A Witness with Wings

By Pamela Love

Stories filled the living room as Kytt’s parents and friends discussed their experiences during World War II. Parachuting into enemy territory, storming beachheads, firing artillery shells—memories punctuated by coughs from Ruby the parrot, who hated cigarette smoke. Kytt scribbled as fast as she could every bit of conversation in her notebook. Hope I can read this later when I write my essay for history class, Kytt thought. Just this once, I wish I’d taken shorthand like Mom wanted. Kytt hated the idea of ever becoming a secretary.

She sighed with relief when her mother brought in a tray of appetizers. Everyone seated on the Thornes’ brand-new leather sectional sofa eagerly sampled the canapes and cream puffs. Kytt was too busy flexing her aching fingers.

“Martha dear, don’t you want anything?” Mrs. Thorne—her mom—asked.

“Kytt,” she corrected without thinking, then slumped against the Queen Anne chair. Now I’m gonna get it.

Dr. Thorne rolled his eyes. “Our daughter’s going through a stage—wants to change her name to some hippie nonsense. Kytt—spelled with a Y and two Ts—Windthorn, believe it or not. You’re named for your grandmother, and you’ll stay that way, Martha.”

Laughter bubbled throughout the room while resentment simmered within Kytt. Mr. Dixon slapped his knee. “Forget it, honey. Soon as you graduate high school, you’ll take some lucky fella’s name anyway. Even with glasses and that gap in your front teeth, you’re a pretty girl.”

“Pretty bird! Pretty bird!” Ruby squawked, ruffling her crimson feathers.

Mrs. Dixon raised her voice. “To get back to the subject, ladies also made contributions to the war effort.” She gestured toward Mrs. Spencer beside her, the only woman there without a husband. He’d died at the Battle of Midway. “For example, Faith here—”

The kitchen timer went off for the pot roast. Kytt stood. “Let me help you with dinner, Mother.” I don’t care about somebody’s Victory Garden. My essay’s going to be about people in the military, not civilians safe at home.

After carrying three kinds of salad to the dining table, Kytt thanked everyone for their reminiscences before leaving. She wanted to get a head start on her essay, and there wasn’t room for her at the table. Her stomach growled. Guess I should’ve taken an appetizer after all.

Speaking of taking—she glanced around the living room. She was alone, except for Mrs. Spencer, whose back was toward her while she cooed over Ruby. The parrot’s cage stood against the opposite wall. All the women had left their purses on the sofa when they’d headed into the dining room. Mrs. Dixon didn’t snap hers shut after she took out a lighter. Casually, Kytt slipped a hand into the purse, keeping her eye on Mrs. Spencer. The corner of one bill was sticking out of the wallet. Kytt pulled it out—a twenty. That would pay for a week’s groceries for a family. The Dixons will never miss it. After all, our parrot’s not the only Ruby in this house tonight, she thought, picturing Mrs. Dixon’s earrings and necklace. She slipped it up the sleeve of her navy blue dress, wishing she had a pocket.

“Faith? We’re ready to eat,” Mom called to Mrs. Spencer.

Mrs. Spencer took a few steps then stopped. “Oh, dear. I just remembered an urgent phone call I have to make—please forgive me, and don’t hold up dinner. It’s rather private—could I use your office phone, Bill?”

“Of course. Martha, show Mrs. Spencer the way.”

The moment she shut the office door behind them, Mrs. Spencer said, “Put that money back where you found it, young lady.”

Kytt flushed red. “You couldn’t have—I didn’t—”

“Unfortunately for you, a witness with wings saw what you did.” She tapped her foot.

“Everybody knows parrots just repeat things they’ve heard.” Kytt frowned. “Ruby couldn’t accuse me.”

“Not the parrot. Do you know what a WASP was?”

Puzzled, Kytt squirmed. “It is an insect.”

“Watch your tone. It’s also an acronym for Women’s Airforce Service Pilots. I was one, during World War II. We ferried planes where needed and taught male cadets how to fly, among other things—and some of us died doing it. Our insignia had wings.” Kytt’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Pilots need to be skilled observers. I’ve never gotten out of the habit of checking a mirror to see what’s going on behind me. And there’s a surprisingly large mirror in Ruby’s cage.” She pointed at Kytt. “I saw you take that money, and I’ll watch you put it back or you will hear me tell your folks what you did.”

Kytt looked down. “I was going to give it to poor people. The Dixons don’t need it.”

Mrs. Spencer shook her head. “You don’t get to decide that. Your mother is one of my best friends. I won’t let her daughter act this way, even though you’re young and stupid. If you return the money, I’ll be merciful—this time. Understand?”

Kytt bit her lip. Furious, she forced herself to cooperate. “Okay.”

“There are plenty of legal ways to help people. If you don’t stop stealing, you’ll end up in a cage like Ruby. She didn’t have a choice. You do.”

Swallowing hard, Kytt nodded. Please, please, believe me. Don’t tell my folks.

“One more thing—about that name change. I’ll tell your parents I support the idea, but not why.” Mrs. Spencer folded her arms. “If you keep on thieving, you shouldn’t drag their name into it.”

***

As the party was breaking up, Kytt stood smiling at the door—lips shut to prevent other remarks about her teeth—shaking hands with everyone and thanking them again for their help. “Mrs. Spencer, I’ll never forget what I learned from you today.”

The woman nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

Which is to be more careful the next time I steal. I don’t need wings, but I’d better be eagle-eyed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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