The Aviary (8 page)

Daphne spoke tenderly. “Of course you are, Clara. I should feel the same way. My object was never to upset you, but to know you. And now—”

“And now,” Clara continued, “you shall tell me everything if you are to be my friend. You must promise never to hide anything from me, or I would just as soon have my solitude.”

Daphne stepped back and surveyed her. “Forgive me, but I see that I’ve been mistaken about you.”

“I disappoint you?”

“Not at all. I thought you were … delicate. I had no idea you had a temper. One
needs
a temper, I believe, and now I suspect we’re more alike than I’d imagined.” She raised her right hand. “You shall have my word,” she said. “No more secrets. Unless they’re ours together.”

Clara closed her eyes and let out a breath. “At last,” she said. “I cannot tell you. It is far more difficult
not
to know.”

Daphne glanced around the room. “If I’m to speak to you, I’d feel better if we left this room. May we?”

Clara agreed, but first the girls managed to rehang the curtains in the window. Clara could simply pull them open as a signal now.

“You don’t know how often I’ve looked up here from my house waiting for your signal,” Daphne said. “I could scarcely believe my eyes this morning.”

“And I was so fearful you wouldn’t come,” Clara said, leading Daphne to the kitchen. She sat on the bench and patted the space next to her. “I’m ready,” she said. “Tell me everything.”

Daphne knitted her brow and bowed her head. “I am afraid.”

Clara gulped. “Why?”

“It’s time for you to promise me something,” she said. “Whatever I tell you, you must understand that it comes from the most ignorant and idle people. And though there’s a grain of truth in every rumor, I’ve found that the worst gossip usually starts with something harmless.”

“Indeed,” Clara said.

“And you must consider your experience here with Mrs. Glendoveer and give it much more weight than anything I might say.”

“Tell me,” said Clara, holding steady.

“They say there were children here once,” Daphne said. “And that they were murdered.”

Clara’s eyelids fluttered. The words barely penetrated. “Did you say … ‘murdered’?”

“Yes,” Daphne said.

“They must be thinking of baby Elliot. But he was taken, not killed.”

“No,” said Daphne. “The talk is of a group of children. The Glendoveers. I believe there were five or six of them. I can’t recall.”

Clara recoiled. “Who would murder them?” She saw Daphne tremble slightly, then recover.

“The rumor is … the parents killed them.”

Clara gasped. “No! That is the most revolting—Never!”

Daphne grabbed Clara’s hand. “I know. Remember, these are just old tales. Gossip no doubt embellished over the years.”

Clara pictured Mrs. Glendoveer, bent over a picture book, tracing the words with her long ringed finger, her light and lovely laugh, and those deep, water-blue eyes that seemed to understand everything.

“Cenelia Glendoveer did not even know how to scold a child,” Clara said. “She was the picture of loving patience.
The idea that anyone could even think that … It’s not possible.”

“I believe you,” Daphne said. “I do.”

And then, against her will, Clara felt a horrible weight in her head begin to dissolve. The old kitchen with its black stove and oilcloth-covered table and teacups on hooks grew wavery. Tears spilled over the edges of her eyes and down her cheeks. When she fell forward, Daphne caught her in her arms and held her.

“We will find out the truth, dear Clara,” Daphne whispered. “We shall uncover it all.”

And though Clara couldn’t speak, she determined that she would no longer be aimless. Whatever wit or pluck she had would be used for one thing: clearing Mrs. Glendoveer’s name.

There was time left before Ruby and Clara’s mother were due to arrive home, but Daphne’s visit had to be cut short.

“I told my mother I’d be home for luncheon,” Daphne said, “and I don’t want to abuse the privilege of visiting here.”

Clara wiped her eyes. “Tell me your mother hasn’t heard these awful things about the Glendoveers.”

“Not yet!” Daphne said. “I’ve heard everything from other children. It’s a form of fun for them.”

“But what if she does hear?”

Daphne thought. “She’s open-minded. And fair. But she is a mother, so I don’t know what she’d say.”

“I understand,” Clara said. “You should see my mother. Always protecting me from even the slightest
excitement. No wonder she never told me anything about the Glendoveers.”

“Ah. That explains it,” Daphne said. “Why you seem so delicate at first. You’ve always been treated as if you were.”

Despite her promise to share every secret, Clara didn’t tell Daphne about her faulty heart. It was too gratifying to be recognized for her strength. Clara wanted to be the person that Daphne saw.

“I do have a question for you before you go,” Clara said.

“Anything.”

“When you told the children at school that you saw me in the window, what did they really say?”

“They said,” Daphne replied, “that I must have seen a ghost.”

“Me?”

“And that is what set me on my quest,” Daphne told her. “Because I know what I saw, and the more I insisted, the more everyone tried to frighten me. And I was right, although I haven’t told the little brutes at school. They’d only try to ruin everything.”

As much as Clara did not want to speak ill of her mother, she felt the same way. “I know that if I say so much as a word about what we’ve uncovered, all the evidence will be swept away. Mama and Ruby are too efficient. So I’m keeping my mouth closed for the moment.”

“Good,” Daphne said. “And now I’m afraid I’m going to have to brave those birds again. I must go.”

“They frighten you too?” said Clara. “I always tell myself
that they can’t possibly harm me. Did you see those iron bars? But I keep my distance nonetheless.”

Clara hugged her friend and opened the back door. As Daphne stepped out into the calm of late morning, none of the birds stirred. But when Clara showed herself, the lot of them grew agitated, flying back and forth to one another’s perches.

“It
is
you they want,” Daphne said.

“Statim!”
screeched the mynah.
“Statim!”

Clara stamped her foot. “Oh,
statim
yourself, you nasty old bird!”

“That’s telling him,” said Daphne, applauding.

Clara waved goodbye, laughing, until Daphne slipped through the side gate. It was good having a friend like her. She felt not the slightest bit guilty about talking back to Mrs. Glendoveer’s birds. Why should she let them frighten her?

The mynah continued to shout as Clara headed for the house.
It’s always that oily bird
, she thought,
stirring up the rest
. She was opening the kitchen door when she heard a voice she did not recognize.

It was a sigh, soft and sad, and had nothing of the mynah’s vehemence. She turned in time to see the cockatoo raising his wings to show his yellow underfeathers. Slowly pirouetting on his perch, he looked like a high priest performing a blessing. When he stopped, the birds also stood still. He lowered his wings, and the mynah bowed to him.

To Clara, this ceremony was more unsettling than the
birds’ screams. She couldn’t figure out if she was moved or frightened in a new way. She shut the door behind her with a firm click.

Standing there, Clara felt queasy. When she lifted her hands, she could not ignore the slight tremor in her fingers. She pushed past thoughts of her weakened heart and tried to find an immediate solution to her problem.

“It’s hunger and excitement,” she said to herself. “I need bread and butter and a glass of milk.” And as she sliced the loaf and poked around in the icebox, it occurred to her just how many times she’d “cured” her weakness and trembling with nothing more than a snack from the kitchen. Knowing how to take care of herself helped Clara avoid complaining to her mother. The last thing she wanted was to add to that woman’s worry.

“AWWWWWWK! KEE-yah kee-yah! SKEEEEEEE!”

The strangled shrieks of the aviary birds surprised Clara. They never screamed at her while she was in the kitchen. She held still and listened.

“Eee-owrr!” There was the unmistakable yowl of a cat.

In a flash, she was out in the yard, watching the birds dive toward the bottom of the cage.

“Roooww-er—OW!”

At the bottom of the cage, dodging from corner to corner, was a small smoke-colored cat. The great-tailed grackle hovered over it, and the kiskadee dove down, nicking his ear. Clara rattled the cage door. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

This time the birds ignored her, too intent on the
battle. When Clara bent down to look closely, she noted the bluish tinge to the kitten’s coat. Why, could this be Daphne’s cat? “Poor thing!” she shouted. “Hold on!”

Clara hurried to the mudroom, grabbed the heavy ring from its hook, and singled out the winged key for the aviary. When she returned to the cage, she thrust the key in the lock and sent the door swinging. Waving her arms, she shouted, “Bah! Enough! Or this’ll be the end of you!” If she could have spit fire, she would.

“No!” said the mynah. “No, no!”

Clara felt claws on her scalp and was blinded by beating wings. She threw up her arms, planted her feet, and stood her ground.

“Back up, all of you,” Clara commanded. Her own voice was a growl that she hardly recognized.

The fluttering slowed. The birds found their perches. And as Clara knelt down to pick up the kitten, she was sure she heard a low sob coming from somewhere above her.

The cat’s ear was nicked. He lay with his back in a hump. As Clara lifted him, she saw the plump green honeycreeper lying with his eyes open.

“The end,” said the mynah, his voice cracking.

Clara clamped the kitten under her arm and gently nudged the bird. One wing fluttered.

More sobbing sounds. The white cockatoo moved his head back and forth as if to say, “No! No!”

She blew the bird’s feathers, and his legs twitched. “You’re alive,” she said, taking him in her cupped hand.
She moved backward, out the cage door, which she closed firmly with her foot, though the keys still dangled in the lock.

Inside, Clara shut the kitten in the mudroom while she attended to the bird, which she laid out on a towel on the kitchen table. The thing wasn’t much bigger than an Easter chick, and as pale green as a pistachio. He had gone bald beneath his wings, so often had he sat in the upper corner of the aviary nervously pulling at his feathers.

“Of all of them,” Clara said, “why should it be you?” She was sure he had lived a life of abject terror, locked away with creatures several times his size. Ruby had often remarked how lucky he was to be the only nectar feeder in the group, with a bottle all his own; otherwise, he might never get a thing to eat.

Clara thought she should try sugar water with him, but the honeycreeper was so weak, she was afraid to leave him. His breast heaved in and out. Gradually, the tiny bird stopped moving altogether.

“No, no,” Clara said. She bent over him and stroked his breast. “Please come back.” A tear rolled down her nose and splashed on his forehead. For a moment, Clara could have sworn she saw his eyes blink. Another tear touched down on his throat, and the honeycreeper’s wings vibrated.

“Come on,” urged Clara. “You can, I know you can.…”

His breast inflated, and the bird rolled to his feet.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Clara clapped her hands, feeling
more grateful than she ever thought possible. It wasn’t until the bird started to hop that she saw how one wing dragged. Unbalanced, the bird weaved raggedly toward the table’s edge. She caught him just in time and cradled him in her hands. How relieved she was to hear Ruby’s heavy tread in the hallway.

“Ruby!” she called. “Ruby, come here!”

Ruby came in still wearing her big coat, her windblown gray hair frizzing from her cap. “What you in a panic for?”

“That little green bird, the tiny one? A cat got at it.”

Ruby covered her mouth. “Don’t tell me—”

“He’s alive, Ruby. But his wing drags. What shall we do?”

After she washed up, Ruby gave the honeycreeper a close inspection. “There are no punctures anywhere, so that is welcome news. We will have to bandage and isolate him for now. I’ll need a regular canary’s cage—something to keep him in indoors.”

“I’ll do anything to help,” Clara said. “I feel horrible.”

“The first thing I’m doing after we tend to the bird is check out the wire netting around the bottom of the cage. There must be a hole in it somewhere.” She went to pull the big colander from the cupboard and placed it upside down over the honeycreeper like a cage. “That’ll do for now.”

The bird fluttered his good wing and bumped against the metal a few times before he quieted.

“If you think the bird’s frightened, you should have
seen the cat. They had him cornered with their screeching and swooping and pecking. He’s shut up in the mudroom.”

“And
you
,” said Ruby, incredulous. “You went in the aviary and got him?”

“I don’t know what came over me. The keys are still in the lock. And here,” said Clara, parting her hair, “one of them got
me
.”