. I’ll be back next month.” He wedges a business card between my fingers and the cardboard tray.
 
“Sure thing,” I say. “Take care, Jimmer.”
 
In the car, I put Jimmer’s card in my pocket without looking at it. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve seen him, and I’m sure I’ll never see him again. In a way I can’t explain, I miss Jimmer.
 

*

 
I pull up to the job site near SE Belmont and kill the engine. No one’s here except Chase, our foreman. Reaching for the coffees, the shooting pain in my shoulder returns, but more urgently, I feel a dullness deep inside, like I’m going through motions my soul can no longer get behind. Listen when our bodies speak to us, Chase always says.
 
Chase and I sip our coffees, then set them down. We’re nearly done unloading gutters from his van before the other guys pull up one by one. Benito, Dustin, and Lamar finish unloading ladders, and we gear up. By now, the sun is climbing, and we’re behind. I knew the rain wouldn’t last.
 
At lunch, Benito and I sit at the back stoop and eat two of the PB&Js I meal prepped for Erminda. As we finish our coffees, he shows me his phone and swipes through pictures of women I don’t care to look at. His fingers on the phone are fat and muscular from years of hanging gutter, same as mine.
 
“Her, too,” he says, eyes on the phone. “This one, too. I’m telling you, man.”
 
I bite into my sandwich to avoid responding. The happiness I had in the morning is gone. The song is just a memory, dead and buried.
 
“You remember that, though?” Benito says. “That summer we had the boat? We need that again, hombre, I’m telling you.”
 
“Sure,” I say. “I remember that summer with the boat. We were irresponsible young pups then, under a mountain of debt.”
 
Benito laughs, but nothing about it is funny.
 
I say, “Benito, I heard the most amazing song this morning.”
 
“What station?”
 
“No, it wasn’t on any station. I heard it in my dream. It was unreal.”
 
“¿En serio? Did you write it down?”
 
I tell him that I didn’t, and I can’t remember anything but the feeling it gave me. We both take bites of PB&J and stare at the dirt in front of us where the sod will be laid in a few days. The air around us smells like roofing shingles and mildewy work gloves.
 
“That sucks, man,” Benito says. “You should start with music again. You had some good shit. Anyway, you know, at base, in the bathroom, there’s that sign that says If you’re struggling, you’re not alone? Whenever I see that sign, hombre, I always read it as If you’re not alone, you’re struggling. Am I crazy?”
 
I rest my hand on his shoulder to reassure Benito he’s not alone or crazy and that every time we piss at base, we all stare at that sign with its unwavering sentiment, though, for each man, its message may read differently.
 
Chase and Dustin laugh, and we look over at them. They’re in their own world. Chase flicks his cigarette, and Dustin screws the cap back on his thermos of mushroom tea or whatever he brings every day.
 
“All right, assholes,” Chase yells. “Let’s rock the rest of the afternoon, and we may get home early.”
 
Up we go.
 
Back at base, we recap the day with the other guys and get a look at tomorrow’s agenda. As we flick the lights, Caleb, Chase’s boss, calls me into his office.
 
“Close the door, Rojas,” he says. “Have a seat.”
 
The little metal chair I pull from his desk clanks against the cold cement floor.
 
“Look,” Caleb starts, then stops. His elbows are propped on his desk, and he keeps one hand balled in the grip of the other, like a pitcher about to deliver the heat. “We’re going to have Dustin take over as foreman when Chase leaves next month. Since you two were in the running for the job, I wanted to sit down with you and tell you personally.”
 
“Dustin?” My mouth hangs open.
 
Caleb tells me that’s right. The higher-ups like Dustin’s work ethic and think he’s at a point where he can grow into the position.
 
Dustin shows up late to every job, I want to say, but I don’t. I pull myself together. “Yes, sir,” I say to Caleb.
 
“I know you’re disappointed, Rojas,” Caleb says, “but we need you to be a team player on this.”
 
Caleb tells me that the other guys look up to me, and he hopes I can help Dustin ease into the role.
 
“Of course, sir.” I tell Caleb I’ll congratulate Dustin the first chance I get.
 
“Listen, Ed,” Caleb says. He uses my first name and leans into his desk so the next words seem more heartfelt. “You just turned forty, right? You’re a pro, but you know hanging gutter is a young man’s game. Would you consider a role in Sales? You wouldn’t be tearing up your body anymore. Be home before six every day. More time with your fiancée and kid, and for whatever else. Music, or whatever.”
 
“Is there a leadership role in Sales?”
 
Caleb says there’s not, but earning similar pay wouldn’t be any problem for a go-getter like me.
 
“I’ll think it over and get back to you. I appreciate your candor.” I can’t say what I really think, so my mouth says, “Thank you, sir.”
 

*

 
By the time I get home, I’m late to relieve the sitter, but she’s cool. She’s a high-school kid from around the block we met at church. I walk through the house toward the back screen door and slide it open. The sitter is in a lawn chair on the patio, reading a magazine, while Erminda is at the grove of trees near the corner of the yard. My kid loves nature—it could be worse.
 
“Hi, Mr. Rojas,” the sitter says, and I say hi back. She asks how my day was. I pause before answering because she sounds sincere, and people don’t normally ask. My day has been like any other—ups and downs, aches and pains, but nothing too surprising. I’d do the same day again tomorrow because it’ll get me back here.
 
“Getting better by the minute,” I say to her.
 
Erminda keeps playing and hasn’t turned to see me yet, but I’m happy for her to stay with her fascinations while the sitter catches me up on things: Erminda ate all her animal crackers, all her cheese; she refuses the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, still. She’s spelling with the blocks. Nap went well.
 
“That’s good.”
 
The sitter stands. “Only three months to the big day.” Her face is all smiles. “Kylee gave me my invitation. I’m so excited for you guys.”
 
“Thank you. We’re very excited.”
 
“I bet Erminda’s excited, too, to have a mom again.”
 
“Yes, she is.”
 
The sitter doesn’t have this exactly right, but also, she’s not wrong. What can happen in the world between two adults after the love has gone isn’t something she needs to know about yet. She’s just a kid, after all.
 
“Now, get out of here,” I say. “Go enjoy this beautiful summer evening.”
 
After the sitter leaves, I sit in the lawn chair and watch Erminda make owl sounds at the trees. Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo—h’hoo—hoo she yells at the branches. The sun’s behind the houses to my right, stretching a shadow across the lawn, but a patch of sunlight finds Erminda, reflecting from somewhere. In the light, as she plays, her cheeks glow, and I can see she’s happy.
 
Erminda has no idea what worry and wonder I have for her. She’s searching for owls because she says they bring her messages. Today, it’s owls; soon, something else will call to her, and that’s okay. I want to tell her never to give up searching, no matter how much life pressures her. Whatever you’re after, keep at it, I’d say. There’s no telling when you’ll find what you need. Or when it may find you.
 
Erminda sees me and sends one last hoo into the trees. Smiling, she runs over, arms stuck out like wings. She sails onto my lap. “Daddy,” she says.
 
“What did you do today?” I tilt my head to see her face, my arm around her shoulder. “Were you searching for owls?”
 
“I was an owl today,” she says, hugging me. “And I was calling for other owls.”
 
“That’s wonderful. Did any other owls call back?”
 
“Yes, seven owls called back.”
 
I’m starving. My back and shoulders scream for an ice bath. Holding Kylee and hearing how night school went are things I’ve looked forward to all day. I still can’t recall the song from my dream—it all seems like a lifetime ago. What was the dream? What was the feeling? Right now, I have all I need.
 
“Seven?” I give her a shake. “That’s a world record, did you know?”
 
Erminda laughs, and it’s music to my ears. I laugh, too. She snuggles into my chest, and my eyelids begin to feel heavy. I let them close.
 
“What did you do today, Daddy?”
 
I inhale through my nose, and the air smells sweet, like flowers. “Funny you should ask. I was an owl today, too, and I was calling back to you.”
 
We’re quiet then, and we listen to the breeze. Somewhere, a message takes flight. Somewhere, the evening sun plays on the water.