Beyond the Laughing Sky

by Michelle Cuevas

“A little glue,” said his father. “A little Styrofoam, a little wood, almost like new.”

  “Can’t wait to fly it,” Nashville lied. He took the plane back to his room and hid it away in the toy chest. He didn’t want Magnolia to see the plane and suffer any post-traumatic stress. Nashville couldn’t bear to fly it anyhow. He already had one bird injury on his conscience, and no interest in another.

  The plane had, however, given him an interesting idea.

  “What do you think?” he asked Magnolia. He held up a sketch on paper.

  “See here,” explained Nashville. “I could build you a new wing.”

  The bird turned her head to one side. Then the other. She looked at the pencil sketch of a wing with feathers sewn onto it, along with a leather strap. She looked from every angle just to be sure she understood the plan.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” said Nashville. And so he went to work shaping the frame of light wood and Styrofoam left over from the great plane rebuilding. He recruited Junebug to collect feathers outside.

  “For what?” she asked.

  “No questions,” answered Nashville. “But I’ll give you a penny per feather.”

  “Make it a nickel,” said Junebug, walking out the door to hunt for fallen feathers.

  Magnolia had been recuperating for several weeks in the fort, and it had been near impossible to keep it from Junebug. Nashville wasn’t even sure why he was—maybe a mixture of guilt and wanting the bird all to himself.

  After Junebug returned with a handful of feathers, and left with a pocketful of nickels, Nashville did the hardest work of all—hand sewing each feather onto the leather wing he’d cut out while she was gone. It was a challenge, and he had to use all his books and knowledge of which type of feathers went where, and how each played a special role in lifting and soaring and gliding on the wind. However, it was all worth it, for when he had finished, the wing was truly a work of art.

  Nashville placed the small wing on the floor of the fort. Magnolia hopped around and around it, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “Do you like it?” asked Nashville. “Do you think I could fit it onto you?”

  Magnolia seemed to understand, and stood perfectly still like she was being measured for a suit at the tailor. Nashville slid the strap around her waist and back, and attached it to the base of her unusable wing.

  “Go ahead, try it out,” Nashville prodded.

  Magnolia moved the wing about a bit, but took several tries before the muscle at the base of her old wing adjusted to the new addition. She moved it on its own, then many times in succession with her good wing. She moved them faster and faster, beginning to hop about.

  “Not too bad,” said Nashville. “Not too bad at all.”

  Nashville lifted her to the windowsill, thinking she’d be thrilled to get out into the sky and try out the wings.

  “Here you go,” he said gently, placing her on the ledge.

  But Magnolia was not exactly thrilled. Instead, she shuddered and backed away, tweeting and crying out until Nashville helped her back to the floor.

  “Hmm,” said Nashville. He inspected the wing, looking at it from every angle, checking and double-checking his calculations.

  “Magnolia,” he said. “We’re pretty good friends by now, right? Well, can you just take my word? I promise you this wing will work.”

  Magnolia looked at him. He was, as usual, having trouble reading her reaction.

  “Trust me,” said Nashville.

  He lifted the tiny bird in his hands and brought her over to the window once again. This time Magnolia did not struggle or strain, she merely kept her eyes on Nashville.

  And so, without fanfare or ado, Nashville tossed Magnolia into the air as if he were a parent at the pool teaching his child to swim. Magnolia faltered for a moment, pausing in the air like a cartoon character run off a cliff, but quickly it all came back to her. She flapped once, twice, and suddenly the little bird was flying.

  “It worked,” said Nashville. “It’s actually working!”

  The little bird chirped and flew around the pecan tree. So excited was she, so thrilled to be in the air, it seemed she had forgotten all about the injury. Her wings kept on flapping, and Magnolia kept on flying around the tree.

  Finally, she stopped and landed on the edge of the window where she and Nashville had sat so many times gazing at the world beyond.

  Nashville bowed. He blew Magnolia a kiss.

  And the little bird, well, she flew on out into the cinnamon air, so sweet.

  After she left, Nashville looked down at the drawings of the wing he had built. A wing is certainly a powerful thing, but without flight, it loses its magic like a wand without a magician. No Alakazam or Alakazoo. No Bibbidi, Bobbidi, or Boo. If only, Nashville thought, staring at his invention. If only I had wings big enough for me . . .

  The days of fall stretched on, as did the afternoons in Miss Starling’s classroom at school. Nashville waited each day for the short time after lunch when the class was allowed to get outside the walls of school and into the fresh, clean air.

  At the edge of the kickball field stood a tree. It was green and perfect, the lowest branches lining up in a way that seemed custom-made for climbing. And so Nashville did just that. Once he was lost in the foliage, he closed his eyes and imagined he was home, not just at recess, and he didn’t have to try to be a regular student when everyone knew he wasn’t.

  Soon, a little brown bird landed on the branch beside him, and was quickly joined by several others. Not wanting to be rude, Nashville tried to strike up a conversation.

  “So,” he asked, “do you by any chance know a bird named Magnolia? She was a good friend, and I find it a bit curious that she hasn’t written a postcard.”

  The birds only stared.

  “Never mind,” Nashville continued. “So, were you originally hatched here, or do you come from someplace else?”

  The birds stopped staring and went back to their preening.

  “Do you think,” Nashville said, continuing his one-way conversation, “that you could fly around the world so fast, you could relive your favorite day? Also, do you think wind is fast-moving air, or something moving through air? Also, when you are flying and you have to . . . you know . . . do you ever aim for certain people’s heads?”

  The birds did not reply. And so, to fill the quiet on the branch between them, Nashville began to whistle.

  Whistling. Nashville had always loved this simple act, and had never taken the value of it for granted. Whistling, like cake, was almost exclusively reserved for times of happiness and relaxation—for drawing joy (and dogs) a little bit closer. One never whistled to deter something or because work was just too hard. No, the whistle was pure sunshine through the lips in every regard.

  So on that day, with the birds on his branch, Nashville whistled what he hoped was a joyful tune. To his delight, the birds joined along.

  Zay-zay-zay-zoo-zee, sang the first little bird.

  Tika-tika-swee-chay-chay, sang the second.

  Cheerup-cheerup-cheerily, sang the third

  And so, Nashville and the birds found a way to converse.

  Zay-zay-zay-zoo-zee

  Just some birds singin’ in a tree

  Tika-tika-swee-chay-chay

  Gonna sing all night, sing all day

  Cheerup-cheerup-cheerily

  Gonna sing far and nearily

  Wheet-wheet-wheet-eo

  Gonna sing so nice and sweet-eo

  Seebit-seebit-see-see-see

  Zee-zee-zee-zoo-zee

  Chick-chick-chickadee

  Nashville thought that if someone heard the birds from outside it would seem, once again, as if a tree were singing. But what would this tree sing about? Perhaps, like most, the tree would sing of the wishes she had trouble putting into words. Maybe the
tree dreamed of lifting her roots and dancing. Maybe she dreamed of mossy slippers, and each leaf of her tutu buoying her as she spun in a pirouette. When she finished, she would curtsy to Nashville.

  “Thank you,” the tree would say.

  “Any time,” he would reply as the other trees fluttered their leaves in applause.

  Nashville’s daydream was suddenly shattered when the birds stopped singing and exploded from the tree, leaves and feathers flying. Something had alarmed them. Something had made them flee. When Nashville looked down, he realized he was no longer alone.

  Below the tree stood a group of boys from Nashville’s class.

  “Who are you talking to up there?” asked Finnes Fowl, a freckle-faced boy.

  Nashville did not reply, only began climbing down the branches, more deftly and quickly than the other students had ever seen anyone exit a tree.

  “Was that your flock?” asked Finnes, the others laughing along.

  Nashville reached the ground and stood with his back to the tree.

  “Well actually,” he said, “not all groups of birds are called flocks. It’s a common mistake.”

  The boys raised their eyebrows in unison at the unexpected reply.

  “A flock, a gaggle,” continued Nashville. “Those are the words for birds that most folks know. But some are surprising, and pretty perfect. A bouquet of pheasants for example.” He paused to think. “Oh yes, a caldron of raptors! That one’s swell. A charm of hummingbirds. An exaltation of larks. A parliament of owls.” He said each name reverently like a spell. “A murder of crows.”

  “You’re weird,” said Finnes loudly when Nashville had finished. The students all looked at one another and laughed nervously. All except one large boy, whose name Nashville did not know.

  “Really,” asked the large boy with his forehead creased in thought. “Are they really called a murder of crows?”

  “Yes,” said Nashville. “I have a book you could borrow.”

  The large boy was about to reply when Finnes interrupted and pushed him aside.

  “So, do you actually think your parents were birds?”

  “I don’t think it,” replied Nashville. “I know it. I have the egg I hatched from at my house. It’s cornflower blue with mahogany spots that look like continents.”

  “Yuck,” said a boy in the back of the group.

  “Gross,” said another.

  “You know what I think?” continued Finnes. “I think you’re a liar. I think you’re a little lying weirdo and you didn’t hatch from no egg, and your parents weren’t no dumb birds. These probably aren’t even real.”

  And before Nashville knew what was happening, Finnes pushed him against the tree, pinned his chest, and plucked a feather from his head.

  “Ouch,” whispered Nashville, rubbing his scalp.

  “Whoa,” said Finnes backing away, dropping the feather like it was on fire. “You really do have feathers.”

  The recess bell rang and, after one last look, the other students ran toward the entrance to the school. Nashville hung back for a moment. He considered climbing back up the tree and hiding all day. But finally he sighed, picked up his lost feather from the ground, and made his way back to class.

  The first thought Nashville had as he left school that day was a daydream about finding a tree on the playground tall enough to let him hide behind the clouds and avoid the boys at school.

  The second thought he had was that it would be better to never go back to school at all.

  And the third thought he had was just one word, so lovely he dare not even speak it. Instead, he wrote it on a small slip of paper.

  The word was Wings.

  He stared at it for a while. Wings. He imagined the W looked like two bird wings itself, and the rest of the word was in flight, singing along behind it. Finally, not knowing what else to do, he folded the paper, went to the library, and handed it to the librarian.

  “Hmm,” said the old librarian, pushing up her thick glasses. “Wings.” She walked slowly, slowly through the stacks, picking books off the shelves and handing them to Nashville.

  “Wings,” she repeated. “Wings, wings.”

  Nashville stayed there all morning reading his way down the stack of books. He learned that bird wings evolved in two ways, that preflight birds were hopping a lot, up into the air to catch and grab things, or away from predators. They were also leaping from tree to tree. Eventually, after many, many, many years of all this hopping and leaping, birds were able to fly. But that was just the scientific answer.

  The librarian had also given Nashville other books. Prettier books. Books full of poems and feathers.

  Nashville only knew he liked the poems. He understood the poems. He loved the sound when he read Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul. And I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable; I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. Poetically speaking, Nashville realized, wings started with a desire. The pre-wing birds wanted things; they wanted the tops of trees, or the cloudless skies, or the stars. Who could really be sure?

  So Nashville figured he was already on his way, since he certainly had the desire to fly, and hope, and somewhere in him a very barbaric yawp. So now all he needed were the actual materials and tools. Using Magnolia’s wing for inspiration, Nashville made a trip to the Goosepimple Curiosity Shop on his way home from the library.

  “To help you find what you need,” said the wart-nosed proprietor, “I need to know what you’re building.”

  “Oh, you know,” said Nashville, not wanting to divulge his plan, “a device. A doohickey. A doodad.”

  “Eh?” said the owner.

  “An apparatus, a gadget, a gizmo. A thingamajig. A whatchamacallit.”

  “Ah,” said the owner finally. “An invention.”

  Like the librarian, the curiosity shop proprietor walked down the aisles of his shop, poking and pulling items off dusty shelves. Nashville followed at a safe distance as the owner handed him various items: an umbrella, a ship sail, shoelaces, and a hat rack made from bamboo. He handed him a teapot, and one captain’s wheel. Nashville teetered to the register with the items.

  “Perfect,” he said. “Just what I was looking for.”

  “So,” asked Nashville’s father at dinner, “tell us what’s been happening at school?”

  Nashville was glad when Junebug began prattling about every detail of her day—about the girl with the koala backpack, the pudding fight at lunch, and the freshly painted hopscotch lines on the playground. This gave Nashville time to think of something to say, since he definitely couldn’t tell them about the boys on the playground. It was just the kind of thing his mother—or even worse, Junebug—would show up at his school, and make a big stink about.

  “And what about you, Nashville?” asked his mother. “Anything fun happening in your class?”

  “Well,” said Nashville, thinking, “I’ve been working on this assignment we got.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear her ask if anything fun was happening,” said Junebug, crinkling her nose.

  “Our teacher,” continued Nashville, “Miss Starling, had us each think of a question. And so everyone sat, tapping their feet and pencils, thinking of questions, getting ready to put them into a box. Once they were inside everyone wondered what they said, buzzing there like a box full of bees.”

  “So what was the assignment?” asked Nashville’s father.

  “Our assignment,” explained Nashville, “is to answer our own question.”

  “How interesting,” said his mother. “And what was your question?”

  “My question,” said Nashville, “is a secret.” He paused. “Well, a secret until I figure out the answer.”

  “Oh . . .” said his mother. “And? Do you think you’ll be able to answer it?” she asked softly.

  “Maybe,
” replied Nashville. “Yes. I think maybe I’ll be able to answer it soon.”

  After dinner, Nashville hurried upstairs to begin work on his wings.

  First, he took out his suitcase of feathers. A whole suitcase! Yes, Junebug had proven to be quite the hunter, and Nashville had exchanged nearly his entire piggy bank for the haul of feathers she’d brought him.

  Next, he started working on the coat hangers, reshaping the wires until they looked like the skeleton of a bird’s wings. He held them against a large, flat piece of leather, and traced the outline. He cut the pieces of leather and some scraps of an old ship’s sail into pieces, each fitting into the skeleton, making them resemble bat wings. But they weren’t supposed to be bat wings, they were to be bird wings, and for that he’d have to figure out the feathers, and this would be the hardest part.

  Feathers, Nashville knew, were more complicated than most folks realized.

  “I wonder . . .” Nashville said to the feathers as he emptied the suitcase. “I wonder if you were sad when you fell to the ground. I wonder if you ever thought you’d have a chance to fly again.”

  The next day was saturday, so Nashville rode his bicycle down the hill to what he referred to as his part-time job. This was putting it a bit loftily, since old Mrs. Craw, the tiny but fierce owner of the pet shop, didn’t exactly pay him. She did, however, allow him to play with the animals and birds, which she claimed he had “a real way with” due to his “unique” looks. Nashville liked the job and figured it was one place he blended in just fine.

  That afternoon, like most afternoons, Mrs. Craw left Nashville to watch the shop while she went and played canasta.

  “You’re in charge,” she told him as she left. “I have some imperative vocational commerce in town.” Mrs. Craw was fond of words that were twice her size.

  Nashville liked being alone in the shop. He liked the smell of cedar, and the sound the mice made when they sipped their water bottle. He liked the softness of puppy ears, and the NO FISHING sign in the fish tank. He especially liked the birds—the exotic, bright birds, bopping like jesters in a royal court.