House of Wings

by Betsy Byars

  The owl made a faint hissing sound, like steam escaping. Then he swooped down into the tub and pounced on the grasshopper with both feet. His talons curled around the grasshopper, and he put it in his mouth.

  The owl’s mouth seemed enormous when he opened it, and Sammy stood silently watching him eat. When the owl finished he flew back to the shower pipe and turned his head to Sammy.

  Sammy was standing there with his mouth hanging open. He was thinking that this house had everything—geese, a parrot in the kitchen, a crane, and an owl in the bathroom.

  Then suddenly Sammy noticed how intently the owl was staring at him. He took a step backward. He said quickly, “That was the only one I could find.” He backed out into the hall and went quietly down the stairs.

  NIGHT COMES

  SAMMY AND HIS GRANDFATHER force-fed the crane again after supper, but the crane still made no effort to help. He just allowed himself to be fed after a brief struggle.

  Sammy’s grandfather stood looking at the ruffled, battered crane, then he looked down in the bowl at the remaining food and he sighed. “Them cranes I used to know could eat a hundred and fifty grasshoppers in the morning and a hundred and fifty at night. That’s a hundred and fifty each.” He shook his head. “This don’t look good.”

  “His not eating?”

  His grandfather answered, “Everything don’t look good.” It was a judgment. “Not eating, not caring, not trying to get away, not doing nothing.”

  “I don’t guess there’s any way to make him want to live,” Sammy said.

  “You know, that’s a funny thing. I got me three wild ducklings one time—my dog brought one home and then went back and got two more, just carried them home in his mouth. Anyway, two of them ducks lived and grew up and the other one just died. There wasn’t any reason I could see. Two just lived and one didn’t.”

  “Oh.” Sammy looked away from the crane and then up at the sky. He watched the color fade out of the sky, and he felt as if he were fading out in the same way. He was very tired. He thought he was going to fall asleep standing in the pen. He remembered an old man who had lived behind his family in Alabama. This old man would fall asleep standing on the sidewalk waiting to cross the street. Sammy understood now how that could happen. He had almost fallen asleep at the supper table and then again when he was sitting on the back steps and now in the pen. He looked at his grandfather and said, “What time do you go to bed around here?”

  His grandfather looked surprised at the question. “Well, whenever you want to.”

  Sammy nodded. That was the way it was at home. He never had to go to bed there as long as he didn’t bother anybody.

  “You can go on to bed now if you’re tired.”

  “No, I’m not tired,” he said quickly.

  “Well, whenever you want to then. It don’t matter.”

  Sammy stood in the weeds, waiting. He scratched the back of one leg with his foot. His grandfather waited too. He took off his hat, combed his hair with his hand, and settled that hat back in the same place. Even the geese at the gate, facing in different directions, still as statues, were waiting.

  “Well,” his grandfather said, “don’t look like he’s going to do anything tonight.”

  “No,” Sammy agreed. He yawned, hid it behind his hand, and said, “Well, maybe I might just go in and lie down for a minute or two.”

  “You go ahead. I put your suitcase in your room.”

  Sammy went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and stretched out his aching legs. His legs were so dusty that he appeared to have on stockings.

  Sammy had never been known for his cleanliness, but he could never remember being this dirty before in his life. He even felt dirty. He wished suddenly that his old teacher Mrs. Haggendorn could see him. Mrs. Haggendorn had tried to get him clean the whole time he was in her room. The third grade, as he looked back on it, seemed to have been one long struggle against being clean. Once on his report card she had written, “Sammy needs to work on his personal hygiene.” Sammy had asked his mother, “What does that mean?” And his brother had hollered from the bedroom, “It means you’re filthy.”

  “I am not filthy!” he had said. “A little dirty maybe sometimes, but I’m not filthy, Mom.”

  “You call that a little dirty?” his mother had cried, noticing him closely for the first time in weeks. She turned him around so she could see the back of his neck. “And let me see your hands.” Reluctantly he had shown them to her. “Now, those are filthy, Sammy. What does the teacher think of me letting you go around like that?”

  “She doesn’t think anything.”

  “When’s the last time you washed those hands?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Yes, either then or this morning.”

  “Well, I know it wasn’t this morning,” his mother said. “And what’s that in the center of your hand?”

  It was a picture of the Titanic drawn with Magic Marker, but he didn’t want to tell her that because she had helped him do his report on the Titanic a week ago and that would date his hand washing. He said, “It looks like Magic Marker.”

  “Well, go right in there now and get it off. Take a bath, Sammy. I mean it.”

  For a while after that she had kept after him about being clean and his father even brought home some special cleanser in a can that the men at the garage used to get out stubborn dirt and grease. Then after a week, his mother had stopped noticing and he had stopped washing.

  He lifted one leg and looked at it. Even his mother would notice now, he thought, but his grandfather hadn’t. After supper Sammy had half expected his grandfather to say, “Well, get your bath now.” Sammy had wondered what the owl would think when he went into the bathroom and put water in the tub. He didn’t think anybody had done that for years. It would be a big surprise for the owl to see what a tub was really used for.

  His grandfather had said nothing. He had glanced down at Sammy’s bare feet and not even noticed the dirt. Then, as if he had read part of Sammy’s mind, he had turned and said to the parrot, “Want a bath, Paulie?”

  “Paulie?” Sammy had said. Paulie was the cleanest thing in the house.

  His grandfather went over, put out his hand, and the parrot stepped on to his index finger. “He loves a shower, don’t you, Paulie?”

  “Good-by,” Paulie screeched. “Good-by.”

  “He thinks he’s going somewhere,” Sammy said.

  “No, he don’t.” His grandfather set the parrot in the sink and turned on a trickle of water. The parrot began to flutter his wings and splash, to dip his head around under the water.

  Sammy said, “Does the owl ever take a bath?”

  “He used to be in the habit of drinking out of a blue bowl every evening, and one night it was hot and he just stepped into the bowl and bathed as nice as a pigeon. Owls don’t bathe much though because they can’t fly when they’re wet. It takes them fifteen or twenty minutes to get dried out.” He waited a few minutes while the parrot showered. Then he said, “Had enough, Paulie?” and carried him back to his perch.

  Sammy closed his eyes and lay with his arms and legs spread out. He waited to fall asleep. He turned over and resettled himself, but the thought of the crane kept coming into his mind to keep him awake. He flipped over onto his back. After a few minutes he turned on his side.

  He heard his grandfather in the hall and he called out, “What time is it anyway?”

  There was a pause. “It’s about ten o’clock, I reckon.”

  Sammy thought that his grandfather must tell time by the sun and the stars because he had not seen a clock in the house. “Well, I’ll probably go on to sleep now.”

  “Do what you want.”

  Sammy turned over again and closed his eyes. The sharp face of the crane rose in his mind. He could not understand why he cared about the crane. “It’s just a bird,” he told himself, the way he used to tell himself, “It’s just a movie,” when he was alon
e at night watching television, a movie like The Last Man on Earth or The Mummy. “It’s just a movie” never made him feel less afraid then, and saying “It’s just a bird” didn’t make him care less now.

  He waited and then called, “What time is it now?” His grandfather paused and answered, “Oh, it’s ten-thirty or so.”

  “What are you doing outside?” Sammy asked quickly. “Is the crane all right?” His grandfather did not answer immediately, but after a minute he passed Sammy’s window. Sammy sat up and asked, “Has something happened to the crane?”

  “No, I just caught a moth for the owl. He likes these hawk moths.” He held up his closed hand and walked on around to the back door.

  Sammy lay down again. He thought he would lie there until the back door opened. Then he would get up and go into the kitchen and see the owl eat the moth. Sammy wanted to see the owl catch the moth in flight, just swoop down from the top of the door and scoop it up in his beak. His grandfather had said the owl had done that once or twice, but he wasn’t very good at it. Even with a big mouth and whiskers to help, it was still hard for the owl to catch something in the air. Anyway, Sammy thought he would like to see him try.

  Sammy turned to his side and watched the door. The owl went past, gliding silently down the hall. Although Sammy was watching, he wouldn’t have seen the owl except for the white underpart of his wings.

  Sammy got up and went out the door. He was so sleepy he had to feel his way down the hall. “I’m coming,” he called to his grandfather. “Don’t give him the moth yet.”

  Sammy came into the kitchen and his grandfather was standing by the table. On top of the open door was the owl. “I’m here,” Sammy said.

  Sammy’s grandfather opened his hand and threw the moth into the air. It fluttered around the light and then flew over to the wall. The owl saw the moth instantly. He stared. He leaned forward on the top of the door.

  The moth was resting halfway up the wall. Its wings were folded back, the front part of its body was raised. The owl waited to make sure the moth was settled, and then he came down in one graceful swoop. He might have been soaring down from the heights of an old oak tree in the dark of night. He took the moth in flight, grabbing it in one claw, and then he flew out into the hall with it.

  “Second time I’ve ever seen him do it with one hand!” his grandfather cried.

  “Yah!” said Sammy tiredly.

  Sammy turned, staggered back down the hall, fell on the bed, and was sound asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  GREEN CREEK

  SAMMY AWOKE IN THE morning and got out of bed quickly. He looked out the window. On this side of the house the weeds grew thickest, and here his grandfather had put discarded items—an old rusted truck with no tires, a sink that held enough water for a birdbath, wooden crates, broken chairs, an old iron bed.

  Closer to the house was a small garden, and his grandfather had told Sammy they would have to guard the tomato plants later in the year because the turtles in this part of the country loved tomatoes. Every summer, his grandfather said, he lost half his tomatoes to turtles.

  “I can guard the tomatoes for you,” Sammy had said.

  “Well, I’d appreciate it.”

  Now Sammy thought about walking down the row of tomatoes, spotting a turtle who was helping himself. “Aha, got you!” He would carry the turtle away, take him to where there was something to eat, but not tomatoes.

  Suddenly Sammy remembered the crane. He turned and started into the kitchen. He had not bothered to put on his pajamas the night before and so was now already dressed for the day. In the kitchen one of the geese was sitting in a little patch of sunlight. The parrot was on his perch in the corner. The owl was absent.

  Sammy went to the window. He could see his grandfather standing by the pen, but he could not see the crane. He leaned against the window sill, peering out. He wanted to call and ask how the crane was, but he was suddenly afraid the crane had died during the night. He did not want to call, “How’s the crane?” if the answer was going to be “Dead.”

  He waited at the window for a minute. Behind him the parrot said, “Where’s Papa?” in a loud screech.

  Sammy turned around. His face brightened. He said, “He’s outside.”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “Outside. Papa’s outside.” Sammy waited, then he remembered the crane and turned back to the window. His grandfather had shifted to one side, and now Sammy could see that the crane was still there, standing in the shade, his head turned as if he were looking over the fence. Relieved, Sammy went and sat at the table.

  “Good-by,” the parrot screeched.

  Sammy glanced at him in disgust. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “Outside.”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “I already told you. Outside. Now, I’m not answering any more.”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “I’m not answering.” He turned his back on the parrot and sat at the table. His grandfather had made biscuits for breakfast, big round flat ones that looked like hard pancakes, and Sammy put jelly on two of them and drank some water. This jelly, Sammy’s grandfather had told him at supper the night before, was twelve years old. It had been stored up in one of the bedroom closets and been forgotten. Then one night the grandfather heard noises upstairs. He had gone up the next morning to see what the trouble was, and when he went into this one bedroom he saw a terrible mess. Jelly was everywhere. The bedspread was covered with it, and there were empty jars on the floor with the sealing wax pulled out. In the middle of the bed a raccoon was lying fast asleep, and his stomach was bulging with jelly. It was as round as a melon. He had come in the open window and eaten five jars of jelly. His grandfather was glad it happened though, because that was how he had found the other six jars of jelly the raccoon didn’t open. He had saved them for a special occasion.

  “Good-by,” the parrot screeched.

  “Good-by yourself.” Sammy finished eating, got another drink of water, and went out into the yard. He walked to where his grandfather was standing, leaning against the fence, looking at the crane.

  “How’s he doing?” Sammy asked.

  His grandfather shook his head. “The same. He don’t want to eat. Don’t want to do nothing. I forced a little food down him.” His grandfather had a stick in his mouth and he took it out, showed it to Sammy, and said, “Want one? It’s a cherry twig.”

  Sammy said, “No.”

  “It’s the best toothbrush there is. If they put these in boxes they couldn’t keep them on the drugstore shelves. I wouldn’t use no other toothbrush.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll try one.” Sammy thought that it would save him the trouble of opening his suitcase.

  His grandfather broke him off a twig, and Sammy frayed it on one end the way his grandfather had done and stuck it in his mouth. Then he leaned over the fence like his grandfather. They didn’t speak for a minute. Sammy glanced up at his grandfather and started to tell him about the conversation he had had with the parrot, but he stopped. His grandfather looked so old that Sammy was startled. He said, “How old are you?” His grandfather seemed beyond years.

  His grandfather didn’t answer. Then, still staring at the crane, he said, “Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m a god.”

  “A what?” Sammy had been busy trying to figure out how old his grandfather was, but when he heard that he straightened and said, “A what?”

  “A god, you know, a god!” His grandfather made a big expansive gesture in the air.

  It was something Sammy had never thought of his grandfather as being, but he said, “Oh, well sure.” He stuck the toothbrush back in his mouth.

  “Like right now I got the feeling that if I went over there and I set my hands on that crane, and if I said, ‘Crane, live,’ well, I feel like the power would go out of me right through my hands and into that crane like electricity and that crane would live. That’s the way I feel.”r />
  “I’ve felt like that.”

  “Only it don’t work.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve tried it.”

  Sammy hesitated, then said, “Me too.”

  “I mean I’ve actually put my hands on an animal. That’s how big a fool I am. I mean I actually put my hands on a horse named Buddy one time. I actually said, ‘Buddy, live.’ And I wanted that horse to live so bad I half expected it to work.” He held his hands stretched out in front of him, wide enough to cover a horse’s back. “I done the same thing to my gray parrot. I come in the kitchen one morning and my parrot was standing in the sink—there was a little water in there. He never had done that before and I knew he was sick. I done everything I could for that parrot and when there was nothing else to do and I knew my parrot was dying, I put my hands on him and said, ‘Parrot, live.’” He let his hands drop to his sides. “It just plain don’t work.”

  “It didn’t work on my dog.”

  “Which is too bad, ain’t it, boy?”

  Sammy nodded.

  “It would be a good thing if we could have things the way we wanted them, huh, boy?”

  “Yeah.”

  His grandfather sighed and straightened. He put his hands on his back. Then he shook his shoulders beneath the old railroad jacket and said, “Well, I was thinking we’d take the crane down to the creek. It’s nice down there and a crane’s a water bird. It might help him.”

  “Do birds sometimes just perk up suddenly? I mean, do they do poorly at first and then all of a sudden just perk up? Did the owl do that?”

  “Not the owl. He never give me any trouble. Oh, he don’t see too good at close range and he didn’t eat for that reason—he just plain couldn’t see what I was giving him. When I got food up close enough to touch his whiskers, well, he ate it. He never turned down anything I brought him except a toad and a caterpillar.”

  “Did the crow give you any trouble?”

  “No.”