Beyond the Laughing Sky Read online

  “Now can you take the X-ray? I can’t see back there too well,” Nashville explained. “And you’re the expert.”

  “Okay, okay,” said the doctor. “Let’s have a look.”

  The veterinary assistant came then and took Nashville into the room next door for an X-ray. After that, Nashville sat patiently waiting for the results. A few minutes later, Doctor Larkin returned, put the X-ray on the wall, and turned on the light that lit it from behind.

  “Things look about the same to me,” said Dr. Larkin.

  “I see,” said Nashville. He stared at the X-ray. “But what about the bone? The one that would connect them if I were to grow wings?”

  The doctor looked at Nashville. He turned off the light on the wall and the X-ray disappeared.

  “Nashville,” he asked softly. “May I ask you, why do you want to grow wings?”

  “Well, why else would I be this way?” replied Nashville.

  The doctor spoke carefully and kindly.

  “Nashville, you have an amazing imagination. Truly. And I don’t want to disappoint you, but . . .”

  “What’s the point of being the way I am,” Nashville interrupted. “if I’m never going to have wings?”

  “Now, now,” said the doctor. “None of that.” He waved his hands, and the rain clouds that had started to gather in the office dispersed. “Don’t waste time wishing to be something other than what you are.”

  “What am I?” replied Nashville. “When the world made me, it made a mistake.”

  “A mistake,” said the doctor, rubbing his chin. “Every year the leaves change colors and drop to the ground, right?”

  “Right,” said Nashville.

  “Is that a mistake?”

  “No,” replied Nashville. “That’s just fall.”

  “Well, what about wrinkled elephants? And artichokes?” asked the doctor. “And blowfish and purple sunsets and frill-necked lizards? And platypuses! Have you ever seen a platypus? Hoo-ee. What about spiderwebs and eclipses and star-nosed moles? Are those mistakes?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Nashville.

  “Not one thing this world makes is a mistake,” continued the doctor. “Including you.”

  “Including me,” repeated Nashville, his voice sounding less than convinced.

  “Why yes,” said the doctor, tussling the feathers atop Nashville’s head. “Especially you.”

  The next day when morning broke, Nashville could no longer deny it: School was starting. And while he had tried to store up as much summer as he could, it was just no use. At some point during the night, summer had left town, had packed a suitcase full of fireflies and swimming holes, and whistled on down the road. And so, as Junebug raced around the house, Nashville dragged his knapsack down the stairs one at a time. Plunk. Plunk. Plop. He conducted the sound track to his middle school life.

  “Hello,” said Nashville’s teacher, Miss Starling. She wrote her name in large, loopy letters on the chalkboard. Behind it, Nashville could see the faint ghostly outline of past lessons erased from the board.

  “And welcome,” continued Miss Starling kindly. “I know most of you don’t know one another, coming together from several elementary schools. We have lots to talk about for the new school year, but first things first. I’d like to play a game.” The students tittered with excitement.

  “Everyone put your chairs in a circle,” directed Miss Starling.

  There was much scraping and giggling while the students moved their seats. When they were finished, Miss Starling took a chair to the center of the circle and sat.

  “My name,” she said, “is Miss Starling. And I like sweet tea. Anyone else who likes sweet tea, please stand up.”

  Six students, including Nashville, stood.

  “Now,” continued Miss Starling. “If you’re standing, quickly switch seats!”

  The standing students scrambled to switch seats, but Miss Starling had sat in one of the open chairs, and a red-haired girl was left standing.

  “What do I do?” she asked, embarrassed.

  “You sit in the middle,” said Miss Starling. “And tell us a fact about yourself.”

  The girl did as she was told.

  “My name is Abigail. And I have a little brother.”

  Only two other students stood this time, and Abigail stole one of their seats. This went on for some time, and Nashville, being quite quick, avoided the hot seat. That is, until a large boy in the middle chair said, “I have a tree fort.”

  Nashville was the only person to stand, so he and the boy simply switched chairs. Nashville reluctantly made his way to the center, his shoes squeaking on the freshly waxed floor. All eyes were on him, and Nashville wasn’t sure what to do with his face. He smiled, a bit too forcefully, and was fairly certain he must look crazy.

  “So,” said Miss Starling. “What is a fact about you?”

  Nashville thought for a moment how to answer.

  “My parents,” he finally said, “were Nashville warblers.”

  The class snickered and muffled laughter. Nobody stood.

  “Perhaps another fun fact for us, Nashville?”

  Nashville thought some more.

  “I was hatched from an egg,” he stated.

  The class had stopped tittering with laughter, and now just stared.

  “I sleep in a nest,” he continued.

  “I bathe in a birdbath.”

  “I . . . I . . .” he paused, and then quickly proclaimed a final fact.

  “I wish I could fly.”

  The students looked around at one another. Slowly, cautiously, one girl rose, then a second boy, followed by a third. Soon, the entire class was standing. Even Miss Starling rose to her feet. Nashville stood as well, and they all laughed as they bumped and bustled to take one another’s seats.

  Science was a subject that Nashville never quite grasped.

  On the one hand, it was full of things he was intrigued by, things like how to tell the age of a tree, the dances of the moon and tides, and the names of the clouds—like cumulonimbus and nimbostratus—that sounded like magic spells on his tongue.

  But science was also full of facts and truths, full of order, genus, and species, where his little life didn’t seem to fit. He thumbed through the pages of his science text.

  Chapter One: The Solar System

  Chapter Six: Water and Weather

  Chapter Ten: Earthquakes and Volcanoes

  But where was the chapter on being born from an egg? About walking, and talking, but also having feathers? None of that, he knew, would be covered in this text. Or any other.

  As he thumbed through the book, Nashville heard whispers to his left. A pair of girls, both larger and older looking than Nashville, whispered loudly enough for him to hear.

  “If I looked like that,” said the first, “I’d just want to die.” She emphasized this last word dramatically like an actress.

  The second girl did not answer, only elbowed her friend, and stared at Nashville. He quickly looked away.

  “Do you girls have something to share?” asked Miss Starling.

  The pair froze.

  “No, ma’am,” they answered in unison.

  Nashville let out the breath he’d been holding, relieved.

  “Well then, why don’t you read the next paragraph,” continued Miss Starling. And so one of the girls—the dramatic one, noted Nashville—began reading in her actress voice.

  “ ‘Change is the nature of nature,’ ” she read. “ ‘For example, stars expand as they grow older. They grow from a star, to a red super-giant, to a supernova. When a massive star explodes at the end of its life, the explosion dispenses different elements—helium, carbon, oxygen, iron, nickel—across the universe, scattering stardust. That stardust now makes up the planets, including ours.’ ”


  “So a star had to die to make us?” Nashville slapped a hand over his mouth. He’d forgotten to raise his hand.

  “Yes, Nashville,” smiled Miss Starling.

  “So we’re made of stars?” he asked.

  “We were once stars,” she answered. “Things are always changing, from one thing to another. And it can happen just like that.” Miss Starling snapped her fingers.

  “Some magnolias,” she continued, “they grow to be trees, but then they can take up to twenty years to blossom. After decades, a silent shift, and one morning POOF! The flower is open, bigger than my hand.”

  Miss Starling closed her book, stood thoughtfully at the front of the room. “Slow, fast, in a minute or a decade. Things are always changing. From a seed to a magnolia, from pollen to honey, from an egg”—she paused, only for a second—“From an egg to a bird. There are no rules. And sometimes there are even miracles.”

  Nashville looked down at his own hands. He imagined a magnolia blossom twice the size. To his left, he once again heard hushed whispers.

  “Like I said,” said the girl. “If I looked like that, I’d just want to die.”

  There was a pause. The second girl tilted her head, considering Nashville.

  “I wouldn’t,” she finally replied.

  Her words, thought Nashville, sounded exactly like something made of stars.

  Happy Hatchday to You.

  Happy Hatchday to You.

  Happy Hatchday, Dear Nashville,

  Happy Hatchday to You!

  The next morning was Nashville’s birthday, so when his family finished singing, he blew out the ten candles (plus one for good luck) on his sesame-seed cake, wondering the whole time what could be in the big box wrapped in polka-dot paper.

  “For you,” said his mother, placing the gift in front of Nashville. It was too small for a hot-air balloon, a hang glider, or several of the other things Nashville secretly hoped for. Much too small for a rocket. Perhaps a hero’s cape? Perhaps a telescope to see the places he longed to travel?

  “Open it!” shouted Junebug, dancing around Nashville’s chair, licking frosting off his candles.

  When Nashville pulled the lid off the box there was, indeed, something inside that could soar through the air with ease. Its wings were silver, striped with red, and its nose came to a dashing point.

  “A plane,” said Nashville.

  “A remote-control plane,” added his father proudly.

  Nashville carefully lifted the toy into his hands and turned it over and over. He lifted it to eye level and stared at it head-on. He liked the way it looked, shiny and sleek, but his first thought about it—it’s too small for me to fly in—was just too strange for him to say out loud.

  “I saw it and thought of you,” continued his father. “Remember how we used to make paper airplanes for hours when you were small?”

  “I remember,” said Nashville. He did recall folding the paper over and over, experimenting with interior creases and wing-stabilizing folds. But mostly he remembered sailing the planes out the window. He remembered imagining a small, small version of himself sitting in the paper crease, and all the places he could go—between the boughs of pine trees, under bridges, in one window of the house, then out the other side.

  “Come on,” said Junebug, grabbing the remote for the plane. “Let’s try it.”

  And so the entire family left the house in the pecan tree, stood on the ground, and stared up at the sky. Nashville’s father showed him how to use the simple remote and, sure enough, when he pressed the lever forward, the plane wheeled across the grass then buzzed off into the air. Just like a fledgling from the nest, it took a few moments for Nashville and the plane to get their bearings—the wings tipped from side to side like the wooden balances above a marionette, and the nose jumped forward in jerks and sputters. But soon enough, Nashville was making the plane do loop-de-loops and zipping over his sister’s head until she shrieked with delight.

  “You’re a natural,” said his father proudly.

  Even after his parents had gone inside to clean up after the party, even after his sister had yawned her way to bed, Nashville stayed out flying his plane around the yard. He zipped it around fireflies like stars in space, and was having a wonderful time.

  And yet . . .

  Something was still missing. Controlling the plane, Nashville couldn’t help but feel what a conductor must feel using a baton to direct a symphony. But Nashville didn’t want to conduct the music. Nashville wanted to be the music. He wanted to tap-dance across the notes of the page, to visit each black circle on the sheet music like a hummingbird visits each flower. He wanted to fly.

  Then, suddenly, the hummingbirds stopped humming, the instruments stopped playing, and the audience looked up and gasped. The small plane was hurling toward the ground.

  “But how . . . ?” Nashville could only stare. For there was not one plane, but two—two planes, two comets plummeting to the earth.

  The small bird lay on the ground beside the broken wings of the plane.

  The plane Nashville had been flying.

  The plane that had hit—and killed—the bird.

  The contrast between the beautiful bird and the sad, hard ground was striking. Nashville looked closer. He saw the kind of beauty yellow flowers have growing over a carpet of dead leaves. The beauty of cracks forming a mosaic in a dry riverbed, of emerald-green algae at the base of a seawall, of a broken shard from a blue bottle. The beauty of a window smudged with tiny prints. The beauty of wild weeds.

  “I’m sorry,” Nashville said to the bird. His plane had struck the small thing, and now it would never open its eyes again.

  “I’m sorry,” Nashville said again as he lifted the bird into his hands. He touched the head and it seemed too fragile to exist, not much different from an eggshell.

  “I need a small box,” Nashville told his mother when he came inside the house. “A fancy one.”

  His mother rummaged in the closet and found a gold box, probably from the holidays. She handed it to Nashville without any questions.

  “Have fun,” she said. Nashville left the room. There would be nothing fun about burying a dead bird.

  He went into the living room and, after making sure the coast was clear, unzipped a throw pillow on the sofa, and stole some of the soft stuffing inside. He used this to line the box, then went outside to the spot he’d left the bird under the edge of the magnolia bush. He picked some magnolia blossoms, and put the white petals in the box as well.

  “I’m sorry,” whispered Nashville, and lifted the bird to place her in the box. Perhaps this third sorry worked some magic, because just as Nashville said it, just as his eyes were filling over with tears, the small creature in his hands began to stir. Just a small turn of the head, and a move of the foot, but it shocked Nashville out of his sadness.

  “You’re alive!” Nashville shouted. It was as if the leaves of fall had flown back up to the tree, or a dead flower had picked up her petals and pinned them back on. Nashville carefully placed the bird inside the box, now an ambulance rather than a coffin, and began to run down the hill to Goosepimple.

  “Back so soon?” said Dr. Larkin when he saw Nashville. The doctor had been packing up the veterinary office to head home, and Nashville caught him coming out the door.

  “Please,” Nashville said quickly. His hands trembled as he held out the box. “Please. I hit it with a plane and it landed in a magnolia bush and I thought it was dead but it’s not and—”

  “Slow down, Nashville, slow down,” said the doctor leading him into the examination room.

  “Hmm,” said the doctor. He put on rubber gloves, lifted the bird carefully, and laid her on the table under a bright light. Nashville stood back a bit, suddenly remembering to breathe.

  “No bleeding,” said the doctor. “Heart rate seems good. Although . . .�
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  “Although?” said Nashville alarmed.

  “She has a broken wing,” explained the doctor. He exhibited this to Nashville by extending the wing. Instead of folding back tidily as it usually would, the wing dropped on the table, the feathers strangely bent.

  “Nothing life threatening,” continued the doctor. “I’ll bandage it, but I should tell you, it’s unlikely she’ll ever use that wing again.”

  Nashville stared at the bird, his guilt overcoming him once more, but infinitely stronger this time.

  “Without wings she can’t fly,” he said.

  “No,” said the doctor. “Like so many other things in this world, this bird will have to make do with life on the ground.”

  And so magnolia the bird recuperated in Nashville’s fort. Magnolia—so named for two reasons: one, because of the bush she’d landed in, the one that had likely saved her life. And two, because Miss Starling had said some magnolias rest a long time, then bloom overnight. Nashville hoped a miracle like that for the bird’s broken wing.

  “Magnolia,” Nashville would ask in the morning, “what would you like for breakfast?” He’d bring her seeds and nuts. Once he’d brought her a caterpillar he’d found in the yard, but she didn’t seem all that interested. Perhaps they were old friends, thought Nashville.

  He would sit with Magnolia on the edge of the birdhouse, beyond which only winged-things could go. He greeted the other birds that came to visit his patient, and nodded his head, even though he didn’t understand a chirp of what they were saying. It was probably just gossip anyhow, news about worm delicacies and the new hot-spot bird feeder down the street.

  “I wish I could understand you,” Nashville would tell Magnolia when they were alone. But like the needlepoint puzzles of spiders, or the language left in leaves by beetles, Nashville could not decipher a word.

  When he wasn’t with the bird, Nashville worked with his father, fixing the broken plane.