The Aviary (2 page)

Ruby rose and looked out the kitchen window. “Sky’s a bit green as well,” she said.

Clara’s mother loaded firewood on the pile by the stove and pushed her hair back from her brow. “Lord, if there’s a storm coming, let it pass us by. This old house won’t stand it.”

“Come sit by me, Mama,” Clara said. “Your tea is getting cold.”

Her mother smiled, took her seat, and gave Clara a pat on the head. “I don’t think I’ve said hello to you since breakfast. So, hello.”

“Hello,” Clara said. She watched her mother relax into her chair and bring the cup to her lips. They never chatted much at tea; but Clara liked the closeness of the women, the lull in the kitchen as they all stared down into their cups, lost in their own thoughts.

Ding-ding-ding-ding!

Clara, her mother, and Ruby snapped to attention.

“It’s Mrs. Glendoveer,” Harriet said, springing to her feet. Clara rose to follow her.

“No, you stay with Ruby,” she warned.

“What do you suppose has happened, Ruby?” asked Clara. “It sounds as if she’s about to pull the bell cord off its hinge.”

“I don’t know, sweet, but look out there.” Ruby pointed to the window. “It’s black as death, I do declare. And so sudden too.”

Clara ran to the window. The clouds appeared to be coming to a boil.

“Ruby!” cried her mother from down the hall. “Fetch the canvas!”

“I’m on my way,” Ruby answered. “Shall I fill the bathtub with water? The storm could foul the well.”

“We don’t have time!”

“I’ll do it!” Clara said. She got as far as the foyer when a sheet of white light flared through the transom window and a bone-cracking
BOOM
shook the house. Grabbing the banister, Clara made it only to the landing before the house shook again. The gas lamps flickered and went dark.

She hugged the wall until she reached the bathroom. After getting the drain plug in place, she sat on the edge of the tub and waited impatiently for it to fill.

“Mrs. Glendoveer?” she called. But there was no answer from down the hall. “Hurry!” she said to the tap. When lightning hit again, the tiled room blazed bright as day, and Clara swore the thunder was strong enough to knock Mrs. Glendoveer from her bed. The rain hit the roof with a few strong splatters before pelting it with hail.

Clara closed the tap and flew down the hall. “Mrs. Glendoveer!”

There, framed in the open window, stood the old woman, her white hair unpinned and coiling weakly down her back. Rocks of ice were bouncing against the floor. She turned to Clara, her eyes wild. “My babies!” she said. “Did you see? The hail is the size of quail eggs.”

Clara rushed to her side and pulled the window shut.
“We must get you back to bed,” she said. “Why, you aren’t even wearing a wrapper.”

“I shan’t go until I know my birds are safe.”

The hail stopped as suddenly as it had started. Clara peered out into the yard, where both her mother and a capless Ruby struggled against the wind with a sail of canvas slapping the birds’ cage.

“Don’t worry,” Clara said. “Look, Mother has already tied down one side. And Ruby is stronger than she looks. There. They’ve got the ceiling covered completely. It’s going to be fine.”

The lightning flashed again, and Clara saw the black shapes of the birds moving in a flurry behind the bars. Their cries were electric and out of rhythm: “Awwwk-AWWWWWK! Skeee skeee!”

Ruby slipped on the hail-strewn grass, muddying her knees. The birds took up their cries again as the canvas panel flapped against the cage. Harriet finally caught hold of a corner and tied the canvas down with rope.

Ba-BOOM!
With another strike of lightning, the clouds loosed a slanting rain.

“Now aren’t you glad I shut that window?” asked Clara. “Imagine your getting wet.”

Mrs. Glendoveer allowed herself to be led back to bed, where she shivered violently under the blankets. Clara lit a candle and warmed her feet with her hands.

“You’re a dear,” Mrs. Glendoveer said. “I suppose you must think I’m a hysterical old woman.”

“Of course not.”

“I meant to have the old awning replaced on the pergola by now.” She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “If anything had happened to them, I never could have lived with myself. Never.”

“You do love them very much,” said Clara.

“It was George who loved them,” said Mrs. Glendoveer. “And he had so many birds. We went through flocks of stage-trained doves during his years in the theater. But these meant the world to him, and I can only imagine what he’d say if he found so much as a single feather endangered on any one of them.”

Clara knew the birds were old. George Glendoveer had died at least thirty years ago. She’d heard her mother and Ruby wonder just how long these animals were supposed to live, but no one dared bring up the subject with Mrs. Glendoveer.

Clara’s mother came in, soaked to the skin and carrying a lantern. “Ah, Mrs. Glendoveer,” she said. “The rain is still coming down in buckets, but the birds are dry. We’ve got the stove downstairs fired and soup on the boil. Lights are out all over town, though, so I brought you a lamp.”

“Thank you, Harriet, but I must insist that you get out of your wet clothes before you do another thing.” And then to Clara, “Your mother is a treasure, always putting others before herself.”

For the rest of the night, doors slammed randomly with the gusts that blew through the drafty house. Candles
extinguished themselves. Branches from the big oak and countless bits of debris scratched outside the walls as the storm heaved.

Although she had slept in her own little room for years, Clara did not refuse her mother’s invitation to share a bed this night. They said their prayers together.

“And may the shingles stay on the roof,” concluded her mother.

And may the roof stay on the house
, added Clara silently. She clung to her mother in the dark, her eyes wide open.

Sometime during the night, the storm quieted enough for Clara and her mother to fall asleep. But as soon as the gray dawn shone through the lace curtains, Clara’s mother was wide awake. “I’m almost afraid to look,” she said. Her breath came out in clouds. “You put on your coat and slippers and make sure Mrs. Glendoveer has a coal fire.”

Clara did as she was told, and saw that shafts of light were penetrating the dark stairwell. The big window at the top of the landing had its shutters open, and the sunrise was just starting to make the sky glow pink. She leaned against the glass, looked down, and gasped.

The old oak had split in half and now lay against the front door of the house. Bricks were scattered in a corner of the hedge. Two shutters had fallen and smashed, and the
one that had protected the landing window was hanging at a precarious angle.

Clara’s mother stood outside pinching the bridge of her nose, as she always did when a headache was coming on. Ruby, carrying a hatchet, came around the side of the house to join her. As Clara stared, she heard something like a loud bark coming from Mrs. Glendoveer’s room.

She found the old woman in bed with her hands at her neck. “I can’t speak,” she wheezed. Her breath rattled in her throat. “I’ve caught cold. How has the house held up?”

“I’m not sure,” Clara said, stoking the fire. “Mama is outside now.”

“And my birds?”

“I’ll find out for you,” Clara said, “and bring you something for your throat.”

“I’m worried,” whispered Mrs. Glendoveer. “It is so awfully quiet.”

Clara tried to smile reassuringly. She hoped Ruby had already checked the aviary. When she reached the kitchen, however, she saw that the cage out back was still shrouded in canvas, mud-splotched and hung with dead branches but otherwise untouched.

The sound of chopping came from the front yard, and Clara knew that Ruby and her mother were taking apart the old oak. Clara made a mixture of honey and lemon, stoked the stove, and put a kettle on, stalling really, in the hope that one of the women would come and check on the birds for her, but the chopping outside continued.

Clara squared her shoulders. “They’re only birds in a cage,” she said to herself sternly. But as she approached the aviary, her heart filled with dread. No sounds came from inside. The sun had risen fully—a time when the birds were usually the noisiest. She stared at the dirty, wet rope for a full minute before she dared touch it.

“Hello?” she whispered through the canvas. “Are you all right?”

No answer. For a moment, all sorts of pictures flashed through Clara’s mind: damp feathers like fallen leaves, the black mynah on his back, claws up, red eyes open. She swallowed hard and picked at the knot.

“Please, please, let them be safe,” she said. The knot came undone, and Clara unthreaded the rope from the grommets. She counted to three and threw back the flap.

“AWWWWK! AWWWWWK!”

Clara covered her ears and jumped back as every bird in the cage came to life. The cockatoo angled his way across the bars, screaming and scolding. A blur of feathers crisscrossed inside the aviary. Amid the shrieking, someone called. The voice was garbled, as if a human being were trying to talk with a mouth full of water.

“Who’s speaking?” Clara said. “What do you want?”

“Elliot! Elliot!” called the mynah, canting his masked head to show Clara one red eye and then the other.

As the mynah chanted, the birds took up the rhythm. Each one settled on a perch until all were still and staring directly at Clara.

“Elliot!”

“Skee-skee!”

“Elliot!”

“Awwwwk!”

A chill ran through Clara as she gazed back at the birds. What kind of omen was this?

She turned toward the house, refusing to look back as the birds loudly reproached her. By the time she reached the kitchen, the kettle on the stove was whistling at a high pitch, and it seemed to Clara that the entire house was in a state of alarm.

Trembling, she poured water into the teapot, set a tray, and took it upstairs. The anxious look on Mrs. Glendoveer’s face was transformed when Clara told her the birds had all survived the storm.

“They’re a bit upset, of course,” she added bravely. “But very lively.”

Mrs. Glendoveer smiled and took her cup. “Thank you, my dear,” she rasped.

Clara sat on the edge of the bed in silence before she got the courage to ask. “Mrs. Glendoveer,” she said, “who is Elliot?”

Mrs. Glendoveer nearly dropped her cup and set it down sloshing onto the saucer. “Did you say ‘Elliot’?”

“I did. Or rather, one of the birds did. The mynah. He was quite insistent.”

“Extraordinary,” said Mrs. Glendoveer. She touched her fingers to her lips, and her wide blue eyes grew watery. “He said they might speak, but I had lost all expectation.”

“Who?” Clara asked.

“George. My husband.”

“Has the mynah never spoken before?”

“Never,” said Mrs. Glendoveer. “It almost makes me wonder …” She trailed off. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Clara said. “That bird’s eyes look as if they could burn through me. I was frightened, to tell the truth.”

“Oh, love, don’t be afraid.” She lowered her voice. “Shall I share my story with you?”

Clara nodded as Mrs. Glendoveer reached into the collar of her nightgown and pulled out her gold locket with a lovely green citrine stone in the center. “The latch is so small and my eyes are so dim,” she said. “Could you open this for me, please?”

Clara did, and found inside a tiny key, which she handed to Mrs. Glendoveer. Then the old woman pointed to an alligator chest in the corner of the room. “In that box you’ll find a stamped leather book with a lock. Bring it here and I’ll show you.”

The book was heavy, so Clara was careful to rest it gently on Mrs. Glendoveer’s lap.

“It has been a long time since I’ve opened this,” she said. “If you don’t mind, would you please turn around while I look inside?”

“All right,” Clara said. She could hear the key clicking in the lock and the sound of turning pages.

“Ah, so there he is. My goodness, I’m quite overcome,” Mrs. Glendoveer said. “Please come see, Clara.”

The big leather book was shut, but Mrs. Glendoveer had pulled out a photograph in a paper frame showing a beautiful woman in an old-fashioned gown, seated in a cane chair and holding an infant with bright black eyes.

“Is that you, Mrs. Glendoveer?”

“Yes,” she said. “And the darling baby is my little Elliot.”

“He’s precious. Where is he now?”

Mrs. Glendoveer shook her head. “We didn’t have him very long,” she answered. “I remember him clearly, though. He was a passionate thing with a lusty cry. Curious little boy. Or he would have been had he stayed with us.”

Clara remembered asking her mother once why Mrs. Glendoveer never had any children, before she learned that the question was a rude one.

“Don’t be nosy, Clara,” her mother had warned. “If Mrs. Glendoveer wishes to speak of such things, she will be the one to broach the subject.”

Now that Mrs. Glendoveer was telling her about the baby, Clara felt free—almost relieved. “I always knew you must have had a child,” she said. “I felt it.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you why. Maybe because you have always been so understanding of me.” Clara took the picture and studied the baby’s face. “I am glad you told me. I only wish he were still here to be a consolation to you. It’s always seemed a shame that this house wasn’t filled with children.”