Beyond the Laughing Sky (5 page)

T
he small bird lay on the ground beside the broken wings of the plane.

The plane Nashville had been flying.

The plane that had hit—and killed—the bird.

The contrast between the beautiful bird and the sad, hard ground was striking. Nashville looked closer. He saw the kind of beauty yellow flowers have growing over a carpet of dead leaves. The beauty of cracks forming a mosaic in a dry riverbed, of emerald-green algae at the base of a seawall, of a broken shard from a blue bottle. The beauty of a window smudged with tiny prints. The beauty of wild weeds.

“I'm sorry,” Nashville said to the bird. His plane had struck the small thing, and now it would never open its eyes again.

“I'm sorry,” Nashville said again as he lifted the bird into his hands. He touched the head and it seemed too fragile to exist, not much different from an eggshell.

“I need a small box,” Nashville told his mother when he came inside the house. “A fancy one.”

His mother rummaged in the closet and found a gold box, probably from the holidays. She handed it to Nashville without any questions.

“Have fun,” she said. Nashville left the room. There would be nothing fun about burying a dead bird.

He went into the living room and, after making sure the coast was clear, unzipped a throw pillow on the sofa, and stole some of the soft stuffing inside. He used this to line the box, then went outside to the spot he'd left the bird under the edge of the magnolia bush. He picked some magnolia blossoms, and put the white petals in the box as well.

“I'm sorry,” whispered Nashville, and lifted the bird to place her in the box. Perhaps this third sorry worked some magic, because just as Nashville said it, just as his eyes were filling over with tears, the small creature in his hands began to stir. Just a small turn of the head, and a move of the foot, but it shocked Nashville out of his sadness.

“You're alive!” Nashville shouted. It was as if the leaves of fall had flown back up to the tree, or a dead flower had picked up her petals and pinned them back on. Nashville carefully placed the bird inside the box, now an ambulance rather than a coffin, and began to run down the hill to Goosepimple.

“Back so soon?” said Dr. Larkin when he saw Nashville. The doctor had been packing up the veterinary office to head home, and Nashville caught him coming out the door.

“Please,” Nashville said quickly. His hands trembled as he held out the box. “Please. I hit it with a plane and it landed in a magnolia bush and I thought it was dead but it's not and—”

“Slow down, Nashville, slow down,” said the doctor leading him into the examination room.

“Hmm,” said the doctor. He put on rubber gloves, lifted the bird carefully, and laid her on the table under a bright light. Nashville stood back a bit, suddenly remembering to breathe.

“No bleeding,” said the doctor. “Heart rate seems good. Although . . .”

“Although?” said Nashville alarmed.

“She has a broken wing,” explained the doctor. He exhibited this to Nashville by extending the wing. Instead of folding back tidily as it usually would, the wing dropped on the table, the feathers strangely bent.

“Nothing life threatening,” continued the doctor. “I'll bandage it, but I should tell you, it's unlikely she'll ever use that wing again.”

Nashville stared at the bird, his guilt overcoming him once more, but infinitely stronger this time.

“Without wings she can't fly,” he said.

“No,” said the doctor. “Like so many other things in this world, this bird will have to make do with life on the ground.”

A
nd so magnolia the bird recuperated in Nashville's fort. Magnolia—so named for two reasons: one, because of the bush she'd landed in, the one that had likely saved her life. And two, because Miss Starling had said some magnolias rest a long time, then bloom overnight. Nashville hoped a miracle like that for the bird's broken wing.

“Magnolia,” Nashville would ask in the morning, “what would you like for breakfast?” He'd bring her seeds and nuts. Once he'd brought her a caterpillar he'd found in the yard, but she didn't seem all that interested. Perhaps they were old friends, thought Nashville.

He would sit with Magnolia on the edge of the birdhouse, beyond which only winged-things could go. He greeted the other birds that came to visit his patient, and nodded his head, even though he didn't understand a chirp of what they were saying. It was probably just gossip anyhow, news about worm delicacies and the new hot-spot bird feeder down the street.

“I wish I could understand you,” Nashville would tell Magnolia when they were alone. But like the needlepoint puzzles of spiders, or the language left in leaves by beetles, Nashville could not decipher a word.

When he wasn't with the bird, Nashville worked with his father, fixing the broken plane.

“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
 . . .

T
he 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.