When his throat was clear, he began to speak: “Did I ever tell you about the train I caught when I was coming through Virginia? The stationmaster, he had only one eye, see, but it was a sharp eye and he kept it on the boxcars. They were full of cabbage. Don’t know a soul who likes cabbage. . . .”
Two more clients. Two more hours of listening. Then they could do as they pleased.
“Farmers’ market next?” asked Clarence.
“Courthouse,” Bitty repeated. “I need to find a lawmaker.”
“But I introduced you to one already,” Clarence said.
“Who? Hobo Pete?”
“No, the other guy, the one who called you the fancy name.”
“The nose honker?” For some reason, it had never occurred to Bitty that a politician could be short and bald. He looked back toward the bench, but the man had gone.
“What did you aim to do once you found him, anyway?” Clarence asked.
“Well, I was hoping to . . . ,” Bitty said. “And then I was gonna . . .” What was he going to do? Stick a lump of coal in the lawmaker’s sock? Play dead on the man’s desk and see if he got the point? Challenge him to a game of charades?
Bitty sighed. He had a mission. What he didn’t have, apparently, was a decent plan. It was time to make one.
“Look, I don’t know too much about how it all works,” Clarence said. “But I know they have committees that look into things. Maybe there’s a committee that looks into animal safety.”
“Maybe,” Bitty said. It sounded as good as anything he’d come up with.
“So,” Clarence said. “Should I help you find the courthouse?”
“Yup,” Bitty said. He looked up and saw a bird on a wire. “But first I need to call—” He almost said “Alice” but at the last second changed it to “home.”
“Look for the wires without the grackles,” Clarence advised.
Bitty had learned that much already. The nearest bird was a sparrow. She was a dusty brown color, but she had a stripe near her eye that made it look as if she was built for speed. “How about her?” he said.
“That’s Miss Mona,” Clarence said. “She’s the best. Do you want me to introduce you?”
“I can handle it.” Bitty was eager to prove he could do something on his own. “I’ll meet you in a minute.”
“I’ll be in the market by the sweet potato pies,” Clarence said.
“Got it.” Bitty flew to the wire and landed.
“Operator,” Miss Mona said. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to send a message to Coalbank Hollow, West Virginia, please.”
“Where in Coalbank Hollow do you wish to send it?” The bird spoke in a short, clipped voice. Her head moved with each syllable.
“I’d like to send it to Two One Two Slusser Road,” Bitty told her. “To the Big House in Jamie’s bedroom. Address it: ‘To all canaries present.’ ”
“And who is the message from, sir?”
“From me. I mean, from Bitty.”
“Proceed.”
“If you could just tell them I’m in Charleston, please, and that I’m living at the train station. With some pigeons, who aren’t really lazy at all, Uncle Aubrey was wrong about that. And tell them I’m doing just fine. And that I miss them. I’ve met a mouse. And they should come visit soon, though they should be careful of the—”
“Let me repeat your message to make sure I’ve got it right: Bitty safe at Char depot with pigs. Stop. Visit. Stop. Will that be all?”
“Pigs?”
“It’s short for pigeons,” Miss Mona said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Well, what about the pigeons not being lazy? What about my missing them at home?”
“We have to eliminate unnecessary words so the messages are easier to remember,” Miss Mona said. “Your friends probably know you miss them. And everybody knows pigeons aren’t lazy. They’re just overweight. Speaking of overweight,” the sparrow said as the wire beneath them sagged. Bitty turned to see a puffy-cheeked squirrel hurrying toward them. Soon the squirrel and the sparrow were engaged in a rapid conversation. Bitty couldn’t understand a single word. At first he thought it was because of the nuts in the squirrel’s mouth, which had the same effect as the plugs of tobacco that sometimes garbled the speech of the miners. Then he realized it was a whole different language. The squirrel twitched his ears, uttered what sounded like a bark and ran off again. The telephone wire bounced in his wake.
“You speak Squirrel?” Bitty asked.
“I speak a dozen languages,” Miss Mona said. “Bird, of course, and Squirrel. I also speak Cat, Dog, Mouse, Mole, Chipmunk, Snake, Lizard, Bear and Rabbit. Oh, and Armadillo, though I don’t get much chance to use it here.” She looked at Bitty hopefully. “Do you speak Armadillo?”
“Just Bird,” Bitty said. “And Human. That is, I understand Human if somebody else speaks it.” He had tried a few times to speak it himself, to Jamie, but without lips nothing sounded right.
“Only Bird?” Miss Mona said. “How do you manage?”
“I haven’t really needed to know any other languages up until now,” he said. “I was living in a cage.”
“I understand. Perfectly,” Miss Mona said. “But you’re in the world now; effective communication is important. If you ever want to learn another language, I do offer classes, you know. Miss Mona’s Language School for the Natural World.”
“I don’t suppose you could teach me enough Human to speak before the West Virginia legislature?” Bitty explained about his mission.
Miss Mona sighed. “Humans are so difficult. But other animals? Easy peasy.”
Bitty thought about that. If he was trying to get the word out about the miners’ plight, why not spread it as many places as possible?
“We meet beneath that snowball bush every day at three,” Miss Mona said.
“I’ll be there,” Bitty said. He thanked the operator and crossed the river, hovering over the bridge once again. He found Clarence near the pies on the other side. They were able to share a few flakes after Clarence hollered at the sparrows (who weren’t nearly as polite as Miss Mona): “Hey! How about saving some for the new guy?”
Then they flew to Court Street.
The stone courthouse loomed before them, the color of sand. It wasn’t as impressive as the capitol. Still, people passed laws inside. Could they outlaw the use of canaries as guinea pigs? Force West Virginia to improve the conditions down in the mines?
A cardinal (”capital birds,” Bitty remembered) stood sentry by the arched doorway, his red plumage contrasting with the stone. Bitty and Clarence flew straight to him. Bitty cleared his throat, but the cardinal spoke first.
“Hear ye, hear ye. Welcome to the temporary quarters of the West Virginia General Assembly. State your name.”
“Bitty.”
“State your business.”
“I want to find the legislators who are involved with animal safety. And coal mining.”
“State your purpose.”
“I need to talk to them,” Bitty said. “About the conditions in the mines and the fact that every day, men are putting their own lives and the lives of innocent birds at risk.”
The cardinal leaned forward, his crested head nearly touching Bitty’s own, and his air of formality was replaced with an air of incredulity. “I’m sorry, son, did you say you wanted to talk to them?”
Bitty swallowed. “Or something,” he said.
The bird stood straight again and breathed deeply. “If I were you,” he said, “I’d file a report. Of course, you could also stage a protest—I love a good protest. But I’m afraid they’re not always effective.”
“But a report—?”
“In all honesty, they’re not always effective, either. But they don’t require a permit. Or a crowd.”
A report, then! There would be no need for lips. Bitty could present his case with written documents about the canaries’ plight. He’d bring the lawmakers newspaper articles about
the conditions in the mine and the dangers to workers and canaries. He could talk about the size of their cages, the dampness and the cold. Except that no one seemed to be writing newspaper articles about canaries. He’d have to find a way to write his own. He couldn’t pick up a pencil or scratch his report out on a slate; but he could use words that were already written for him. He’d find clippings. He’d turn them into a report. He’d—
“Of course you’d still need to present it,” the cardinal said, as if he could read Bitty’s mind. “To the appropriate committee.”
“Which would be . . . ?” Bitty and Clarence waited for the answer.
“The Committee on Mines and Mining, of course,” the cardinal responded.
“And they meet . . . ?” Clarence prodded.
“In ten days.”
“Ten days?” Bitty wanted to talk to someone sooner than that! The clock was ticking. On the other hand, it would take time to write his report.
The cardinal indicated a calendar that was posted on the glass door.
Committee on Mines and Mining. Wednesday, 9 a.m.
“That’s it,” Bitty said. “That’s where I need to be.”
“Excellent, young squire.” The bird winked at him. “The name’s Cato, should you need any help in the future. I’m happy to be of service.”
Now that his plan was taking shape, Bitty’s days were open as wide as the blossom of a mayapple. He filled them up. In the early mornings, he went with Clarence to visit the elderly and ate enough to last most of the day. The politician had been back to his bench only once, and he’d clucked at them softly and made some notes in a book. Bitty hoped the man would be on the Committee on Mines and Mining. He was a familiar face, at least, and while he still hadn’t fed the birds, it was clear that he liked them.
Bitty spent the late mornings searching for scraps of paper so he could work on his mining manifesto. Clarence was right—Hobo Pete grabbed every scrap that wasn’t nailed down. But Bitty didn’t hold it against him. The best mornings began when the man rubbed his beard, shook some crumbs out of his bag and said, “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the winter of twenty-nine . . .”
Clarence liked the hobo so much that he wrote a poem about him, and Bitty memorized it:
Hobo Pete,
He had no meat,
So he dined on day-old bread.
He took a little smidgen
And gave it to a pigeon,
And he went to bed well fed.
Had it been Bitty’s poem, he would have added something about the hobo’s feet, which also rhymed with Pete. But he was no expert; the only other poem he even knew was “Gone, Birdie, Gone.” He liked the sentiments of Clarence’s poem much better, even if the hobo was far from well fed.
Afternoons were spent exploring and studying the work habits of other birds, who were returning to the city as spring came on full-force. When Clarence suggested the dump one afternoon, Bitty agreed, though he was worried. It was because of Cipher that he’d ended up at the dump in the first place, and it would be a long flight, through open air. He hadn’t seen the hawk all week, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there someplace, watching.
Bitty tried to be pragmatic. Hawks had big noses, so they probably wouldn’t spend much time near the dump. Plus, Bitty would be with Clarence. Dolly and Eck said hawks usually attacked when their victims were alone.
There were more reasons to go to the dump. There were bound to be newspapers, for one thing. He wanted to see if Phil and Gladys had spotted anything special in the inn’s trash. And he wanted to prove that he wasn’t hoity-toity.
They set off, scanning the sky as they flew. Bitty’s chest felt like a fiddle string wound too tightly, but there was no sign of the hawk. Bitty’s flying was getting stronger. He already had more stamina than Clarence, who was a city bird and not used to flying very far. Plus, Clarence had to hold up all that extra weight.
They landed side by side on a steel girder overlooking a mountain of garbage. The white birds were still there, floating on air.
“Phil, look!” Gladys yelled. “It’s Bitty. He came back.”
“Hey, Kid Canary,” said Phil. “You lost again? If we’d known you were coming we’d have saved you some corn bread.”
“That’s all right,” Bitty said. “I was hoping for something else. Something inedible.” He asked his question about the inn’s garbage.
The birds led him to the spot, but Bitty found nothing beyond the usual vegetable peelings and a kitchen fan that was broken beyond all repair. Did that mean that Mr. Smith was working again? Or had he abandoned his project completely?
“How’s it going, kid?” Phil asked. “Have you saved your friends yet?”
“Not yet.”
“If it helps, we told everyone here all about it. If it were up to us, we’d make some changes in those mines. We’re behind you, just so you know.”
“Thanks.”
Bitty and Clarence scouted around for bits of newspaper and other things with writing on them. Much of what they found was soggy, but they came across a few pieces that were respectable enough. They stayed at the dump until Gladys offered to share some of her minced clams. Then they flew home.
At three, as promised, Bitty attended Miss Mona’s language school and became part of a class that featured two cardinals, including Cato, the bird he’d met at the courthouse, one duck (”They’re company birds, too,” Clarence explained, “only they specialize in children and we deal in geriatrics”) and the puffy-cheeked squirrel who had made the wire sag when Bitty had sent that first message through Miss Mona—a message that had, as of yet, received no reply.
On the first day, they learned to exchange niceties with a Screaming Hairy Armadillo. “Because if you ever do meet a Screaming Hairy Armadillo, it is most important to be nice,” Miss Mona added. “Now, repeat after me.” She grunted twice, like a hungry pig.
“Grrruunt.” Bitty’s classmates duplicated the sound perfectly.
“Excellent,” Miss Mona said. “You have just told an armadillo to have a nice day. Bitty?”
“Rirk,” Bitty said. “Excuse me. Maybe if I just . . . Rirk.”
“Nice try, dear, but I fear the armadillo would take offense. Keep practicing and the sounds will become easier to make. The world, students, is filled with sounds, which we can all mimic if we just pay attention. Now repeat after me: Meowow prrrrrrrt.”
“Ow krrrrrt,” Bitty began, almost learning to say “Where is the bathroom?” in Cat, which seemed completely unnecessary, as birds did not require bathrooms—nor did squirrels, as far as he knew. There were other, more important words Bitty wanted to learn. Union, for instance, and help. Also: prisoners, mines, greedy, coal operators, dangerous conditions and completely unfair. Effective communication was important. Miss Mona had said so herself. And part of his mission was to tell everyone he could about the mines and the miners, human and bird alike.
The second class was more intense. By the third, Bitty had learned enough conversational Squirrel to be able to relay, in simple sentences: “The mine is dangerous. There is more we can do.”
“Could you teach me . . . How do you say friend in Mouse?” he asked Miss Mona at the end of his fifth class. He owed Eck another visit, and he wanted to impress him.
“The word is eeni,” Miss Mona said.
“Eeni,” Bitty repeated slowly.
“Perfect. You got that one exactly right.”
On his way back to the passenger station, Bitty found a scrap of paper. This one had no words, but it was exactly what he needed. With the aid of some pinesap, he arranged the words from the bits of newspaper he’d collected so far and stuck them on. It was more of a letter than an article or report. It wasn’t quite a manifesto. But he thought it got his point across.
It wasn’t perfect. Bitty knew Uncle Aubrey would take offense at the use of the word fowl, but he hadn’t been able to find canaries in the papers he’d snagged, or even the more generic birds. With a little more tweaki
ng, he would be able to make his point.
The next day, Clarence took him to see Walter, another sparrow, whose ear was pressed against the telephone wire.
“An operator?” Bitty guessed.
“Nope,” Clarence said.
“What’s he doing, then?”
“Walter’s a she.”
“Well, what’s she doing?” Bitty said.
“Getting the news.”
Walter lifted her head from the wire and spoke: “Earthquake in Nicaragua. Here in the States, the economy continues its downward spiral. In Harlan, Kentucky, the coal strike continues and out-of-work miners are near starvation, witnesses report. And in local news, there was a fight outside the theater, which was showing Chickens Come Home. The movie was not the reason for the brawl. In weather, thunderstorms are expected and rain will be heavy at times. In fact . . .” She stuck out her wing just as a giant drop fell from the sky. “Time to take cover.” She weighed so little that the wire didn’t even swing when she flew away.
“We’d better get back to the station,” Clarence said. The rumbling sky agreed.
In Coalbank Hollow, Bitty had seen gray clouds snagged on the mountaintop. He’d felt the drops as he’d been transported from the mine to Jamie’s room. But he’d never been in a storm like this. Mr. Campbell would have said it was “raining pitchforks.” By the time they got back to the station, Bitty’s feathers were soaked.
“What do you do when it rains?” he yelled to Clarence over the rat-a-tat-tat of the drops. Thunder boomed.
“It depends,” Clarence yelled back. “Sometimes we hit the trees. Mostly we just stand on the balcony—there’s some cover there.”
Bitty thought about the grackles in the trees and opted for a spot near his friends. The driving rain angled in on him. Water spit at his feet. The pigeons, who were used to storms, huddled together against the brick. Bitty stood beside them, shivering, until Clarence’s mother reached out a wing and pulled him in.
Canary in the Coal Mine Page 8
