Treasure Island!!!

half-heartedly, I thought, and with half an eye on the chocolate-covered Bing cherries Patty had torn open. There followed a great to-do in which Sabrina and Patty took turns feeding Richard rice cakes, pink Himalayan salt, ice cubes, and a pencil. Each time Richard plucked an object out of their hands, they laughed like fools. Which gave me an idea . . .
    “It’s a shame I can’t touch
his
money,” I said, almost to myself. “But his earnings are all tied up in a trust fund.”
    “Whose money?” Sabrina said.
    “Richard. Didn’t I tell you? He performs.”
    “The
bird’s
got a trust fund?” Patty said. “What does he do?”
    “TV mostly.”
    Sabrina stared at Richard as if she were mentally rearranging his feathers. “I
thought
he looked familiar.”
    “Maybe you’ve seen his commercials.”
    “Is he the one who can open beer bottles?”
    “Oh yeah!” Patty said. “He rides a scooter on late-night talk shows?”
    I indicated that his was a vast scroll of talents, still unfolding.
    “He’s done pizza, toilet paper, peanut butter, Carpet Barn, House of Tan . . . ” It was surprisingly easy to make stuff up, like that moment when Jim Hawkins realizes he can paddle off and cut the schooner loose.
One cut with my sea-gully, and the Hispaniola would go humming down the tide!
I cut the ropes and Richard drifted into celebrity. “Did you see the movie that won Best Picture at Sundance last year?”
    “No.”
    “Richard
was
that movie!” I cried.
    It was extraordinary how well they received that news, given the impression they gave of not following independent film. Soon all three of us were chatting about animal movies and the best cat and dog commercials we had seen on TV.
    “Look, here’s what I’ll do,” I said after a pause calculated to suggest some internal struggle. “If I can stay here, I’ll keep Richard’s cage in the living room. I’ll guarantee you intimate access.”
    “Really?” Sabrina said.
    Patty looked a little doubtful. “But isn’t he out working half the time?”
    “No way.” I explained that he’d just come off a time-consuming shoot and was going on hiatus. He always went on hiatus while molting, I added.
    “Could we take him out of the cage?”
    “Sure.”
    “Could we use him at parties?”
    “I’ll even waive his fee.”
    “It’s big, it’s hot, it’s back!” Richard said and then he said it a few more times, with some meager variations in pitch.
    Sabrina applauded. I was glad to score a point, but I knew the narrowness of my corner. The free association, the feather plucking, the loose bowel movements, could start any minute. I stood to signal my readiness to go.
    “Talk it over,” I said in an offhand tone. “Let me know.”
    They stroked the top of Richard’s head. They’d pretend to talk it over; I’d go home and pack tonight. Little Richard was going to save me, I thought, but just then, while they tickled his feet one last time, another sound came from his beak.
    At first it seemed like a laugh. Then the laugh sort of fell down the stairs and became a wail. That intractable bird, that bird in whom I could barely wedge a useful phrase, had been studying my misery when I’d thought he was asleep. I threw the cloth over his cage and my hands began to tremble. The sound was terrible: defeated, despairing, almost crazy. Shut up, shut up, but he carried on sobbing, relentless as a wave.
    “Freaky,” Sabrina said. “He cries like a girl.”
    “He’s studying for a heart-breaking dramatic role,” I said.
     

CHAPTER 18
     
    I loathe you,” I told Richard. “Don’t flap. Don’t grind your beak. Don’t speak. The cloth means darkness. Night hath fallen. Would that it fell forever on your paltry, coarse, double-crossing soul.”
    “Have a nice time?” my mother said from the laundry room, where I’d gone to get a damp bath towel to fling on top of his cage—for emphasis.
    In the kitchen Adrianna and my father were seated at the breakfast bar, spooning applesauce from a large ceramic dish. My mother followed me in and asked if I wanted some applesauce. No, I said, the firmness of my tone a warning, but my mother pressed on: Sure I didn’t want some applesauce? Did I know she’d made the applesauce with cinnamon and vanilla? Was it Adrianna who had always liked it, or was it me? Which one of us had always liked the applesauce? Well, we all had liked the applesauce, hadn’t we—
    “For god’s sake, no applesauce!” I snapped