Amy Mackay, Darkling Dew, 2024, oil on panel, 10" x 8".

On the fourth day after the rains, a man canvassing the neighborhood knocked on our door and asked if we needed help with the trees. Yes, I said. Yes. 

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He spoke Spanish, which I don’t, but I understood his meaning. He pointed at the fallen trees. He spoke rapidly and with confidence. It was clear he knew how to handle this problem.

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The next day he began with the pool tree, him and his crew, sawing and hauling, filling the truck bed, driving away, returning with an empty truck bed to saw and haul some more. By late afternoon, the tree had disappeared. For the first time in all our years of living there, sunlight reached the pool, which had been built with the house in the fifties. It was kidney-shaped, enormous, and decrepit. 

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The next day he tackled the oak tree in the side yard, which had been fully uprooted and now lay down the hillside like a fallen giant.

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After he hauled the trees away, the temperature dropped. One day I turned on the heater, and it emitted a mighty roar but no heat. It sounded like an airplane was landing in our basement. The interior temperature was fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit. I wore my puffy coat inside.

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I looked online and called a company that seemed respectable. “Excellent service,” reviewers said. “Reasonable prices.” The man they sent had a name like an iconic American bandit from an earlier century. He was sturdy in the way of men who fix things. I looked at him and knew without question: when this man leaves, we will have heat.

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In our driveway, I introduced myself, and he gave me a look of instant recognition and mild surprise. “My wife’s name is Michelle.”

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“There are a lot of us,” I said. 

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I thought of the many times in my life I’ve met a man and said, “That’s my husband’s name.” The inherent and utterly irrational trust we place in a person who shares a name with our spouse. The unearned affection and sense of possibility. 

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I led the electrician down to the unfinished basement, where the furnace stands in a cool, dark room built into the hillside, with thick concrete walls and a dirt floor. I said, “I’ll leave you to it,” even though I wanted to stay and watch him work. I like to watch people do things I don’t know how to do — arborists, electricians, mathematicians, chefs. The competence of strangers gives me faith in the world. 

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An hour later he knocked on the door. It was just a broken motor, he explained. He had replaced it. I could turn the heater on now, he assured me. Everything would be fine.

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I wondered aloud what causes a motor to break.

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“A sparrow flew into your furnace,” he said.

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“Was it terrible?” I asked. What I meant was: is the sparrow in a state of decapitation or other bodily horror? Was there blood?

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“No,” he said gently. “It flew in and went to sleep.”

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Perhaps he could tell I doubted his story of a peaceful death. “Carbon monoxide,” he said. He tilted his head and closed his eyes to imitate a quick and painless slumber.

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“Where is it now?” I asked. “The sparrow?”

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He gestured toward the truck, where he had placed the broken motor. “It’s still in the motor.”

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“What do I owe you?” 

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The bill was $650. I went inside to get my credit card. I left the door open. He did not follow. When men come to the house to fix things, I suspect the proper thing is to invite them inside, but I do not insist. “Follow me” would seem too forward, an invitation open to interpretation.

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When I came outside I said what I’d been thinking: “I feel bad for the heater but worse for the bird.”

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I handed my credit card to the electrician. Our fingertips fizzed with minor static. I still had so many questions.

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Mainly: How did you know it was a sparrow? Why didn’t you just say bird? 

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What kind of man, I wondered, instantly identifies a dead bird as a sparrow. I wouldn’t know a sparrow from a starling. What kind of heart did this man have? What lyrical proclivities? Was he a birdwatcher? A tender soul? A former English major? Or was it simply a matter of professional exposure? How many sparrows had he found mortally wounded within the motors of residential heating systems? To how many suburban wives had he uttered the words, “A sparrow flew into your furnace”?

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He handed me a pen and a clipboard and asked me to sign a paper confirming that he had solved my problem. 

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Well, he had solved one problem. I signed and gave him back his pen. More static. “Anything else?”

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“The lights on our driveway went out during the rains,” I said. “The fixture over the dining room table flickers. There are ceiling lights in my office that haven’t worked in eleven years. Do you take care of things like that?”

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“I take care of everything.”

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Everything, but not today. He was late for another appointment. I could call the company and request him. 

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His truck rumbled up the driveway. The house shuddered, as it often does in the presence of trucks. I went inside and turned on the heater. It whooshed to life. The unsettling roar was gone. The chill faded. I considered taking a hammer and smashing all of the electrical sockets, one by one. How many problems could I create with a hammer? Probably a lot.

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I shed my puffer coat and looked up “sparrow symbolism” on the internet. I learned that some cultures believe a visit from a sparrow signals impending death. Some cultures believe sparrows bring love. No one on the internet had anything to say about a sparrow flying into your furnace, falling asleep, and being carted away in a truck by a man whose wife shares your name.

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One other thing: It was the winter of avian flu. In recent days my husband had come down with strange symptoms: pink eye, a respiratory infection, fever, muscle aches. That night, while he was sleeping, I checked his back for feathers. The next morning, over coffee, I waited for him to erupt unexpectedly into song.