Why Do Birds

by Rob Hoerburger

  But then there was the cover version, the big hit remake, from six or seven years ago, by the duo Sib so loathed. Unlike most of their big hits, this one was on the radio after Sib’s hearing had returned, and still the sound of that girl’s voice made her retch. She always lunged for the radio to change the station whenever that version came on, and it was all she could do not to slug anyone in school who teased her about the song.

  Why wouldn’t they just go away, that awful girl and her dorky brother? Sib thought. Then almost as if she’d wished it, after a couple more hits, they basically did; the songs they put out weren’t quite so ubiquitous, not on the radio quite as much, and so they were easier to avoid. Sib did force herself to listen all the way through once to some dopey song they had about Martians or extraterrestrials or something, which came out around the time of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, on Casey Kasem’s show, which was still a Sunday-morning staple in her house, just for a laugh. The song didn’t last long in the countdown. “The public has finally wised up,” Sib thought.

  “Earth to Chiffy, Earth to Chiffy,” Timmy said through a mouthful of Ritz and Snack Mate. “Where are you?”

  “Sorry, must be the secondary smoke,” Sib said. Larry hadn’t lit up his doob in front of her, but its punky aroma was still lingering. Sib figured that Timmy, who couldn’t shovel enough squeeze cheese down now, had taken a few tokes by then, too. “So what have we got so far?”

  Timmy had scribbled down a few potential rhymes. “Love can overgrow. Love can overflow. Love can take you some places you never want to go.”

  “Not bad,” Sib said. “But they feel like the middle. Larry, anything?”

  Larry played a few phrases, by themselves tuneful but all loose, separate strands, none that seemed part of the same fabric. A minor-key triplety riff that had some potential but didn’t lead anywhere. Larry shared Sib’s contention that the reason pop music sucked so much lately was that there weren’t many great women singing, and so the really great songs weren’t being written. But now they were finding out just how hard it was to get started them- selves.

  “What have you got?” Larry said, peering over to the notebook Sib had in her lap, which had a doodle of a cat peering out of the bottom right corner and a few random chord notations: Fmaj7, G6, Dflat9.

  Sib wasn’t ready to talk about her overall strategy yet, but she offered a hint: “Do you know the Carole King chord?” After all of Sib’s research, hours of listening to songs written by women, she had narrowed her list down to Laura Nyro (intense almost to the point of spiritual, but too often unfocused and loopy), Joni Mitchell (poetic and gorgeous but, to Sib’s ears, museum pop) and Jackie DeShannon (really, really close: A long arc of a career, and a song she’d composed in the mid-’70s, “Bette Davis Eyes,” was a huge hit just last year. She’d even written it with another woman. But ultimately DeShannon had too diffuse a style for Sib to draw a bead on). So she ended up in the obvious place when it came to female songwriters: Carole King, the New York City girl (though she was apparently living in Idaho now), who had anonymously written songs for dozens of artists in the ’60s, before scoring her own hits in the ’70s, starting with her monster album, Tapestry. The record came out during the period of Sib’s hearing loss but was still on the charts when her ears woke up. Discovering King’s own recordings, after already knowing so many of her songs by other artists (“One Fine Day,” “I’m Into Something Good,” “Natural Woman” were all in her and Kieran’s personal jukebox) was almost as thrilling to Sib as finding disco, a gift or reward she’d been given for suffering in silence, literally, for more than three years.

  Tapestry ended up staying on the charts until the beginning of 1977, but now, only five years later, no one was talking about Carole King anymore. Reviews of her more recent albums, admittedly mediocre ones, Sib thought, referred to her as “rock’s old lady,” even though she was barely 40. Sib knew that King would never have to write or sing another note, and her place in the pantheon would be set. Same with Mitchell and Nyro and DeShannon.

  “Yeah, sure, I know it,” Larry said. “The tonic over the subdominant or dominant. Or just a 7 or 9 chord. Steely Dan used them all the time. Brian Wilson in ‘Good Vibrations.’ Jazzy. Upper level. Melancholy, tension. No one writes with them much nowadays.”

  “Right, that’s the problem,” Sib said. “Everything’s way too simplified. And electronic.” “And here we are back to our theme, too much of a good thing,”

  Timmy said. “Too much simplicity, too far a swing of the pendulum back the other way, it’s all so . . . reductionist.”

  “Let me walk around a bit,” Sib said, getting up from the couch. “Maybe I’ll run around the block, jog something loose.” But she got only as far as the kitchen, with the image of the Tapestry album cover following her there. A barefoot, frizzy-haired woman, wedding ring, jeans, needlepoint, cat in the window well. The sun not just beaming onto her face through the picture window but seeming to beam from it.

  An unconventional-looking woman perched in the corner of a black-and-white photo, crucifix and Sunday clothes, shard of sun bouncing off her face, perched and ready for something.

  The connection between the images seemed almost too obvious for Sib. But now she was even more sure that she’d picked the right song to analyze, a song from Tapestry. She first thought it would be “You’ve Got a Friend,” which had become King’s signature song, a Grammy winner, a feel-good standard so familiar now it was sung by grade-schoolers. But even though King had written both the music and lyrics, when Sib really thought on the words, she realized that there was something too navel-gazing about them. True, it came from the era of the introspective singer-songwriter. But to Sib the lyric was still way too self-celebrating, all about the singer: Here’s what a good friend, what a good person I am, it was saying.

  Instead, Sib picked another classic from the album, “It’s Too Late.” King wrote it with another woman, Toni Stern, and to Sib there was something deeper than “You’ve Got a Friend” about it. It was a breakup song, as “Poor Little Fool” had been, but this time the woman was leaving, and sounding compassionate and realistic as she was walking out the door. And it inspired the best composing from King on Tapestry: those jazz chords, and a subtle but bountiful melody that spilled out of the song even in the interstitial riffs. In the one music-theory class Sib had taken in college, the professor had said, “You can never have too much melody.” There was the phrase again. “Too much.” There were some things that you could never have too much of. Maybe that’s the rhyme, Sib suddenly thought, or the refrain:

  Melody, harmony, compassion, some things you can never have too much of

  But still you can have too much love.

  Sib, Larry and Timmy might never get anything close to “It’s Too Late,” but it wasn’t a bad model to have, out of style as it might have been. If nothing else, the titles shared a word. Sib leaned over the kitchen counter and scribbled those lines in her notebook.

  When she turned around, there was Larry, almost close enough to pin her to the counter.

  “Is the Formica providing any inspiration?” Larry said.

  “Well, maybe,” Sib said, then threw her arms around Larry’s waist and pulled his face close to her. Maybe it was finally time for this. Or maybe they’d get a few more lyrics out of it. Larry’s shaggy curls brushed against her temples, and his scruff brushed her cheek. Up close Sib could see the beginning of mottled skin, which she’d heard happened to regular pot smokers, but Larry’s lips were full and musical. She went for it.

  Like most first kisses, this one was memorable more for the fact that it happened than for the particulars. Larry had been chewing some gum, so the herb smell was mixed with something minty. His lips were moist, not too hesitant, not too aggressive. Just a little tongue. The mustache bristly but not scratchy.

  When he pulled back, he said, “Well, that was kinda sorta nice.”

  Sib was thinking then of her news-writing class, w
hen she was learning how to write headlines, and composing one in her mind: “Finally Kissed,” and the subhead: “Late-blooming Queens girl, 21, says she ‘didn’t hate it.’ ”

  Sib thought about moving in again but just then Timmy charged into the kitchen. “What’s all this folderol?” he said, with genuine surprise in his voice, as opposed to the mock surprise with which he greeted most everything else in the world. “Method songwriting?”

  Sib released Larry from her clutch for the soft landing to earth. “Watch out, Sweeney, you might be next,” she said. “Now let’s get back to work.”

  26. Queens, N.Y., September 1982

  Andy popped a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter on his kitchen table. He’d gotten behind on his reports. His preoccupation with the woman, with the maybe-singer, had much of his life skidding off the rails lately, as he had yet to see her again. All his research had led him back to the same two places: the Midtown corner where he first spotted her, and the subway platform where he pulled her aside. That was almost four months ago now. And even as he reacquainted himself with her music over the months, there was nothing close to a sighting again. Still, she was taking over his life. Had curiosity crossed over to fascination crossed over to concern crossed over to obsession crossed over to delusion?

  He’d decided he’d try to get her off his mind, and to do that, he’d use the self-denial approach again. But this time instead of going hungry, he tried other methods of moving out of his comfort zone to distract him. He let papers accumulate, strew around his apartment; he went for hours using just one hand, which led to shaving nicks and more than a few stumbles and bumps and bruises. He wore an eye patch, which just made his “good” eye strained and tired. He plugged his ears with cotton balls for a day, which just gave him earaches. He ate foods he hated, like onions and beets, which just gave him gas. He even slept, on non-work nights, in sweats, which to him was like sackcloth that just made him itch and burn and toss and turn all night.

  He smoked a couple of cigarettes. Smoke was something he negotiated all the time, in bars and on the street and in parks and parking lots, and never thought twice about. He almost sought it out. Where there’s cigarette smoke. . . . But when he smoked off-duty, his body seemed to know it was being deliberately, willingly fouled, and so threw him into coughing spasms whenever he inhaled.

  He rented a car and drove on the L.I.E. during rush hour. He removed as much space around him as he could stand.

  And all to no avail. He couldn’t get the woman off his mind. The questions churned in Andy’s mind: Where was she? Was she even still in New York City? Was she even still alive? Was it even her?

  He started to type out some notes.

  OFFICER: Logan

  PRECINCT: Various

  PROJECT: Prevent

  DATE: 9/3/82

  Night surveillance on bicycle around shelter, may have scared potential bad influences on runaways walking nearby. Whistles especially effective. UWS 12 wallets pushed back into pockets. LES Skimmed pebbles against telephone booth where legs were visible, flushed out potential perps.

  FLATBUSH Lingered closing time dispensables solo female young clerk.

  MIDTOWN No sight of possibly famous skinny woman in new

  sneakers.

  Maybe some hair of the dog, Andy thought. He pulled out that Christmas album. Maybe that would shake the hold she had on him, turn his obsession into irritation. Just having to listen to it in September would be enough to irk him; he had always bemoaned to his parents how department and stationery stores started rolling out the Christmas merch right after Labor Day, sometimes sooner. By the time Christmas came around, you almost weren’t seeing it, weren’t feeling it anymore, couldn’t smell the pine or hear the carols anymore, were already looking at store displays of suntan lotion. And this album wasn’t even Christmas music that Andy especially liked.

  But when he started to play it, all it did was make him think about the woman, the singer, more, because this time the experience was truly like a horror movie to him: not just the encroaching death in her voice, but the ghoulishly sweet, old-timey choirs, the overreaching arrangements, cutesy woodwinds lying in wait, strings shrieking, rivers of syrup everywhere.

  He fell into a deeper funk; if this record could not purge her, could not exorcise her from his mind, nothing could.

  It didn’t.

  Maybe he’d try another letter. He pulled the police-report notes out of the typewriter and put in a new sheet. He started this letter to her the same way he had the last one:

  Dear _____,

  I know this may sound strange, but were you in New York in May? Did you get stopped by a _____?

  It still sounded ridiculous, even more so now because months had passed. He tried again:

  Dear _____,

  I’ve been a fan of yours since I was 14 years old. I remember the day I bought your first big hit. . . .

  No, he couldn’t go there, either. He’d held his experience from that day with the boy in the booth inside, kept it just between them all these years. And anyway this letter wasn’t supposed to be about him or them; it was supposed to be a note of concern, a song of concern, for the woman. He’d keep it simple:

  Dear _____,

  Please sing out again. Sing low and sing strong and sing full. Sing through your phrases the way you used to.

  But that was about him again. Who’s to say he was right about her voice? Maybe she liked it better that way, lighter, softer, subtler. Weaker, is what Andy would say, but that was just his opinion. The Christmas album had been a big hit, their first substantial one in a few years, her and the brother’s only substantial one in the second half of the ’70s, and it had sold well every holiday season since it came out, so obviously the fans liked her voice this way, too. Maybe he was just wrong. Maybe this was the way she’d always wanted to sing. Or maybe there was even part of her that didn’t want to sing at all. Andy felt selfish, and guilty, for wanting her to get better just so that she’d go back to sounding the way he liked.

  Dear _____,

  Please eat.

  Better, but still not enough, he thought. She must have been hearing that a lot from everyone around, including other fans, if she’d been starving herself for as long as Andy suspected she had. Hearing it from some stranger probably wasn’t going to have any effect.

  Dear ______,

  Please live.

  He took that one out of the typewriter, signed it, “Your friend, Andy,” and sent it to the fan-club address on the album covers, with just his street and city and zip, not his full name, in the return address corner. He didn’t expect to hear back, but two weeks later, an 8-by-10 manila envelope arrived (addressed just to “Andy”), marked, “Photo, Do Not Bend.” The black-and-white picture inside was recent, and heavily airbrushed, with a stamped signature, “Best Wishes, ____ & ______.” But no amount of retouching could disguise how thin the singer looked, or the hollowness in her eyes.

  Still, Andy got a frame and put the picture up on his living-room wall. If nothing else, he figured, it would give him some inspiration. He wasn’t sure what kind of inspiration — to pray, maybe? Since that weekend in the seminary, his prayer schedule had been inconsistent. Our Fathers and Hail Marys on the run, an occasional Rosary. Or maybe it was just a way of sending out a vibe to her, wherever she really was, to let her know that somebody still cared.

  27. New York City, Fall 1982

  Say yes to everything. Was it as simple as that?

  Thanksgiving was around the corner. The holidays. Her favorite time of year. Her deadline for getting well. And yet, just after the family session, a few weeks ago, she was at her lowest weight, 79 pounds. Even she admitted that this was a serious problem. Tests were ordered, and her potassium was found to be low, which surprised her because she was always nibbling on bananas. This wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

  She was admitted to the hospital, only a few blocks from the park. Autumn in New York. The best time to be there,
air cool and fresh and crackling, drained of its sludgy, sooty humidity, Central Park alive in living color. She could almost see it from the window in her room. When they lived back east, she liked autumn because she could wear sweaters and sweatshirts, just more clothes in general, and not actually sweat. Her chubbiness wouldn’t be as obvious, she always thought. Then after they moved to California, where it was always warm, you wore less and people saw more.

  The IV was put in, and after a few days the electrolytes and hydration normalized. While she was there, she asked, what about that other procedure?

  She had to make things right with her family. The session with them and the therapist had not gone especially well. But then, what did she expect? That when they got out of the car from the airport, they’d feel anything different? That they’d take one look at her and wouldn’t have the blood drain from their faces? 79 pounds! That the mother wouldn’t say one more time, come home, roll up your sleeves and eat? That’s how everything had always worked in their lives. That’s how the country won the war, the mother said. Hard work and sacrifice. That’s how we afforded all those instruments and music lessons. That’s how you got a hit record. None of this fancy therapist and fancy city, the “Uptown East.”

  The therapist had called the mother by her first name during the session. The mother said, “Call me Mrs. _____.”

  Tell her you love her, the therapist said. That’s not how we do things, the mother said. And besides, she knows we love her. She doesn’t need to hear it.

  The brother just looked angry. Especially when the doctor said that someday she might not want to sing anymore.

  Hyper something.... That’s what it was called. They just inject the calories, the pounds, the flesh right back into you. She remembered that episode from The Mary Tyler Moore Show, when the Rhoda character eats a piece of chocolate and says she should just apply it directly to her hips. Well, that’s what this procedure would do. In her case, she was actually having the hips themselves applied, or reapplied. Or like that old line about having a weight lifted off your shoulders. Only she was having a weight put back on, though with the same dizzying relief.