by Betsy Byars
“There could be life on other planets.”
“Yeah.”
“But I guess there couldn’t be too.” Sammy shook his head. He said, “Well, anyway, I don’t think he’s all the way blind. He blinked his eye.”
“We’ll see.” His grandfather waited, watching the crane. Then he straightened and said, “Well, give me the corn.”
Sammy handed the corn to his grandfather, and his grandfather held it beneath the crane’s beak, shaking it in his hand so that the crane could hear. The crane stood without moving. “He don’t want to eat now. Corn was what he’d been after in that field, but he won’t take it now.”
“Keep trying,” Sammy suggested.
“Give me the water.” His grandfather lifted the bucket and sloshed the water around. He scratched his hand on the bottom of the bucket. The crane did not move, and Sammy’s grandfather put the crane’s head down into the water.
The crane drank. He lifted his head, swallowed, clapped his beak and then drank again.
“At least he’s drinking,” Sammy said. “He couldn’t be completely miserable if he’s drinking.” He looked at the crane, who had finished and was standing now with his head high, turned slightly toward them. Sammy felt the crane’s stubborn will and was touched by it. He said, “I know he’s going to be all right.” He stepped forward, “Don’t you think—”His foot landed on one of the geese and the goose fluttered up, squawking. “I’m sorry,” Sammy said absently, then to his grandfather, “Don’t you think so?”
His grandfather turned without speaking and started walking toward the house. Sammy felt his question had been pointedly ignored. “The first thing to do,” his grandfather said, “is to get some food in him—and in us too. I reckon you’re hungry, boy, aren’t you, not having any breakfast?”
Sammy felt a sudden stab of guilt and he turned slowly and walked behind his grandfather to the house. “Well, I’m not that hungry,” he said.
“I made some biscuits for your folks for breakfast. There might be one or two of them left.”
“I don’t feel much like having a biscuit.” This was the truth.
“Well, we’ll find something.”
They went into the kitchen and Sammy glanced first at the parrot in the corner, who was still there, quietly ruffling its feathers. He half expected the parrot to screech out his shame. The parrot would cry, “He already ate. He already ate.” Sammy could almost hear the sharp mocking words. He cleared his throat and said, “Does your parrot talk much?”
“He says one or two things.”
“Does he ever tell you things that have happened, anything like that?”
“No, he can say ‘Where’s Papa?’ and—”
“Where’s who?”
“Papa, that’s me.”
“Oh.”
“And he can say ‘Good-by,’ only he don’t know when to say it. Or else he just plain enjoys saying it at the wrong time. He won’t ever tell somebody good-by when they’re leaving. A thousand people could go out of this house and that parrot wouldn’t say good-by to a one of them.” He wiped his mustache in a gesture of disgust. “Folks say parrots don’t know what they’re saying, but that parrot does, because he just plain makes a point of saying good-by at the wrong time.”
He went over and stood by the parrot. “Good-by, Paulie, good-by. I’m not going anywhere, so you can say it. Good-by. Good-by.” He waited, then he gave up and crossed the kitchen with his slow heavy steps. “I used to have me a fine gray parrot that knew all the parts of a car.”
His grandfather paused to glance at the biscuit plate. He saw that the biscuits were gone and said, “Well, I’ll fix us some spaghetti.” He went into the pantry and the parrot said, “Good-by. Good-by.”
“He said it!” Sammy cried.
“Yeah, he said it. He knows I’m in the pantry.” He looked out at the parrot. “You don’t say good-by when a person goes into the pantry.” The parrot bobbed its head and began to walk sideways across the mop handle, circling the handle with its feet. “You say good-by when someone’s going out the door. The door!” He pointed to the door and then disappeared into the pantry.
“Where’s Papa?” the parrot screamed.
“You know where I am.”
“Where’s Papa?”
“He’s in there,” Sammy said. He sat down at the white table with the chipped porcelain top. He leaned forward on his arms. He remembered how much trouble it was to make spaghetti—his mother took all afternoon doing it—and so he said, “Don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“It ain’t no trouble.” His grandfather came out of the pantry with a can of spaghetti in his hand. “Unless you want it heated.”
“No, I don’t want it heated,” Sammy said quickly. “I like it cold.” He watched his grandfather open the can of spaghetti and divide it into two soup bowls. He wiped spoons off on a towel.
“Here you go.”
Sammy took his bowl and set it down.
Suddenly his grandfather glanced up. “Here comes the owl,” he said. “Remember I was telling you about him?”
Sammy had not heard anything. He looked around quickly and saw the owl flying to the back of the chair by the door. It was a silent mothlike flight. The owl rested there a moment and then swooped over to the table. The underside of his wings were white in the dark room. Startled, Sammy put up his hands. “He ain’t going to hurt you,” his grandfather said.
“I know that.” The owl landed in the middle of the table and stood looking at Sammy. He stepped forward on his stiff legs and glared. He was a small owl, gray, about eight inches high, but he seemed bigger because of his large broad head and the ruff of feathers around his yellow eyes.
“He has eyelashes,” Sammy said, “long ones.” It was the first time he had seen an owl up close. “What is he looking at me for?” He laughed uneasily. “Have I got his bowl or something?”
His grandfather was bent over, eating. He ignored Sammy’s question and said, “I figure we’ll have to force-feed the crane at first.” He shoveled spaghetti into his mouth like a man stoking a furnace. “We’ll just make up a liquid mixture and pour it down.”
“That’s what I figured too.” The geese were under the table. Their soft bodies rustled around Sammy’s legs. He drew his feet behind him under the chair. The geese didn’t bother him as much as the owl, who was still staring. Sammy said again, “What’s the owl looking at me for?”
Spaghetti was beginning to stain his grandfather’s mustache orange. He pointed at Sammy with his spoon and said, “We’ll feed the crane as soon as we finish lunch. If he’s blind, he hasn’t been eating good.”
The owl was gazing intently at Sammy. All of a sudden his head began to swing back and forth. He half raised his wings. Sammy said quickly, “But what’s this owl up to? Is he going to do anything to me or what?”
“Don’t worry about the owl. He’s always coming up on something or somebody and getting them in his sight and staring at them for ten minutes or so and then flying off. He does that to the parrot. He does that to my shoe. One time he stared at nothing in the corner of the room for fifteen minutes. It don’t mean nothing.”
The owl made a low noise. “Ooh.”
Sammy said quickly, “Does that mean anything?”
“No. He’ll get used to you.”
The owl continued to stare. “Does he come to the table all the time?” Sammy asked.
“He’ll come, but not to eat. He don’t have any interest in food that don’t move. He’ll walk right across your plate.” His grandfather looked at the owl and said, “His eyes are fixed. That’s why he stares.”
“I thought so.”
“Watch here.” His grandfather reached out and began to scratch the owl at the base of his bill. Slowly, contentedly, the owl closed both pairs of eyelids. “See that?”
“Yeah.”
“That means he’s real pleased. Sometimes he only closes the inner lids.” He straightened and the owl opened hi
s eyes and looked at Sammy. “Well, let’s get to it.” His grandfather took the last strand of spaghetti from his bowl and held it out for the geese. One by one they came out from under the table to peck at it. One goose snapped it in half and ran. Another got the remainder, and the grandfather wiped his hands on his pants and said, “When you get finished, put your bowl and spoon over there in the sink. We got to keep things tidy.”
“All right,” Sammy said. He discovered that he had not even started to eat yet. With one eye on the owl, who was still staring at him with cold yellow eyes, Sammy ate quickly. As he ate he looked out the open door. He could see the crane in the pen. The crane was standing with his head tucked under his wing feathers.
Suddenly Sammy wasn’t hungry any more. He took his remaining spaghetti and fed it cautiously to the geese, saying again and again, “Watch out for my fingers now, you guys. Watch out! Watch out!” He tried to make sure that the goose who was always hissing at him was not left out. “Watch out now. Give me room.” Then he added quickly to the owl, “I’m just giving them some leftover spaghetti.” The owl blinked once and continued to stare.
THE OWL IN THE BATHROOM
AFTER A MOMENT THE owl turned and walked stiff-legged across the table. He stood staring at the doorway, his knuckles curled down over the edge of the table.
“You see something?” Sammy asked. Sammy thought that the owl probably knew more about the inside of this house than his grandfather. He thought rooms would look different seen from the tops of doors and the insides of closets.
The owl stared through the doorway, then left the table and flew to the back of the chair by the door. Without pausing he flew out into the hall and onto the top of the front door. Then he glided down to the banister and kept flying in short swoops until he was upstairs.
Sammy listened to the owl fly away, then he got up and put the dishes in the sink. When his grandfather came out of the pantry, Sammy said, “The owl went upstairs somewhere. I don’t know what he’s up to.”
Sammy’s grandfather was making a mixture of mashed sardines, meal, canned milk, and water. “I think this will do the trick,” he said to Sammy as he stirred. He had put his old railroad jacket back on, and he looked more like himself. He mixed the sardines and mopped his jacket with one hand when his enthusiastic stirring caused some to spill.
Sammy walked over and looked into the bowl. When he was a little boy he had spent a lot of time mixing things together—just mixing different foods to see how they tasted, and then he wouldn’t have the nerve to try them. He would go around begging people, “Taste this for me and tell me what it’s like,” and they would always say, “You taste it yourself.”
He hoped his grandfather wasn’t going to ask him to taste this particular mixture. He sighed and said, “That spaghetti really filled me up.” His grandfather added more sardines. Sammy said, “I couldn’t eat another bite of anything I’m so full.”
“Well, let’s get to it.” His grandfather turned and Sammy followed him out into the yard.
As they went down the steps Sammy asked, “Where does the owl go upstairs? Do you know?”
“The owl? He’s got a favorite place in the bathroom up on a pipe, and he likes the top part of one of the closets. He could be ’most anywhere up there, I reckon.” They crossed the yard together. “He goes in the back bedroom sometimes because there’s a mirror on the dresser and he likes to look at himself.”
“Is that the truth?”
“I caught him at it once, swooping down at himself and then landing and walking past. He’s got a kind of hop he does. You ever seen an owl walk?”
“No, I just saw him take a couple of steps on the table.”
“Well, he hobbles along with his head bowed and his wings drooping. He’s more like an old man thinking about something than a bird. Anyway, he’d walk past the mirror and then he’d fly up and swoop down at himself and then land and walk past.”
“I never knew birds could see themselves in a mirror.”
“I had a thrasher used to attack himself.” His grandfather paused. “’Course with the owl, it’s more admiration. Or maybe he gets lonesome. I don’t know.” He kept walking. “I reckon we’ll have to let him go before long, but it would surprise you, boy, how much you can miss an owl or a blackbird once it’s lived with you.”
“I would miss the owl already.”
His grandfather stopped talking as they went through the gate. Sammy could see that the crane was still in the same place, standing without moving, his head rising above the fence like a periscope.
The afternoon was hot and quiet. The only sound was the noise the geese made rustling through the weeds as they followed Sammy’s grandfather into the pen. “I’ll open his beak and you pour the food in, hear? Let it run down the side of his throat,” his grandfather said. “We don’t want to choke him.”
The geese stopped at the gate and stood like a small inattentive audience. One goose left the group and went over to attack a weed by the fence post. When she had reduced it to tatters she spread her wings proudly and came back to join the others.
Sammy stood on one side of the crane and looked at his grandfather. The sun was in his eyes and he blinked. He said, “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do this right or not.”
“Over to the side of his throat now,” his grandfather said, as if Sammy had not spoken.
“I said that I don’t know whether I can—” His grandfather cut off his words by thrusting the bowl into his hands.
“Here.”
Sammy took the bowl uneasily. “I don’t know whether I can or not,” he said again. There was some of the mixture on the outside of the bowl, and the bowl was so slick Sammy almost dropped it. He got it steady and glanced at his grandfather.
“Now,” his grandfather said.
The crane did not put up a struggle at first. He allowed his beak to be opened, but as soon as Sammy shakily put a spoonful of the sardine liquid into his throat, he rebelled. He closed his gullet and most of the mixture came out and ran down the outside of his throat. His neck was pale and seemed thin and fragile. Sammy tried to wipe away the mixture with the side of his hand.
“Don’t bother about that,” his grandfather said. “That won’t hurt him. Just try to get it into his mouth this time.”
“I told you I wasn’t going to be able to do it,” Sammy said. He let another spoonful dribble down the inside of the crane’s throat. The crane swallowed.
“You’re doing all right,” his grandfather said. “Just keep going.”
After the first few spoonfuls the crane seemed to give up and accept the indignity of the feeding. “Now, that ought to do it,” his grandfather said finally, and Sammy gratefully let the spoon plop back into the liquid.
His grandfather took the bucket of water and began to wash some of the food and dirt from the crane’s feathers. Sammy wiped his hands on his pants. He looked back at the house. After a minute he asked, “Now, where is it that owl hides out?”
“In the bathroom generally.”
“Well, I thought I might just go up there and have a look,” Sammy said casually.
“Take him something. He likes moths or grasshoppers, anything in that line.” Sammy hesitated and his grandfather said, “Everywhere you step around here there’s a grasshopper, boy, just look around.”
Sammy walked around the yard for a while, his eyes on the ground. Finally he found a grasshopper in the high grass by the back porch and caught it on the third try. “Is this kind all right?” he asked his grandfather.
His grandfather nodded. “Wait a minute. Let me have that.” He took the grasshopper from Sammy and held it up to the crane. There was no reaction. His grandfather waited a minute and then handed the grasshopper back to Sammy. “I don’t reckon he’s hungry now,” he said in a disappointed voice.
With the grasshopper wiggling in his hand, Sammy went slowly into the house and up the stairs. The top floor of the house was tidier than the first floor. No
mud had been tracked up here and the geese rarely came up the stairs. All the furniture was in place and the beds were covered with spreads.
Sammy walked cautiously down the hall and into the bathroom. The linoleum was cool beneath his feet and all the spigots dripped a little, making a pleasant rhythmic sound. Vines grew over the windows so that no sun ever came in, and the bathroom was as dark and cool as the forest. Sammy thought that it was no wonder the owl liked it up here.
He stopped in the middle of the room and looked up. An old shower curtain, torn and sagging, was pushed against the wall, and there was a shelf behind the curtain with old hair-tonic bottles on it. Just under the shelf on the shower pipe was the owl. The owl’s head was turned toward Sammy. His yellow eyes looked unblinkingly at him.
Sammy said, “I brought you something.” He put the grasshopper down into the tub. “This is yours.” He backed away slowly.
The owl kept watching Sammy. He blinked his eyes once, his lower lids moving up to meet the top lids, and then he turned his head and looked down into the tub.
The tub was stained with rust where the water dripped, and the dust of several years lay in the bottom. The grasshopper, at the far end of the tub, began hopping up against the side and falling back.
The owl’s look intensified. His pupils snapped open. He strained upward, and then suddenly he bobbed from side to side, swaying, his eyes on the grasshopper. He leaned forward. His talons tightened on the shower pipe. His eyes seemed to pierce the grasshopper. The grasshopper jumped again and fell back into the tub.
Sammy was holding his breath. His eyes went from the owl to the grasshopper.
The owl was motionless now. His stare was fixed. The grasshopper leaped one more time and fell back. It remained in the corner of the tub. Both the owl and the grasshopper were motionless then.
