Where There’s Smoke

11

The cage I bought was large and ugly, but I considered it only a temporary convenience for the bird, whom I expected to turn loose as soon as he was again able to cope with the perils of the city. I set the cage on the kitchen counter top, and then checked the bulletin board near the refrigerator. The note from Lisette was short and simple:

Quickly, I went through the apartment to my study. The cardboard carton was still on the corner of the desk there, alongside the telephone. But the masking tape had been torn in several places, and the bird was nowhere in sight. I took off my jacket, pulled down my tie, and began searching the apartment.

I found him in the bedroom, perched on a lamp near the bed, shoulders hunched, beady eyes challenging, looking for all the world like a vulture.

“Come on, bird,” I said pleasantly. “I bought a cage for you.”

The bird did not answer.

“It’s just until I can take you back to the park and let you loose.”

The bird still said nothing.

“It cost me seven dollars,” I said.

The bird uttered a distinctly threatening sound at that moment, and seemed ready to take off and fly directly into my face. I backed away toward the window. The bird was still crouched for flight, his beak opening and closing menacingly, his wing feathers bristling. He watched my progress across the room, and then stared at me intently as I opened the window.

“Get out,” I said. “You want to roam loose in the city, that’s fine with me. I was going to take you back where I found you, but no, you’re just a hostile ingrate, so get out. Go on, what are you waiting for?”

The bird eyed me skeptically. Then, instead of flying to the open window, he took sudden wing from the lamp and flew through the doorway into the corridor. I ran after him. He was in the living room when I caught up.

“You crap on my couch,” I said, “and I’ll shoot you dead on the spot.” Instead of shooting him, I went out to the kitchen, took two slices of salami from the refrigerator, and tossed them into the cage. I carried the cage into the riving room, placed it on the coffee table with the door open, and then moved away from it.

The bird suspected a trap.

“Go on, eat, you imbecile,” I said.

The bird took three hopping, flapping steps across the couch, glared at me, poked his beak into the cage, glared at me again, and then entered the cage and began pecking at the nearest slice of salami. I bounded across the room and slammed the cage door shut. The bird flapped into the air, wings colliding against the sides of the cage, shrieking and yelling and hollering and making a terrible racket.

“As soon as my windshield is fixed,” I said, “which you broke, I’m going to drive you over to the park and get rid of you. In the meantime, shut up and eat.” The telephone rang. I looked at the bird once again, and then went into the study to answer it.

“Hello,” I said, somewhat harshly.

“I’ve got a name for your bird,” Maria said.

“I’m not interested,” I said. “I’m taking him over to the park as soon as I get my car back.”

“Where’s your car?” Maria asked.

“Being repaired. It’s a long story. Do you want to come here tonight, or shall I come there?”

“Is Lisette gone?”

“She’s gone.”

“I’ll come there.”

“Good,” I said.

“It’s a darling name,” Maria said seductively.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Edgar Allan Crow,” she said.

“Oh, boy,” I said, and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. But in my heart of hearts, I knew it was just the kind of cute, stupid, sickening name that would stick forever.