ONE

A n African grey parrot, with orange plumes spearing out from each side of its arched head, its eyes a misty, steel grey, was calling its mistress’ name over and over: “Katy, Katy, Katy.”

Katy had told Harry about the bird; she had named it Gus, and even though it turned out to be a female, had decided to leave the name. African greys are expensive parrots, one could easily set back a purchaser six hundred dollars. Katy got hers free from a friend who was leaving the country and couldn’t transport it along with her many personal belongings.

Gus added a stimulating personality to Katy’s otherwise sedate apartment. She would mimic the phone’s ring, repeat her own name whenever it was said, alert Katy to the bark of a dog in the building or neighborhood, and even entertain with swear words she heard Katy express when frustrations boiled over.

“What is it, Gus? What do you want?’

“What d’you want?” Gus answered.

“I’m asking you. Think you’re a clever bird, don’t you.”

“Clever bird.”

“Well you are. You can also be annoying.”

‘Annoying’ was a bit tricky for Gus’s vocal structure, so she simply said back, “Clever bird,” though Katy would rather think that her pet refused to own a negative label of any kind.

To the bird she said, “You are a clever bird, and even though you won’t accept criticism, you are also annoying. Can you say that?”

“Clever bird,” Gus said.

The phone jangled in the middle of the night. Amanda Detmer had come down with some sort of food poisoning. “You,” the voice said, “Katy Bloom, are on tomorrow night. Be sure you’re ready.”

She could not wait to tell someone. Who would that be? Well, Harry, of course. But it was nearly one in the morning. Ah, what the hell.

His obviously sleepy voice said, “Yeah, who is it?”

“Me. It’s me, Harry. You’ve got to come tomorrow night. I’m doing Glass Menagerie. Amanda is ill. They called. I’m filling in for her!” All this blurted out in rapid fire, his drowsiness ignored, the late hour dismissed.

“Oh man,” Harry said, “I’ll be there. You’re the first one in our group with a real performance.”

“I’ve been missing classes because I have to be on site, just in case. But Benjamin persuaded my professor that being in a professional production is the end goal of all our students and should count the same as class work.”

She had studied with Benjamin for a year, but in the past two semesters her classes were with a woman with the unlikely name of Florida Berry, an intense and charismatic former character-actor who had been in thirty films as well as seven Broadway plays. Florida, as the students called her, could be nasty in her criticism and over-the-top in her praise, if she thought a performance worthy.

“Sure,” Harry said. “You’re in on the real thing. Courses are like rehearsals, important but second in line to actual performing.”

“Florida resisted at first. You know how she is. Her words are gospel, her information from the mountaintop, never to be missed. But Garth asked her to allow me to skip some meetings, and she agreed, but only if I write up a comprehensive paper describing the experience, from the staging, to scenery, props, character interpretations, the director’s style, and the overall production itself. She said she’d use my paper as a teaching aide in her classes.”

“All right. How come you never told me any of this?”

She wasn’t sure if she ought to answer him, but finally, timidly, said, “You didn’t ask.”

“You’re so private, Katy. I spill my guts to you and you hold in all the good stuff that’s happening in your life.”

“Not on purpose. It just didn’t come up.”

“My fault. I’m too damned self-centered.”

“I don’t think so. You’re going through some relationship crap right now. That’s got your attention.”

“Well, I want to be there for you. Where can I get a ticket for tomorrow?”

“You won’t need one. I’ll leave your name at the box office. You’ll have a good orchestra seat.”

“Okay! And Katy, break a leg.”

She punched the “silent” button on her phone and smiled broadly. No sleep tonight, she thought. Too excited. Too much energy to lie still.

Aloud she said, “It’s happening! I know I’m going to pull this off.”

From across the room, Gus’s parrot-voice said, “Clever bird.”

Her performance was flawless, though Katy did not think so, her work roundly appreciated by the audience, who had to get past their initial disappointment that Ms. Detmer was ill and would not go on. When the curtain came down, the applause was thunderous and genuine. This young woman did indeed pull off an intricate acting job in a role that was complex and demanding. To punctuate her success, in the dressing room afterwards, with Harry present, the director said to Katy, “It was not only well done, it was a superbly textured effort, deep and layered. I am impressed, young woman. The Ahmanson family thanks you.”

Katy showed appropriate grace in her triumph, but when the small room was cleared and only Harry remained, she broke into sobs.

“What? Tell me,” Harry said.

“Oh Harry, I don’t know. I never thought I could do this and look where I am.”

“Right where you belong.”

“Yes, but it’s temporary. Who knows if it will ever happen again?”

“Check the reviews tomorrow. I’m sure somebody from the media was here. If they liked it, you could be—how do they say it?—launched!”

Her tears slowed and she reached over to hug Harry. On his part, it felt good and real and…intimate; the kind of affection he longed for from Juliet. He had, alas, no way of absorbing its meaning, since his brain told him he loved Juliet, and Katy was, and would always be, his good friend.

“You are the beacon for the rest of us,” Harry said, sticking with the agenda. “The drama group on campus will not only be thrilled but will be looking to you for inspiration.”

“It’s enough for me if you appreciate my work,” Katy said.

“I do! Your performance tonight was mature and sensitive. I loved it.”

She wanted to hear “I love you,” but that little jewel was beyond Harry’s awareness.

Katy sat on her stool, leaned down and lifted her skirt—the drab-green skirt that Laura Wingfield would have worn—peeled off her fortune cookie/ good luck symbol, and read, “You are ready for success. I think this little baby is what helped me tonight. Kept me from being nervous.”

“It’s your victory, not the fortune cookie’s. I don’t believe in that stuff, but if you do, you need a new one that reads, You are a success.”

It was some kind of grand irony that two days later, after finishing dinner at a Chinese restaurant across from his apartment, Harry’s fortune read: Success is yours. Keep on trucking. He smiled at the hip language, and next day said to Katy, “Here. I’ll trade you this new one for your old one.”