When I was nine, my parents got divorced. It was the usual deal; the years of fighting before, the stoic silence during, and the vilifying after. If my mother did have an affair before that, I certainly didn’t notice, but then, I wouldn’t have known what to look for; she just said he was a possessive monster. She was awarded custody of myself and my two little sisters, and because of her threats, my father never sought visiting rights. He died nearly a year later in a city across the state. I was eighteen before I found out how.
Actually, the whole process wasn’t as hard for us kids as for most, I guess. They both loved us, of that I have no doubt, and he’d have kept loving us, if he could. There was no therapy for Rose, who was four then, or trouble in school for Christine, who’d just turned seven. They tried to keep it from us, of course, as a lot of parents do, but some kids just know, you know? The little ones didn’t, but I did, and I think it’s because he wanted me to. He knew, even then, that I was different, quicker on the up-take than my sisters, and the thought that we could have been great friends one day sobers me still.
I remember the exact night when I knew everything wasn’t ok. See, my father was the one to tell us the Bed-Time Story, and he usually wove some kind of moral into it. It was my job, then Rose and Christine as they got older, to figure out what the lesson was. Of course, he’d sometimes make it easier, or it would go over the heads of the little ones. For example, when Christine was five, she thought that the moral of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ was that you shouldn’t go outside naked.
Sometimes my father would make the lesson hard, and it might take us a few days to get it. Then it became like a contest between the three of us, but I usually won. I think I liked the hard ones best; I think he knew that, too.
It was a week-end night, I can’t remember which one, though not Sunday, because we would have gotten a short fairy-tale out of the book so as not to be up late before school. This was back when we all slept in the same room, the old studio hadn’t been re-done into Rose and Christine’s room yet. I slept in a ‘big’ bed with Christine while Rose had the trundle-bed that pulled out from underneath. We had lots of fun back then.
After a prolonged ‘going to bed routine’ of the bath, hair-drying, and teeth-brushing, we were jumping up and down on the trundle and waiting for my father to come upstairs for the story. Actually, we’d started jumping because their voices were carrying up through the walls from the basement. We didn’t like when they fought, but when they did it was just best to hide or pretend we were somewhere else. It was a bit past bedtime when he came up the stairs.
Giggling, we all dove under the white comforter with the pink rose-buds on it and tried to fake sleeping.
“Oh no, they went to bed already! Well, now I don’t have to tell a story and I can go watch TV and eat ice cream! Oh boy!”
I could hear him rub his hands together and start to walk towards the steps again. Christine started laughing and whispered, “We fooled him!” but Rose erupted from the sheets.
“No! We were just pretending, Daddy! See, we’re still awake!”
My father, with his sandy-hair and lanky figure, stopped in place and whirled around, his eyes sparking and his brow knit in mock-confusion. Looking back, he was like a slightly less-handsome Dick Van Dyke, but maybe not something women would desire, although, like I said before, I these were things I realized later.
“Darn, and I thought I was home free. Ok,” and he gave an exaggerated sigh, “let’s get this over with.”
We all shouted yay and climbed up to the pillow end of the bed as my father sat on the end. His hands shook that night, but I didn’t think anything of it then.
“Ok! Tonight we’re going to hear the story of a king!”
Christine rolled her eyes and crossed her arms like she’d seen me do when I was being bratty. “Not King Midas again!”
He smiled. “No, not King Midas. This king lived in a land far away…”
“Texas?” Rose interrupted. She’d seen a western on TV and turned the Lone Star state into a magical place where little children didn’t have to eat the crusts of sandwiches or take naps.
“No honey, not Texas. This was a land in the mountains, far, far away. In this land there was a kingdom, and at the foot of these beautiful mountains stood the palace where the king lived. Now, this king was very wise in some things, like exactly how much tax to charge or when to throw a royal ball, but not so wise in other things, which we’ll soon see.
“Now, one evening as the king was getting ready to go to bed, he saw a little bird sitting on the window-sill with her feathers sparkling in the light of the setting sun. All colors of the rainbow and then some were the colors of her feathers, and she was beautiful. The king sat very still and watched the bird to see what she would do. Then, all of the sudden, she started singing. The song was so lovely that the king knew at once this was a Night Bird, a very rare thing indeed!
“For a long time, the Night Bird sang, until it became dark and the king fell asleep. When he woke up the next morning, there was a little nest in one corner of his room and the Night Bird was sleeping in it. The next night, she sang again, and the king tried to stay awake for the whole night, but nevertheless, he found himself waking at sunrise. For many months, the Night Bird lived with the king in his room.
“One night, the king had eaten too much cake and ice cream at a royal party, and a tummy-ache woke him up. He heard the Night Bird singing, but now he saw that there was another one, a boy Night Bird, sitting on the window-sill and singing too. After a while, they flew away into the mountains, and the king, unsure of if it had all been a dream, fell asleep. And sure enough, when he woke the next morning, the little Night Bird was asleep in her nest.
“Now, this king was confused, and the next night, had the court sorcerer give him a magic potion that would let him wake up in the middle of the night. He saw the two Night Birds singing, and he saw them fly away. Now, the king thought to himself, ‘One of these nights, she will fly away for good, and I will have no friend living in my room with me. I must do something to keep her from flying away!’.
“So, the next morning, while the Night Bird slept, the king had his royal builders put thick gold bars on his window, and royal hunters wait beneath for the boy Night Bird to come. Then, he waited. As the sun set and the Night Bird awoke, she flew over to the window, but she didn’t sing. Instead, she beat her wings against the bars, trying to get out. She did this until it was dark outside. Then, she was still, and waited also.
“The king could hear the wind over the wings of the boy Night Bird as he flew, and also the twangs of the hunter’s bows as they let fly their arrows. The Night Bird gave a terrible cry, and flew out the king’s door, all through the palace, and finally out into the night, where she guided the boy away and into the mountains.
“The king felt terrible, because she didn’t come back the next morning. In fact, many, many years passed. Often, the king would look at the empty nest in the corner and begin to cry, for he knew that in his foolish jealousy, he’d driven the Night Bird away forever. More years passed, and the king grew old and sick. The court knew that he would soon die.
“As he lay on his death-bed, many royal relatives, players, and jesters were called in to cheer him up before he died. All tried, and all failed. The old king just lay there, tears silently falling into his white beard and onto his pillow. Then, there was a noise by the window. His Night Bird, looking not a day older, was perched there and singing joyously! The old king smiled, and felt his heart warmed, but then, he realized something.
“The Night Bird was not singing happily because she had forgiven him for his foolishness. She was singing because she knew he was dying, and she would soon be rid of him forever. This thought chilled his heart, and he cursed his jealousy, but then, he died, and the Night Bird flew back into the mountains. The end.”
Rose was asleep already, and Christine was drowsy, a tear running down her smooth cheek.
“That was sad, Daddy,” she said as she snuggled up against me and was asleep in seconds. I didn’t cry, but I didn’t say anything either. My father kissed us each on the forehead and headed out of the room.
“Daddy?” I called out. He stopped.
“Yeah, sweetie?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Now go on to sleep.”
When I was eighteen I found out from an aunt that my father had gone into the subway one morning and jumped in front of a train. Though it was a closed casket funeral, I always imagine him lying in the coffin on the white satin they always use, with a little bird perched above him, singing softly and sweetly. I was nearly twenty-three before I got the moral of that bedtime story; before I realized that no matter what the king might have done, he’d have lost his Night Bird anyway.
