Small Persons With Wings (14 page)

I was incapable even of whispering.

“Ogier's mother never uttered a word of blame,” Dad said. “But she didn't utter many words to him after that. She pretended he wasn't there. She wasn't the motherly type to begin with, I guess, but still ... Angelique—my aunt—she said she tried to take Ogier under her wing, but he got more and more withdrawn.”

Why had I never heard this before
? What else do I not know about my own family?
“When did Ogier take the elixir?”

“Before he went into World War II. Angelique didn't know until she heard him roaring in the attic. It was awful, she said. She had to stay with him so he didn't hurt himself.”

“Why did he do it?” I couldn't imagine anyone being that stupid. “And what did he see when he did?”

“We never talked about it,” Dad said, his voice tight. “We never talked about much, frankly. I'll tell you one thing—it didn't do his disposition any good. I never could figure out what my mother saw in him, but she stood by him until the day she died.”

“She had cancer,” I told Timmo.

“And you loved him, right?” Timmo asked. He had this intense expression on his face.

Dad looked him in the eye. “To be honest, Timmo, I don't know that either.”

Timmo went home after dinner, but he was back again after breakfast. It was one infestation after another in this place. My parents had gone off to Town Hall again, so it was just me and the oat flakes.

“I read up on moonstones last night,” Timmo said.

“How'd you do that?”

“Internet. Moonstones are a type of feldspar. Most come from India and places like that, but some come from the Alps in Europe. Feldspar is a crystalline mineral that—”

“I know what feldspar is. And just because it's on the Internet doesn't mean it's true.”

“Okay, but I didn't used to believe in fairies either.”

“Don't call them fairies. They're Small Persons with Wings.”

“Do you want to know what I found out or not?”

I slurped the milk out of the bottom of my cereal bowl. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Well, moonstones are supposed to strengthen your intuition and make you understand things you didn't used to. I suppose you know what intuition is.”

I didn't dignify that with a reply. “We know most of this stuff already.”

“Do you have some kind of problem with me?”

“No. I'm being honest.”

“You're being a dork.”

I was, kind of. I thought about apologizing. Instead, I said, “Nobody asked you to sneak into our cellar.”

“I didn't sneak. I heard music and I . . . I looked.”

“You could hear the music that much?”
This could be a problem.

“You think I'm lying? Wanna get the ring out?”

“No, I think they should turn down their music. Or at least lock the door.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Grumpy silence. I knew I'd been a dork, but didn't know what to do about it. Fortunately, Durindana chose that moment to whir through the door at high speed and crash into the refrigerator. She slid to the floor and lay there motionless.

“Is that one of them?” Timmo asked.

“More or less. She's an outcast. She may be hungover.”

I picked her up by her skirt and carried her to the table. She lay there quivering, her blue dress rumpled, her hair a mess again.

I prodded her with a forefinger. “Hey, Durindana. Want something to eat?”

She sat up, saw Timmo, and shrieked. At first I thought she was afraid of him, but the problem turned out to be her appearance. She scrambled up and hid behind the toaster. I could still see her, but apparently that didn't matter.

I watched, fascinated, as her hair tidied up, loose ends knitting themselves into a hairdo. Her dress turned emerald green, with matching jewels and hair ornaments. She sashayed into the open, pulling her wings through her hands.

“
Bonjour
,” she said to Timmo. “And your name is . . .?”

“Timothy Oliver Wright,” he said, watching her wings do their motor-oil-on-puddles act as she groomed them. “Timmo.”

“Ah, Oliver! That is—”

“We know,” I said. “A name of lineage.”

Her nose went up. “You were to be getting food for me, Turpina.”

While I got her cereal, Durindana told Timmo all about her exile from the Domus, although not about her skirt disintegrating.

“They made you leave just because you were clumsy and spilled stuff?” he said. “Geez. I spill stuff all the time.” I pictured his house, with its gorgeous furniture and the neat row of shoes by the door. He grinned, as if he knew what I was thinking. “Yeah. My mom goes nuts every time.”

He told Durindana how freaked out he'd been when he met the Parvi, and about Grand-père's notes and the moonstone ring. “And Old Mr. Turpin drank the elixir once and so did his father,” he confided. “He wasn't sure they should give the ring back. Now Mellie and her parents want to sell the inn to make money to be artists and go to college, only they can't because it's such a mess and there's so much to fix up.”

Durindana got a beady look in her eye. “This is a good time to be giving back the Gemma, Turpina. Then the Parvi Pennati could be fixing of your house for you.”

“Do you think you can? It's probably thirteen hundred years since you used the Magica Vera.”

She looked offended. “Of course we can. This is our native magic.”

The downstairs door opened. Dad said, “So come up and look around.”

“I don't want to look around up there,” a deep voice said. “I've been up there. I want to see what's flying in and out of that pub of yours.”

“Oh, no,” Timmo said. “That's my dad.”

“Durindana,” I said, “get down to the pub and tell everyone to hide or something. Quick.”

“They will not believe me.”

“Do your best. Hurry, or Timmo's dad will be here before you can get out.”

“. . . up for a cup of coffee,” my mom was saying. “I assure you, Chief Wright, there's no infestation of any kind in that pub. Anyway, the building inspector is coming later today, and he'll be all over the place looking for . . . whatever he looks for. I'm sure he'll see if there's a problem.”

“There's music playing down there all the time,” Chief Wright said. “Have you opened that pub without a proper permit?”

“My daughter goes down there now and then,” my dad said. “She's a big fan of Bach.”

“Please come upstairs,” my mom said. “We'll show you our paintings.” She sounded desperate.

I'm not a good liar, so I have no explanation for what popped into my head then.

“Mom,” I yelled, “are my baby parakeets still safe in the pub? I'd hate it if they got loose.”

Silence at the bottom of the stairs. Then my mom yelled, “Don't worry, sweetie. They're fine. But you'd better get them back in their cages before the building inspector gets here.”

“Nice one,” Timmo whispered.

“MELLIE BREEDS PARAKEETS,” Mom said over a cup of Grand-père's Turkish coffee.

“Really.” Chief Wright sized me up. I'd given him my chair and was standing in the doorway in case I needed a quick getaway. “And then she sells them?”

“Yes,” I said, panicking. “But I don't talk about the business side of it. I'm in it because I love birds.” That could have been true. I'd never been close enough to a bird to find out.

“She got a permit to breed livestock?” Chief Wright asked my dad, which I thought was rude when I was standing right there.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “Issued in Boston, though, so I can't sell any until I get a permit here.”

Dad grinned at me behind his coffee mug.

“If you're so eager to keep them inside, how come I saw one of them flying through the mail slot?” Chief Wright said. “That mail slot doesn't even have a flap.”

I was stumped. I looked at Mom. She looked at Dad.

“My daughter raises a special breed of parakeet,” Dad said. “They're called . . . they're called tribal parakeets.” Everybody digested that. “So, see, she can let them go out one or two at a time and they always come back to . . . to their tribe. It's only a problem if you open the door and the whole tribe gets out at once. Then they'll never come back.”

Dad slurped his coffee, staring out the window so he didn't have to look anyone in the eye.

“You find that lawyer's name yet?” Chief Wright asked.

“Nope. I've been busy.”

Mom gave Dad a look that said she was wondering the same thing. “We'll get right on that as soon as . . . as soon as we get the parakeets settled,” she said.

“Yeah, right. The parakeets.” Chief Wright contemplated Dad as if he was measuring him for handcuffs. “There a big market for those things?”

“The market isn't very good right now,” Dad said, sounding savage. “International budgie glut. I'm sure you've heard all about it.”

“It's nice to see a kid with some can-do spirit.” Chief Wright was every bit as savage as Dad but looking at his son. Timmo, leaning against the broom closet door, hunched himself up and stared at his sneakers.

Mom went into Angry Mother Swan mode. “Savage” didn't come close to describing her tone. “We're very impressed by Timmo. He's extremely smart and personable.”

“Yeah?” Chief Wright said. “Seems to me he spends all his time on the Internet looking at constellations like a spaceshot. Don't know what police academy will make of him.”

“He's going to police academy?” Mom said. “I thought he was going to be an astronaut.”

“There's been a Wright as police chief in this town for three generations.”

“What about Eileen?” Mom said, Mother Swan wings up and flapping.

“She wants to be a doctor.”

Timmo gazed at his shoes, as if he'd heard all this before. When his dad finally left, Timmo told him he'd be home later to mow the lawn.

My mom drained her coffee. “That was awful. Timmo, I'm so sorry to get you involved in lying to your father.”

“S'okay. It's not the first time and it won't be the last.”

“I think you'll be a very good astronaut,” Dad said. “You seem to get along fine in zero gravity, which is what we've got going on in this house right now.”

“Roly, why didn't you tell Chief Wright the lawyer's name?” Mom asked.

“I don't know her name.”

“You told it to us last night. Kramer, you said.”

Dad squinted at Mom, shook his head. “Nope. Don't remember any Kramer.”

Mom raised her eyebrows at me. Dad saw her do it and set his coffee mug down sharply. “I'm going downstairs to visit the parakeets. I'll tell them we've got the moonstone, ask them to undo the pleasure palace and hide for an hour. The building inspector's coming after lunch and he'll want to see the cellar.”

“You're kidding. You're going to tell them to unfoof the cellar?” I thought of all those sharp, cold little fingers.

“They'll understand,” he said.

When he came back upstairs he had the worst case of acne I'd ever seen in my life. His pimples had pimples, bubbling up on every visible inch of skin. Probably every non-visible inch of skin too.

Mom shrieked and sat down hard. “Roly, what in tar-nation did they do to you?”

“What do you mean?” Dad reached for his coffee cup, caught sight of his hand and dropped the cup, splashing coffee on his pants. He ran his ravaged hands over his equally ravaged face. “Those friggin' little creeps!” (He did not actually say “friggin'.” He used the only English swear word that I'll never be old enough to use in front of my parents. It was very exciting.

Dad pelted back down the stairs.

“Roly! You'll make it worse!” Mom pelted after him.

“Mom!” I yelled, and followed.

“Wait for me!” Timmo yelled. I could hear him pounding down the stairs behind me.

We all tumbled into the pub at once like a bunch of cartoon characters. Mom missed a step and had to grab Dad's arm to keep from falling on her face. I stopped short on the bottom step so I wouldn't smush a bunch of Parvi on the floor. Timmo crashed into me and we both fell backward, me on top of him. That was embarrassing in ways I couldn't begin to count.

We were a big hit with the Parvi. Every single miniature lady and gentleman was cracking up. It did sound like a parakeet farm.

“Now hear this!” Dad thundered. “Put me back to normal or else!”

Or else what?
I asked myself.

Either the Parvi didn't ask themselves that question or they thought enough was enough. Rinaldo nodded at Lady Noctua, who shrieked something in Latin. The Circulus speeded up, and Dad's pimples bleached out and shrank, one by one by one. It was cool to watch.

“We are sorry for our joke.” Rinaldo ushered Lady Noctua forward until they were fluttering in front of Dad's nose. “But you must not be telling us to undo our beauties.”

“As I attempted to explain,” Dad said, in a tone that could have earned him a few pimples back, “if humans—Gigantes—see you, it will be bad for you. And a man comes here today who must see this cellar.”