“You’re a piece of work, Rico,” she said aloud, and he perked up and cocked his head to the left. In real life, he was anything but laughable. She wondered if he could create the sound of a laugh, and at that very moment, he laughed—like a human! The sound was unmistakably male, a deep, hearty laugh, but with a sort of buzz, as if the sound had been filtered through a partially clogged horn.

She swept up the seeds with the broom and returned to the kitchen to get water—bottled, never tap! Rico watched intently. When she filled the container at the side of his cage, he edged away. He didn’t like her near; that was easy to see. He didn’t like her putting fresh food out for him, but after it was in place, he settled and began to eat. He was nervous. He didn’t know her well enough. That’s what she told herself. The African grey is a beautiful bird, but it can be skittish. She looked at the curve of his beak. Black, not really black, more like smudged charcoal. She caught a glimpse now and then of a coal-black tongue. Was the tongue perfectly curved to fit within the beak? From the side, the half mask that circled his left eye was a swirling white nebula, indistinct around the edges but with a vigilant black pupil at its centre.

She sat on a chair in front of his cage and heard her throat make a chirring sound. One of Cecilia’s instructions had explained that Rico liked to hear insect sounds. What sort of insect? How was Gwen to know? An insect sound wasn’t exactly conversation.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch.”

Rico hopped over to a different perch.

“Ch-ch-ch-ch.”

No response. He chewed away at the kale.

She decided she would bring Rico something from home. Maybe she would read to him. That might get him talking. Maybe he’d enjoy listening to a soft and steady voice. If she read aloud, maybe he would show some respect.

ON THE WAY HOME, Gwen drove back to Marvin’s. She needed margarine. She needed a loaf of bread. She needed food. Nothing with seeds; nothing chopped or shaped like pellets. After she’d made the insect sounds, Rico had pecked at his seeds with renewed vigour and scattered them widely, creating another mess that required cleaning up. For her own evening meal, Gwen wanted human food in large pieces. She chose a salmon steak and dropped it into her grocery basket. She would eat a baked potato cooked whole. She contemplated lolling in front of the TV, and hoped there would be no news items about temperamental birds that might pluck their own feathers.

She meandered through the produce department, selected broccoli and decided she would take a chunk to clip to a bar of the cage the next day. She had the feeling that Rico preferred fruit, but she had to stick to the vegetable–fruit ratio prescribed by Cecilia Grand. Total diet: 50 percent veg/10 percent fruit/40 percent pellets. Halfway through the list of possible foods, Cecilia had underlined: NO PITS, NO APPLE SEEDS. Maybe red palm oil took care of whatever it was that more fruit would supply; Gwen was to add palm oil to Rico’s chop and treats. Or maybe a diet heavy in fruit caused diarrhea. Could parrots have diarrhea? Gwen couldn’t think why not. Maybe there was a special word to describe parrot droppings, a word similar to “mutes.” Isn’t that what hawk feces were called? Falcon feces? She muttered the word “mutes” to herself.