Seeing a cardinal in a tree outside her living room window, Donna remembered a story from her childhood called “How the Finch Got Her Feathers.” She used to make her father read it over and over, even after she had it memorized, even after she could read it for herself. When he came to town on business—he had moved to Phoenix with his new wife—she asked him if he remembered that story. Laughing, he recited the first line. He took her and Joey out to Denny's for dinner, and after he dropped them off she called her mother. They didn't talk very often. Donna had stopped calling because she was tired of hearing her mom criticize her about being a waitress, playing with the band, or the way she was raising Joey. Her mom stopped calling when she remarried and had to deal with her husband's teenagers. However, this was important.

“This is about a little bird and how she came to be the most colorful bird of all.” Once upon a time, she went on, all birds were brown, until Eagle, who was the leader of the birds, decided he would pass colors out to everybody. So the birds came from all over to get their share. They shoved and pecked and shouted. The parrot squawked, “Green!” and the canary sang, “Yellow!” All the birds got their colors, but at the back of all these noisy birds was Finch, who was very politely waiting her turn, hoping for something nice. The other birds were all preening and admiring their new feathers, when Finch finally spoke up.

“Almost done,” Donna said. Finch tried to be nice and admire the other birds' new feathers. But she started to cry and was just about to fly away when Eagle stopped her. He realized that she had been patient while the others were greedy, and he called back all the birds. He told them they must each give her one of their feathers. The birds complained but finally they all shared, and soon Finch was adorned with a bit of all the colors. She was the most beautiful bird around.

“'Night, Mommy.” She turned out the light and left the door open a crack. Hearing that story aloud again, she wondered now why she had liked it so much. Its message was insidious: if you are meek and stay at the back of the line, you'll be rewarded. In effect, it was a good story for keeping people—women and girls, that is, like the Finch—dependent on male authority. Having been on welfare after Joey's birth, and continuing on food stamps, she knew something about dependence. It was not pleasant, to feel always on the edge, to dole out your coupons at the grocery store like a child with play money. If it weren't for Aunt Ellen's generosity, she didn't know how she would get by.

From the coat closet she pulled out two cardboard boxes, which held her second job: stuffing envelopes. This time it was for a company that sold tapes and workbooks designed to help children read better. She felt a little guilty for doing it, for she felt there must be some scam involved, making parents feel anxious about their kids' development. She also felt resentful because it didn't pay very well, but the extra change still came in handy.

Listening to a CD of Native American drums and flutes, she arranged the materials in piles on the floor. Introductory letter, two pieces of advertisement, return envelope. Her method was to do one step at a time: fold the letters, collate them with the three other glossy pieces of information, stack them up in a big pile, and tuck them in the envelopes, all as quickly as she could yet without getting paper cuts. This is the kind of job the Finch would get stuck with, she thought. Cleaning toilets, slicing cold cuts, serving french fries—whatever no one else wanted.

She paused in her collating. That wasn't the Finch she'd envisioned as a girl, though. That story had made such an impression on her, and it wasn't because she pitied the Finch or wanted to avoid her fate. It was, she realized, slapping together another set of papers, because the Finch became the most colorful, the most provocative and outrageous bird around. It was a fashion thing, then; Donna hadn't really looked for a moral as a kid. She supposed you were supposed to understand that the Finch stayed true to herself, that by being patient she got more than she'd ever hoped for. Sometimes things work out in ways you don't expect, Donna thought. Sometimes what seems like a setback turns out to be a benefit. She didn't really believe that, though.

She'd rather not have to rely on anyone, but she wouldn't mind if someone would take her under a wing and look out for her. She wouldn't mind a little surprise or a treat, like being able to sleep until eleven o'clock one Saturday, like she used to do before Joey, or to strap her roller blades on and cruise around town for hours, just for the hell of it. She would like to go out at night during the week to hear some bands, or hang out with the newspaper at a coffee shop and not once look at her watch or think about what she and Joey needed at the grocery store.

She moved on to folding, thinking that if she couldn't get a break, she could at least use some direction. Some people found their calling in the strangest ways. There was the old guy, for example, who wrote about his childhood on a ranch; people liked the book so much he opened a bookstore and stocked only copies of that one book. Or the 59-year-old insurance salesman who became a cop and loved it. The woman who became a fitness guru after a spiritual experience near Mt. Denali. What triggered that kind of passion? All through high school, through two years of community college, Donna thought that something would hit her, a flash of awareness: Yes, this is me. She couldn't bear the thought of working in an office or selling retail, as so many of her fellow students did, but she didn't know what else was possible for someone like her, with little education. How do you find out what you want to do? she wondered. How the hell do you get started?

Considering all the boring jobs there were in the world, though, Donna had to admit she liked being a waitress. She liked talking with people and eavesdropping on their conversations, enjoying most those snippets of soap opera-like situations. (“So he really wants you to move to North Dakota?” was one she hovered around. “I think that Jill's finally going to tell her family she's gay,” was another). She was good at remembering who ordered what, at keeping coffee refilled and pushing the expensive desserts; sometimes all she had to do was mention the brownie pie and raise her eyebrows to get a patron to order. The restaurant owners let her wear what she wanted, striped tights or tie-dyed shirts or mid-drift that exposed her pierced belly button, and they gave her a big breakfast or lunch for free.

She arranged a handful of finished envelopes so that the gummed flaps were lined up and exposed. Dabbing her damp sponge over them, she then pressed down on the flaps. When she'd done fifty, she slipped a rubber band around the bundle, stacked it with others in the box, and wondered how many other mothers had to resort to such mindless work, just to get by. Much as she loved her Joe and would do anything for him, the last four years had been a struggle, both financially and emotionally. She was twenty-six, not exactly a kid, but she'd been too proud to ask her mom for help, either with money, advice, or child care. Her mother might have forgiven her for getting pregnant, but she was offended that Donna never told her who the father was. How could Donna explain? Some guy I met in the alley, she could say—which was true. She had been about ready to tell her mom the whole story once, but then her mom got all bent out of shape, insisting that they make this man pay, questioning her daughter's judgment, and wondering what her bridge friends would think. So Donna kept quiet.

She was not ashamed about how Joey was conceived, but nevertheless she had told no one. When Joey was older, she might explain it to him; until then, she didn't want him to hear it from anyone else. At the time, she was working two waitressing jobs in an effort to make enough money for university tuition; but with no time to study she ended up failing her classes at community college. Moreover, she was just dumped by a guy she'd been with for over a year, and her parents were in the middle of a nasty divorce. The one thing that pulled her through was playing with the band. She played the violin—and was happy now that her parents had insisted on lessons in junior high—the bass guitar, and sometimes a toy xylophone, which was a carry-over from elementary school, as was her friendship with Crash, the lead singer. He was known as Robby then; now his head was shaved and he had a tattoo of a lizard crawling up his neck, which made her mom freak. The two of them had started the band a year out of high school because, simply, they were bored. They wrote some goofy songs together and got their friend Walt to play percussion. They played anything as an instrument, pots and pans with a wooden spoon, a coffee can full of rice, Tibetan prayer bells. In one song they incorporated an old alarm clock just for fun. They started getting small gigs at parties and coffee houses, and after a couple years they were playing night clubs around town, albeit scroungy ones—even up in Phoenix. They had a loyal following of people who danced and sang along. Donna got a kick out of it. She started to play the part by wearing sunglasses and black lipstick onstage, sometimes a feather boa or tiara.

At one of the band's first decent engagements downtown—that is, a place where the bathrooms didn't reek and the patrons were generally attentive—she was taking a break outside the back door, breathing in some fresh air and drinking a bottle of water, when a man came up to her. In a ridiculously pure and lilting Irish voice, he said, “You play the violin like an angel, you know.” He had blue eyes and dark hair, a combination that sent her spinning, and she was so flustered—a rare state for her—she burst into tears, and he gave her a big gentle hug. When the band finished the second set and packed up, he was waiting. “Come on,” he said. “Come on, I'll walk you home,” without even asking if she was driving or headed somewhere else. His name was Sean. He came home with her, made love with her, and said he was leaving the next day for Ireland. He wrote down his address, and she wrote to him once but the letter came back as undeliverable. At first she felt utterly foolish; she didn't sleep with just anyone. For all she knew, he was born in Austin and worked as a mechanic on the east side of town, and if you woke him up in the middle of the night he'd be no more Irish than she was a leprechaun. When she realized she was pregnant with Joey, she thought about abortion, briefly, but couldn't bring herself to do it. As she grew big with this new life in her body, she started hearing Sean's soothing voice as she drifted off to sleep. She thought of his kind embrace when she was crying for no apparent reason.

She had expected a daughter. She was certain she would have a girl, because she loved and admired women. She liked men, but they were never as interesting or complex as the most interesting women she knew. During her pregnancy she had envisioned a daughter who would grow up to be colorful and surprising, proud of herself, confident. In birthing the baby, she had visualized a lusty, healthy female, so when the midwife said she had a boy, the word was foreign and disorienting. Dazed, she took him on her belly, and then to her breast. Crying piteously at first, he seemed stunned by the unfamiliar world he was in, but it was from her, that same body he had known so intimately, that he sought comfort. As she watched him suckle and calm down, she understood absolutely that he was his own person, defying expectations, compelling her to accept him as he was. From that moment, she felt that he was not so much the result of her tryst but the reason for it. Naked, nestled against her body, he was an exquisite animal, a whole and lovely consciousness.

One night before bed Joey wanted to know where Cosmo went, because he had heard Tillie say they missed her. Donna had to think. It was not unlike the questions he sometimes asked about his father, where he went and whether he was coming back. Her response was consistent: his father was someone she used to know, and now he lived far away.

Two weeks had gone by since Cosmo's disappearance. Hooper felt as though he had been robbed of his very substance, because his shadow was missing. When he and Tillie took their walk after dinner, he still said “Heel” and looked down to his left, nearly tripping as he stepped off curbs. Once they got to the grassy field at school, it was as though they had arrived at a party on the wrong night: there was nothing to do but sit for awhile on the brick retaining wall, watch the sprinklers come on, then go home. One evening when Hooper was late getting home, Tillie finally threw out the bag of dog food in the pantry cupboard, suspecting that cockroaches were feasting on it.

In Sunday's paper, Tillie came across a short article about a fashion show that benefited the SPCA. The accompanying photograph showed a model strolling down the runway with a leash in her hand—and a dog at her side. A dog, Tillie thought, that looked a lot like Cosmo. When she showed it to Hooper, he grabbed the paper and held it up to his nose.

“Okay. Thanks a lot.” Hooper hung up thoughtfully. He had hoped he could live in Tucson without ever going to the tourist attraction at Old Tucson, but he had no choice. Fortunately his work was slow in July, and he had a free day. On his way out the door, he grabbed his gardening hat and headed west, out to the open land beyond Gate's Pass.

As it was a weekday, there was no line. Hooper grudgingly handed over his money, stepped through the wooden gates, and entered the Old West town. The streets were dusty dirt, the sidewalks made of planks, and the signs were crudely hand-painted. He passed men wearing chaps, gun belts, and broad-brimmed hats; there were only a few women, and they wore long skirts and bonnets. A couple of cowboys sauntering down the street stopped for a long drink at a drinking fountain, above which was a sign saying, “Watering Hole.”

As he passed the General Store, Hooper caught a glimpse of the merchandise through the open doors: a rack of postcards, a shelf of hats, a display of beaded belts. As a kid he would have begged his parents to let him go inside for a look, would have loved getting his hands on the plastic guns, View Master slides, rocks and gemstones, licorice whips, oversize pencils with a tassel hanging from the eraser—but today he had other things on his mind. He wandered down the main street, past saloons advertising such acts as “Miss Libby and the Soda Fountain Singers,” past the blacksmith, an ice cream parlor, the boot maker. A small group of tourists, looking hot and bedraggled, were gathered around a covered wagon, where a fast-talking salesman was delivering his spiel for a miracle elixir.

Hooper continued on. At the far end of town, a “shoot-out” was already in progress. Unable to resist a performance after all, he took a seat on a metal riser. He wasn't sure just how the bad guys had wronged the good, but the actors must have been nearing the grand finale, because guns were popping and bodies were falling. One gunslinger was dragging a leg while shooting some poor guy off the top of the roof. One body already lay motionless in the dirt, and a man in a crumpled brown hat, with a long-barreled gun tucked under his arm, was arriving on a horse. The final blaze of gunfire made one boy in the audience start to cry. When it was over, the music started; the dead leapt up, and took a bow to tepid applause. Hooper clapped loudly and whistled, out of sympathy, but the audience could not be roused.

It was nearly noon. He looked on his map, headed roughly east, and found the train depot. Passing several men in shorts and tee shirts who were all heading the same way, he followed them toward the scent of meat cooking on a grill. They arrived at a low, plain building. At a covered patio with three or four picnic tables, a small group of men dressed in cowboy gear was just sitting down with their lunch trays. They took off their hats and tossed them onto a nearby table.

Hooper was just about to approach the men when something in a stand of palo verde trees next to the patio caught his eye: a long-haired tail, blond and white. He held his breath. Could it be? What other dog had a tail like that? How would he convince the men she was his dog? Maybe she could do a few tricks for him. He waited to see what she would do.

Then the dog trotted over to a tree, lifted his leg, and let go an obviously masculine stream. Hooper laughed ruefully at himself and backed away. He should have known. That dog was a few pounds overweight and his head was too small to hold much of a brain. Since he was already approaching the men, Hooper greeted them and chatted about dogs and acting. Then he promptly went home.

In addition to cataloging, at which she was getting better, Tillie also had the job of mending damaged books. They came to her with broken spines, torn pages, and covers that had been bent, coffee-stained, and gouged with Exacto-blades. Once she was given a book whose pages were stuck together with strawberry jam. Some of the damage was simply due to use and old age, but a lot of it was intentional. Bound journals were missing articles because students were too lazy or cheap to make a photocopy. Encyclopedias had whole sections razored out. Other libraries supplied photocopied replacement pages, which Tillie tipped into the volume. Sometimes students tore out color reproductions of artists' work, an act of sabotage that she took personally. A picture in a book was dull enough compared to the original, but how could you appreciate an article on Matisse, for example, if all you got was a black and white photocopy? How could anyone be so malicious as to take that experience away from someone else? It was distressing to see books treated this way; still, she took some pleasure in restoring them to working condition. The work was tactile and absorbing, and she liked being surrounded with the tools of her trade, the different colored binding tapes, book glue, brushes, boards and thread.

She was allowed a break and always took one. She couldn't stand not to see the sky for more than a few hours at a time. Sometimes she would dash over to the union for a cup of coffee, iced or hot, but today she thought she would first browse the fiction section for something to read in the evenings. She could still take a few minutes to wander outside.

The university was in between summer sessions, so the library was eerily quiet. She paused on the fourth floor landing and decided instead to look in the N's, the art section. She seldom ventured into this area. The last time she did, she'd ended up sitting in the aisle surrounded by stacks of books, flipping through one after the other, gorging on images as though they were chocolates. Abstract expressionists, primitive portraits, color fields, fauvist landscapes. Finally she felt a headache coming on and realized with a start that she'd taken an hour and a half for lunch. Guiltily, she fled from the pile of books as Cinderella did the ball, overwhelmed by beauty and riches, all beyond her limitations. Tillie couldn't help but compare herself to the artists she'd seen, and of course found herself greatly lacking in talent and vision. How could she ever muster the courage to paint her own measly pictures?

This time, she thought, she would restrict her scope. Ducking into the section on American art, she went no farther than the A's and chose two books on Milton Avery, an artist whose cheerfully odd use of color and skewed landscapes—like the yellow cow in a pink and green field—she found charming. She was going to leave immediately, but in passing a half-empty shelving truck, she thought about Frank. She hadn't seen him very much since he'd moved from Serials to be supervisor of the shelvers. Sometimes he came downstairs to chat with her, but it wasn't the same. He didn't miss his old job, he said; the new one suited him much better. When he went into the stacks to check the students' work, he could roam around, discovering new and weird books to read.

She peered down the stacks and heard a light snore. Probably a student, but she thought she'd just make sure. Following the sound to the edge of the stacks, she found Frank ensconced in an overstuffed orange chair. Dressed in a yellow tee shirt and bathed in warm sunlight from a small window, he looked practically beatific. He was sprawled out with his feet on a blue ottoman, one hand clutching a book at his chest, the other flung out theatrically. He opened one eye, as though the scent of library employee had infiltrated his dreaming.

“Here, like this.” He held up the book he'd been reading. “I was just checking the students' shelf-reading—which is piss-poor, by the way; it's unbelievable—and this book practically jumped into my hands. Now this is more than coincidence. It's about Mount Shasta—you know, in northern California? And I went there last summer; in fact, I was just thinking about it. My buddies and I climbed to the summit. It was so cool. Ex-traor-di-nary.” He emphasized the word. “We went in late May, when there was still an ice pack at the top. You have to use crampons—it's the only way to get up the rock face.”

She gave him her hand, and as he struggled up from the cushions his warm face came close to hers. Their eyes met—his were big and brown, his eyelashes long—and she had a startling urge to kiss him. Once on his feet, he let their grasp linger and she almost thought he leaned in closer, as if he had the same impulse; but she stepped back and released her hand. She looked away. With a hasty good-bye she walked quickly through the stacks and downstairs to check out her books.

She went outside and sat on a low wall in the shade. Students and staff trickled in and out of the library. It was a sleepy summer day, but her heart was racing as though she'd escaped from danger. And perhaps she had; she'd very nearly made a fool of herself. How could she presume that Frank was attracted to her? Just because he was friendly and seemed happy to see her didn't mean he would want to kiss her. How embarrassing that she, a woman committed to the same partner for nearly six years, melted like a schoolgirl in his presence.

And yet; and yet. Though fleeting, it had been such a nice moment. She closed her eyes and his face was close to hers. She kept thinking of his full lips, his warm eyes, his hand in hers. The word “extraordinary” tumbled around in her head, as did the vision of a snowy mountain against a pure blue sky. Such a nice moment. If it ever came again, she thought, she might not walk away.

The monsoon clouds were building. She could see them bunched low on the horizon. It meant for some humidity, but the sky was still so bright and strange, intensely blue but with a hint of green, that it seemed to belong to a Maxfield Parrish painting. The carillon in the union tower rang, and she knew it was time to back down to the basement, but she sat another moment, wondering whether the world held true mystery, as Frank believed, or simply unexpected coincidence.

Trying Things Out