The Chickadee didn’t go far, for Nick could hear its feet scrabble on the roof. With nothing to watch, Andy wandered into the living room, turned on the veedo, and sat down on the thickest of the several throw rugs scattered over the polished hardwood floor. He lay down on his belly and stretched an arm under the couch to retrieve a toy, a small metal truck that had somehow survived Nick’s own childhood.
The airport Nick called was not the regional jetport he had visited to pick up Emily. It was just a few miles away, a much more local affair that catered to the owners of private one- and two-passenger jets. He had driven past it several times remembering the few lessons he had once had on mechanical airplanes and wondering if they could afford a few lessons on these modern aircraft. He had seen that the airport was small and shabby, but not so derelict that most of its planes could not be kept in small hangars. A few jets were tethered in the open. He would have thought the Chickadee one of the latter, except that there was no broken tether cord around its neck. Perhaps it was kept in a hangar, but its owner carelessly failed to latch the door.
The airport clerk sighed with audible impatience. “You called us yesterday, didn’t you?”
“That’s right. And you came and got the thing. Now it’s back. On the roof.”
The clerk sighed again. Jets weren’t supposed to take off on their own, but sometimes they did. Or the small ones did. The big ones couldn’t, and Nick should be thankful he didn’t have a Sparrow on the roof.
When Nick grunted, the clerk said hurriedly, “I didn’t mean … if you were …”
“I was.”
“So was my sister, and she won’t even go in the park now. The pigeons.” The clerk’s tone was instantly more sympathetic. “We’ll get someone right out there. It might be an hour or so, but we’ll get that jet off your roof. Yes, we will.”
* * * *
From the walk in front of their house, Nick and Andy could see a streak of birdlime running down the slope of the roof. A glob of the stuff had beaded there, while the rest had fallen, some of it hitting the brick side of the house beside the bedroom window, all of it spattering over the rhododendrons below. He would, Nick thought, have to hose it off later, or it would burn the shrubs, or even kill them. Fertilizer belonged in the soil, not on the leaves.
The Chickadee was still on the roof. Its head jerked this way, that way. Its tail pumped at the air, compensating for the head movements that might have thrown it off balance. Swallows swirled around its head, trying to drive it from their nesting territory. Occasionally, it seized and ate one.
“Yuck,” said Andy, and as if noticing his disapproval, the Chickadee spread its wings and hopped into the air, flapping, gliding to another rooftop down the block. Nick hoped that it would remain in the neighborhood until the airport crew could get there.
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go get those groceries.”
“I’ll get it!” Nick smiled as Andy dashed into the garage to lift their folding wire cart from its nail. Without it, they would need a cab to bring the groceries home. With it, the walk home would be only a little more labor than that to the store. It would be much less if Andy would not insist on helping him to pull it along the walk. He would have to walk with his knees half bent, and by the time they reached home, his back would be in agony.
But before they left … A large oak tree overhung one corner of the front yard, its branches drooping with the weight of leaves. For some reason, Nick turned to stare at it, his eyes scanning the limbs revealed in shadows by the shifting of the foliage. There, the streaks of orange in its plumage spoiling the camouflage that might have worked quite well in a swamp, was the strange bird of breakfast time. It held a bittern’s posture, tapered body still, beak upthrust, eyes blinking. As he watched, it twisted on its feet as if to let its gaze sweep over the front of the house.
Nick shuddered. “Let’s go, kiddo.”
* * * *
Nick was in the kitchen, in the back of the house, when he heard the garage door close. Footsteps sounded on the walk, the front door’s latch clicked, hinges squeaked, and the footsteps vanished as they touched the throw rug in the front hall. A clunk announced that Andy had dropped his toy, and there was a glad cry of “Mommy!” Emily’s briefcase struck the floor with a soft thud. Nick could tell when she bent to kiss their son, for there was a soft creak as the fabric of her skirt stretched across her butt.
He sliced the last potato half, arranged the slices in the pan—they would have scalloped potatoes tonight, with fried tofu and salad—and set down the knife. He blinked away the odor of the onions he had sliced first and rinsed his hands. He opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of white wine, and poured two glasses. Then he stepped into the living room and saw: lust as he had imagined, his wife was scooching, one knee on the floor and the fabric of her skirt drawn tightly over one haunch. She was hugging Andy, and her dark hair fell forward to curtain her face, and the boy’s, from his view. “Hi, honey.” He held one wine glass out to her.
She looked up, her eyes narrowing, her mouth as hard and tight as if there had been no hiatus between this moment and the morning. “Did you call?”
“Sure. It’s gone, and I saw that strange bird again. You’ll get to see it. Good day?”
Her mouth finally softened. She accepted the wine. She smiled at him, and he remembered when he had first seen those wide, expressive lips. He had been with another girl, at a party in a dorm, when a gust of laughter had drawn his attention to the other side of the room. There she had been, enjoying the joke, her mouth all teeth and tongue and happy noise, and her date—Nick had seen it—had slid a hand over the seat of her jeans. Her face had closed in, turned dark, erupted with her fury. There had been a slap, a curse, a stalking away. And when he noticed her again, in some unremembered class, he had asked her out. He had long forgotten the name of his date at that party.
Why had she appealed to him? Had he seen her fury as a challenge? Had he thought, someplace within his mind, out of reach of any conscious intent, that he might be able to please her more? If so … He smiled back at her now. He lived for those sunny moments, fully aware that she could get mad with little notice and over what he, at least, thought were only minor slights. What’s worse, her anger could last for hours and days, until the world—or he—finally bent to her will. Though, to be fair, she really seemed to react that way only when whatever offended her might be judged to have some component of personal animus. She accepted impersonal events such as power outages and traffic jams and terrorist attacks on the expressway with more equanimity than he.
“I’ll know for sure when Alan gets those kangaroo genes installed in the blimp.”
Nick laughed. “The cargo pockets?”
She nodded. “It looks like they’ll work.” She paused, ruffled Andy’s hair, and stood up. Then she added, “We had a cop at the lab today.”
“I hope he wasn’t suspecting you of anything.” Nick led the way into the kitchen.
“Can I have a sip?” Andy, toy truck in his hands, was staring at his mother’s glass. It was something of a family ritual: Whenever they had drinks—beer, wine, scotch, whatever—he could have one small sip from each of their glasses. They believed it could do no harm and might do good, if he grew up with the idea that alcohol was acceptable in small amounts.
As he busied himself with getting their dinner onto the stove, she said, “They found a chip in that Sparrow’s control computer.” She had, she said, explained to the detective how such a chip might preempt control. She did not give the cop a name, or say that Nick had met him on the expressway.
“I took him out to Ralph’s lab,” she said, and laughed. When Nick turned toward her, face poised in inquiry, she was sitting at the kitchen table, drink in one hand, her gaze aimed toward some vague place beyond the walls of the room. Yet she noticed his expression and drew her a
ttention home again. She added, “I kept a straight face then, but …” She explained that she had told Chowdhury that the armadillo’s startle reflex would give his Armadons problems, and they had caught him checking the idea out with a small pistol. She described the scene and its outcome, and Nick laughed too.
At the same time, both of them shook their heads ruefully. The situation had clearly had all the slapstick humor of a pratfall. But like any pratfall, no matter how ludicrous, it had involved pain. Pain for both the Armadon and its creator.
If he wondered that his wife seemed to be dwelling on another man, he said nothing. She showed no sign of romantic or sexual interest, and besides, modern marriages varied broadly in their openness. Some couples orbited each other only loosely, returning home like explorers to a base camp. Some, like Nick and Emily, hewed only to each other. Yet, he knew, neither of them had ever tested their bond. If and when such a test arose, their marriage might have to change.
* * * *
Later, once Andy was in bed and asleep, they had another drink. They read a bit in separate easy chairs. Then they shifted to the couch, side by side, his arm around her shoulders, one hand playing with her buttons, her hand against his chest toying with his, to watch a veedo show.
The show proved boring, but one button led to another. Soon they tuned the veedo’s sound to a low murmur and paid attention only to each other:
“Do all poets have quill pens?” she began. “Feathers here …”
“Ballpoints.”
“Fountain pens.”
“Gengineers have test tubes.”
“They need genes too.”
“How do they get them?”
“With pipettes.” A pause. “Did you know that once upon a time, long ago, lab workers used to suck on pipettes. With their mouths?” They shifted their positions, and there was a longer pause. “But now they’re safety-conscious. They use electronic pumps.”
“Poets use electronics too.”
“Not tonight, they don’t. We want those genes …”
“Put that pipette …”
“In the test tube …”
“Click that ballpoint …”
“Fountain pen!”
They had perfected the game long ago, when they were still in school, before they were ever married. Still they loved to play it.
Chapter Eight
What had awakened her? Morning light—early morning light—filtered past the curtains. The clock radio had not yet turned on. There was silence from Andy’s room. Nick was still, his head on her shoulder, his breath warm on her chest, his hand spread on her belly. She twisted in the bed, let his head fall to the pillow, and smiled tenderly at his oblivious face. He had always been a heavy sleeper. When baby Andy had cried in the night, he had never noticed. She had been the one to rise and feed the baby and change the diaper and rock him back to sleep.
She wouldn’t really have minded, except for the loss of sleep. For a few months, before Andy had begun to sleep the night through, she had been so exhausted that she had spent her days at the lab in a fog. But she had also done some very good work then, including the groundwork for her Bioblimp. Nick had suggested that the exhaustion had loosened the restraints on her creativity. Perhaps he was right, though she had not realized that that was a side benefit of a wakeful baby until much later. At the time, she had had to content herself with the realization that the nighttime house had been pleasantly quiet, and the dawn hours, alive with birdsong, had been relaxing, peaceful, mellow. She had come closest, then, to understanding the lives of her ancestors, their days and seasons timed by the rhythms of the sun.
What had awakened her? Some sound? She peered at the clock across the room: Its glowing numerals announced smugly that the time was a quarter to five in the morning. It would be another hour before the radio turned itself on to get them out of bed.
But there was light. Dawn was breaking outside, and there was no birdsong. Was that what had awakened her? That absence of normality? That silence?
No. A soft crunch sounded overhead, a scritch of avian claws as they stepped along the peak of the roof.
That goddamn Chickadee!
* * * *
“I believe you,” she said. “You said you called the airport, and you said they came and got the Chickadee, and I believe you.
“So why is the damned thing still here?” Her voice was so tense it was almost a scream. “I want it gone!”
“Me too!” said Andy.
Emily suppressed a glare at her son. Like most children she had ever met, he did not know what to want for himself. He learned, he built himself, by modeling himself on those who meant the most to him. He was heartbreakingly loyal, and there were times when that loyalty made her heart turn over in her chest. But right now he was staring yearningly at the window, clearly wishing that the Chickadee would come down off the roof for him to watch. His loyalty was so obviously just that, no more, unreal, a lie for whatever in-built reasons, that, for a moment of irrationality, she wanted to strangle the little bastard.
Her toast and juice sat untouched before her. Her coffee quivered in its cup when she lifted it to her mouth. A swell of tears hovered on the brink of her lower eyelid. She dabbed at the moisture with a hanky from the hanky bush.
Nick stared at his plate. Yes, he had called. Yes, they had come. When he and Andy had returned from their shopping trip, Mrs. Palane across the street had said so, describing the truck, the crew, the bait that had lured the bird into the truck, and the sigh of relief that had seemed to emanate from the trees, where presumably the local—and diminished—population of swallows was hiding out. If he wasn’t sure about the sigh of relief—Mrs. Palane did have a tendency to hyperbole—he did believe the airport crew had come for the Chickadee. But, yes, here it was again. He had clearly failed. He said: “They can’t be securing it very well.”
“I’ll say! This is the second time it’s come back!” She jerked her head sharply to one side, making her dark hair fly as if to emphasize her anger.
He explained why he didn’t think they were tethering it at all. “It has to be a hangar bird, and the hangar door can’t be latching properly. Either that, or someone is letting it loose at night.”
“Don’t tell me about it. Tell them!”
“I will.” He set down his cup, brushed a crumb from the front of his white shirt, carried his empty plate to the sink, and made the call on the spot. He didn’t want her doubting him, or accusing him of more failure than he had earned. She was, he thought, too prone to anger, even with a good excuse, and he felt his real failures keenly enough without her comments.
The airport clerk, once more, was sympathetic and promised immediate action. Nick suggested that once they had the little jet back, they check the latch on its hangar. He did not suggest that anyone was letting the Chickadee out deliberately, for that seemed unlikely.
When he was done, his wife nodded as if he really had solved the problem. She took a bite of her cold toast, drank her juice, and pushed the dishes away. Then she said, “It’s time to go.”
“I’ll go out with you.”
She shrugged, as if to say, “Suit yourself,” and left the room for her briefcase. Andy followed, stretched to reach the garage-door control, and held the door for his parents.
Together, they waited on the walk while the Tortoise ambled from its cave and positioned itself for boarding. But Emily did not board. Instead, she stared at the Chickadee on the roof, and her mouth set in a rigid line. The bird shifted its weight from one leg to the other. A shingle came loose, slid down the slope of the roof, and fell among the rhododendrons.
“And now the roof is going to leak,” she said.
“I can fix it,” said Nick. “I will.”
“But look at that!” She pointed at the streak of birdlime. “Lo
ok at what it’s going to leak!”
Nick laid a hand on her arm. “It’ll wash off the roof. I’ll take a hose to it today.” With gentle pressure he turned her to face the oak that overhung the lawn. He pointed. “But look there.”
“Where?” She searched the shadows among the great tree’s branches.
“There!” cried Andy. “I see it!” Nick lined his arm up beside her head so that her gaze could follow its line.
“Is that it? It’s pretty.” The strange, bittern-like bird was there again, or still, its beak thrusting into the shadows above its head; its small eyes, like beads of sparkling ebony, blinking in the morning light.
Now that bird turned, focusing those dark eyes upon them. Its beak swung to the horizontal. Its wings lifted as if in a shrug. They flapped once, twice, and it dove off its branch. Its course carried the bird, a heavy flier, low over the lawn before it could rise and circle close above their heads.
“It’s right over you, Mommy!”
Indeed it was. It was so close that they could feel small gusts of breeze from its straining wings, and the shadows of its passage across the sun were passing waves of coolness. But now its circle was rising and broadening, and its eyes seemed aimed at Emily alone. She moved to one side, and the bird’s orbit shifted to remain centered on her. The Chickadee moved too, cocking its head to watch the little drama below it. It sidled along the rooftop as if to be closer to the action. Its beak gaped, and in the brief glance she spared it, Emily could see the tongue within its mouth.
The strange bird suddenly broke off its circling, uttered a raucous shriek, and dove straight for Emily, its beak an outthrust dagger. Andy screamed. Nick grabbed his wife and pulled her toward him. She felt the buffet of the bird’s heavy wing against her arm as it missed.
Thomas A. Easton’s GMO Future MEGAPACK® Page 23
