The Aviary Read Online Free PDF Page B

tea and brought it up to Mrs. Glendoveer, who had managed to fall asleep despite the banging. She clasped the old woman’s hand. It was dry and hot, and she kissed it. By the time the clock tower chimed eight, the shutters were up and fastened with a new latch.
    “My dear Mrs. Glendoveer,” Clara whispered. “You are my only friend.”
    Mrs. Glendoveer slowly opened her eyes, which Clara noted were now dark and exceptionally shiny. She smiled like a china doll, a shiny red patch marking each cheek. “George and I are going away,” she said.
    Clara stood up and pressed the back of her hand to Mrs. Glendoveer’s forehead. “You’re scorching,” she said.
    Mrs. Glendoveer smiled again, as if Clara had delivered a wonderful piece of news. “We won’t be long, child. Not long.”
    “I’m getting Mama,” Clara said. As she ran down the hall, past its newly darkened window, she had the peculiar feeling that she had run down the stairs before in just this manner. And she knew that no matter how fast she moved, she could not reach her mother quickly enough, and the doctor would be too slow, and tomorrow would be terrible in a way that would make her long for the security of all her old dissatisfactions.

Sequestered by her mother in Ruby’s room, Clara was kept up half the night by the sound of weeping. And though Clara knew her mother meant for Ruby to watch over her, it was actually Clara who rubbed Ruby’s back and whispered words of comfort.
    “I told them to take her in the cabbage rose quilt,” Ruby said. “It was her mother’s, you know. Poor old girl.”
    Clara knew all about it. The men from the mortuary had brought Mrs. Glendoveer out through the back way, hoping to leave as discreetly as possible. That’s when the screams started.
    “Keee keeee! Awwwk AWWWKK!”
    The birds set up a frightening clamor, beating against the bars of their cage until they rang. Most unsettling were the voices. Clara made out a child’s wail among the racket.At times she heard what she swore was a jagged sob. “MAAAAAH! MAAAAH!” cried the cockatoo, until Clara was sure he was calling out for Mrs. Glendoveer.
    They went on this way for over an hour. And when at last they quieted, they stood on their perches, wings hanging limp, heads bowed.
    Clara did not cry. In the space where her heart used to lie was a frozen lump. She was vaguely ashamed, wondering what Ruby must think of her blankness.
    “What happens now?” Clara asked.
    Ruby blew her nose into her hankie. “I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “Usually, the bereaved are busy planning the wake. And friends of the deceased come with hot dishes, and we all try to make each other feel better.”
    “But Mrs. Glendoveer had no friends,” Clara said.
    “I wouldn’t say that,” Ruby said, taken aback.
    “Besides us, I mean.”
    “I suppose,” Ruby replied. “But we did love her, didn’t we? She wasn’t alone, at least.”
    “Of course.” She didn’t want to tell Ruby that the last thing she told Mrs. Glendoveer was that she considered her the dearest friend, because she just might start to cry. And she wasn’t ready for that.
    The next morning Clara’s mother was up early as usual. Clara found her stirring a big iron pot on the stove with the end of a broomstick. Once in a while, she’d lift the stick and extract something like a rag dripping with tar.
    “What an awful smell,” Clara said.
    “It won’t be so bad after we’ve boiled and rinsed it.”
    “Are we to eat it?” Clara asked, disgusted.
    “No, dear. You are to wear it. I’m blacking your pinafore.” She removed the pot from the hot part of the stove, turned, and folded her hands. “I’ve decided you should come to see Mrs. Glendoveer buried.”
    Clara faltered. “I don’t … that is, I’m not sure I want to, Mama.”
    “I can’t let the reverend pray over her by himself. We must see it’s done properly and with love. We’ll go tomorrow afternoon and come back quickly.