“What’s your problem?” I asked. “Did you miss us? Is that it? Were you lonely?”
He picked up a rattle with his foot and shook it. He loves Tootsie’s baby toys. But he still didn’t say anything. So I tried some of his favorite words, the really bad ones, the ones Mom calls thoroughly inappropriate. Turtle sat up, waiting. But Uncle Feather just yawned, like he was bored or tired. Either way, he had nothing to say.
Hmmm . . . I thought. Maybe he does have a sore throat. Maybe he has laryngitis.
Half an hour later, when Sheila came in with Buzzy Senior, she said, “Did Muriel tell you about your bird, Fudge?”
“What about my bird?”
“He hasn’t said a word since you left. I was up here yesterday and again this morning and he wouldn’t speak at all.”
“He’ll talk tonight,” Fudge said.
“I’d like to know how you can be so sure of that,” I said.
“I know my bird, Pete!” he said for the second time.
“I hope you’re right,” Sheila said. Then she asked, “So how was Washington?”
“You mean Fudgington?” Fudge said.
Sheila shook her head in disgust. “Muriel . . .” she said, “you have to do something about your youngest grandson. He thinks the world revolves around him.”
“The world revolves around the sun,” Fudge said. “I learned that at the planetarium.”
She just shook her head again.
* * *
That night, while I was on my bed, reading, I heard Fudge talking to Uncle Feather. “Good night . . . sleep tight . . . don’t let the monsters bite.”
And Uncle Feather answering. “Good night, sleep tight . . . bite . . . bite . . . bite . . .”
I went into Fudge’s room to see Uncle Feather for myself but Fudge had already covered his cage. “Shush, Pete . . .” Fudge said. “He’s sleeping now.” Fudge was snuggled up with his bag of shredded money.
The next day it was the same thing. Uncle Feather wouldn’t talk to any of us. But Fudge said, “Don’t worry. He’ll talk tonight.”
Just as Fudge promised, that night I heard him talking to his bird. “Everybody’s worried about you, Uncle Feather. But you’re fine, aren’t you? You’re a fine birdy.”
“Fine birdy . . . just fine . . . birdy birdy.”
Fudge laughed.
The next day when Uncle Feather still wouldn’t talk to me or Mom or Dad, I asked Fudge, “How come he only talks to you?”
“Because I’m his favorite.”
“Okay, let’s say that’s true. That still doesn’t explain why he’ll only talk at night.”
“Who can explain it, who can tell you why?” Fudge sang. That’s a line from a song Buzzy sings to Grandma.
“Try,” I told him.
“Try what, Pete?”
“Try and explain why Uncle Feather only talks at night.”
“I can’t, Pete.”
“How long has it been since he’s only talked at night?”
“Since . . . since . . .”
I could tell he was stalling. “I’m listening,” I told him.
“I know you are, Pete!”
“Well . . . ?”
“He only talks at night since Richie Potter was here for a play date.”
“What’s Richie Potter got to do with it?”
Fudge shrugged.
“That’s a pretty weird story, Fudge.”
“Weird stories happen, Pete.”
I shook my head. I didn’t believe him for a minute. Not one minute. I knew him too well. He was hiding something. So that night I waited outside his bedroom door. Since he’s afraid of monsters he never closes it all the way. He’s got night-lights plugged into every outlet in his room. And before he gets into bed he sprays the whole place with monster spray—which is nothing but scented water in a bottle with a fancy label. But he believes in it, so I’ve promised Mom and Dad I’ll never tell.
This time, when Fudge sang, “Good night . . . sleep tight,” I crept into his room. I could see him on his bed, thumbing through one of his catalogs. “Good night . . . sleep tight,” he sang again. “Don’t let the monsters bite.”
“Good night . . . sleep tight . . .” came the reply. Only it wasn’t coming from Uncle Feather. It was coming from my brother!
“Aha!” I called, jumping onto his bed. “Gotcha!”
Fudge screamed. I guess I really scared him. Then he started bawling.
Dad came running into Fudge’s room, followed by Mom. She picked Fudge up. He clung to her. “What’s wrong, Fudgie . . . tell Mommy . . . where does it hurt?”
“You want to know what’s wrong?” I said. “I’ll tell you.”
“No, Pete!” Fudge screamed through his tears. “No!”
Mom and Dad looked puzzled. “What’s all this about?” Dad asked.
“I’ll tell you what it’s about,” I said, whipping the cover off Uncle Feather’s cage. “Uncle Feather’s lost his voice and Fudge has been talking for him. I caught him in the act.”
“What?” Mom said.
“Your younger son is a good mimic,” I said. “He almost got away with it.”
“How long has this been going on?” Dad asked. I half-expected Uncle Feather to answer, It’s been going on for weeks now. It’s about time you noticed.
“Peter . . .” Dad began.
“Don’t ask me,” I said. “Ask bird-boy.”
“Fudge . . .” Dad said.
Fudge buried his face in Mom’s neck, slobbering all over her.
“How long has it been since Uncle Feather talked?” Dad asked.
“Since . . . since . . . since . . .” Fudge sobbed. “Since Richie Potter’s first play date.” His face was a mess of snot and saliva.
“But that was weeks ago,” Mom said.
“I . . . I . . . I . . . gave him my best marble . . . the green one and . . .”
“You gave Richie Potter your best marble?” Mom said. “That was very generous of you.”
“No!” Fudge cried. “I gave it to Uncle Feather. I put it in his cage and he swallowed it and now he can’t talk.” That unleashed another round of sobbing.
“You fed Uncle Feather a marble?” I asked.
“I didn’t feed him, Pete! I gave it to him to play with. I didn’t know he was going to swallow it and stop talking.”
“Wait a minute . . .” I said. “How could Uncle Feather swallow a marble? I mean, look at the size of him.”
We all looked over at Uncle Feather, who stared back at us.
“I gave it to him before I went to school and when Richie Potter came over the marble was gone and Uncle Feather wouldn’t talk.”
“Was that the day Richie Potter wanted broccoli for a snack?” Mom asked.
“Does broccoli have something to do with Fudge’s marble?” Dad said.
“I don’t think so,” Mom said. “Does it, Fudge?”
“No!” Fudge started crying again.
All this time Uncle Feather watched from his cage. If you ask me, he was enjoying the attention.
* * *
The next day Mom called the vet while Fudge danced around her. “Don’t forget to tell her about my marble,” he kept reminding Mom.
Finally, Mom said, “My son wants to know if our bird could have swallowed his marble by accident.”
The vet must have said No because Mom shook her head and said, “That’s what we thought.” Then the vet must have asked Mom questions, because Mom said, “His appetite is fine and he’s drinking the same amount of water as usual.” After that it was, “He loves his bath.” Then, “Oh yes . . . he’s his usual active self. He’s just not talking. He won’t say a word.” Then there were a couple of uh-huhs
and three or four I sees from Mom. She reached for a notepad and wrote something down. “Yes . . . well . . . thank you so much.” Then she hung up the phone.
Before Mom had the chance to tell us anything, Fudge said, “How does the vet know Uncle Feather didn’t swallow my marble? Because if he didn’t swallow it, where is it?”
“Probably with your missing shoe,” I told him.
“My shoe is on the subway, Pete!”
As if I didn’t know.
* * *
Everybody had an idea. Sheila stood in front of Uncle Feather’s cage and said, “You need a bird therapist. Maybe something happened to him. Some kind of trauma. I read a book about a girl who stopped talking because something terrible happened to her.”
“Like what?” I said.
“I can’t discuss it in mixed company,” Sheila said.
“Is that like mixed group?” Fudge asked.
“No,” Sheila told him.
“Anyway, nothing terrible happened to him,” I said.
“How can you be so sure, Peter?” Sheila asked.
“Because I live here, remember?”
“Maybe it happened while you weren’t home,” Sheila said. “You have to think like a detective.”
“Trust me, Sheila . . . I know what I’m talking about.”
“A truly trustworthy person never has to say trust me!” Sheila said. “Isn’t that right, Uncle Feather?”
Uncle Feather sneezed.
Richie Potter came over for a play date and offered Uncle Feather money to talk. “Five dollars if you say my name.” He held up the five-dollar bill for Uncle Feather to see.
“You’re bribing Fudge’s bird?” I asked. “What do you think Uncle Feather would do with five dollars?”
“I don’t know,” Richie said.
“Well, think about it.”
“I guess he doesn’t get to go shopping.” Richie folded the bill until it was so small it practically disappeared. Then he stuck it back in his pocket.
“If you want to bribe him, try his favorite fruit,” I said. “He loves pears.” Richie and Fudge dashed off to the kitchen.
Melissa said, “My mom says her acupuncturist can fix anything.”
“Her what?” Fudge asked.
“Acupuncturist,” Melissa said. “It’s some kind of doctor. He sticks needles in you and you get better.”
“Nobody’s sticking needles in Uncle Feather!” Fudge said.
Buzzy said, “Tough love. That’s the answer. Don’t let him push you around, Fudge. Let him know who’s boss.”
Grandma laughed and said, “Really, Buzzy. Uncle Feather’s not a teenager. He’s a bird.”
Jimmy said, “My parents got divorced because my father never talked to my mother.”
That’s the first detail Jimmy’s dropped about his parents’ divorce.
“Uncle Feather’s not married,” I reminded him.
“Maybe that’s his problem,” Jimmy said. “Maybe he wants a mate.”
I looked at Jimmy, waiting for more. But he just shrugged and said, “It’s a possibility.”
That night I studied The Myna Bird Handbook. I found out that if you have two mynas they don’t relate to their humans in the same way. They relate to each other instead. So forget about another bird.
Fudge told everyone who would listen about Uncle Feather. In the elevator he told Mrs. Chen, who’s visiting her family from China. She speaks only three words in English—Okay and No problem. But she listened to Fudge as if she understood exactly what he was saying. Then she nodded and said, “No problem.”
In the lobby he told Olivia Osterman. “I once had a myna bird,” she said. “My bird could say, I love you, Livvie. I love you soooo much!”
“Where’s your bird now?” Fudge asked, speaking up, so Mrs. Osterman could hear him.
“Oh . . . he’s been dead for years,” Mrs. Osterman said. “Birds don’t live as long as people. And most people don’t live as long as me. I’m going to celebrate my ninetieth birthday soon. What do you think of that?”
“I think that makes you a lot older than me.”
“Good thinking,” Mrs. Osterman told Fudge.
“I’m a very good thinker,” Fudge said.
“And sometimes I am, too,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Because I just got an idea about your bird’s problem. Maybe he’s lost his hearing, like me.”
“But you can still talk,” Fudge said.
“Yes, but I wear hearing aids. If your bird can’t hear what you’re saying, he might not talk back to you.”
I said, “That’s the first real idea anybody’s had about why Uncle Feather’s stopped talking.”
That night, after Tootsie went to sleep, we gathered in Fudge’s room to find out if Mrs. Osterman was right. While the rest of us sat on the bed, Dad tiptoed across the room and slammed Fudge’s door. Uncle Feather heard it all right. He jumped off his perch, flapped his wings, and jerked his head from side to side. You could tell he was really upset.
So much for Mrs. Osterman’s idea.
The next day I went on-line and found a website called mynabird.com. I sent a message asking if anyone knew why a myna bird would stop talking. I got five messages back, but nobody could give me a definite answer.
Henry Bevelheimer came up to have a look. He watched Uncle Feather for half an hour. “Uh-huh . . .” he said. “Just what I thought. Your bird’s on strike, Fudge.”
“On strike?” Fudge asked.
“Yes,” Henry answered. “He’s holding out for something. Now, all we have to do is figure out what.”
“More pears?” Fudge asked.
Mom said, “More pears means more poop.”
“Uh-oh . . .” Fudge said. “We don’t want more poop.”
“What else could it be?” Henry asked. “What else is really important to him?”
“Free time?” Fudge guessed. “He likes free time a lot.”
“Don’t we all,” Henry said.
“He already gets two free times a week,” I told Henry.
“Maybe he wants more,” Henry suggested.
“I don’t think we can handle more than two free periods a week,” Mom said. “Not with what we have to go through every time he’s out of his cage.”
What Mom meant is, mynas are known as frequent poopers, especially after they eat. So, when Uncle Feather’s out of his cage, all the furniture has to be covered. We put old newspapers on the floor. Then we pull down the window shades and drape the mirrors because birds are attracted to light.
“But, Mom . . .” Fudge said. “Maybe that’s it.”
“Maybe it’s not,” she said, thanking Henry for his time and showing him to the door.
“Sorry about that, Mrs. H,” Henry said as he was leaving.
“It’s all right, Henry,” Mom said. “It’s just that Fudge wants his bird to talk so badly he’s willing to believe anything.”
“It must be tough on the little guy.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “I think it is.”
Mom called the avian vet, someone who only treats birds. That night after dinner, Mom and Dad sat Fudge down in the living room. Mom said, “Fudge, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to be kind and gentle to Uncle Feather. Friendly, but not pushy.”
Dad said, “We’re going to move his cage to a new spot for a while to see if that makes a difference.”
“Not out of my room,” Fudge cried. “I can’t sleep without Uncle Feather.”
“We’ll move him to another part of your room,” Dad said. “Maybe closer to the window, so he has a better view.”
“And then we’re going to wait,” Mom said.
“For how long?” Fudge asked.
“As long as it takes,” Mom answered. “That’s the avian vet’s advice.”
“And then he’ll talk again?” Fudge asked.
“We hope so, but there are no guarantees,” Mom told him.
“If we had a million trillion bucks we could find a vet who would know how to fix him.”
“This has nothing to do with money,” Dad said. “Money can’t fix everything.”
“How do you know? You don’t have a million trillion bucks.”
“That’s true,” Mom said, “we don’t. But no amount of money will make Uncle Feather talk again. We just have to be patient and hope for the best.”
“Poor Uncle Feather,” Fudge said and tears rolled down his cheeks. “It’s so sad. Isn’t it sad, Pete?”
“He doesn’t seem sad,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
“That’s right,” Dad said. “He’s as playful as ever.”
Fudge shook his head. “He just doesn’t want us to know, so he’s pretending.”
“What a thoughtful bird,” Mom said.
Fudge nodded. “He takes after me.”
Baby Feet (Again)
Jimmy reminded me about the opening of his father’s one-man show. Last summer Tootsie walked barefoot across one of Frank Fargo’s wet canvases, leaving a path of little footprints in the blue paint. We thought Mr. Fargo would go crazy when he saw what happened. Instead, he got an idea. He had Tootsie walk barefoot over two dozen wet canvases. And now those paintings were going to be on display in an art gallery in SoHo.
“I like shows,” Fudge said, as we were getting ready to go downtown.
“I know,” Dad said, zipping Fudge’s jacket.
“Will they have singing or puppets?”
“No,” Dad said. “Just paintings.”
“A show with just paintings?” Fudge was surprised. “Did you hear that, Pete? A show with just paintings!”
“Yeah, I heard.”
Mom came into the living room then, carrying Tootsie, who was dressed in some black velvet outfit that made her look like a baby movie star.
“Where’s the baby-sitter?” Fudge asked.