“Are you my baby bird?” The question was pronounced in a silky smooth
Southern voice. The voice made a ripple
of unease slip down her spine.
Camille
turned a page and concentrated on the printed words.
“Hey,
Bud.” The voice insisted, this
time deeper and masculine, accompanied by a loud ringing and the discordant
sound of metal against metal. “Where are you?” he demanded.
“Hey,
Simon,” Camille called back, closing her book. Camille stood and slowly stretched. Through the kitchen door, she could see her
newest roommate pacing. Simon was a
trifle scruffy, his silver gray feathers ruffled and battered, but
improving. His red tail feathers would
stay stubby and bent until he went through a molt and grew back new plumage to
replace the old, but he had begun to gain weight, and he no longer flared with
alarm when someone passed through the doorway.
Camille
shook her head and slipped across the room.
“How
about a little music?” she asked, switching on
Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The sound
filtered from the speakers, crystal clear, lovely.
The
pacing stopped; the clang of the bell was silenced as the sensitive creature
bent his head to absorb the comfort of the sound, his figure reflected in the
dark glass of the window. A bird that
loved classical music. How unique.
Camille
took her seat again, choosing a magazine from the stack on the top of the
trunk. She flipped open the glossy
pages, too distracted to concentrate on her novel. There was something inherently splendid about
sitting in the half-light, the vanilla scented air rushing on warm drafts, the
music washing over her like a salve.
“What
the hell?” This time the voice was
different, feminine, an edge of fear, spooky. The voice of a dead woman.
Camille
caught her breath and froze.
“Just
here for a visit.” The voice returned an octave lower, a man
with no accent, smooth.
“Look,
I don’t want to discuss it.” The first voice again, but different. She didn’t sound scared anymore,
but cautious maybe.
“Baby.” The man’s voice almost crooned.
Then
there was a long pause, a pregnant silence filled only by the music.
“Let me
go! Get away from me!” It was the female voice again, but higher and
edgier, now really afraid. “No, stop!” Wild panic in that tone.
The
cacophony of sounds that followed showed signs of the furious struggle:
pounding steps, slamming doors, an unearthly howl, a bird voice of fury as the
music shut off, then a few seconds of silence before the next track began.
Camille
stumbled to her feet, the magazine sliding to the floor unheeded. Her heart was hammering in her ears as the
noise ceased, an insistent clanging melting into silence. She reached back to the sofa for support and
forced herself to breathe slowly.
“Oh,
poor bird,” the lonely creature crooned, once again in his raspy parrot
voice. “Poor
Simon.”
With
her hand at her chest, sheltering her stuttering heart, she leaned forward and
looked in the dining room again. Simon
was in the back of his cage, perched at his favorite spot, huddled against the
walls. His left foot was raised, his
long parrot claws gently massaging his own neck. A parrot’s self comfort.
