Bird Song

“The Scarlet Macaw can live up to 75 years in captivity,” my father says, lovingly touching the side of the cage, “put them in the wild and that life expectancy dips down by 25 years.”

I touch the thin golden bars, peering in at the vibrant, multicolored bird before me. My father beams proudly at me, perhaps mistaking my interest for approval. Or perhaps beaming at the bird rather than me. He likely feels more pride in his latest exotic acquisition than his lingering eldest daughter.

“Captivity saved these birds you know,” he adds, “habitat destruction nearly drove them to extinction.”

And the poachers, I think.

“But concerned conservationists domesticated these birds and boom, now there’s 50,000 of them flying around out there.”

Or sitting with clipped wings in cages.

My father sighs, and the sound catches the attention of the bird. The Macaw ruffles a few red feathers and puffs out a harsh squawk. For a moment, annoyance flashes across my father’s face. Maybe he realizes that 75 years in captivity means a lifelong commitment to this bird. Maybe he is already thinking of a quiet place to retreat to. Maybe his interest has already snagged itself on the next big prize, the next bird to add to his collection.

“Lydia, I think your mother is almost here,” he says. I let my fingers drop from the cage and do not look at my father. He is always so quick to move on to the next thing. Even before I’ve said a word, he’s already leaving the room and walking down the hall to grab my packed bags.

I wonder vaguely if transferring me back to my mother's custody feels like peeling off an old, over-due band-aid. I remind him too much of his failed marriage. I look too much like her. I have too much of her voice and too many of her thoughts.

“Sure thing, Dad,” I say to the empty room where he had been standing.

I hear a squawk behind me and whip around.

“Sure thing, Dad.” the Scarlet Macaw echoes. I tilt my head at the precocious bird and smile slightly. The Macaw tilts its head in return.

***

“So, your father got himself another new bird, huh?” Mom snickers. She’s driving with one hand on the wheel and another on a thick tumbler with bedazzled sea turtles. She takes a swig of her tea and then pushes her glasses up her nose with the rim of the cup.

“Stupid man,” she adds. I respond by sighing and leaning against the window. In the glass, I watch Mom shoot me a quick, sideways glance.

“Did you two do anything fun over the weekend?” Mom asks. I think this is her way of trying to backtrack into being cordial.

“No, he was gone all day yesterday picking up that bird.” I am unsuccessful in concealing the bitterness in my tone.

“You’re kidding me! You should have called me, you must have been so bored! What did you do in that big house all by yourself all day?”

“Racked up one hell of a tab on movie rentals,” I say with a smirk.

“Atta girl.” My mother smiles briefly before turning her head to check her blind spot.

We sit in silence for a while as some artist I don’t know warbles through the car radio. Sometimes I think my mother must be the only one out there listening to the local classic rock station. Sometimes I hope there are hundreds of others out there somewhere, listening to the same music and singing along.

“What kind of bird is it?” My mother asks, taking another slow sip from the bedazzled tumbler.

“Scarlet Macaw.”

“So, it’s like, a big expensive parrot, huh?”

“Yeah, the bird is almost a full three feet long,” I add.

Mom whistles, “And your father isn’t worried about this big ol’ bird flying and pooping all over his mansion? That seems very unlike him.”

“You’re right. That’s why its wings are clipped.”

“Those pretty red wings are clipped?”

“Yup.”

My mother sits quietly, and I know we must be thinking the same thing. I’ve seen her try to catch wasps in a cup to move them outside or pull over to move a turtle from the road. She is the type of woman who hit a bird with her car and still gets misty-eyed when she tells me the story. I admire this about her, the way her heart bleeds for any and all living things.

I think maybe this is what carried my mother to the arms of my father – a mutual fascination over all the wonderful and quirky creatures of the Earth. But my mother loved loving them, and my father loved owning them.

Mom thrums her jade fingernails on the wheel, then she turns down the volume of the radio. I look at her and see the determination building up from her chin and flushing her cheeks.

“Do you and your father have any plans for the upcoming weekend?” she asks. Her eyes sparkle, making her look playful, electrified, maybe even slightly crazed.

“No, why?” I draw out my words and raise one eyebrow at her.

“I have an idea,” she starts, “A little prank we can play on him. If you’re up for it?”

My mother’s smile cracks her entire face open. And even though I’m feeling a little guilty already, I can’t help but join her grinning. It would only be a harmless little prank after all, right?

“What are you planning?” I ask.

***

My father doesn’t notice that my bags are heavier today when I come to stay with him. I hear clamoring from within the suitcase and my heart stutters, but my father hardly looks over at me. I wonder what thoughts must whirl around his head when he is trying to pay me no mind.

He sets my stuff down in my bedroom and gives me a small nod. This is the way he both greets and dismisses me.

“Thanks, Dad.” I oblige him, and he begins his descent down the stairs. I close the door softly behind him and lock it slowly. It’s time to prepare.

I gently place my suitcase on the light pink sheets of my childhood bed and unzip it cautiously. Despite my father’s carelessness up the stairs, nothing looks damaged. I sigh and begin pulling out the equipment, transferring each item with care into my mother’s black duffle bag. When my task is complete, I nestle the duffle bag back into the suitcase and tuck it away into a corner.

Do you think your plan will work? I had asked my mother on the car ride over.

I’m not sure, she admitted, but either way it should be fun.

***

My father leaves early in the morning, as is his Saturday tradition. I wait until I hear the garage doors close to spring out of bed. Hastily pulling sweatpants over my pajama shorts, I rush over to where my lilac suitcase lays on the floor.

I touch the rim of the suitcase and stare up at the old posters on my wall. Between the boy band and the horse posters, a small sign reads, Now or Never.

I couldn’t agree more.

I lift the duffle bag over my shoulder and tromp downstairs, taking a sharp right into my first destination, my father’s parlor.

I touch the green velvet armchair and gaze up at the silver cage in the corner. An African Grey Parrot tilts his head at me curiously.

“Hi Dusty.” I touch the cage gingerly.

“Hello! Hello!” The sweet boy squawks. I pull a banana from my bag and break off a small piece. I hardly get the fruit into the cage when a grey flurry plucks it from my hand.

I smile and set the rest of the banana gently on a nearby stool. The browning banana looks odd on top of the sleek velvet furniture. I set my duffle bag down and pull out my mother’s old tape cassette player.

***

Next, I step around a bear-skin rug in my father’s basement. Neon beer signs flicker on the wall, and I set the duffle bag on the tan surface of the pool table.

“Hi there, little ones,” I coo. A cage full of mockingbirds flutter in excitement. I lop off another piece of banana and stick it through the bars of the cage.

“It’s a shame you guys don’t get any sun down here,” I mutter, reaching into the duffle bag. I pull out a transparent plastic CD player and set it down on a barstool next to the cage. I find the complimentary CD in the bag and delicately place it into the player.

My mother told me she used this CD player to play Beethoven when I was a baby, but I remembered neither the Beethoven nor the CD player until she had pulled it from the box in her garage.

I smile at the mockingbirds and press play on the CD player.

***

The next hour is a rush as I move from room to room, visiting each of my father’s birds. I go through the same motions: give the birds a treat, place my equipment, find the next bird, give the bird a treat…

My final stop is a mostly unused dining room. Here I set my duffle on the table and look at the newest member of my father’s collection – the Scarlet Macaw. There is a small amount of banana left, so I simply stuff the rest of it into the cage. The Macaw lifts his head from under his wing and looks down at the banana on the floor of the cage.

“The other birds like banana. I don’t know your favorite snack yet, otherwise, I would have brought it,” I assure the Macaw. The Macaw continues to silently stare at the banana.

“Did my dad name you yet?” I ask, touching the thin golden rods of the cage.

“Sure thing, Dad.” The bright red bird replies. I laugh.

“You still remember me saying that, huh?” I ask.

“Sure thing, Dad.” The Macaw squawks.

“Here, I have something new for you to learn.” I reach into the duffle bag and grab a small white Bluetooth speaker and set it on a nearby leather chair. Sitting on the floor, I drape one arm over the chair’s cushion and pull my phone out of my pocket. My finger scrolls through my downloaded music.

“It really was tough to find enough things that could play music,” I tell the Macaw. He flutters down to the floor of his cage and pokes the banana chunk with his foot.

“Dad has a lot of birds, you know. We had to stop at three different thrift stores to get everything we needed.”

The Macaw takes a tentative bite of the yellow fruit. He chirps lightly, then takes another, more enthusiastic bite. I look back down at my phone and press play.

Music begins to play through the small speaker, then a beat starts to thrum in floorboards beneath me.

“I think I have a name for you, Mr. Macaw.” I start, “How about Freddie?”

The song picks up, then the first lyrics sound across the room.

I want to break free

I want to break free

It’s a Queen song, my mother’s idea. I hit the repeat song icon on my phone.

I want to break free from your lies

You're so self satisfied I don't need you

I stand up and slip the phone back into my sweatpants. Then before I know it, I’m sidestepping to the beat.

I've got to break free

God knows, God knows I want to break free

Freddie looks at me, and then I see him step side to side, matching my groove. My arms unstick from my sides and Freddie lifts his clipped wings outward to match. And there we are, dancing together alone in this big, big house.

Oh how I want to be free, Baby

Oh how I want to be free

Oh how I want to break free

I start to nod my head, and to my delight, Freddie bobs his head up and down with the tune.

“Atta boy, Freddie!” I shout and do a quick spin. My arms are bouncing wildly at my sides, and my feet are sliding across the floor. I find myself singing along.

God knows, got to make it on my own

So baby can't you see

I've got to break free.

Freddie and I dance along, and I let the song repeat again and again. Each time I sing louder, each time I get a little closer in my attempts at the high notes.

Just imagine it, Lydia, I remember my mother saying. Imagine if we could get all the birds to start singing. Imagine the look on your father’s face when every one of his birds start singing “I want to break free.”

But what if they don’t start singing the song? I had asked.

Then keep playing it Lydia. Play it every weekend if you have to.

And in this moment, my lungs shudder with the force of breathing, and my heart thunders into my ribs, but I feel so effortlessly alive. I wipe sweat from my cheeks and grin at the beautiful red bird in front of me.

I've got to break free

I want to break free, yeah

I want, I want, I want, I want to break free

“You like the song, Freddie?” I ask, breathlessly, “Do you think you can learn it?”

“Sure thing, Dad.” The Scarlet Macaw replies.