The Bird House

“There are birds in there!” he screamed from the balcony, voice falling into the busy street below, lost in the sea of early morning bustling. The air was crisp, joyful. The birds were not. They screeched and their high pitched cawing scratched at the space behind his skull. He closed the window and peeled himself away from the wall, sat back on his heels and exhaled slowly.

There was no point in trudging up the extra flight of stairs to tell Mrs. B. She would only roll her eyes, like she always did. She would chatter at him in French, even though he did not speak French. Then she would insist on making him tea. But he hated drinking tea in this weather and the water was always impossibly hot. Instead, he climbed down the fire escape and into the alleyway, half lit with sunshine and sparkling brick ashes.

The French quarter was already busy at this hour. The sun was shining and the morning smelled like fresh bread and cigarette smoke. As he neared the market, the air began to buzz. He felt the familiar pangs of hunger but ignored the gnawing. She would be waiting for him. He knew it. Passing the glittering silks on Chartre Street and the bakery with stiff baguettes and hot chouquettes on the corner of Decatur, he kept his eyes straight forward. He didn’t want to invite curiosity. He didn’t need anyone to notice him today; to inquire about Mrs. B or his sickly mother. He didn’t want any handouts, verbal or otherwise. He had set is aim. He had to tell her about the birds. As he turned the corner onto North Rampart, he could feel his heart rate quicken. Just one more block. Cobblestones pushed back against the soles of his feet, the worn leather of his shoes barely a protection. He picked up his pace, but resisted running. Nothing to see here, he whispered to himself. Besides, she might not even be there today. But he knew she would be. He knew she wanted this as much as he did. Not romance. No. Something else. Something more. It was friendship, but holier somehow. It was connection. It was springtime and hope and something becoming.

At the end of the street he saw the entrance to the bodega. The door was open and her papa was sweeping out yesterday’s dust - back into the street from whence it had come.

The boy slowed down, adopted an unassuming posture and bowed his head as he came close.

“Good Morning” he said and brushed his cap with his fingers. The old man nodded but uttered nothing.

Inside he found the girl. She was using charcoal to sketch something on yellowing paper that rolled off the wall.

“Guess what?” he said, breathless.

She looked up and he could tell she’d been crying but she smiled at the sight of him anyway. She put down the charcoal.

“The apartment above Mrs. B is filled with birds!”

“You got in?!”

“No, but I climbed up the jolly. From the balcony you can see inside.” He paused for effect, letting the news settle between them for a moment. “Not just one or two, either,” he finally continued, “but twelve of them! I counted.”

“Why would they have birds?” Her eyes widened. “And so many? What kind are they? Did you see anything else? We have to go back!”

She was excited now too, he could tell. She stepped down from her stool and he looked, for the first time at what she had been drawing. It was another tower. It had a steeple and windows that wound down the front like a spiral.

“This one looks different” he said, walking around to stand beside her. From here he could smell the memory of cinnamon and chicory bark. She had something in her hair and he plucked it out – a tiny piece of glass that drew blood as he held it between his fingers.

“Never mind” she said in response to the question he had not asked. Noting his thumb, she pulled a linen rag from under the counter and gently wrapped his hand. Then she ran her fingers through her hair a few times as if to ensure that there were no more hidden gems among the locks.

“Come on,” she said “let’s go before Caroline gets back and makes me finish the laundry.”

They clasped hands, her tiny fingers interlacing with his unbandaged ones.

They rushed out into the street, now busy with morning traffic. Her father watched them disappear around the corner, but did not say a word.

Back at the building they surveyed the fire escape again. The ladder was too high off the street so they would not be able to go up the way he had come down. She looked into his eyes and frowned, her lips like unripe plums.

“This way”, he pulled her around to the front of the building. Together they peered through the glass into the lobby and pondered their options.

Mrs. B always came down between 10 and 11 am to walk the Snoozer. That’s what they’d named the lumbering grey beast she called a dog. She had told them once that it was an English Schnauzer. A very sophisticated animal, if you asked the right people, crooned Mrs. B. But certainly they would not know anything about that.

He looked down across the street towards the flat Orwellian bank where a brass clock sat housed in cracking concrete slabs. It was 958 AM.

The old lady and the Snoozer came down at exactly 1017. According to the clock. The two slipped back into the shadows as soon as they spotted her exiting the elevator. She turned left towards Peters Street. Immediately they could see that she was dressed for an outing. Her hair was pinned up and she was wearing her navy wool overcoat, which was conspicuously absent of dog hair. Sometimes she came down in just her housecoat, which meant that her only business was to let the Snoozer do his. Today she was going somewhere.

This meant that they had some time.

As soon as Mrs. B was out of sight, the two entered the lobby. The girl immediately straightened her posture. She did this often, he noted, in the company of strangers and adults that she was trying to impress. He took it as a compliment that she let her shoulders slump when they were alone.

They nodded at the doorman who looked bored and headed towards the elevator.

Inside Mrs. B’s apartment they found the necessary tools. The girl also swiped a couple of lemon cookies from the ice box. When she saw that he was watching her, she winked at him and he smiled. He grabbed her hand again, this time with the injured one. She caught him wince, but he didn’t stop. They were on a mission now.

The birds were on the fourth floor, two up from Mrs. B.

The elevator doors opened into an empty hallway. This was a sign, he was sure of it.

The girl giggled and his heart leapt.

The door had a gold plaque that read “Welcome to 406”.

“Wait!” she paused. He noticed that her hair was wild, as tangled and perfect as the lip that she was now biting in apprehension. “How do we know they aren’t home?”

“We don’t.” He looked at her dead on.

“Right” was all she said as she nodded, almost imperceptivity, and then lifted the tiny tool box from the folds in her dress.

They worked the handle, gently at first and then, when no one came to the door to assess the noise, in more earnest. It quickly became apparent that he was not helping, so he stepped back and simply watched her work.

Two minutes and the lock unhinged. They were in.

Gold overlaid every surface and seemed to shine with a brilliance as cold as the winter sun. Crystal bowls rested on tables as spotless as morning. Enormous picture windows looked out over the city between a frame of thick plush curtains.

On the other side of the room was a red velvet sofa with pale pink pillows neatly arranged on its seat. Situated directly behind the sofa were eleven gilded bird cages.

Neither of them said a thing.

The parrots were a rainbow of feathers and bright yellow beaks. The green ones had black tips on their wings. The white ones wore crowns. The birds turned to look at the pair standing, hands held, just inside the door.

The air was still.

He turned towards her finally and tipped her chin up, a smear of blood appearing where is hand grazed her cheek. Hanging from the ceiling, like an aviary chandelier, was a bird cage the size of a dining room table. The macaw cocked its head and contemplated them with huge lidless eyes. It’s emerald wings outstretched as if ready to embrace or perhaps attack.

Nothing had changed, and yet everything had shifted. He felt the sky tilt.

They had found their treasure. They had opened the door to another world.

The birds watched the boy watching the girl.

The sound of the street slipped in from four stories below. He knew there were people going about their day. Getting in automobiles, reading papers, exchanging pleasantries. It all continued somewhere far away.

In the room it was silent.

Twelve sets of black marble eyes watched as the boy pulled her towards him and kissed her on her unripe plum lips.