The Aviary (26 page)

“Fair enough,” Daphne said. “You’ve given me something to strive for.”

Clara appreciated that Daphne was not being sarcastic. As brusque as Frances was, one got the impression that she was also deeply honorable. If suffering had made her cross, who could fault her?

“We are all in this together,” Clara said. “Thank you, all of you.”

“Until tomorrow!” said George.

Arthur crooned goodbye, trying to sound as suave as his brother George, and his voice broke embarrassingly, causing Peter to twitter and tease him. So Daphne blew Arthur a kiss, and the aviary went wild. Frances, however, scratched at her nest and said, “Hmmph!”

“Clara, that was magical,” Daphne said. “They are all so vivid and childlike.”

“It was a little like presenting someone at court,” Clara told her. “You can ignore Frances’s moods, by the way. Arthur the Grackle is smitten with you, and she’s jealous.”

“I will win her over,” Daphne said. “You’ll see. I want to be an honorary Glendoveer!”

“As far as I’m concerned, you already are,” Clara told her.

“Then you are an Aspinal,” said Daphne, “though there’s no magic in it—just sisterhood.”

There was much Clara wished to say to Daphne, but she didn’t want to become sentimental. Opening a doorway to that feeling might lead to another softening, and before she knew it, she’d be swamped with second thoughts.

“As if sisterhood weren’t enough for me!” teased Clara. “Now come, let me show you the document I made up from Mrs. Glendoveer.”

Before bed, Clara went to Ruby’s room and made her promise to do everything in her power tomorrow at the attorney’s office to delay the sale of the house.

“Ask every question you can think of. And remember that even if Mama signs something, you don’t have to.”

“I’ve thought of that already,” Ruby said, tucking her frizz into her nightcap. “You realize that you are asking me to talk my way around two practitioners of the law and the most willful woman since Eve. What makes you think I’m a match for the three of ’em? I might just run out of words.”

“Then collapse, like this,” Clara said. She put the back of her hand to her forehead, rolled her eyes, dropped to the floor in a mock faint, and then peeked. “See? You can stay down indefinitely.”

“Or as long as it takes them to get the spirits of
ammonia,” Ruby grumbled. “Give me strength, is all I’ve got to say.”

That phrase echoed in Clara’s mind as she tried to sleep. Cares always increase after the lights go out, and this night was especially unnerving. Yet as soon as the sun made its appearance, Clara awoke surging with energy. Everything about her surroundings down to the old, worn kitchen chairs seemed steeped in history and meaning. And when she saw the women off at the door, Clara found herself memorizing details like the buttons on her mother’s coat and the smell of freshly ironed starch discernible when she hugged her neck.

“Goodbye, Mother! Goodbye, Ruby!” she said as they descended the front steps. “Remember Mrs. Glendoveer!”

“As if we could forget,” Ruby cried over her shoulder.

Then Clara was off to the boiler room with a stepladder and lye. Wobbling, she placed the jars on the largest ceiling beams. She set the rattraps and dumped the glue. The forged document with Mrs. Glendoveer’s signature she put in an envelope and stashed in an unfinished wall behind a two-by-four. Finally, Clara got the key and opened the aviary.

All the birds flapped wordlessly from the cage. Arthur tested his wings by soaring straight up to the height of the treetops and swooping inches from the ground.

When all the birds had assembled near the basement door, Clara warned them, “There are traps and snares throughout the room. You will need to be exceedingly careful where you light.”

“We understand,” said George.

Inside the room, the birds fluttered up and took their places in the rafters. Frances noted the small open window where she and Arthur would escape if need be.

“Do you think that we’re ready for him?” Clara asked.

“Yes!” said George, setting the rest of them off into whistles. “Ready!”

“Onward, Clara,” said Frances. “Onward, my girl!”

Clara gave them all a last look and shut the door to the boiler room. Once outside, she proceeded to the kitchen door. On the counter she had left her bottle of Dr. Pincus’s Chloral Sedative. She pulled out the glass stopper, measured the crystals into a small pitcher, and filled it with water. Although Clara doubted she would have any opportunity to use the potion, she thought it best to have it on hand—especially since Frances had recommended it. So she placed the pitcher in the icebox and wandered down the hall to have a look at the clock.

Nine-thirty-seven. Clara didn’t know how she was going to stand the wait. Where was Daphne? She was turning the question over in her mind when she heard a door opening at the back of the house. Instinctively, she flattened herself against the parlor wall and held her breath as footsteps approached.

“Clara? Clara!”

Thank goodness it’s her!
thought Clara. But when she whirled around into the hallway, she startled Daphne so badly that both she and her friend leapt away from each other and screamed!

As Clara stood panting, Daphne merely shook her head. “Look at us,” she said. “And the old fellow isn’t even here yet.”

“Maybe it’s good we got that out of our systems,” Clara said.

“Did you sleep well last night? I had such dreams!” Daphne shook herself. “In any case, Mr. Booth should be joining us soon. I will wait for him out front as we discussed.”

“And I will keep an eye out. There’s a place on the side of the house where I can see through the shrubbery to the front.”

Daphne inhaled deeply. “All right, Clara. Today is the day we find your father.”

Clara nodded. “I will see you soon.”

They did not embrace. Instead, they turned their backs smartly on each other and parted.

Waiting in the shrubbery, Clara kept her ears pricked for the sound of a car, as she could not see all the way to the street. When she did hear a car come to a stop, she listened for a man’s voice but could not hear over the rattle of the motor. As the vehicle finally pulled away, she could hear Daphne chattering as if to herself.

Slowly, very slowly, the old man came into view. Clara felt a pang. Mr. Booth was so stooped, he was shaped like the letter
S
. One of his crooked hands grasped his cane, and the other clutched Daphne’s arm for support.

Running to take her place inside the kitchen door,
Clara felt close to tears. The old gentleman had dressed for the occasion in spats and a waistcoat and watch chain. He had a tremor and dark spots on his wrinkled forehead. The thought of her hidden rattraps and lye shamed her. Fragile Mr. Booth could be toppled with no more than the jab of an index finger.

She chewed her nails and waited for a knock on the door. The two of them were certainly taking their time. Perhaps Mr. Booth had collapsed on his way? At last, Clara crept up and looked out the kitchen window. There was Mr. Booth, seated in a garden chair; Daphne was nowhere to be seen.

Clara knew she could not sit in the kitchen forever. “Mrs. Glendoveer,” she whispered, “you see what this has come to. If you can help me in any way, you must. You must!”

With that, she opened the door. Mr. Booth turned his head toward her, looking for all the world like a kindly old gentleman out to feed pigeons in a park.

“You must be Clara,” he said, extending his hand. “Pardon me for not standing. I’m a bit out of breath. I’ve had a recent bout of bronchitis, you see.”

Mr. Booth did indeed sound hoarse, but Clara kept her distance and curtseyed instead. “Good day, sir,” she said.

“You have done a good deed today, my dear. I do hope that your cooperating with me does not put you in jeopardy with your mother. However, perhaps this will help.” He pulled out a single bill from his waistcoat,
placed it on the little table in front of him, and pushed it forward.

“Thank you. But I can’t accept. Where is Daphne?”

He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “The girl has gone to fetch me the document,” he said.

“She has?”

“Yes. From that little downstairs room.”

Clara could feel the blood drain from her face. “But … but she doesn’t know where it is. I must help her.”

Mr. Booth leaned back. “I’ll wait.”

As Clara rounded the corner, she could see that, indeed, the boiler room door hung open. Inside, Daphne stood on a stepladder with her back to Clara. She was running her hands behind the lumber supporting the wall.

“Daphne, what are you doing? Why aren’t you following our plan?”

“I’m getting the document for Mr. Booth,” she said.

“Stop her!” whispered Frances from above. The birds were peeping from their hiding places.

Clara put a finger to her lips and closed the door. “Daphne, look at me.”

When Daphne turned, Clara could see that a spot of hair above her eyes was twisted with dirt. A streak ran down one side of her face. Her right hand and sleeve were filthy, and her boots were stuck with leaves and clots of dust.

“Daphne, you’re covered with glue!” Clara said. “Get down at once!”

But Daphne seemed to look right through her. “Not until I get the papers.”

“Why? Has he threatened you?”

“No,” said Daphne, returning to her work. “You told me you’d hide it in the wall. Help me find it.”

George peered down at both of them. “Cold eyes,” he said. “Look!”

They are cold
, thought Clara.

“Woodruff Booth’s done it again!” said Frances. “Stupid girl. Stupid!”

Clara’s sympathy for the old man evaporated. For all their planning, Clara and Daphne never considered that Mr. Booth might mesmerize them. They had been stupid, indeed. And now Clara found herself alone.

“What do I do?” she asked the birds.

“Don’t look him in the eyes,” Frances said.

“But about Daphne? How do I snap her out of it?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Frances said. “Mr. Booth is outside. He should be inside.
That
is our problem.”

Clara watched Daphne continue running her hands along the walls numbly, methodically, as she neared the corner where the envelope was hidden.

“Daphne!” Clara said. “You are searching the wrong wall. Over there.”

Daphne followed Clara’s pointing finger and went across the room, where she resumed her search.

“That’s it,” said Frances. “Keep her busy.”

“I will,” Clara said. “All of you keep your places. Mr. Booth will tire of waiting sooner or later.”

“Arthur!” said Frances. “Go out and watch Mr. Booth. Let us know when he approaches.”

The grackle fluttered up to the window and squeezed his way out. Clara kept redirecting Daphne—whose boots periodically stuck to the floor, so caked were they in glue.

Time seemed to stand still, and Clara began to doubt that Mr. Booth would ever come. At last, she saw Arthur edge through the window.

“He’s coming,” George said.

“Places!” said Frances.

Clara hid behind the door. She saw the knob turn hesitantly and stop, as if the old man lacked the strength to complete the task. On the third try, she heard the click of the latch. Through the crack between the hinges, she saw him with his back to the daylight and spectacles gleaming, examining the room up and down.

“Daphne?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Booth,” she said.

“Have you not found the papers?”

“No, Mr. Booth.”

“Tell me, then, my girl … 
are
there any papers?”

“Yes, Mr. Booth. Clara hid them.”

Before Daphne could say more, Clara came forward, careful to avert her eyes. “I did hide them, Mr. Booth. And now I wonder if my mother has taken them back! If I cannot find them down here, we will have to search her room.”

There was a slight whirring sound in the rafters—a shudder of feathers. Clara pretended not to hear, but the old man fell silent and put a cupped hand to his ear. “Are there pigeons inside?”

“No. No pigeons,” said Daphne.

“Ah. Well,” he said, with obvious relief. Clara imagined that he relied upon the hypnotized Daphne to tell him only the truth. He took the final step down into the room, whereupon Clara slammed the door behind him and locked it, then twirled around and seized his cane.

“Clara!” rasped Mr. Booth in a voice hot with anger.

“Quiet!” barked Frances.

That’s when Mr. Booth looked up to see the birds drop down, one after another, like spiders from a web. Shrinking, he let out a dry wail.

Clara brandished his cane.

“Look away from me,” she said. “Now move to the corner, sir, and be quick, or the birds will have at you!”