Call Me Alastair

by Cory Leonardo

  Then this evening, I made us a special supper, and oh, that bird! First, he argued with me. Told me no just like a toddler! Then, when we sat down to dinner, what did he do? He forked his beak into that piping-hot roast and chucked it right off the table – like he was making some kind of statement! I was none too happy, mind you, but the whole thing was so astonishing I had to ask myself if you were up there playing a trick on me.

  (You never did get me back for the time I put whipped cream in your postal cap, did you?)

  Oh, I miss you, Everett. I’ll never stop hating the fact that you’re gone. I needed you in this life. Remember how I called you strong and silent as a mountain? Remember how you’d say I was dogged as a dandelion?

  It’s because I had you. You were my Everest, my firm ground. A root doesn’t hold without something to hold on to. That was you. Without you, well, let’s just say there’s a little less pluck, a little less fight.

  Sometimes, a wee breeze seems enough to blow me right away.

  Who would have thunk it.

  Happy sixty years, my love.

  Always and for ever,

  Your Bertie

  1. Another regurgitation. Here follows a conversation strangely reminiscent of one I ate in my old Norton. Inspired by Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” and an excerpt from Through the Looking Glass, Chapter VI.

  CHAPTER 21

  The unexpected creeps up on you. One moment it’s silent in the shadows (or the enigmatic depths of a fishbowl), and the next moment it explodes on the stage, throws you a curveball. You can’t predict where lightning will strike – or when a goldfish will explain your poetry with perfect clarity.

  Life is weird. Unexpected. Surprising. You never know what’s around the corner. It could be Fritz standing in the shop’s doorway, preventing your escape and foiling all your plans.

  Or it could be his knee.

  And your sister.

  The next day, as Bertie and I push through the tall, oak doors of the Shirley River Community Centre, my travel cage runs smack-dab into Fritz’s kneecap.

  I’d know his smell anywhere.

  “Sufferin’ sciatica!” he squeals as he jumps on one foot, holding his knee with one hand and a leash with the other. Aggie, wearing a small harness attached to the leash, flaps her wings, frantically trying to stay perched on Fritz’s shoulder.

  “Oh, oh my,” says Bertie, feeling for her glasses, her brow knitted in concern.

  Fritz stops hopping. “Oh, no – this is great!” he says, a large cheesy smile pasted on his face. “I can finally wear that knee brace I bought last year!”

  “Oh!” exclaims Bertie. She squints as she reaches out and brushes a few cheese-curl crumbs from his shirt. “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

  “I’m all right!” chirps Fritz. He steps back and raises an eyebrow. “Hey,” he says slowly. “Don’t I know you? Mrs Plopky, isn’t it?” Fritz bends over and retrieves Bertie’s glasses from the tile floor. “It’s me, Fritz! From Pete’s Pet (and Parrot!) Shack, remember?”

  “Oh, Fritz!” Bertie adjusts her glasses. They sit crookedly on the bridge of her nose. She peers at him. “Yes, I do remember you! How are you, dear? And here’s your parrot friend! Yes, yes, of course – you’re the young man who convinced me to buy my Alastair.”

  She lifts my cage so it’s eye level with Fritz and Aggie, and my heart explodes a little bit.

  “Leapin’ lockjaw,” murmurs Fritz. “There’s your brother, Aggie.”

  “Alastair!” Aggie squeals.

  “You here for this?” Fritz thrusts a flyer in Bertie’s face, and she steps back to read it.

  “Why that’s an old Polka with Pets flyer!”

  Fritz nods. “My sister, Fiona, gave it to me. I told her I was interested in making a programme for kids and emotional support pets at my school. I was just checking out this senior citizen one for ideas. No one’s here yet, though.”

  “Well, I am,” says Bertie. “It’s my class.”

  Fritz’s eyes get big. “Then I have a million questions to ask you.”

  Fritz and Aggie follow us into a small gymnasium draped in sagging crepe paper and a few wilted balloons. A circle of metal folding chairs is convened on the stage.

  Bertie sets my cage on its own folding chair and Fritz props Aggie on the chair back. I’m dizzy. Overcome. I feel like I’ve been thrown against the wall again – but in a good way.

  Aggie is beaming and shivering with excitement. “How are you?” she shrieks. “Oh, I’ve missed you! Oh, look at your feathers! What happened? Mites? Do you love your new family? Oh Mylanta! I can’t believe you’re here!”

  Aggie’s apparently picked up some Fritz phraseology.

  While Fritz peppers Bertie with questions, Aggie and I spend a frantic hour trying to catch up over the sound of a work crew installing a new wood floor.

  “Bertie bought me the day—”

  Bang.

  “She’s got a hideous cat named—”

  Bang.

  “Now we can come up with a plan to—”

  Bang. Bang. BANG.

  I’m in quite the mood by the time Bertie and I return to the apartment later that day. The elation I felt at seeing my sister has cooled to a temper. Though Fritz convinced Bertie to join him for a burger at a crowded, noisy Burger Den afterward, Aggie and I swapped only snippets of conversation across the booth. That was before Fritz buried my cage under his research articles, completely cutting me off from my sister.

  Typical.

  Worse, I still have absolutely no idea where Aggie is or where she lives.

  Bertie deposits me on top of my cage, but I climb down the bars, shove inside and stalk to the corner, tugging at my feathers as I go.

  “Oh dear,” says Bertie. “Something’s wrong. You’re messing with those feathers again.”

  “You’re dang right something’s wrong!” I answer. (It comes out more like SQUAWK.)

  Bertie frowns. “I know you’re disappointed those other folks didn’t show, but at least we had Fritz and Aggie! The others will be there next time – I’m sure of it.” She makes her way to the bedroom. “I think somebody needs some cheering up.”

  “NO,” I shout. “SQUAWKITY SQUAWK. BAD TIGER. SQUAWK.” Translation: I don’t want cheering up! I’m tired – tired after seeing Aggie today and then watching Fritz take her away again, tired after yesterday’s flying failure and this useless wing! And that’s not all! Your cat is abominable! I’m tired of him, too! Waking me up four times a night so he can get let out to lick himself – haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks! And yes, I may have picked a feather or two since. So what? Other birds have done so in less distressing circumstances!

  (By the way, retaliation for Tiger has been an aerial assault. I’ve managed to dump four bowls of food, thirteen dishes of water, and one well-aimed dropping on his head. You take what you can get.)

  “And another thing—”

  Bertie crashes into the room, wheels around, and strikes a pose. I stop mid-squawk.

  Paper fan in hand, feathers wrapped around her neck and trailing behind her, Bertie has a slipper on one foot and a bandage on the other where she stubbed her toe letting Tiger out last night. She shimmies towards the record player, selects an album, and slides the needle in place. A volley of trumpets, snare drums, and the nasal voices of the Andrews Sisters surge into the room. Bertie turns in circles, wiggles, jiggles.

  “It’s therapeutic, Alastair! Brings out the endorphins!” she shouts over the noise. “Fritz talking about how pets and different things can help people feel better – why, it made me think of the things that make me happy! Like dancing!” She twirls and nearly trips over the footstall and cracks a hip into the bureau. “You should try it!”

  “I’ll pass,” I squawk.

  “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me, with anyone else but me, with anyone else but meeeeeee…” Bertie sings into the television remote, bangs into the lamp, and knocks of
f its shade. It promptly lands on the cat, who runs off yowling.

  I’d tell her that if she’d go ahead and open her eyes, maybe she could see where she was dancing, but I’m not sure it matters. She looks … ridiculous.

  I feel a smile threatening to form but wipe it away.

  I’m still mad.

  “Come on, shake your tail feathers!” Bertie stops wiggling to look at me and puts her hands on her hips. “No? Not in the mood? Dancing not your thing?”

  “Have you noticed my tail feathers lately?” I squawk, showing her my rump. “Yeah, me either. Because they’re gone.”

  I’ve uttered nothing remotely close to Bertie-language, but Bertie seems to understand.

  “Have it your way,” she says a little sadly. “Don’t know what you said, but it didn’t sound good.” She turns off the record player and shuffles back to the kitchen. “Maybe another time.”

  The sound of bowls and dishes being plucked from the cupboard and set on the table echoes through the apartment. Bertie grabs a bag from the refrigerator, and I spy a burst of scarlet.

  “We need something to make us all feel better. Maybe some baking therapy’ll work,” I hear her say to herself. She calls over to me. “I’m going to make something special for dessert! Just you wait! It’ll be a surprise!”

  Just then Tiger slinks back into the front room and up to my cage. “Surprise!” he says. “It’s parrot pie!”

  I dump a bowl of birdseed on him.

  Bertie looks in at the noise of a million seeds skittering across the floor. “Again? Ooh! You two!” She grabs the cat, stomps to the fire escape, plunks him outside, and slams the window. The tip of Tiger’s tail gets caught under the frame, and he lets out a spectacular yowl.

  Bertie: 1. Tiger: 0.

  “Serves you right!” Bertie shouts. “You’re in time-out!”

  She marches back to my cage. “I’m going to forgive you for that shenanigan,” she says, shaking a spoon at me. “Besides. Don’t need to put you in time-out, do I? You do it yourself.”

  Bertie wades through the sea of birdseed towards her bedroom. “Now, I’m going to have my nap before I clean this mess and finish my cherry crumble. Stay in there and behave yourself!” she calls out to me.

  At her suggestion I decide to get out and stretch my legs.

  This Is Just to Say1

  I have sampled

  the cherries

  you abandoned

  on the table

  the ones

  I think you

  intended

  for a pie

  Beg your pardon

  they had pits

  I left those

  in the bowl

  Medical Log, April 18

  •Age: 12 years 9 months

  •Weight: 55.7 kg

  •Height: 135.2 cm (I grew!)

  •Current status: Flushed, respiration high, contusion on knee (currently braced), AND found a wart on my big toe yesterday (same toe as the ingrown toenail)!

  You won’t even believe it. Guess who I found today?

  Alastair!

  A long time ago an old lady came into the shop. I was scared that day. I thought she was going to buy Aggie because she was looking to get a bird for a pet.

  Well, it’s the same lady who bought Alastair! She’s had him the whole time. (I don’t know why Pete told me a circus clown bought him.)

  Me and Aggie were going to this sort of class for old people and animals today – I thought it was going to be like one of the pet therapy places I’ve been reading about – and we bumped right into them. It was Mrs Plopky’s class. She was really interested in hearing about all the research I did. I showed her all my articles.

  I told her animals can help kids in lots of ways at school. You can use them to help teach lessons because a kid will stay really interested if an animal’s your teacher. Animals make you feel good just petting or feeding them, and they can help kids feel happier when they’re sad or stressed.

  Mrs Plopky liked hearing about it so much we ended up going out to Burger Den to talk more. She bought me two Big Bear burgers, fries, a milkshake and a side of Grizzly grits. We talked for two whole hours.

  She told me all about having Alastair as a pet. I told her about Aggie.

  We talked about our medical conditions. I prescribed a castor oil treatment for her corns.

  I told her about James making fun of me last week for taking out another mental health book from the library, and how he told some of the ninth graders on our bus yesterday that I wore nervous system pyjamas when he slept over once. (That was years ago, and I loved those pyjamas. They were really lifelike – right down to the dendrites.) When the kids laughed, he told them about my Halloween costume too.

  “So what if you dressed like a kidney for Halloween?” Mrs Plopky told me. “I don’t think wearing a bedsheet is anything to write home about!”

  I had to laugh then because James actually was a ghost that year, and my costume was pretty amazing. I even figured out how to squirt yellow mustard out of it.

  We talked about Grandpa Bud, too. I told Mrs Plopky how we used to put grape jelly on everything. About how we played checkers and I always beat him. About him quizzing me on my flash cards. I even told her about the medical charts and how Grandpa used to let me take his vital signs and log them just like a real doctor does.

  I wanted to tell her the rest of it, but I didn’t.

  Signed: Dr F. F. Feldman, MD

  1. You might have thought this poem was “This Is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams.

  It’s not.

  It’s only a tribute. Call it “This Is Just to Say … à la Alastair.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “So this here’s my new bike, Mrs Plopky!” Fritz had said, working the lock and freeing his bicycle from the rack outside the community centre a week later. He jangled the bell, a bell as loud and obnoxious as its owner.

  “See, it’s got a sweet bell, and this basket here in back opens and shuts – and the best part: a perch right up here by the handlebars for Aggie.” Sure enough, a wooden perch and small harness were clasped to the bars.

  “That is a lovely bicycle!” Bertie exclaimed. “And a perch, too! You’ve thought of everything.”

  “I bought it because I just got two paper routes,” said Fritz. “Every morning at six a.m. I’m delivering news to all the people of Banks and Poplar Streets, and over on the other side of town, on Cherry Tree Lane, that old-folks’ home – the Prickly Pines? I deliver papers to almost every room. Old people really love their newspapers.”

  Bertie whooped and a squirrel fell out of the maple tree behind her. “Fritz! I live on Poplar! Eighth block. Brick apartment building with all the flower boxes.”

  “I know just the one!” said Fritz. “I know it because that place is good for my blood pressure. Gotta climb four flights of steps. I deliver to twenty-four people in that building.”

  “Me included,” said Bertie. “Apartment 216. One of these days, I’ll scoot you inside for a mug of tea.”

  Fritz frowned. “I don’t know. People can be awfully particular about getting their newspaper on time.”

  “Oh, well.” Bertie reached up to pat her hair and sighed as she found a curler still stuck to her head. “We’ll figure out a time. You can bring Aggie. I’m sure that would cheer Alastair right up.”

  “I will – I promise! Plus, you can help me with my gerontology research,” Fritz added.

  “Whatever you say, dear.”

  That was the conversation.

  A lesser bird might have thought nothing of it. But let’s not forget:

  I am not a lesser bird.

  Here’s the thing. I appreciate Bertie’s parrot school. I’m grateful for the poetry. And I was pleasantly surprised at Bertie’s reaction to the cherry stealing. (All she said when she found me sitting in my cage looking as guiltless as possible was, “So much for my pie. Did you enjoy them, at least?” To which I squawked, “Maybe.” And sh
e said, “At least you cleaned up after yourself.”)

  It could’ve gone worse.

  But much as I’m beginning to – well, “like” is such a strong word, so – tolerate Bertie, there’s still this problem of my sister. The problem being: my sister lives with Fritz; she does not live with me, doesn’t live in the palm in Key West. That is the ever-loving problem, and one that must be remedied. For good.

  In the week since that conversation, a plan’s begun to hatch. I’ve been waking before the sun, earlier each day. Finally, two days ago, I woke early enough to hear the ring of Fritz’s bicycle bell.

  (Of course he rings it at six in the morning.)

  It breaks into the sleepy quiet, cutting short the twittering of birds and causing dogs in the surrounding yards to bark. I’ve listened. I’ve counted minutes, seconds.

  By my clock, Fritz spends exactly sixteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds delivering papers to the four floors in our building (and more like nineteen minutes when he drops a bag of newspapers down the stairwell – an amusingly long racket) before he’s back on his bicycle, bell sounding all the way down the street at even intervals. (One can only assume he must ring it with each paper he throws.)

  Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

  Operation Aggie:

  Step 1. Night before my extrication, prove difficult to cage (try biting, hiding out of reach, et cetera). Bertie will eventually give up and go to bed.

  Step 2. Before dawn, emerge from hiding spot and remove to space behind window curtain. Wait for Fritz’s bike bell to sound below window (approximate time: 6:26 a.m.).

  Step 3. Growl. If Tiger’s in deep enough sleep, he won’t be affected. Plan can continue.

  Step 4. Meow.

  Step 5. Hidden by the curtain, wait for half-asleep Bertie to “let the cat out” (i.e., open fire escape window).

  Step 6. Escape out said window like your tail feathers are on fire.