The Aviary (9 page)

Ruby sucked in a breath between her teeth. “That’s a nasty scratch. We’ll have to get it washed immediately.” She grabbed a bar of soap and bent Clara’s head over the sink.

“Oooch!”

“Stings, does it?” Ruby worked cold water and soap into the wound. “I’m surprised, must say. In all the years I’ve ventured in that cage, not one of the old birds has come near me.”

“They were wilder than ever this time, Ruby,” Clara said.

“Because of the little one, I’ll bet. They’re a protective bunch. And smart. Do you know how long it took Mrs. Glendoveer to find an adequate lock for that cage? The cockatoo is a shy one, but clever as they come. He can pick a lock with his claw, but he never escaped. He likes puzzles, is all. Really, Clara, the whole flock of them are homebodies and prefer the cage. They make a show of it, but they’re gentle at heart.”

“They’re always angry at me, though. You know how I’ve avoided them. To think I was in the midst of them!”

“Most of us have more courage than we know. Your maternal
nature was roused.” Ruby poured another pitcher of water over Clara’s scalp and rubbed her with a towel. “Now let’s see what we can do for the kitten.”

Clara could hear the cat meow when Ruby entered the mudroom. The honeycreeper heard it too and circled madly in his makeshift cage. His call was thin and high-pitched.

“Tsip! Tsip!”

She put her hand on top of the colander and spoke calmly. “Don’t worry. The cat won’t get you. Ruby has him.”

“Tsip! Tsip!”

“I’ll keep you safe, all right? Or should I say, ‘Tsip-tsip’?”

The bird stopped to look at Clara from one eye, then the other.

“Tsip?”
she said again. “What a funny word. I wonder what you mean.”

At once, Clara sensed someone behind her. Her mother stood with her arms folded.

“You’re drenched, Clara. And would you mind telling me what has you talking to the pots and pans?”

“There’s a bird in here,” she said. “One of the Glendoveer birds.”

“No.” Harriet peered in through the holes and turned wary. “He’s wobbling. Am I seeing an injury?”

“A cat got in the cage.”

“Merciful heavens!”

Clara thought her mother might collapse. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“No, dear, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

When Ruby came in, she had the kitten wrapped tightly in a rag. “This is the little troublemaker,” she said.

“Take him out, Ruby!” Harriet demanded.

“But he’s injured, Mama,” said Clara.

“Yes, he is,” Ruby said. “And the dumb beast has no more sense than a flea. Can you imagine being a cat sneaking into a cage full of big, angry birds when you yourself have no claws to speak of?”

“No claws?” said Clara. “Then he
must
be Daphne’s cat!”

Ruby pursed her lips as her mother raised an eyebrow. “And who would Daphne be?”

Clara gulped. “The … the girl two houses over. Her mother delivered the food, and …”

“Yes?”

“That’s when she told me about the cat! That it was blue and had no claws!”

Ruby peeked into her bundle. “I declare. Why, the cat
is
blue.” She folded back the rag and let the creature poke his head out. “And such beautiful golden eyes. What do you think of that?”

Seeing Ruby smile made Clara calm again. She reached over to where the cat nestled against Ruby’s ample bosom and stroked his head. “I suppose we should take the cat back to his house?”

Ruby appeared ready to agree, and Clara was already picturing the triumphant moment when she showed Daphne the wound on her head.

“No,” her mother said simply.

The word immobilized Clara.

“Now, Harriet, do be reasonable,” Ruby said. “What harm can come of walking two houses over?”

“Yes, Mama! What harm?”

As Harriet drew herself up, Clara could feel herself shrink. Her mother had a way of inhaling half the air from the room and holding it quietly in her bones.

“Is this a mutiny? Ruby, you know how I love and appreciate you, but you may not enter into controversies between me and my daughter.”

“Understood,” Ruby said. Then with a curtsy:
“Ma’am.”

Clara’s mother flinched at the word. “I don’t mean to be …” She looked quickly from Ruby to Clara. “You’ve obviously had a lot of excitement this morning already. I want you to rest and recover yourself. Please. Go and lie down now.”

Clara tramped to her room, flung herself on the bed, and studied the water-stained ceiling. Clara loved her mother, and Ruby too. But she needed more. Not more love for herself, but more in life to love.

Maybe this was how Mrs. Glendoveer felt when she sneaked out to the tent shows and the theaters to watch the magicians and the traveling actors. She could imagine how young Cenelia’s spirit expanded with fear and expectation as she waited outside George Glendoveer’s door, wanting nothing more than to be taken away.

She also remembered Mrs. Glendoveer’s warning: hold
your family close, or you will bring down upon yourself a lifetime of regret.

Did that mean that Clara should always mind her mother? Did it mean she was never to have a life of her own?

“Mrs. Glendoveer,” she said, “I want to do as you asked.” She tried to set her mind right. But it was her heart that struggled, and she had little idea how to master it.

After an hour or two, Clara heard a quiet knock on her door.

“Are you receiving visitors?” her mother asked.

Clara was caught off guard by her mother’s mild expression and the conciliation in her tone. “Of course, Mama,” she said. “Come in.”

Harriet entered, followed by Ruby carrying the most exquisite birdcage. It resembled a pagoda—or was it a Russian church? Wooden beads were strung on its golden filigrees, and ladders ran from one apartment to another. The entire structure was topped with a fantastic onion dome, from which hung a small wooden swing. Inside, the wounded honeycreeper confined himself to the ground floor, his celadon feathers shining like Chinese silk.

“It’s something for a princess’s room!” Clara said.

“Ruby says the Aspinals gave it as a reward for saving the kitten,” said her mother. “Apparently, the cage was decorative and had a fern growing inside it, but when they heard about the honeycreeper, they insisted we take it.”

“The Aspinals have fancy goods from all over the world,” Ruby said. “Did you know her father has two large steamships? According to Mrs. Aspinal, he combs the world for pretty things. I suspect he’s done well for his family, though he’s hardly ever home.”

“That’s really none of our business, Ruby,” Harriet told her. But Clara loved any glimpse into Daphne’s life, and wished Ruby could say more.

“Plenty of room for the little greenie,” Ruby said, patting the cage. “And see the red glass bottle and stopper? He can sip to his heart’s content.”

Clara peered down at the green bird. “Do you love it?” she asked.

As if to answer, the honeycreeper gazed up at her and chirped, “Tsip-tsip!”

Ruby and Clara and her mother all laughed. “I think
tsip-tsip
means ‘yes,’ ” Clara said.

“He’ll need a name, won’t he?” said Ruby.

“I’ll call him Gawain, after the man who fought King Arthur’s Green Knight. He’s a little bird who battled a much larger cat. I think he could use a heroic name.”

“Very good,” said her mother as she left the room. “I know you’ll do well by him.”

Ruby stayed behind and watched the bird with Clara. “He’ll eat worms too,” she said. “In fact, that should be a treat for him. Might strengthen him a bit.”

“I’ll dig them up for him,” Clara said.

“Most important, though, is to bandage the wing. Your ma went through the Glendoveers’ library and found that it’s best to keep the broken wing still. I’ve trimmed some gauze, if you’d like to hold him for me.”

Ruby showed her how to unfasten the roof from the cage, and Clara reached in to retrieve Gawain.

“We’re going to make you better,” Clara told him, and watched as he toddled directly into her hand.

“Well, knock me down,” Ruby said.

Clara lifted him out and soothed him while Ruby wound the gauze over the broken wing, round the bird’s body, and under the good wing. “Now, if Sir Gawain would be so kind as not to flutter, I’ll bind this with my brass pin.”

Gawain was motionless in Clara’s palm. Not until he was returned to his cage did he test himself by hopping on one leg and then the other.

“I think he feels better with the bandage on,” Clara said.

“We’ll take it off in a week and see what he can do,” said Ruby. She dusted off her hands and packed up her gauze. Clara couldn’t let her go without a kiss on the cheek, but noticed that Ruby did not receive it with her usual bashful smile.

“I’m not done yet, little girl,” she said. “Not until we’ve had a chat.”

“Deary me. You have on your stern face, Ruby.”

“Better you deal with me than with your ma. I know she said I’m not to interfere, but when I think what would get stirred up if I told her what I heard at the Aspinals’—”

“From whom?”

“From the missus herself!”

Clara, as frightened as she felt, was overjoyed that Daphne had said nothing.

“I hear that you had the little girl over to visit only this morning.” Ruby scowled. “I could scarcely take it in. You’ve never been naughty before in your entire life, if you don’t count your spitting out your mashed green beans when you weren’t yet walking.”

“But you didn’t tell Mama,” Clara said.

“So it is true.” Ruby looked away and made her disapproving clucking sounds.

Clara leaned on Ruby’s arm. “She is a wonderful girl, Ruby. We seemed to have an instant connection. When she came with the covered basket, I told her to please come back. Can you blame me?”

Ruby reached around and patted Clara’s hand. “I think you know how I feel. But I’m not your mother.”

“Are you going to tell?” Clara felt every muscle in her neck go tense.
Please, please don’t
, she prayed.

“Not this time.”

“Thank you, thank you!” Clara buried her head in Ruby’s shoulder. “It means everything to me to have a friend.”

“Clara,” said Ruby, “I can’t promise to do this again. Do you hear me? Try to be content with your new little bird friend, is my advice.” With that, Ruby gave Clara a tap on the nose and left.

“Good old Ruby,” Clara said, returning to Gawain’s cage. “I do think she’s the dearest, most capable woman in Lockhaven.”

“Tsip-tsip!” said the bird.

“So you agree?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

“What a fine conversationalist you are. I feel fortunate to have made your acquaintance. You won’t mind sharing a room, will you?”

“Tsip.”

“Only one
tsip
? I’ll take that as a no. You know, Gawain, perhaps I never properly understood you birds. To think it’s taken us this long to get together.”

“Tsip-tsip!”

He seemed to agree.

“You’re a handsome fellow, though. I hope you like your name.”

No chirp there.

“If you don’t like it, we can change it,” Clara said.

“Tsip-tsip!”

Clara had the most curious sensation. The game of
“yes” and “no” with the bird had been nothing but a lark. But now she wanted to try.

“Would you prefer another name?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

“You would? How about … Alfred?”

“Tsip!”

“Does that mean ‘no’?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

The honeycreeper waited with what seemed to be complete concentration. Clara tried to keep her breathing steady, lest she break the spell.

“Are you … a girl?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

“Do you understand me?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

Clara exhaled. “Should I be afraid?”

The bird hopped to the edge of the cage and thrust out a thin, curved beak.

“TSIP!”

The single chirp was sharp and shrill. Clara sat for a moment in the silence, then covered her mouth with her hand. As she stared, the honeycreeper performed an astounding feat: she danced! Two hops to the right, then two to the left. Two hops forward and two hops back. She turned in a circle and started again.

“Extraordinary!” said Clara.

The bird stopped as if to acknowledge the compliment. As Clara leaned over the cage to get a better look, her
locket clanked against the cage’s golden bars. The sound set the bird off. She whirled and hopped like a dervish. But when Clara tucked the locket back inside her pinafore, the bird stopped.

“So it’s the citrine you like?” Clara said, taking it out again. “It’s almost the same color as your feathers.”

“Tsip-tsip!”

“Then I will call you Citrine. It sounds like the perfect nickname for a sweet little girl. How do you like that?”

“Tsip-tsip!”

“All right, then. Citrine it is.” But as soon as Clara tucked the locket out of sight, Citrine quieted and sat low on her claws.

“Will you talk to me some more?” Clara called the bird’s name several times, but Citrine looked at her blankly.

“Now I don’t know what to think,” Clara said. The bird had wound down like the nightingale in the Hans Christian Andersen story.

Every hour until nine o’clock, Clara went in to check on Citrine. Always, she asked a question, hoping to get the bird to talk; but it wasn’t until evening that the bird spoke again.