Irene Jane Gillette (bio) Irene was nothing if not sensitive to her location, sensitive, too, to the names of the towns and cities through which she had conducted her personal hegira, and so it seemed significant that when Buck escaped from an upstairs window, the tree where he landed was located in Fort Bragg, some ten miles north of Mendocino, California. Buck made his escape while Mrs. Sanchez was shaking out the bathroom rug, and although she hadn’t noticed him perched on the towel rack, she immediately screamed for help and Irene got to the bathroom in time to see him flutter onto the low-lying branch of a neighbor’s tree. She immediately ran next door to coax him down: “I can’t explain, Mrs. Chin, but Buck’s in your tree.” And Mrs. Chin, accustomed to mysteries more opaque than this, welcomed her in and calmly watched her run through the house and out the back door to direct a plea at the Bishop pine that filled most of the back yard: “What do you think you’re doing? Come down here right now!” After a few minutes Irene calmed down and began to speak soothingly: “Buck, Buck, listen to me, please, please,” and Buck cocked his head and looked down, but refused to fly to her offered wrist. It wasn’t surprising. They’d never really practiced the come-on-command trick—or any other trick, for that matter. She’d let him out of the cage when she got home from work, and he’d wander about and eventually land on her bed and start pecking at her earrings, just to drive her crazy, and eventually she’d gently seize him and put him back in his cage. Irene was surprised that Buck could still manage to fly out a window, although of course he’d done it before, or something like it, at [End Page 407] least fifteen years ago now, when he’d flown into her ex-husband’s classroom right in the middle of a lecture on Frederick Law Olmsted, and even though they’d advertised, they’d not discovered whose window he’d flown out of. Who’d have thought he still had it in him? Maybe it was the continuing influence of his name, for they had named him Buckminster Freedbird, presumably after one of her favorite toddlers from the year she worked at the daycare center shortly after they got married. Buckminster Freedberg, Jr., son of the famous art historian by a third or fourth or maybe even a fifth wife. A slight gray-and-white speck against the dark green needles, Buck perched just out of reach, looking down at Irene, then fluttering almost to the top of the tree as Mrs. Chin struggled out the back door with a ladder. She was in her eighties and had dealt with all sorts of bad situations. A bird in a tree seemed a problem with an easy solution. “No, no,” Irene cautioned her quietly. “Don’t make any noise or he’ll fly away,” and Mrs. Chin clanked and clattered back inside. Buck stayed put on his high branch, and yet Irene knew he was paying attention, looking down, although probably not directly at her, just at the location of her voice. She wondered how keen-sighted an old cockatiel could be, old she assumed for she didn’t know how long they lived or, in this particular instance, Buck’s age—although it seemed as if he’d been her bird for a long, long time. Maybe he was all but blind, and so she muttered loud words of encouragement. “Nice bird, good bird, you’ve got a great view up there. You can probably see all the way to the Pacific Ocean, but come on down now, come down, and let’s go inside to your nice, warm … home.” And after only a few minutes of this palaver, Buck did flutter awkwardly down, more like falling than flying, but nevertheless landing safely on the next-to-lowest branch. Maybe he’d reassessed his options after a careful look at Fort Bragg: blocks and blocks of rundown houses...
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