Call Me Alastair Read online

  “No,” I say, feeling a little insulted. “They weren’t stories. They were plans.”

  “Oh.”

  Stunned, I wonder now if some of my earlier plots could have worked. If, maybe – had Aggie believed, had she truly believed – things could have been different. Maybe she would’ve walked out of Pete’s faster. Maybe she let herself be caught by Fritz. Horrified at the thought, I feel a shiver race to the end of each feather I have left. I feel one let go and watch it drift out of my carrier and across the floor to the other side of the restaurant, nudged by the blowing fans.

  Aggie clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Alastair. I just thought they were stories. I thought – I thought – I don’t know what I thought. Melting store windows, finding mates in the wild – I’ve never really seen one of our kind anywhere else, you know. Then flying to some palm tree when we’ve never even learned to fly properly. I thought, well, they just seemed impractical—”

  “Impractical! I’m nothing but practical!” I blurt out. “I almost busted us out once! I’ll do it again. You’ll see!”

  “OK, Alastair,” she says quietly. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I feel another feather leave my body, watch as it turns and flutters across the room.

  Fritz, who’s got up to ask for a bottle of ketchup, takes no notice as it floats in a circle around him and gently lands at his feet.

  It takes only seconds before it’s trampled underfoot.

  “I’ve got a plan,” I say, trying to untangle the irritation from my voice. I relay it all. My plan. From Fritz’s bicycle bell to the bike basket.

  I take a deep breath. “I’m executing it tonight.”

  Aggie looks worried. “Um, I’m not so sure, Alastair. I mean, what if something happens? What if you hurt yourself trying to fly out the window – we’ve never really flown – and what if Fritz leaves without you somehow, and – and you get left outside for ever?”

  “First of all, I’m part bird.” It’s an important distinction. “And birds fly, simple as that. It’ll be fine, Ag. I promise. I’ve got it all under control.”

  “But what about Bertie?”

  I wince. I’ve thought about this. I have. Bertie has sashayed across my mind a number of times as I’ve been working all this out. Or maybe it’s just that she’s always sashaying through rooms while I’m plotting, eating, composing poetry, scowling. It’s just that there’s nothing I can do about it. No use dwelling on it…

  “Bertie’s got Humpty,” I tell Aggie. “And – Tiger. She’ll be all right.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “Two Grizzly grits and an orange Fizzy Pop!” the cashier’s voice cuts in.

  And that’s it right there. It’s always interruptions, always distractions. That’s why I’m doing this. For me and my sister.

  “Ag,” I say, “I know what I’m doing.”

  I try to reassure her, but nothing seems to work. Aggie spends the rest of the meal silent and still while Fritz convinces Bertie to join him at his Pet Pals pizza fund-raiser at school and Bertie talks of shutting down her senior social for lack of interest. As they’re packing up to leave, Aggie leans over and whispers to me.

  “Maybe you’re right, Alastair,” she says. “I love you – you know I do – and I’d love to be together all the time again. But, well, don’t you think it’s risky? Maybe it’s nothing, but Fritz told me about a parakeet that escaped from the shop once, and he was never right again after they caught him. In the head! And on top of that—”

  “Order of fries and a Bear Cub box!” shouts the cashier.

  “Aggie,” I say soothingly, “it’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be fine.”

  Bertie picks up my cage, crosses the restaurant, and opens the door to the sidewalk.

  “Tomorrow!” I shout to my sister. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

  “Chicken wings!” shouts a kid in a poultry costume outside. “Get your chicken wings here!”

  I look back as Aggie shudders.

  “Oh!”

  That evening, Bertie’s propped against her pillows in curlers, wiping her eyes, and reading one of Everett’s old poetry books.

  “Oh, Alastair,” she says, shaking her head. “This poem.”

  I’m over by the window checking things for tonight. Bertie hoists herself out of the sofa cushions and comes over to me, book in hand. She kneels so we’re eye to eye.

  “‘I know why the caged bird beats his wing,’” she recites. She waggles the open book, and the pages rustle. “I know why, Alastair! It says right here in the poem!”

  Bertie looks down at the page and reads slowly. “‘A pain still throbs in the old, old scars…’” She sets the book on the floor in front of her. “It’s right here, look! Your wing is bruised and you’re beating against your bars, and all you’re really doing is just saying your prayers to be free of all that hurt.”

  She rests her elbows on the window sill and her chin in her hands and sighs. “Pain still throbs in our old, old scars. Doesn’t it? And here we all are just beating our wings. I think you could’ve written the poem yourself,” she says to me.

  I shake the words off. Fluff out my feathers. I’ve got a few left.

  “You really could’ve written it, you know.”

  Well, I might’ve once upon a time. But I didn’t.

  And right now I’m too busy.

  I turn my back on her.

  “Oh, Alastair. Still fighting me.” Bertie sighs again, and I hear her get up to turn on the kettle, hear two mugs being plucked from the tree. She tuts from the other room.

  “What did you say, Everett?” I hear her ask, but she answers herself a few seconds later.

  “Stubborn? I’d say dogged as a dandelion.”

  Tea for Two

  It is planted

  in the middle of the table.

  A tree.

  Anchored

  by lace doily roots

  speckled with years

  of peppermint

  lemongrass

  chamomile.

  It stands:

  one trunk

  four limbs

  a single leaf dangling

  from the end of each branch

  heavy and glossed.

  And every night it is

  autumn.

  Leaves take flight

  settle

  on tattered ground

  to take root, fill.

  Four cupped leaves.

  Sometimes with dew (for the bird)

  Sometimes milk (for the cat)

  And two

  always

  With tea.

  But only three ever sit

  beneath winter-scorned branches

  sipping

  dew

  milk

  tea

  While one remains a ghost –

  memories of the way things used to be.

  CHAPTER 25

  At the crack of dawn the next morning, I am ready and waiting.

  I couldn’t sleep. I spent the night listening to the clock in the hall tick and the other half composing a – well, a poem.

  Anyway.

  I couldn’t have asked for better conditions. Tiger woke Bertie six times last night, and each time she stumbled to the window and flung open the sash. Both cat and owner are snoring in the bedroom now. When I go to wake Bertie with my perfectly executed meow (I’ve been practising), she should be groggy enough not to notice Tiger asleep on his kitty cushion. And while the sun came up a short while ago, a sheet of grey cloud has settled over it, throwing the whole curtain-drawn apartment into midnight.

  I’m safely tucked into the curtain folds next to the window (the one perk of having no tail feathers is there’s less of me to hide). Been here about an hour now. Getting here wasn’t too bad. I managed to elude caging last night by running from Bertie and hiding under the sofa. I may have had to nip her hand when she reached under to get me, though. When I did, she jumped and stared under the
sagging cushions for a moment. She looked hurt.

  But I can’t think about that.

  My stomach is swimming. Feels like I ate a mealworm.

  It’s nearly time.

  Within minutes I hear the chime of Fritz’s bell in the distance. Then another chime. And another. The next bell will be the one at our building’s doorstep. From the moment it rings, I’ve given myself exactly fifteen minutes to escape and get safely into Fritz’s bike basket without him seeing me.

  I wait for it.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  No bell. I feel panic bubble in my belly, begin to tickle my throat.

  Where is it? He should’ve rung the bell by now. He should be on the first floor already.

  Five minutes go by.

  Ten.

  Twelve.

  Just then I hear a crash in the stairwell, and the thump, thump, thumps of several dozen newspapers flopping down the steps like fish out of water.

  “Oh sickle cells!”

  I hear it, muffled, but I hear it. Fritz is in the second-floor stairwell after finishing up on the floor above, and he’s dropped his bag.

  I quickly count: three minutes left of the original fifteen, plus the other two minutes, twenty-three seconds it will take for him to pick up all the papers.

  I will have to escape and get to safety in five minutes, twenty-three seconds.

  Less, maybe.

  It will have to be enough.

  CHAPTER 26

  Meow.

  Meow.

  MEOW.

  I hear the comforter rustle on Bertie’s bed. And then nothing.

  Meow.

  MEOW!

  The blanket is thrown back, and the bed groans. Bertie gives a groan of her own. “I’m coming, you wicked cat,” she says, her voice scratchy and thick with sleep. I hear the scuffle of her slippers on the kitchen linoleum and their whisper through the carpet.

  Thunk. Bertie kicks the footstool. “Oooch!” she squeals.

  Through the gauzy curtain, I see her slide the ottoman out of the way. She sits on it and rubs her toe. “You really try an old lady’s patience, you know that?” she says, and stands.

  I feel the blood thumping through my veins; I hear it in my earholes. The tips of my wings tingle, and my toes grip the sill harder to keep from falling over.

  Bertie shuffles up to the window. “Where are you now, you darn cat? Change your mind?” She turns the lock and slides the glass up.

  Fast as lightning, I’m out of my hiding spot and at the open window.

  In the space of a second, I scan the street. Fritz’s bicycle is propped against the railing, bike basket – looks empty?

  I hear Fritz thumping on the stairs, heavy footfalls echoing through the building. He’s on his way down.

  I step over the threshold and past the dandelions.

  “Wha—? Nooooo!” I hear Bertie shout, and feel the air rush behind me.

  I fling wide my naked wings and jump.

  Something catches me around the leg, and I look back to see Bertie, holding on for dear life. “Oh! Oh!” she exclaims, as I thrash with all my might.

  Our eyes meet. Seconds disappear like a wave in the ocean. I continue to fight, but all sound is sucked away, as though the ocean inhaled and forgot to breathe out. Tears well in the bright blue of Bertie’s eyes.

  A familiar spark of pain flares through the old wing and lights a small fire in my chest. It burns. Right around the heart area.

  I ignore it.

  Bertie’s eyebrows crimp, and she looks at me with watery eyes. Her words come out in a choking whisper. “Maybe I should – Henry did. And if he can, Bertie—”

  She spots a dandelion, and her lips form a thin line, and a look of determination crosses her face.

  “If that little thing’s gonna fight so dogged hard … I’m not gonna get in his way…”

  And she lets go.

  PART IV

  20,000 Flies Under the Bed

  – or –

  To Kill a Parrot-Bird

  CHAPTER 27

  Aggie was right.

  It could’ve turned out differently. Seeing as how the first part of my plan hit a few snags, the final outcome could’ve been a little hairy. Or worse. Might’ve been hairy as a sheepdog.

  But it wasn’t.

  It was hairless. A Chinese Crested, if you’re following the analogy. A hairless Xoloitzcuintli (yes, that’s a breed, and, no, I can’t pronounce it for you). The plan was executed to perfection.

  The plan worked.

  Bertie never saw me walk to Fritz’s bike, just watched me float to the ground. (OK, I sort of rolled down the fire escape. And then the trush – that fine, leafy portmanteau – broke most of my fall.) She’d popped her head back inside the apartment once I’d made it safely to the pavement.

  Fritz never saw me climb his bike, flip open the basket lid, and settle myself inside. I even had time to spare. (The “Gallstones and goiters! Not again!” I heard him yell from the stairwell might have had something to do with it.)

  By late morning I was safely parked under the elm in Fritz’s front yard. By sundown I was choosing the right window (just needed to find the one with the PARROT CROSSING stickers) and climbing the flowered trellis straight to it. By the time Fritz was dreaming of tumours and typhoid, I was triumphantly crossing the finish line.

  I squeeze through the scratchy wires of Fritz’s broken screen and find myself in a darkened room. Posters are pasted everywhere. There’s one of the circulatory system and one of the inner ear. A pair of lungs are stuck to the ceiling. In the dimness, I can spot a sleeping Fritz in bed, a desk, and two shadowy aquariums on the floor. It’s too dark to see what’s living inside.

  Our old cage hunkers like an iron beast in the corner. I make a beeline for it.

  “Psst,” I say as I peel back a corner of the blanket covering the cage and step under. “Hey, Aggie! What’d I tell you? I made it! And not a feather out of pla— well, you know what I mean. Aggie?”

  The cage is empty.

  “Aggie?” I whisper it again into the cold, steel skeleton; the sound of my voice rattles the bones.

  Panic begins to sink its black claws into my chest. I feel the air go out of me.

  Aggie would never sleep outside our old cage. It’s her home. She’d spent hours every day decorating it, mulling over where to place her toys, chewing wooden blocks into art. She’d never spent a night outside its bars. Never.

  I pop outside the blanket and scan the room. Fritz’s chest moves up and down under his sheet, but nothing else moves, nothing breathes.

  Except whatever’s in the aquarium.

  My mind begins to form possible conclusions:

  •Aggie’s got an allergy to metal and prefers the cool, antiseptic quality of glass – no;

  •Aggie’s been traded in for whatever’s behind the glass – not remotely likely, partner;

  •Aggie’s sick, and Fritz is keeping her close to the bed, where he can keep a better eye on her – possible;

  •Aggie’s held captive by whatever’s lurking in that aquarium – and what is lurking in that aquarium?

  Two words thump into my head from out of nowhere: snake bait.

  I feel my feathers stand on end, and my heart thumps louder and faster, each beat a mantra of snake bait, snake bait, snake bait. I leave the cage and dart across the floor. In the middle of the room I trip over a pencil, and it goes skittering across the floorboards.

  I freeze. Above me, Fritz snorts in his sleep. “My diagnosis is fatty liver,” he moans. He turns over and begins to snore.

  I take a step towards the aquarium, and the moment I do, something slithers out from under the bed. It’s long and snakelike and…

  “Alastair?”

  Aggie. She steps out from the dark cave of the bed pushing a long, dirty, Fritz sock. “There you are! I was just doing some straightening. Had to clean out a few things under here – you’d be surprised how many socks get lost und
er beds.”

  I run to her and throw my wings around her. “Aggie – you don’t know how—”

  “How you made it?” she interrupts. “Yeah I do. Just like you said you would. I could see it in your eyes yesterday – I knew you’d be here, knew there was nothing stopping you. You’re my brother. You’re the strongest bird I know.”

  I’m feeling about as strong as a goldfish floater right now.

  “Anyway,” Aggie says, “I figured I’d get the place ready for you. I thought you’d need a good hiding spot, and under the bed is perfect. Fritz never looks under there – well, up until a few hours ago.” Aggie’s shoulders sink. “I had to try to keep Fritz from putting me away in my cage last night. I – I got the idea from you. I hid under the bed. Fritz didn’t want to give up, though.” She suddenly looks sadder than I’ve ever seen her.

  “You OK, Ag?” I ask.

  She looks at me, and a tear glimmers in her eye. “Not really,” she says. “I bit him. I bit Fritz. I feel so terrible.” Her head drops to her chest as she adds, “We both cried.”

  I try to reassure her. “It’s OK, Aggie,” I say, but stop. There’s nothing I can say. Everything sounds hollow, selfish. Good job, you helped a bird out? Eh, Fritz’s finger will be fine … so, show me around the place! Feathers over fingers, blood before buds – a bird’s gotta do what a bird’s gotta do.

  I’ve got no problem saying these things to myself – but to Aggie? She’s a different bird. She’s … kind. Instead I say the only thing there is to say.

  “I’m sorry, Aggie.”

  “It’s OK,” she says, but the sad note hasn’t left her voice. “I’ll be a better partner tomorrow.”

  Aggie grabs the sock she’s collected from under the bed and carries it to a teeming, sock-filled fishbowl like the one Fritz had for her at Pete’s, then pulls off the blanket and climbs up her cage on the far side of the room. “I think Fritz will be happy I found forty-one socks under the bed. I also found an old cholera pamphlet all crumpled up. He’ll like that,” she says. She reaches her open cage door and turns before going inside. “I left some of my food under there for you. I dropped it out of my cage all day, and it’s not even the stuff I pre-chewed. That’s how you’ll be able to eat, I figure.”