and blissful. You kind of had to love the pair of them.
“I’ll get you a drink,” said Tony. “Second door on your left.”
In the kitchen Tony tossed the empty pineau bottle and refilled the carafe.
Jamais deux sans trois
. The spigot was hard to work, and the wine was running out, so he opened the cardboard box and extracted the metallic bladder and squeezed it like an udder into the carafe, from which he then filled Sid’s glass. If he’d been sober, he thought, he would never have let Sid bother Izzy; and he was very happy he wasn’t sober, because it was essential that
someone
bother Izzy. Aldo had followed him back and now sniffed one of the puppies skeptically. “He does so look like you,” Tony told him.
When he opened the door to the budgie room one of the budgies flew out, a yellow lutino. That left forty-nine inside.
Sid and Izzy were sitting on the awful flowered sofa holding hands; it was the room’s only piece of furniture meant for humans. The sprung-open cages of the budgies encircled them. Some budgies—the ones who feared the warden, no doubt—stayed in their cages, but most of them flew around like drunken fairies. The grouch-faced English budgie called Bomber Harris paced pacifically through Izzy’s spiky blond hair. The way Izzy and Sid sat—he still bare-chested, holding a sleeping kitten in one hand near his armpit, she with her birds—they looked like a low-budgetallegorical painting, though what the allegory was, Tony couldn’t say. Izzy was a bird-inclined saint who attracted budgies with her kindness, or a crazy woman who stuffed her pockets with bread crumbs. If she’d been ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner, it would have been saint for sure.
“Should that cat be in here, with all these birds?” Tony asked.
“It’s fine,” said Sid. “I have her hypnotized.”
“Malcolm bought me a parrot,” Tony said to Izzy.
“
Malcolm
did?”
“Half a parrot,” said Sid, patting the back of her hand. Then he hissed at Tony, “When did this
happen
?”
“Oh,
hello
,” said Bomber Harris in a ludicrously pleasant voice. “Oh,
hello
.”
“Week ago,” said Tony. “An African gray. Like Maud.” He began to drink the glass of wine he’d brought for Sid.
Izzy rolled her eyes at Maud’s name. “If you met that bird today, you’d never give her a second look.”
“Attention,” said Sid. “This did not happen in a week.”
“The budgies?” Izzy scooped Bomber Harris off her head and smiled at him. “They tell you that if you want to breed budgies you can’t have a pair, a pair won’t mate. You need at least two pair. So we got four pair to make sure. Eventually—”
“Because they’re swingers,” asked Sid, “or because they’re naive? Should the other pair be older and come with sex manuals or be younger and come with quaaludes?”
“Quaaludes?”
said Izzy. “Do quaaludes even exist anymore?”
“Since Malcolm,” said Tony.
“Since Malcolm
what
?” said Sid.
Since Malcolm had made his announcement—
I’m selling the house
—she’d slept in the budgie room on the old, moldy flowered sofa they’d found in the barn. At night she draped the cages, then blacked out her own head with a duvet.
I’ve talked to a lawyer. It’s in my name
. The budgie room had belonged to the worst of the badly behaved French boys, the one who seemed to have pissed in every corner of the room though the toilet was right there, the one who carved his name, PASQUAL , in the stone walls, and put his cigarettes out on the windowsill, and broke the lock on the window so he could creep out at night; by all evidence a feral boy—the budgies kept finding long dark hairs—but nevertheless a boy who most likely had never threatened to sell his parents’ house from under them.
I’m sorry to do it
. When had Malcolm become so tall? His hair was cut like the guitar players of Tony’s 1970s youth, shaggy, awful even then.
It’s just when I look at my
“I’ll get you a drink,” said Tony. “Second door on your left.”
In the kitchen Tony tossed the empty pineau bottle and refilled the carafe.
Jamais deux sans trois
. The spigot was hard to work, and the wine was running out, so he opened the cardboard box and extracted the metallic bladder and squeezed it like an udder into the carafe, from which he then filled Sid’s glass. If he’d been sober, he thought, he would never have let Sid bother Izzy; and he was very happy he wasn’t sober, because it was essential that
someone
bother Izzy. Aldo had followed him back and now sniffed one of the puppies skeptically. “He does so look like you,” Tony told him.
When he opened the door to the budgie room one of the budgies flew out, a yellow lutino. That left forty-nine inside.
Sid and Izzy were sitting on the awful flowered sofa holding hands; it was the room’s only piece of furniture meant for humans. The sprung-open cages of the budgies encircled them. Some budgies—the ones who feared the warden, no doubt—stayed in their cages, but most of them flew around like drunken fairies. The grouch-faced English budgie called Bomber Harris paced pacifically through Izzy’s spiky blond hair. The way Izzy and Sid sat—he still bare-chested, holding a sleeping kitten in one hand near his armpit, she with her birds—they looked like a low-budgetallegorical painting, though what the allegory was, Tony couldn’t say. Izzy was a bird-inclined saint who attracted budgies with her kindness, or a crazy woman who stuffed her pockets with bread crumbs. If she’d been ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner, it would have been saint for sure.
“Should that cat be in here, with all these birds?” Tony asked.
“It’s fine,” said Sid. “I have her hypnotized.”
“Malcolm bought me a parrot,” Tony said to Izzy.
“
Malcolm
did?”
“Half a parrot,” said Sid, patting the back of her hand. Then he hissed at Tony, “When did this
happen
?”
“Oh,
hello
,” said Bomber Harris in a ludicrously pleasant voice. “Oh,
hello
.”
“Week ago,” said Tony. “An African gray. Like Maud.” He began to drink the glass of wine he’d brought for Sid.
Izzy rolled her eyes at Maud’s name. “If you met that bird today, you’d never give her a second look.”
“Attention,” said Sid. “This did not happen in a week.”
“The budgies?” Izzy scooped Bomber Harris off her head and smiled at him. “They tell you that if you want to breed budgies you can’t have a pair, a pair won’t mate. You need at least two pair. So we got four pair to make sure. Eventually—”
“Because they’re swingers,” asked Sid, “or because they’re naive? Should the other pair be older and come with sex manuals or be younger and come with quaaludes?”
“Quaaludes?”
said Izzy. “Do quaaludes even exist anymore?”
“Since Malcolm,” said Tony.
“Since Malcolm
what
?” said Sid.
Since Malcolm had made his announcement—
I’m selling the house
—she’d slept in the budgie room on the old, moldy flowered sofa they’d found in the barn. At night she draped the cages, then blacked out her own head with a duvet.
I’ve talked to a lawyer. It’s in my name
. The budgie room had belonged to the worst of the badly behaved French boys, the one who seemed to have pissed in every corner of the room though the toilet was right there, the one who carved his name, PASQUAL , in the stone walls, and put his cigarettes out on the windowsill, and broke the lock on the window so he could creep out at night; by all evidence a feral boy—the budgies kept finding long dark hairs—but nevertheless a boy who most likely had never threatened to sell his parents’ house from under them.
I’m sorry to do it
. When had Malcolm become so tall? His hair was cut like the guitar players of Tony’s 1970s youth, shaggy, awful even then.
It’s just when I look at my
Similar Books
