Call Me Alastair by Cory Leonardo

Author:Cory Leonardo
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic UK
Published: 2019-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Forty-four days, three hours, twenty-two minutes, eleven seconds.

Fifty days, seven hours, twenty-four minutes, forty-six seconds.

Fifty-five days, six hours, thirty-eight minutes, sixteen seconds.

Since I last saw my sister.

You get locked in a cage for a few weeks with nothing else to do but think about that stubborn pain in your wing, your failed escape plans and Aggie’s sweetly crooked smile, and you get the lay of the land pretty quick.

Let me put this in terms of poetry:

Bertie’s your sonnet: structured, predictable rhyme scheme, somewhat boring if you ask me.

Then there’s Tiger. A bad free-verse poem. No rhyme or reason, a bit bloated, sloppy, lazy and painfully self-important.

Humpty Dumpty – he’s more of a eulogy. I’m expecting him to go belly-up any moment.

As for me, I suppose if I compare myself to something, the closest thing would be a limerick. A bit of a joke. I won’t mention the state of my feathers. The bald spots? Probably an allergy.

I’ve gone from fledgling to plaything (people like to throw their playthings) to prisoner and pet-shop special, then sold off to the only bidder: a little old lady who smells of talcum powder and has an affinity for talking.

Without further ado, I give you: A Limerick.

There once was a parrot named Al,

Who had neither sister nor pal.

One day he was bought

(Which steamed him a lot)

By a rabidly gabby old gal.

“Janet told me last week that pears were on sale down at the farmer’s market. Ten cents a pound, Delores told her! I didn’t believe her – oh no I didn’t. ‘Janet,’ I says. ‘Janet, Delores is blind as a bat…’

“Would you believe they found a paper clip in Alice Stevens’s fruit cup at the home? A paper clip right there in the peaches! Nearly choked on it, poor dear!”

Bertie’s been on a roll this morning. She’s taken two breaths in three hours.

“Guess who signed me up to make a casserole for the potluck supper at church next month? Wait’ll I tell Henry. Everyone’s talking about how they can’t wait to try my tuna noodle!” Bertie frowns. “Delores. She knows I’m no good at casseroles.”

Henry is Bertie’s only child. She speaks with him every chatty Saturday unless his girls have a baseball game or he’s working. When she hangs up, it’s the only time Bertie gets quiet. Sometimes she’ll lower herself next to the bed, bruising her knees and getting a crick in her neck, as she bows her head and whispers into the mattress. “Casting my cares on the good Lord” is what she calls it.

I’m not sure who this good Lord is, but he must have the patience of a saint.

This week I’ve heard of nothing but last month’s potluck supper in the church basement and how Joan Merton mistakenly used salt instead of sugar in her strawberry-rhubarb pie, and how Reverend Hopkins was the first to take a big ol’ bite and oh! How he did holler!

“Poor Joan,” she says, in today’s retelling. “Thought she was doing herself a favour by putting her salt and sugar in those fancy canisters.

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