The Canary Speaks

The old writer, Mr. Kelly, sat hunkered down in his study at his desk, staring through the window at the rain. The harsh rain fell in battering sheets, flooding the yard and pounding the windows and roof. The sound was deafening, invading his exhausted ears as he tried to work--searching aimlessly for the words in his overworked brain to add to his latest short story. Staring at the paper with bloodshot eyes, he was neither awake nor asleep, and he tugged at his grey chin-whiskers, wide-eyed, in a deep trance. His long, ghost-like hair draped like straw down to his shoulders, and the halls of his cabin sat deathly quiet, aside from the ticking grandfather clock in the hall. During the times of his occasional insomnia, Mr. Kelly needed silence--he required peace.

Whenever Mr. Kelly sank into the bottomless pit of writer's block he stayed up through several nights, keeping the coffee maker on a constant flow and sitting in solitude at his desk. Noises of any kind distracted him and dulled the inner-workings of his mind. When his wife was alive, bustling around the cabin, Mr. Kelly thrived creatively from her energy--her light footsteps on the hardwood floor, the way she banged around the kitchen, her calm voice calling to him through the halls--fueled him to craft his best work. But since her death, he could only work in dead silence.

He lost his wife years ago to cancer, and since then, he kept to himself--rarely leaving the small cabin. And although he loved the solitude of living alone, he missed his wife dearly. Depending on the memory, he would shed tears of joy or sadness at each vision of her that often dwelt at the forefront of his mind. But he pushed himself, diving into his work day after day--struggling to keep radiant life pumping through his aging bones. According to Mr. Kelly, his greatest work was yet to be written.

His sole companion in the house was a tiny yellow canary that he kept stationed in the far corner of his study in an ornamental bird cage, made of sparkling, gold-tinted wire. For many years, he tried to coax the bird to speak, but to no avail. The bird would only chirp at Mr. Kelly's presence--who hunched over the cage with a cracker in his hand, repeating simple words and phrases. After a build-up of frustration, Mr. Kelly would retire from the cage back to his desk and continue working.

After a while of trying unsuccessfully to coach his bird to speak, Mr. Kelly took only enough time from his days to make sure the bird was properly fed and had enough to drink. He no longer fussed with the bird and considered it a waste of valuable time to interact with a dumb creature. And from that point on, the bird sat emotionally neglected, merely a living ornamental piece that added to the simple rustic style of the cabin deep in the woods.

As the rain roared like white noise in Mr. Kelly's ears, he was jolted out of his trance by a door unlatching somewhere in the house. He shot up from the desk in a dazed panic and paced over to the corner of his study door. Looking around the corner like an innocent child, he called out down the hall:

–Who's there!

His gruff old voice boomed through the house, thick with paranoia.

The familiar voice of a woman called back with a reassuring tone:

–It's me, Grace, Mr. Kelly! Here to straighten up the house!

A calmness swept over Mr. Kelly, his glazed eyes squinting, reassured by the familiar voice of his housemaid. Even though he sometimes regretted hiring the young woman, he was happy to have the help. She showed up to the cabin like clockwork and cleaned the rooms to match the splendor like that of a royal palace. Nonetheless, he longed to stay alone, losing himself in the pages on his desk.

Hearing Grace cluttering around the utility room, he trudged back to his desk rubbing his droopy eyes. A groan escaped his throat as he flung his frail arms above his head, working out the aches and pains of continuous sitting. He placed his hand on the back of his neck, massaging a pain that had burdened him for years. He knew from a time in the early days that being a writer, especially one with bad posture, would eventually succumb to pains in the neck and back. His wife always warned him about it and would shout with a playful tone to "sit up straight" and "quit hunching," but Mr. Kelly never paid the advice any mind. Through the years, he regretted shrugging off the warnings.

After a moment of stretching beside his desk chair, adjusting to the gravity of standing so quickly, Mr. Kelly felt again at ease and slunk down behind his desk. He plucked up a pen and began scribbling notes down on the paper. The blood-flow to his head from standing abruptly pierced his brain with a flash of creative energy, and words poured onto the page like a crashing wave. A smile crept across his face as he feverishly scribbled sentence after sentence.

–There, he said, with a wrinkled smirk.

After half an hour of disappearing in his work, Mr. Kelly looked up from his desk, releasing an accomplished sigh. He rubbed his eyes with two slow index fingers then rested his elbows on the desk, placing his tan wrinkled chin on his hands. The wind and rain howled outside the cabin, and the shaded blue light of a clouded midday poured in through the window of the study. He glanced at the storm outside and a look of disgust crossed his face. Ordinarily, he welcomed a storm, but the rain had been falling for three days--equal to the time he sat at his desk awake. The storm reflected the ordeal of his blocked brain and the measures he took to unblock it. He despised staying awake, but he felt compelled to do so--to strike a spark from deep within the recesses of his mind. It was a ritual he fashioned long ago, and it always ended with flashes of brilliant productivity. Some of his greatest stories were born from sleeplessness and, despite the decreasing vitality throughout the years, he vowed to never to break a ritual that ended in amazing work.

A sudden fog of blatant exhaustion enveloped his senses and he leaned back, resting snug against the back of his leather chair. His eyes drooped lower and lower, closing finally with a tilt of his head. Soothing, dark sleep washed over him for a moment. Then, the sudden whirring sound of a vacuum filled the halls of the cabin. Mr. Kelly's eyes flew open, but squinted against the lonely lamp that sat bright like the sun on the corner of his desk. He knew the house needed to be cleaned, but the sound angered him to the core, and he cursed Grace under his breath. The need to confront her rose up inside him, but he restrained the urge. Instead he stood up, walking to the black and gold-trimmed bar that sat next to the window, and he picked up a coffee mug. The smell of the fresh-brewed coffee nudged his eyes open slightly as he filled his mug to the top. He grabbed the back of his aching neck, squeezing as hard as his arthritic hand would let him. Steam rose from the mug, and he breathed it in through his nostrils as he sat back down behind his desk.

Time slipped slowly by as Mr. Kelly sipped his black coffee, listening to Grace clatter about the cabin, dusting, mopping, vacuuming. As he listened to her, memories of his wife sprang up in his mind. He smiled at the vivid visions of her passing the door of his study: checking in on him, bringing him lunch--a smile always spread across her face. She peeked in at him with warm smiling eyes behind thick round glasses--her long grey hair tied in a loose bun, and a Home Sweet Home apron dangled on her thin frame. A solemn smile wrinkled Mr. Kelly's face and tears welled up in his eyes as he stared up at the vision of her in the hall. She smiled back at him with calm reassurance on her face. The delirious short-lived visions faded away and the sound of the rain filled his ears once again.

Mr. Kelly wiped the trailing tears away from his cheeks with a shaky thumb. A weak smile inched across his face, breathing deep to quell the hard emotional lump in his throat. After a minute, he sat back again in his chair and finished his coffee.

Grace appeared in the doorway of the study and startled Mr. Kelly from another trance. He gazed up at her, feigning a smile. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair hugged her round face as she returned a professional smirk.

–I didn't mean to scare you. I wanted to know if you wanted me to clean the bedrooms. I just finished the kitchen.

Mr. Kelly sat up in his chair, trying not to look so tired.

–Yes, if you don't mind.

Grace smiled at him and grabbed the corner of the doorway, pointing her foot down the hall.

–Not at all, she said. I'll be out of your hair most likely within another hour.

–Thank you, Grace, Mr. Kelly said, fumbling with the papers on his desk.

–No trouble at all, she said. Get some sleep Mr. Kelly, you're not looking so hot.

Mr. Kelly chuckled as Grace bounded down the hall toward the master bedroom. Then he looked down at his papers and sighed. Although he had written a few pages of notes, he disregarded the words as crap and shoved them to the corner of his desk under the lamp. Lightning flashed outside the window, and Mr. Kelly's heart leapt with surprise. He stiffened with sudden fright and peered out at the storm for a moment. For the past few days it had only been raining, but suddenly lightning blinded the windows and thunder boomed with a tremendous roar. Mr. Kelly patted his chest, blessing his old ticker for hanging on, and he chuckled at the exciting addition to the never ending rain. Then, suddenly, from the corner of the study where his bird cage sat, a loud happy chirp echoed through the room.

The birdcage sat covered with a dark blanket during the day while Mr. Kelly worked. This being so, the canary became nocturnal and rarely chirped during the day. Mr. Kelly straightened his back and peered over at the covered cage with inquisitive eyes. The bird chirped again, louder and full of enthusiasm. The storm must have stirred it from slumber, and Mr. Kelly stood up and tip-toed over to the cage. Sure enough, as he lifted away the black shroud, the bird fluttered around the cage and greeted Mr. Kelly with another happy chirp.

–Well, hello there little guy, Mr. Kelly said, with a cheerful voice.

The canary unfurled its wings and squawked. Mr. Kelly reached down to a box on the floor, pulling out a large cracker, showing it to the bird. Hopping wildly from perch to perch within the cage, the canary landed on the stick closest to the wiring and thrust it's tiny head out from the bars. With a child-like smile, Mr. Kelly passed the cracker through the bars and watched it disappear into a grateful beak. A sudden affection and a strong feeling of guilt rose up within Mr. Kelly. He suddenly could not understand why he had neglected his only companion for so long. With a shaky hand, he opened the cage door and the canary landed on his finger in an instant, gazing up at him with cheerful black eyes. As he walked back to his desk, Mr. Kelly nuzzled the bird's head lovingly with his long nose and baby-talked it with a high-pitched voice. The bird hopped onto the desk, turned around, and stared at Mr. Kelly. Mr. Kelly stared back and smiled.

–Well my little friend... It's been a while, Mr. Kelly said.

The canary chirped back.

–You haven't made a peep in the last few months. I had almost forgotten about you.

The canary cocked its head inquisitively.

–You remember Betsy, my wife, don't you? She used to come in here and say hello to you every morning.

–Hello, the canary said, then chirped happily.

Mr. Kelly's eyes widened.

–Did you say hello?

–Hello, the bird said again, and flapped its wings.

Shock and excitement coursed through Mr. Kelly's veins as he stared with bewilderment at the bird. The bird had never spoken before. And the voice it used sounded like Betsy's voice: warm and calm. This overwhelmed him to the point of feeling faint, and he sank back in his chair, still staring at the spectacle that perched on his desk. The canary bounced forward to the edge of the desk and spoke again:

–Hello. I love you.

Betsy's voice reverberated through the bird's vocal cords, which was too much for Mr. Kelly. Tears filled his eyes, and he covered them with his bony hands. Then, like falling into a warm bath, he passed into darkness--sinking into a deep sleep.

He woke up to the glow of heavenly sunlight streaming in through the window, illuminating the entire room. The storm had passed, and the green of the trees outside caught his eye. Leftover rain drops sparkled like diamonds on the ends of each leaf, catching the bright warm glow of the afternoon sun. Mr. Kelly's first thought was of the bird. He looked around the room, searching for it with a peaceful grin on his face. Seeing that the bird was not in the study, he stood up and walked out into the glowing hallway. As he walked toward the parlor at the front of the cabin, he spotted another vision of his wife standing next to the opened front door. On her finger sat the little canary, and she spoke to it silently. The sunlight cascaded into the cabin through the front door, surrounding Betsy and the bird like a halo, and Mr. Kelly walked up to them calling her name.

–Betsy, he said, smiling.

She looked at him but said nothing. A loving smile appeared on her face, and she stepped out the front door into the bright afternoon. Mr. Kelly followed her and they stood on the front porch, looking out into sun-filled woods. Then the canary took flight off of Betsy's finger and disappeared into the sky.

Peace filled Mr. Kelly's soul as he looked longingly at the vision of his wife standing on their front porch. She gazed back at him and then walked down the stairs into the yard toward her garden. Suddenly Mr. Kelly felt the need to sit down. He watched Betsy as she waved at him from her garden, then he sat on the porch swing, feeling very tired. The feeling of being completely at home--a feeling which had eluded him for years--washed over him and his eyes sank lower and lower. The sun warmed him all over as he again slipped into sleep. He felt Betsy's soft hand on his cheek, and he peeked through half-closed eyes at her loving face. Then he closed his eyes again.

Grace finished cleaning the bedrooms in the cabin and packed up all the cleaning supplies in the utility room. Then she walked down the hall toward the study and looked inside. Mr. Kelly laid face-down, slumped over his desk. Grace gasped, running over to him, and checked his pulse. She felt no beat.

–Oh my lord! She gasped.

His grey wispy hair covered a page that caught her eye. Carefully she brushed his hair back from the page and skimmed the words on the paper. At the bottom of the page, in large handwritten letters, read the words:

'My bird finally spoke to me'

The rain battered the house; lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Grace picked up the phone on the desk and dialed emergency services. As she spoke to an operator, she thought of the words on the page. They confused her and she looked over at the bird cage in the corner of the room. She remembered cleaning out the cage long ago.

Mr. Kelly's canary died the day after his wife died.