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Birdsong

The world’s birds exhibit an astonishing range of beauty and complexity of voice.

—G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest

Anne Ryan had always taught her students that the key to any successful composition was a simple question: What emotion drives the piece? For any work to come off as genuine you had to understand the feeling at its very core. Was it love? Betrayal? Playfulness? Longing for home? If that central idea could not be conveyed to the listener, then the composer had failed. Or one could blame the performer, she codded them to get a laugh. But truly, whether you began with lyrics or melodies, the same principle held fast. Human emotion was the cornerstone of any successful piece, and especially with traditional choral music.

Anne herself had always begun with verses, naturally drawn to the origin story at the heart of a song. The words came first, in a flash, the narrative laying itself out in front of her like it had just been waiting for her to pay attention. Katherine, by contrast, began with the tune, saying that the melodies came out of the noises of the everyday world around her. She told Anne that when they’d been first-year composition students at Trinity College in Dublin. She said the songs threaded their way into her brain when she was on the bus, walking along High Street, or amid the din of St. George’s—the corner pub they’d frequented since the beginning of their first term at university.

Anne, who needed complete solitude to work, couldn’t imagine that. “How do you find music in the sound of Fat Phil hollering at Peter Hanrahan to bloody fecking score already?” she’d asked Kat, glancing at the corpulent bartender, who was just then gesticulating at the football game on the telly.

Fat Phil had seen them looking and, tugging his shirt down over his belly, called them a pair of bloody harpies and asked what they were looking at, which set them snorting into their pints. In any case, Anne’s and Katherine’s contrasting approaches to composition were something they’d always loved to talk about. However, it had been quite some time since Anne had tried to write anything, or even talked about writing, for that matter.

Now from her spot on the picnic bench, Anne listened to the activity around her and wondered what tune Katherine might have heard in the racket of downtown Seattle. There were layers of overlapping noise at the small park near Pike Place Market—the droning horn of the approaching ferry, the clang of the passing cargo rail, and automobile traffic crawling along the viaduct high overhead. A truck beeped in reverse at a construction site across the street, and children called to their mothers from the playground. And under all of that, the worried murmuring of pigeons bustling about on the pavement near the benches. What song might Kat hear?

Anne glanced toward the playground, where Aiden sat at the bottom of the slide with his book open on his lap, tracing the illustrations with one small finger. The wind tousled his auburn curls, which matched hers exactly. None of the other children seemed interested in the slide, so she didn’t call to him to move. She knew he was lost in his beloved storybook. No harm in that.

A plump crow alighted on a telephone pole next to the ferry terminal, then leaned forward and dropped something from its shiny black beak. Another crow landed near and repeated the motion. Mussels, Anne decided, as she watched a third glossy bird tug a shell off the pier, fly up to a pole, and drop its booty into the street. The birds remained perched, gossiping among themselves, as cars began to disembark the ferry. When the last car had departed and the lane was clear, the crows swooped down to gobble up the bits of mussels cracked open by unwitting commuters. Anne chuckled with admiration.

Cheeky buggers, she thought.

A little girl began hauling herself up the slide ladder one rung at a time.

“Sweetheart, come sit with me,” Anne called. “Someone else wants to slide down now.”

Aiden didn’t look up, though she knew he could hear her.

“Come on, now. I’d like one more game before we head home, if you please.”

Aiden continued to ignore her. The little girl, now at the top of the ladder, turned and called something to her mother. Anne pulled out a package of Fig Newtons, which she unwrapped noisily.

“I guess I’ll just have to eat these myself, then,” she said.

Aiden shut his book and came to her, as she guessed he might. He sat on the bench opposite and stared at the biscuits expectantly with dark green eyes that matched her own.

“Oh, now you want my company, do you?” she teased. “What kind of a boy has to be bribed to sit with his mam?”

Aiden looked away and smiled faintly. Anne passed him the deck of cards.

“It’s your deal, dearie.”

She watched him lay the cards in neat rows on the picnic table. Her gran had bought the memory game at the store that sold Irish-themed trinkets, blankets, and Aran jumpers to Americans coming over to “find their roots” on the island where Anne’s family had lived for generations. Anne could picture her counting out the loose pounds and pence that she’d collected in a tea tin and telling the clerk about her great-grandson in America.

When the cards were all aligned, Aiden folded his hands in his lap and waited for Anne to begin. She flipped over one card and then another.

“Ah! The harp and the leprechaun. You must watch out for this fella,” she said, tapping the picture of a little man in a green jacket and trousers. “He isn’t always kind. Remember the story of Snow White and Rose Red? That horrible little man got his beard stuck in a log, didn’t he?”

Aiden turned over two cards of his own. The claddagh and a clover. No match there.

Anne flipped over the harp again and the Celtic knot.

“The knot is for loyalty, faith, friendship, or love,” she read aloud. “The Celtic knot can be a gift between lovers.”

She turned the cards face down again and watched her son scanning the table methodically. She saw his father’s face in that thoughtful look—Tim Magnusen, the man she’d married.

As a girl she’d sworn to remain single. “Marriage is legalized servitude!” she’d told her parents during secondary school, mostly to needle her mam. This was not an accurate characterization of Margaret and Matthew Ryan’s marriage, as everyone knew Margaret wore the trousers. But daughters will rile their mothers. Gran chided her and Margaret regarded her with a cool stare.

“Don’t fret, Mam,” Margaret said to her own mother. “Saucy Annie here will understand someday.”

As Anne had grown older and her friends paired off, singledom came to feel like a strangely acceptable fate. She dated the odd bloke at Trinity, but there was no one special. She got on well enough with her male classmates as friends. But by the time she’d graduated, a solo life had begun to feel inevitable. It didn’t seem like such a bad thing, though Kat had taken to calling her “Sister Anne.” Kat, who was forever snogging some new man. She wouldn’t mind it, she told herself. Living alone would allow her all the time in the world for her music.

Then, six years ago, she and Tim Magnusen had become lovers—a completely unexpected development. They’d met at a fundraiser for Cornish College of the Arts in December of Anne’s first year teaching there. His family’s newspaper was a sponsor for the event, which had attracted a fair amount of attention for its evening entertainment, a Grammy award–winning jazz ensemble. Anne hadn’t understood what modern jazz was until that evening and quickly found she didn’t care for it. She stood outside the performance hall where she’d volunteered to run the silent auction. Kat had scolded her in her last letter, saying she needed to get out and meet people. But Anne soon realized that silent auctions were self-serve events. No one had any questions, and she had no idea how to strike up a conversation.

The ensemble was well into its first set when she decided to leave. Her feet were killing her in the regrettable choice of heels she’d worn—cheap knockoffs she’d hoped would make her look more sophisticated among the urban Seattle crowd. She grabbed her bag and coat and was about to leave when Tim appeared and began to browse the auction display. She sighed, put her things down, and leaned against the wall to wait. When he got close enough, she told him to please let her know if he had questions.

He had a nice face, she thought. She shifted from foot to foot and forced herself not to look at her watch as Tim carefully studied the offerings: pottery from a local artist, a weekend at a Vashon Island B and B, dinner for two at Jazz Alley—things like that. Later, when he knew her better, they’d laughed about how visibly irritated she was, wishing he would hurry up and leave so she could too.

“I was trying to work up the nerve to ask you out,” he’d confessed. “You’re a little intimidating, you know? All that red hair and that accent.”

“I was completely shattered!” she reminded him. “You try standing around in heels for an evening and see how friendly you feel.”

Tim had bid on tickets for a play at Seattle Rep and then asked Anne what she thought of the ensemble. She knew she should lie, as she was representing the college. But she didn’t.

“Honestly? Sounds like a secondary school band warming up in the back of a cement lorry.”

Tim laughed with surprise.

“Okay if I quote you on that for the paper?”

“You bloody well may not,” Anne replied coolly.

He’d asked her if she wanted to get a drink at Serafina. She decided to say yes, mainly because the idea of waiting for the bus in those shoes seemed impossible just then.

“Alright, then,” she said pulling on her coat. “But I’m up early tomorrow, so I really do just mean one.”

True to his word, he’d run her home after the one drink. The following week, he found her number in the school directory and left her a message at work. Why did she call back when she was safe at home and in perfectly comfortable shoes?

She remembered calling Katherine, who was still in Dublin then, and telling her about Tim. How just one drink had turned into something more. It felt like a confession, and oh, how her friend had screamed down the phone.

“I do NOT believe it! After all your big talk!”

Anne took the slagging off. After all, it was true she’d sworn she’d rather chew her own arm off than date some pompous American. In her defense, she reminded Katherine, she’d made that proclamation late in the evening of her going-away party and should not be held accountable for a word she’d said after her second pint.

Now Aiden had found the knot’s match.

“Well done, sweetie.”

She passed him half a Fig Newton. He set it aside for later, always one for delayed gratification.

A crow flapped lazily across the park and landed in a tall pine near the picnic table, muttering and fluffing its wings. Anne glanced up at the big evergreen. There were no trees like this at home. And though Ireland’s skies were rainy, they had texture and movement to them. The first flat gray winter in Seattle had nearly done her in. She would never have stayed if it weren’t for Kat. Her friend sent long, newsy letters on blue airmail paper, recounting her romantic escapades, and assured Anne she was not missing anything. She described trying to find work with her small ensemble at weddings, private parties, and holiday gatherings and her unsuccessful attempts to land a teaching position. The country was flailing under the leadership of the Fianna Fáil party and shaken by intermittent bombings. Katherine joked that she could always join a convent and sing in the choir if things got bad enough.

“Room and board, at least? But truly, Ireland does not need another unemployed musician, my darling,” she’d written. “Stay where you are and try to enjoy yourself!”

So Anne had stayed, and she’d discovered how much she loved teaching. She and Kat continued to write together—Kat scoring melodies and Anne sharing lyrics. She loved seeing Kat’s handwriting on thick envelopes, ripping them open to reveal the latest tape, hearing her dear friend’s voice as she said “hiya” and then explained what she’d decided to do with the arrangement. The sound of Kat’s hands touching the piano keys as she began the tune.

Aiden grabbed her hand and pressed it to the deck of cards.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she said, flipping over two cards. The leprechaun again and the banshee.

“Oh, the banshee! She’s the sad lady. Remember her? The banshee wanders the moors at night and cries for her lost love,” Anne read from the card.

She’d felt like a banshee herself after discovering she was pregnant one bleak February day. In lighter moments, Anne would refer to her pregnancy as “when I come down with our Aiden,” in her thickest brogue, which always got a laugh from Tim. But that dark afternoon at Planned Parenthood hadn’t been the least bit funny.

The kind nurse asked if he could call anyone for her, and Anne shook her head. He gave her the number of a counseling line and a pamphlet on abortion services. She’d walked down Broadway in a cold rain and called Kat from the first pay phone she could find, crying her eyes out.

Kat had been her practical self. Straightaway she’d asked what Anne wanted. And Anne didn’t hesitate. She wanted that baby. It wasn’t about religion either. The Ryans were lapsed Catholics and Anne had no qualms about abortion. It was something else and so unexpected. She was more certain of it than anything in her life before or since. Everything in her yearned toward the idea of this tiny beginning within her. Though it would mean moving back home with her parents and surrendering the opportunities in Seattle. She could handle the village gossip and her parents’ disappointment. The baby was what she wanted. She’d laughed, and Katherine had too.

“But man, is your da going to be raging!” Kat had said, which made them laugh harder, though it wasn’t really funny.

She’d asked Tim to meet her at Café Paradiso. She’d never forget how handsome he looked as he came through the door of the café that day, his light blue shirt freckled with rain, his short, sandy hair dampened. His eyes found hers as he crossed the room, and she thought how he would never look at her like that again—so easy and pleased to see her. After all, they’d only been dating since Christmas. He was surprised by her news, but when she’d made it clear she was keeping the baby, he said he wanted it too. He kissed her and asked her to move in, which she hadn’t expected at all. But his enthusiasm won her over, so she agreed to give it a try. What a strange time—getting to know him when she was at her absolute worst. Exhausted yet not sleeping. Starving and unable to hold anything down. Furious one minute and laughing the next. Her small frame ballooned, and she hogged the bed. But they’d managed and they genuinely liked each other, then loved each other. Despite their differences, perhaps because of them, they made each other laugh. Like the day Tim, trying to brush up on his Irish English, had referred to her underpants as bloomers. Anne had nearly wet herself laughing.

“Bloomers!” she’d howled.

Aiden considered the cards methodically and Anne didn’t rush him. The crow hopped down from the tree and perched on the lip of the garbage can and pulled out a McDonald’s bag. Dropping it on the sidewalk, the crow began to feast on limp fries and pickles. A breeze picked up and rustled the greasy paper.

Aiden glanced toward the bird and slipped down off the bench.

“Crack-oh!” said the crow and hopped away as Aiden retrieved the bag and placed it in the trash bin. Idiosyncratically tidy was her boy. Anne sighed, stood up, and took him by the hand.

“Thank you, love,” she said. “Let’s go wash our hands. Might as well go potty too.”

The air was cool inside the low stone restroom. Aiden went into a stall and carefully shut the door. Anne washed her hands, looked at herself in the mirror, and grimaced. Not a stitch of makeup. I look like an old woman, she thought. She pulled her scarf out of her bag and tied it in her hair. Leaning back against the sink, she watched little sparrows flit in and out of the open grates near the ceiling.

Aiden emerged from the stall and stood on tiptoe washing his hands while humming the ABCs. The daycare staff had taught him this, and he was ever faithful to it. The melody was the same as “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep,” which Anne had learned as a child.

“My, he’s thorough, isn’t he?” a voice said.

Anne turned to see a woman and her child waiting to use the sink. It was the little girl from the slide.

“Oh yes, he is. A regular hand-washing champ,” Anne said, smiling.

“Well, we’re happy to wait until he’s all done!” the woman said with false cheer.

Anne felt a stab of irritation and forced a smile. She knew if she rushed him, he’d only start over at the top of his ABCs. No point in trying to explain.

“Hi,” the little girl said to Aiden. “I’m Cora. I’m four. What’s your name?”

Aiden ignored her and reached for a paper towel and dried his hands. The little girl stared. Her mother whispered something.

“What’s retarded?” the little girl asked.

The woman reddened and refused to meet Anne’s eye.

“Let’s go, sweetie,” Anne said, and they went out into the sunshine.

The breeze had blown the cards across the table and onto the ground. Aiden gathered them and handed them to her one by one.

“Thank you, love. We can play again later at home.”

They walked, zigzagging around Lake Union to avoid the steepest hills on the way to Fremont. It was over three miles, but her boy didn’t tire. He marched next to her on his sturdy wee legs, refusing to hold her hand. At busy intersections, he grabbed on to the strap of her shoulder bag—a compromise, she supposed. When he moved ahead of her on the sidewalk, she noted his purposeful gait, this independent creature, and marveled at the fact that they had once shared her body. It seemed impossible that Aiden had just turned five.

When they reached the apartment, he took off his rainbow-colored sneakers and lined them up on the shoe rack. Waiting for Anne to shed her shoes, he placed them next to his and ran into the living room and snapped on the TV.

“What did we say about TV, dearie? After dinner, okay?”

He stiffened with frustration but turned it off and went to his record player. He set the needle down in the middle of the record, locating the very start of “Annan Waters,” which had been a favorite tune of late. He’d been playing it for weeks now. She encouraged him to listen to the rest of the record, which he did from time to time. But the repetition seemed to soothe him when he was feeling edgy. Though he had an odd habit of never letting the song finish, pulling the needle off at the same spot near the end.

“Let’s let it play through this time, shall we, sweetie?” Anne said.

Aiden crossed his ankles and leaned over the record player and didn’t reply. Anne closed her eyes and felt the prickle of rising tears as she went to the kitchen. She sat at the table and pulled out her notebook. Flipping to the back, she found scribbles from her last wrecked attempt to write a song. When was that? “March 3, 1997,” she’d written. Almost eighteen months ago.

Aiden had started the song over again.

Oh, Annan Water’s wondrous deep.

He let it play through the three verses and into the last chorus. The song built and swelled, and Anne willed him to let it play through to the end. But just at the peak of feeling, Aiden picked up the needle and started it over. Anne gritted her teeth in irritation and laughed at herself.

Maddening child, she thought and crossed to the stove to put on the kettle.

If she’d asked her students about the emotional core of this particular song, they’d probably have said love and loss. The lover riding the moors, the horse in fear of the roaring water, the swimmer losing his strength. But this just showed how words failed. The anatomy of grief was too much to translate into words. You could argue that all lyrics failed, really. Words alone could not express the emotion that remained trapped inside a bruised and broken heart. That’s why the story always needed a melody to go along with it. For this song, it was the querulous rise at the end of each phrase and the call of the uilleann pipes that expressed the sorrow words could not. Without that music, the story alone was a broken and incomplete thing.

Broken and incomplete. How she felt now, how she’d felt this past year and a half. She listened for a sound from the living room.

“Would you like a cup of chocolate, sweetheart?” she called to her son and waited.

Say something, Aiden. Anything. Please, she thought.

The needled lifted off the record and the song began again.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Katherine at the airport—black hair and blue eyes, yelling goodbye and waving madly as Anne entered the boarding bridge, calling out to her and blowing kisses that flew up into the sky and disappeared.