Duet, page 13
Then I have an idea.
“What if we make a hole in the screen right here, next to the hook, so Michael can reach his fingers in and unlatch it?”
“Sure,” Sebastian says. “There are so many holes in this screen already. What’s one more?”
He and I begin pecking and clawing at the loose panel of screen next to the hook, until we’ve torn a hole in it. I spit out bits of metal mesh. Blech!
“Michael can fit his hand through that,” I tell my brothers, ecstatic. “Now he’ll be able to get into the house and play the piano!”
“I still don’t see why that matters so much,” Sebastian says. “But yeah, as long as he can squeeze through that doggy door, he can get in.”
“We did it!” Oliver shouts, just as a clap of thunder shatters the August afternoon.
“I told you we would,” Sebastian scoffs. “Now let’s GO, before the storm hits.”
We briefly debate going back up the chimney, but Sebastian points out that our hole in the screen is big enough for us to fit through if we’re careful. I go first, since I know the way home best, squeezing past the torn mesh and soaring into the sky. The wind is really blowing now, and I can barely keep my balance. A strong gust sweeps me back toward the house.
“Do you think we should wait it out?” Oliver calls. He’s being blown off course, too, knocked around by the wind.
Here’s the thing about storms: birds never fly in them. The wind is too strong for us to stay on course, and a heavy rain can drench our feathers and send us plummeting to the ground. We know better than to perch at the top of tall trees, because that’s where lightning can strike. So what we’ll usually do is settle ourselves on a thick branch close to the trunk of a tree or bush, on the side most protected from the rain and the wind, and wait till the storm is over.
That’s what we should be doing now. I know it. But I can’t miss Michael’s piano lesson! And we told Mother we’d come back to the nest soon. She’ll worry if the weather gets bad and we’re not safely home.
“We can make it,” Sebastian urges. “Just keep going.”
As the rain begins to pelt from the heavy, glowering sky, I try my best to fly in a straight line, leading Oliver and Sebastian over the dark rooftops and empty backyards toward Mr. Starek’s house.
The rain falls faster and faster.
A flash of lightning streaks jaggedly above us, and then:
BOOM!
A deafening clap of thunder shakes the air.
I am buffeted by the rain and the wind, whipped back and forth. I can barely see, and as hard as I’m trying to flap my wings, I can tell I’m about to be dashed to the ground.
“Mirabelle!” I hear Oliver’s voice far behind me.
Panicking, I fly into the dense branches of a lilac bush, which is shuddering violently in the wind.
I can’t see either of my brothers, only the driving rain, falling in sheets, flooding the pavement and soaking the lawns.
“Oliver!” I call. “Sebastian!”
Storm
The rain is so thick the air seems to have become a solid thing. Where are my brothers? All I can see are the blurry shapes of trees, the shadowy peaks of houses.
“Sebastian!” I scream. “Oliver!”
And then I glimpse something else, a speck of brilliant yellow, rocketing through the rain.
“Mirabelle, help!” It’s Oliver.
“Here!” I shout. “I’m in the lilac bush!”
He is flying so low to the ground now I think he’s going to crash. Abruptly, the wind sweeps him up, and I’m afraid he’s going to be blown into the side of a house.
“Ollie, over here! Do you see me? By the fence.”
And then he does see me, and in a spinning, tumbling, flapping frenzy, he careens into the lilac bush.
I hop quickly to him, pressing my body against his, smoothing his soaked feathers with my beak. “Are you okay?”
We huddle close for warmth.
“I lost Sebastian!” Oliver wails. “He was behind me, and then he wasn’t.”
“He’ll be fine,” I say quickly, trying to reassure us both. “Sebastian can handle anything.”
We keep squinting through the gray rain, praying for a flash of yellow.
“What should we do?” Oliver asks.
I truly don’t know. Should we go back and try to find Sebastian? Should we go home, where Mother will be frantic with worry? Or should we stay here in the bush, where we’re safe, until the storm ends?
We can’t leave Sebastian behind. But with this terrible rain and wind, I don’t think we’ll be able to look for him ourselves.
Mother will know what to do. We have to get back to the nest.
“We’ll fly from bush to bush,” I tell Oliver, “so we’re not out in the open. If we only fly short distances, we can make it back to the holly tree.”
“But what about Sebastian?” Oliver cries.
“We’ll find Sebastian, but we need Mother’s help.”
Grimly, we set out for the nest. I fly as fast as I can to the top of the fence, and then to a small apple tree. It is shaking so hard in the wind that apples tumble down, smacking the ground.
I wait for Oliver, and a minute later, he catapults into the tree.
That is how we go, through torrents of rain, from tree to bush to tree, yard to yard to yard. When we get to the river, there is no way to avoid being out in the open, and the wind is blowing hard across it, driving the pellets of rain into our breasts. I try to set a course but am immediately swept sideways. I keep pushing into the wind. Finally, I reach the opposite shore. For a minute, I can’t see Oliver anywhere, and I’m worried that I’ve lost both my brothers. But then I spot him several trees away.
We fly toward each other, and start all over again, the painful journey from perch to perch. Finally, we reach Mr. Starek’s backyard.
In the green holly tree, I see Mother’s golden shape in a crowd of leaves, her sharp eyes scanning the yard.
“Mirabelle! Oliver!” she shouts.
We fly to her as fast as we can.
Drenched and shivering, we are barely able to speak. “You never should have tried to fly in this storm!” Mother scolds. “It’s way too dangerous. What have I told you about rainstorms?” She’s peering into the downpour. “Where’s Sebastian?”
“We thought you’d be worried,” I say. “We were just trying to get home.”
“I would have been worried, but I would have come looking for you when it was safe to fly. Where’s Sebastian?”
She hops to the end of the branch, squinting through the rain-thick air.
“We don’t know,” Oliver cries. “He was with me, but the wind blew him away.”
Mother shakes her head grimly. “Tell me exactly the way you came, Mirabelle. How far is Halina’s house?”
I explain it to her, the path over the neighborhood yards, across the river, into the other part of town where the houses are older and farther apart.
“The roof is sagging. The yard is full of weeds. And there are big locks on all the doors—that’s how you’ll know it’s Halina’s house.”
“All right,” Mother says. “I’m going to look for him. You two stay with the babies. No matter what happens, you stay right here.”
Stay with the babies all by ourselves?
“What if they get hungry?” Oliver asks in horror.
“You know where the extra seeds are. You can feed them just like I do,” Mother calls over her shoulder as she flaps off into the storm.
Oliver and I look at each other. I know we’re both worried sick about Sebastian, but we’re afraid to say so out loud. What has happened to him? Where could he be?
We’re alone in the nest, with our three little sisters. They have feathers now, and their eyes are not as enormous and bulging as they used to be. They are staring at us expectantly, Serena, Lina, and George.
Cheep! Cheep-cheep! Cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep!
“Here they go,” Oliver says morosely.
“They’re probably just scared of the storm,” I say. But soon enough they are opening their pink mouths wide, badgering us for food.
Distantly, I hear Emily’s car in Mr. Starek’s driveway, and I know Michael’s piano lesson is beginning. Without me.
Ollie and I take turns sifting through the clumps of thistledown that Mother has gathered, looking for little black seeds to feed them. We have to chew the hard seeds and regurgitate them into the babies’ mouths. Yuck. As fast as the babies gobble them up, they demand more.
At least it’s much warmer and drier here in the holly tree, protected by the thick foliage. I keep peeking through the leaves into the driving rain, thinking of how hard it was to fly with the storm pummeling me. Poor Sebastian!
Oliver must be thinking the same thing. “What if Mother can’t find him?” he says. And then: “What if something happens to her? What if she doesn’t come back?”
We stare bleakly at the babies, who have stopped their clamoring but are still watching us with bright eyes.
“We’ll be stuck taking care of them,” I say, feeling hopeless. I’ve missed Michael’s piano lesson, and if something happens to Mother, I’ll never get to go to another one. Or sing Chopin! The babies are so much work.
“She’ll find Sebastian and she’ll come back,” Ollie whispers.
We wait and wait, squinting through the dark, wet leaves. I hear Emily’s car start up again, and I know the lesson must have ended. For the first time since Michael started lessons with Mr. Starek, he has played the piano without me.
Finally, the rain seems to let up a bit. The steady rush tapers off to a drizzle. The sky is a slick, glistening gray, but there’s still enough light to see the shapes of the fence and the shed and Mr. Starek’s house, across the dark yard.
“Why aren’t they here yet?” Oliver worries.
It seems so long since Sebastian, Ollie, and I were at Halina’s house, trying to find a way inside.
And then I see something… a bright, shimmering yellow, pelting through the damp air.
Sebastian!
He swoops into the holly tree, landing on a branch with such force that the leaves shake and spray us with water.
“Sebastian! Sebastian, where were you?” Oliver and I cry, surrounding him. We stroke his wet feathers with our beaks, droplets streaming off him.
He looks a little shaken, but not so different from his usual self. “I was trapped!” he says. “The wind blew me into a gutter and my wing got caught in the downspout. And then you guys left me,” he adds accusingly.
“We didn’t mean to!” I protest. “We thought you were right behind us.”
“Well, I wasn’t. I was stuck in the pouring rain while you guys were here in our nice, warm tree. Thanks for nothing.”
A second later, Mother flies into the holly tree and lands gracefully on the rim of the nest.
“Hooray!” Oliver shouts with relief.
The babies are thrilled to see her and immediately begin a loud chorus of chirping.
Sebastian starts to complain about us again, but Mother stops him.
“Oh, hush, Sebastian,” she says. “None of you should have been flying in such terrible weather. I’ve warned you a thousand times.”
“We didn’t know what to do,” I tell her. “We got scared.”
“I realize that,” Mother says, “but nobody makes a good decision out of fear.” She shakes her head at us. “And we nearly lost Sebastian! The next time a storm hits, stay where you are. Find shelter there, and I will come get you when it’s safe.”
“Yes, Mother,” we say, chastened.
We all settle down to roost, now that the storm has subsided and night is coming.
What a day it’s been! I feel sad about Michael playing alone. I can’t make a sad face with my beak, but if I could, it would look like this: :(
Oh well, I comfort myself by thinking that I found a way for him to get inside Halina’s house. He can play the Pleyel again! I just have to show him. And not only the way into the house. I also want to show him the painting I found.
Tricks
The next day, as soon as I see Emily’s car pull into Mr. Starek’s driveway, I fly to the shrubbery by the front porch. Michael rushes to the door the minute he sees me, before Emily has even gotten out of the car.
“Mirabelle,” he whispers. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come to my lesson?” His face is full of such confusion and distress that I hardly know what to do.
I flutter closer to him, trying to telepathically convey my apology.
“It was awful,” Michael continues, his cheeks flushed. “I kept messing up. I couldn’t get anything right.” His dark eyes burn into mine. “I couldn’t play without you.”
I am horrified. Okay, I admit, I do feel a brief thrill at this—that I matter so much to him, that he needs me to play—but it is immediately followed by a crushing wave of guilt and worry. I love our duets, but I want them to make Michael better at the piano, not worse. Not dependent on me. What if I couldn’t sing without Michael there? That would be terrible.
“You can’t ever do that again,” he says as Emily starts up the walk. “You can’t leave me like that.”
Emily clangs the bell and smiles at me. “I was worried about you, Mirabelle,” she says. “I’m glad you made it through that rainstorm okay.”
Now, isn’t that nice? She was worried about me! That’s how you can tell someone likes you. Nobody spends time worrying about people they don’t like.
Emily pulls the cord of the bell again, and we all listen to its loud, metallic tolling.
Michael looks at her, puzzled. “Why isn’t he answering?”
“Maybe he’s resting,” Emily says. “He wasn’t feeling well yesterday.”
“I know,” Michael says. “But is he too sick to answer the door?”
As they are debating this, we all hear a shuffling noise inside the house, and the door swings open.
I see immediately that Mr. Starek isn’t well. He’s pale, wearing his navy bathrobe. Has he not even gotten dressed today?
He takes a step backward and coughs painfully into his sleeve. It is a rough, scraping cough, like the one he had last spring, and I feel a cold stab of worry. He was so sick then.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Didn’t you get my message, Michael? I’m afraid I have to cancel our lesson today. I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh no,” Emily says. “Did we wake you up?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Starek answers. “I was just resting.”
“I’m sorry we disturbed you,” Emily says. “Is there anything you need?”
“No, nothing,” Mr. Starek says. “You are welcome to come in and use the piano, but I wouldn’t want to expose you to… whatever virus this is.”
“That’s okay,” Michael says. “I can keep practicing at my house. It’s just…” He stops, looking gloomily at the porch floor. “Do you think I’ll ever get to play the Pleyel again? Are those people from the bank going to sell it?”
Mr. Starek hesitates. “I don’t know,” he says. “I contacted the court this morning to see if there’s anything I can do to put a hold on things. Somebody is supposed to call me back.”
Michael continues to stare at the stoop. “Okay,” he mumbles. He raises his eyes. “I hope you feel better.”
Mr. Starek looks at him closely. “Have you been working on your pieces at home, Michael?”
The boy nods.
“Don’t be discouraged about yesterday. Every musician has experienced that, a time when each note is a challenge. And I know you had a tiring day, with school starting.”
That’s right! Michael started sixth grade, at his new school. No wonder he seems stressed out. It makes me feel even worse about missing his lesson yesterday.
“But what if that happens to me at the festival?” Michael asks softly. “What if I just can’t play?” I hear the dread in his voice.
“First of all, it won’t happen,” Mr. Starek says firmly. “Because you will be prepared for it. You need to train your mind as well as your fingers. I’m going to give you a few tricks to practice at home.”
“What tricks?” Michael asks.
Mr. Starek steps back from the doorway and coughs into his sleeve again. His whole body shakes, and even though he’s tall, he looks frail to me, like a strong wind could blow him over. Suddenly, I see the veins in his hands, the brown age spots along his hairline. I hadn’t noticed them before. He coughs again, then straightens, gripping the door for support.
“Listen. The next time you practice, right before you play the piano, I want you to put your body in a physical state that mimics the stress of the performance,” he tells Michael. “Do jumping jacks, run in circles, make your heart beat faster and your palms sweat, make yourself out of breath.”
Michael looks bewildered, but Emily nods, her lips curving in a smile of recognition. She has clearly heard this advice before.
“Then, in that state of physical stress,” Mr. Starek continues, “run to the piano, sit down, and play something easy that you know by heart. What would you play?”
“The Minute Waltz,” Michael answers promptly.
“Good, the Minute Waltz,” Mr. Starek says. “Play carelessly, without giving it a thought. Play with abandon.”
Michael seems shocked. “But…” he begins. “I can do that at home, but I could never play that way in a competition.”
“Ah,” Mr. Starek says, “but that is how you will win.”
He coughs, then wheezes, then steps backward into the house. “I’m afraid I need to lie down,” he tells them.
Emily and Michael both look at him anxiously. “Do you need medicine?” Emily asks. “I could run to the drugstore.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” Mr. Starek says. He starts to turn away. “I have faith in you, Michael. And remember: play as if you hadn’t a care in the world.” He pauses. “Play as if you were Chopin during one of those lazy summers in Nohant, at George Sand’s house, with the fragrance of the flowers and the songs of the birds for company.”
With that, he closes the door, and we can all hear his cough fading as he climbs the stairs.
