Call Me Alastair

by Cory Leonardo

  The apartment door slams closed, and the pictures on the wall rattle. There’s a faint creak beside me. I look over to see the door to my cage swing open.

  It didn’t latch!

  Quick as lightning, I climb down the side of my cage. I hit the floor and weigh my options.

  The apartment door is stuck tight. But a soft breeze blows through the three far windows Bertie cracked to funnel out the soap smell. One opening is slightly wider, and I make a beeline for it.

  The window looks into a wide shaft and courtyard in the centre of the apartment building. Clothes lines, strung like spiderwebs over the chasm, shoot from window sill to window sill. Above and below, bedsheets and blouses of every colour wave. A bare patch of dirt carpets the ground below, but above, well, it’s not bright blue, but it’s sky.

  I suck in my breath and squeeze under the window and on to the ledge.

  A pigeon sits on the line that races from Bertie’s window to the other side of the building. “Who’s he, Bob?” he asks.

  “A bird, Frank,” answers his astute companion.

  I stretch my wings a few times, limbering them up, and step to the edge. I look up to the sky … followed by the ground.

  This is going to have to work.

  What was it Fritz always used to say when he played hide-and-seek with my sister?

  Three, two, one! Ready or not, Aggie. Here I come.

  CHAPTER 20

  Flap-flap-flap.

  FLOOMP.

  It’s not long after I jump that I realize there’s a problem. All is bright and white.

  “Where’d he go, Bob?” I hear the first pigeon ask, somewhere above me.

  “Drawers, Frank,” answers the other.

  I manage to grab on to the cord with my beak and inch my way up into the light and groan.

  I’ve been eaten by an extra-large pair of cotton underpants pinned to the clothes line.

  Figures.

  I’m about to give it another go, when a basement door opens, and two barking, snarling Dobermans spill out, spot me instantly, and begin to jump and claw at the brick just a few feet below me.

  This is going marvellously.

  To risk being swallowed up by another set of drawers or a dog all of a sudden doesn’t seem quite worth it, so I decide to walk the length of clothes line. I can scale the side of the building to the top. No problem. I’ll fly from the roof, simple as that.

  The climb, however, takes longer than expected. It’s difficult, treacherous and almost as annoying as the running commentary I’m forced to listen to.

  “What’s he doing, Bob?” one pigeon asks.

  “Climbing, Frank.”

  “Why don’t he fly, Bob?”

  “Can’t, Frank.”

  Can’t?

  “I can too fly!” I shout. It comes out all slurry – my beak is currently gripping a brick.

  “What did he say, Bob?”

  “Said he could fly, Frank.”

  “But we saw him, Bob. He crashed.”

  “Crashed, Frank.”

  I feel the colour rise in my cheeks, feel the feathers on my head prickle.

  “Never knew a bird who couldn’t fly, Bob.”

  “Never knew a one, Frank.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t have to take this!

  “Beat it!” I shout. “See this beak? Soon as I get up there, I’m gonna make myself a pigeon sandwich!”

  “What did he say, Bob?”

  “Said something about a sandwich, Frank.”

  “I’m hungry, Bob.”

  “I need a sandwich, Frank.” They lift off from their clothes line towards lunch as I reach the top and clamber over the edge on to the roof.

  “And don’t come back!” I yell, but they’re already out of sight.

  I run towards the front of the building and the street. I climb another few bricks and pull myself over the lip, and I’m standing on the concrete ledge and looking down on the tree-lined street below. Traffic rushes in both directions. Unhindered.

  Pete’s truck is gone.

  The air rushes out of me. My eyes glaze as cars, taxis and a bus speed by.

  Somewhere, a box truck is lurching down a city street on its way back to the pet shop. And all this – the wind in my feathers, the scent of rain, freedom – would be so sweet if I were on that truck.

  But I’m not.

  I hear a flap of wings and look over, expecting to see a pair of pigeons, but there sits a black bird. A crow. “What do you want?” I growl.

  The crow cocks her head. “Looking for something?”

  “Know where that white box truck went?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies, gazing off past the buildings, the trees.

  “Well, thanks. You can leave now.”

  “But I do know the driver of that truck. Crows always remember a face.”

  A shot of hope. “You know Pete?” I ask, excitedly.

  The crow looks wistful. “I know Pete; my mother knew Pete; my mother’s mother knew Pete. Pete’s face has been handed down five generations—”

  “Can you tell me—”

  “Ever since that acorn in his slingshot. My great-great-great-grandfather – fell down dead, he did. Right into a garbage truck—”

  “That’s nice. Hey, I could use some directions—”

  “Not a bad way to go, I guess. Died like he lived. In a pile of garbage.”

  “Hey!” I shout. The crow’s eyes snap back to me. “I need you to tell me how to get to Pete’s shop! You know where that is?”

  “I do,” she replies, sounding a little sore.

  “Can you show me?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  My patience has shrivelled to a raisin. “FOR PETE’S SAKE, WHY NOT?”

  She points to my left wing. “That right there,” she says. “It’s crooked. And look at those feathers. You can’t fly.”

  “I can fly!” I snap, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks again and beat wildly in my ears.

  “Prove it.”

  “Fine.”

  I’ll fly out over the roof, just in case. (Wouldn’t want any updraughts to catch me and fling me out towards the ocean or anything.)

  I feel the crow’s piercing gaze on my back as I spread my wings. I take a ragged breath.

  Jump.

  Flap-flap—

  BOOM. CRASH.

  Thunder rolls. Lightning flashes.

  Fat raindrops explode on the rooftop and on to my back and head as I tumble head over tail and land in the beginnings of a puddle.

  “Grow some feathers,” the crow says as she takes off towards shelter. “You need ’em.”

  “It was the lightning!” I shout after her.

  I watch the crow become a tiny speck as she soars out over the rooftops. In no time, she blends into the rain and disappears.

  Rain drips off my beak, my back. My shoulders ache; my wing aches. My chest aches – right around the heart area.

  I trudge back in silence. One step after the other.

  Another day, another plan. Another day, another plan. Another day, another plan.

  There’s a long, wet climb down the side of the building, through Bertie’s window, and back to my cage, where I sit at the bottom, head resting against the bars, and stare at the door.

  Bertie returns an hour later with a sack of groceries and Tiger, who’s sporting an enormous yellow cone around his neck.

  “Brings out the colour of your eyes,” I say, finding it hard to put much feeling into it.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he growls as he stalks to the bedroom.

  Clunks and crashes resound from the other room. Bertie walks back to the doorway of the parlour, holding what looks like a piece of meat on a long fork. “Do you know what today is?” she asks me.

  I don’t answer.

  She peeks around the corner and points the meat towards a silver picture frame on the bureau. The picture is of a much younger, prettier Bertie in a sharp wool suit. A
strand of pearls is clasped at her neck, and she holds a small bouquet of violets. Beside her stands a man in uniform, smiling adoringly.

  “It’s our anniversary today,” Bertie says. Her voice grows soft. “Sixty years.”

  She hoists the piece of meat in her hand. “And look what was on sale down at the market! I don’t usually buy roasts – too much food for just me – but sixty years calls for a celebration!”

  Still smarting from my failed escape attempt, I’m in about as far from a celebratory mood as you can get.

  Bertie returns to the kitchen. I hear her slide out the vegetable drawer, pull a knife from the block. I hear her go about the business of stringing up her roast and sniffling her way through the onions. “I think I’ll make some toast to go with that later,” she says to herself. “Everett likes rye toast.” She pops the roast in the oven and sets the timer. The apartment heats quickly.

  Outside, the clouds have rolled back to display a fiery sun. Bertie sets about throwing open more windows, turning on the oscillating fan, and flipping on the TV to an animal documentary I suspect is supposed to be for my enjoyment. She begins a round of phone calls. I hear about Melly’s minestrone and Florence’s lawn flamingos for the second time this week. Bertie’s dentures clack against each other with every word.

  A siren screams past. On the sidewalk, children shout and splash in puddles as a jump rope slaps the pavement and a metronome of feet make time. Another crow heckles Tiger from the tree just outside the window, and he hisses and claws at his cone. A chorus of tree frogs looks on and laughs gaily.

  A fly is caught buzzing at the window. Peas burble on the stove. The oven timer ticks. Plates and forks clank as Bertie sets the table for four. “A place for Alastair, one for Tiger, one for Everett, one for me. It’s a special day, after all.”

  The only silent thing for a square mile is the stupid fish.

  All at once the television blares with grunts and the squealing of pigs as they’re herded into gates. The narrator’s bored voice cuts in. “These hogs who’ve grown up together will now die together. They’ve come full circle – destined for culinary greatness.”

  “Oh dear.”

  I look over to where Bertie has appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on an apron.

  “Look at that,” she says, pointing at the television. “Oh, those poor dears – and here I’ve made a roast. It’s no different for the cows, I suppose.” She looks off to where the roast sits sputtering in the oven. “Well, seems a shame not to admire it, but I suppose we don’t have to eat it. We can have a nice supper enjoying the peas and toast and pleasant conversation.”

  I’m exhausted, angry. The thought of spending an hour as Bertie’s sounding board is making the feathers I’ve got left ache.

  “NO!” I shout in Bertie-talk as she sets me at a place at the table.

  Bertie blinks, startled at my response. “No? Are you upset about the pigs? It’s a shame, I know, but at least they’re with their friends,” she answers.

  Then, without missing a beat, she adds, “That’s what you need, Alastair – friends. Now don’t you worry; I’ve got two people signed up for my new senior social tomorrow. I’m calling it Pop-In for Parrots! That’ll cheer you right up.”

  About as much as a pig to the slaughter.

  Jabberplopky1

  ’Twas suppig and the loppy crogs

  Did cawk and cargle in the trush.

  All grugly were the culinogs,

  And the floxills purflush.

  “Behold the Jabberplop, my bird!

  The jaws that beat, the teeth that grate!

  Behold the Blubblub Bert absurd,

  The garrulous Bladderskate!”

  He snapped his burlsome beak of steel

  To mute this gabwind hag of late –

  Then lingered he by the Mugmug tree,

  And stood awhile in wait.

  And, at the dinsup time, ’twas fate,

  The Jabberplop, with plate of meat,

  Came shobbling through the kitchy gate

  And garbled to its seat!

  Heave, ho! Heave, ho! Now go and go!

  The brawgust beak went snipper-snatch!

  He left its toast; not so the roast –

  He chorked that bovine catch.

  “And hast thou hushed the Jabberplop?

  Spread wide your wings, all brainish birds!

  O tranquous day! Tralloo! Trallay!”

  She, open mouthed, lacked words.

  “You wanna explain that tripe? Or did your roast snatching mess with your birdbrain?” sneers Tiger, long after my “temper tantrum”, as Bertie called it. I call it losing your dang mind.

  “Ahem,” gurgles Humpty Dumpty.

  Tiger gasps. I gasp. Both of us wide-eyed.

  “Ahem,” Humpty Dumpty repeats. “Goldfish can explain all the poems that were ever invented. Kindly repeat for me the first stanza.”

  Astonished but able, I comply.

  ’Twas suppig, and the loppy crogs

  Did cawk and cargle in the trush.

  All grugly were the culinogs,

  And the floxills purflush.

  “That’s enough to begin with,” Humpty Dumpty interrupts. “There are plenty of elementary words there. ‘Suppig’ means four o’clock in the afternoon – the time the great Plopky sits down to supper and begins pigging. ‘Pigging’ is simply a fancy word for eating a great amount.”

  “Uh,” says Tiger. “And ‘loppy’?”

  “Well, ‘loppy’ means loud and happy. You see, it’s like a portmanteau – there are two meanings packed into one word.”

  “Well, aren’t you smart! What are ‘crogs’ then?” Five minutes ago, we’d no idea Humpty could talk – and with a curious British accent at that – and now Tiger’s arguing with him like he’s done it his whole life.

  “Well, ‘crogs’ are the crow and tree frogs just outside and one vociferous hedgehog, which I thought none of you had noticed. It appears I was mistaken, however, for it seems Alastair has noticed. Beastly things, hedgehogs.”

  “What about ‘cawk’ and ‘cargle’? Tell me that,” snaps Tiger.

  “To ‘cawk’ is to caw and talk. To ‘cargle’ is a bit more obtuse. It involves the caroling of frogs but also a gargling sound, which, in addition to their grumbling, hissing and clicking, hedgehogs have been known to make whilst abandoned and living under stairwells. It should also be noted that tree frogs tend to gargle when they forget to swallow and begin singing with their mouths full of drink. They are a forgetful breed.”

  “And the ‘trush’ is the tree-bush outside, I suppose?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “But it’s also the trash can the crow’s eating from,” Tiger adds, making no attempt to hide his disdain.

  “Exactly so. Well then, ‘grugly’ is grunting and ugly (there’s another portmanteau for you). And a ‘culinog’ is one of those hogs on the television – sentenced to their culinary fate.”

  “‘Culinary’ isn’t even a word,” Tiger sneers. “How about ‘floxills’ then? Huh?”

  “Yes, well—” Humpty Dumpty sighs. “The ‘floxsills’ are the flower boxes on the window sills.”

  “Fine!” shouts Tiger. “But there’s no way you can explain ‘purflush!’ Oh – oh! You’re going to flush the kitty down the toilet? Is that it? Flush Tiger down the toilet? I don’t even purr!”

  “It means the flower boxes are flushed in purple colour,” Humpty Dumpty says blandly.

  Tiger stares, his eyes darting from fish to me and back to Humpty again. He’s so completely flustered, an eye twitches.

  Finally, he curls his claws into the carpet. “Watch your back, fish,” he snarls, then turns to me. “Oh, go choke on a pit.”

  Humpty winks at me then. And just like that goes back to being almost dead.

  FROM THE DESK OF ALBERTINA PLOPKY

  My darling Everett,

  Sixty years today, you old dreamboat, you.

  Well, let’s
be honest now.

  You’d find, if you were here, that I haven’t changed a bit. Mostly. I am still the excellent dancer you married and just as svelte as I ever was.

  (Who are you to argue? You always were a little blind.)

  But life does look a lot different now, doesn’t it? Starting with the one black hole of a change that sucked the air out of everything the day you left in your mail truck and never came back. We argued about the colour of your socks that morning. I never imagined I’d be planting tulips on your grave by week’s end. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? Good ones, bad ones.

  The surprises keep rolling in.

  I can say for certain: time sneaks up on you. The days are all sly and quiet. But the years jump out at you and bop you over the head!

  Our son. Henry. I never did think I’d see him as grown as he is, sure didn’t. And my, how he’s turned into you, through and through. Henry may not be as quiet as you were (he gets his feistiness from me), but he’s certainly a grump when he wants to be, a real stick-in-the-mud. He’s a responsible boy, though, works hard, looks out for his mama. You’d be proud of him, Everett. You really would. He sounds just like you too. So much so that my heart’s nearly broke by the time I hang up the phone. As if missing him isn’t enough, I’ve got to miss you, too, each time I talk to him. Oh, and he’s got two beautiful girls, Everett. I wish you could see Henry with them. He’s a wonderful father.

  And here’s another surprise.

  I take no pleasure in admitting it, don’t like to own that I’m wrong, but Henry?

  He was right about the bird.

  This whole kit and caboodle isn’t turning out how I thought it would.

  I guess I thought we’d all get along like peaches and cream. Thought I’d be able to make that sorry bird happy. Well, I’ll be darned if it just isn’t so! When Alastair isn’t making a mess, or sulking, or tearing out his feathers, he’s torturing the cat. He looks just dreadful, Everett. Come Thanksgiving, I’ll have to hide him, he looks so much like a turkey. Just needs gravy.

  He’s such a sad thing, honestly. Always fighting me about something. Earlier, it was about locking his cage before I left. Wasn’t until I pointed out the window and shouted, “Would you look at that! A cherry tree!” that he got distracted long enough for me to latch the door. Silly thing, really. Out of the blue, I remembered Peter mentioning the bird had a taste for cherries. I don’t like fibbing, of course, but in the end, it was all I could do to keep my fingers intact.