Adelaide, South Australia welcomed me on a Sunday bustling with tourists and casual drivers. True to her matronly appearance, Mary twittered with relief at my safe arrival. "I'm so glad you're all right," she breathed, hands fanning the air as if to dispel any lingering harmful spirits. "I've been so worried."
She and her husband Michael, originally from the United Kingdom, had lived in Australia half their lives before retiring. Before leaving America, I had worked with a distant relative of Mary's and had called for travel advice. Minutes into our first conversation she had declared, "You just forget about all that. I have an extra room and I'll take care of everything. When will you be here?" By the third phone call the guest room had been repainted and Mary had rung my mother to assure her I would be safe.
Mary ran out for fast food and returned with a meal that rivaled the crab feast at my family's annual reunion. When the plate had been filled from rim to rim she piled food on top, occasionally spooning up more as I ate. I quickly learned to keep my elbows firmly planted on the table to shield my dish from her limitless benevolence. I had roamed thousands of miles to stay with someone who out-mothered my own mother.
Since her children had grown up long ago, Mary regularly took in "orphans," destitute travelers who otherwise would be relegated to the communal rooms of hostels. Almost every foray to the shops was an opportunity to discover another stray. Once she returned from the grocers, all aflutter because she had offered her house to a Catholic girl's choir (yes, the entire choir) and she wasn't sure she had enough floor space.
The long cottage where she and her strays lived was ruled by Bobby, a rose-breasted cockatoo known as a galah. Bobby paraded in stiff, military strides before crawling up my pant leg. Unaware that he was scaling Mount Laine, I accidentally launched him across the linoleum. I learned exactly how unforgiving a cockie could be as I groveled before his perch every evening with mashed potatoes from my own plate. Bobby ignored my tithe even while greedily demanding the same food from my hostess.
"Maaary," he sang pleasantly with the first rattle of skillets in the afternoon.
"What?" she sang back, smiling and misty eyed. "My little Bobby. He knows I'm cooking." She abandoned the stove and scuffed to the cage.
"Come give mommy a kiss," she demanded, holding her arms wide. Bobby spread his wings and shoved his face against the bars. While Mary kissed the beak that could crack a pecan, Bobby's tongue wriggled. If only he had lips.
"Maaary," he warbled after she returned to the stove. Preoccupied by food and steam and smells, she did not hear his calls. Soon Bobby's tone became ardent.
"Mary!"
"What, Bobby?" Mary's patience had also worn thin as she juggled the stove, oven and sink.
"Mary!" he called again. "Mary! Mar-rink! Mar-rink-rink! Rink-rink-rink!" He lapsed into a peculiar cross between a tinny note and an angry scream. He dangled from the rafters of his cage, flipping his pink crest.
"Stop that!" Mary waved her finger dangerously near the bars while Bobby nipped the air. "No bities. No bities!" When he was quiet Mary padded back to the stove. She stirred the pots, and through the silence and steam a small voice could be heard.
"I love you," Bobby muttered into his downy chest.
"You only love me because you want dinner."
"Mar-rink! Rink-rink!"
"Oh, all right!" She dished up a spoonful of mashed potato. "Here, you fool bird, now be quiet. Hot, Bobby, hot!"
Mary's husband Michael had far less patience. He and Bobby waged an ongoing, low-level battle. Bobby was insanely jealous and, although only seven inches tall, attacked the six-foot Michael at every opportunity. Whenever Michael sat in his favorite spot, an overstuffed armchair near the cage, Bobby voiced his displeasure. "Move it! Move it!" he shrilled endlessly.
But Michael had long since shut off his hearing aid and enjoyed his evening paper in peace.