Look at the birdie: unpublished short fiction - By Kurt Vonnegut Page 0,3
of her small home was Ellen Bowers, who, early in the morning, was preparing Tuesday breakfast for her husband, Henry. Henry was gasping and dancing and slapping himself in a cold shower on the other side of a thin wall.
Ellen was a fair and tiny woman, in her early thirties, plainly mercurial and bright, though dressed in a dowdy housecoat. In almost any event she would have loved life, but she loved it now with an overwhelming emotion that was like the throbbing amen of a church organ, for she could tell herself this morning that her husband, in addition to being good, would soon be rich and famous.
She hadn’t expected it, had seldom dreamed of it, had been content with inexpensive possessions and small adventures of the spirit, like thinking about autumn, that cost nothing at all. Henry was not a moneymaker. That had been the understanding.
He was an easily satisfied tinker, a maker and mender who had a touch close to magic with materials and machines. But his miracles had all been small ones as he went about his job as a laboratory assistant at the Accousti-gem Corporation, a manufacturer of hearing aids. Henry was valued by his employers, but the price they paid for him was not great. A high price, Ellen and Henry had agreed amiably, probably wasn’t called for, since being paid at all for puttering was an honor and a luxury of sorts. And that was that.
Or that had seemed to be that, Ellen reflected, for on the kitchen table lay a small tin box, a wire, and an earphone, like a hearing aid, a creation, in its own modern way, as marvelous as Niagara Falls or the Sphinx. Henry had made it in secret during his lunch hours, and had brought it home the night before. Just before bedtime, Ellen had been inspired to give the box a name, an appealing combination of confidant and household pet—Confido.
“What is it every person really wants, more than food almost?” Henry had asked coyly, showing her Confido for the first time. He was a tall, rustic man, ordinarily as shy as a woods creature. But something had changed him, made him fiery and loud. “What is it?”
“Happiness, Henry?”
“Happiness, certainly! But what’s the key to happiness?”
“Religion? Security, Henry? Health, dear?”
“What is the longing you see in the eyes of strangers on the street, in eyes wherever you look?”
“You tell me, Henry. I give up,” Ellen had said helplessly.
“Somebody to talk to! Somebody who really understands! That’s what.” He’d waved Confido over his head. “And this is it!”
Now, on the morning after, Ellen turned away from the window and gingerly slipped Confido’s earphone into her ear. She pinned the flat metal box inside her blouse and concealed the wire in her hair. A very soft drumming and shushing, with an overtone like a mosquito’s hum, filled her ear.
She cleared her throat self-consciously, though she wasn’t going to speak aloud, and thought deliberately, “What a nice surprise you are, Confido.”
“Nobody deserves a good break any more than you do, Ellen,” whispered Confido in her ear. The voice was tinny and high, like a child’s voice through a comb with tissue paper stretched over it. “After all you’ve put up with, it’s about time something halfway nice came your way.”
“Ohhhhhh,” Ellen thought depreciatively, “I haven’t been through so much. It’s been quite pleasant and easy, really.”
“On the surface,” said Confido. “But you’ve had to do without so much.”
“Oh, I suppose—”
“Now, now,” said Confido. “I understand you. This is just between us, anyway, and it’s good to bring those things out in the open now and then. It’s healthy. This is a lousy, cramped house, and it’s left its mark on you down deep, and you know it, you poor kid. And a woman can’t help being just a little hurt when her husband doesn’t love her enough to show much ambition, either. If he only knew how brave you’d been, what a front you’d put up, always cheerful—”
“Now, see here—” Ellen objected faintly.
“Poor kid, it’s about time your ship came in. Better late than never.”
“Really, I haven’t minded,” insisted Ellen in her thoughts. “Henry’s been a happier man for not being tormented by ambition, and happy husbands make happy wives and children.”
“All the same, a woman can’t help thinking now and then that her husband’s love can be measured by his ambition,” said Confido. “Oh, you deserve this pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”