This story was conveyed to me in staggered sentences and breathless gasps over a period of years by my friend Jeannie.

The pivotal character is a talented bird named Tweety, probably the prettiest parakeet I’ve ever seen: buttery yellow with no markings, itty bitty alert black eyes, and a beak as blue as a sapphire. Over a lifetime of moves between Staten Island and Manhattan and from cottage to tenement to a delightful walkup on the Upper East Side, Tweety accompanied Jeannie, and made each day amusing, enjoyable, and musical. He was as amiable as he was pretty, and he was a joy to behold.

Unlike many parakeets who have huge vocabularies, Tweety’s was limited to “I’m so handsome” ... “I make you laugh, don’t I?” ... and “Don’t forget to pay the rent.” Jeannie had also taught Tweety to sing “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, when skies are gray.”

Tweety had been Jeannie’s roommate and faithful companion for a little over 15 years until one day, he stopped talking and stopped singing. In retrospect, he must have loved her very much and known her very well, because his last words to her were “Don’t forget to pay the rent.”

Now, at this particular point in her life, Jeannie’s fate had a few too many vicissitudes. First, she fell on her way to the coffee pot in her apartment and broke her hip. While she was in the hospital having hip replacement surgery, her living room ceiling collapsed. Then, in no particular order: someone broke into her mailbox and stole her annuity check (on which she lived); her upstairs neighbor began renovations, and her apartment was invaded by his mice; and she lost her wallet. This last sent her into hysterics until Akbar (son of the owner) called and told her that she had left it on the countertop of their convenience store.

It was at this juncture – or perhaps a little later, as she was already out of the hospital and on her way to her first appointment for physical therapy – that she stopped mid-stride in her kitchen, glanced over at Tweety’s cage, and observed an empty perch. Jeannie rushed over, looked down, and saw her beautiful little friend inert at the bottom of the cage.

What followed is my reason for writing this saga.

That Jeannie was heartbroken by the loss of her beloved pet goes without saying. However, all emotions had to be put on hold because of the exigencies of the moment. Tweety (God! I’m sorry to say this) was a ... a ... a ... corpse. And corpses, in a day and age where we eschew sarcophagi and pyramids, have to be disposed of.

Jeannie looked over at the stove clock – she was already running late for her first appointment (hip replacement. Remember?) with her new physical therapist: Diane. She limped to the dresser, yanked open the bottom drawer, and explored with a blind hand until her fingers fell upon a small, bejeweled box that looked like something from The Arabian Nights. A further finger hunt resulted in a colorful silk-scarf embroidered with threads of gold.

Jeannie plucked them both from the drawer, hobbled back to the kitchen, tenderly removed Tweety from the cage, wrapped him in the silk scarf, tucked him into the bejeweled box, and then crammed the box into her purse. As she passed the cutlery drawer, she stopped briefly to extract a large serving spoon, which she added to her funereal equipage. When she left her apartment, she could be heard softly crooning, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...” as a requiem for her little friend.

A short cab ride downtown, a shorter elevator ride up in the Rehab Building, and she was greeted on the sixth floor by Diane, waiting with a clipboard in her hand and a smile on her face. The therapy session was short, productive, and painful. Relieved that it was over, Jeannie burst forth with the frantic confidence, “I’m so glad it’s not raining, because...” And then she told Diane about the passing of her beloved pet, expecting – if she’d expected anything at all – sympathetic murmurings along the lines of: “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Instead, Diane gasped in horror and shouted, “You mean you have a dead bird in your purse!”

Jeannie’s retreat from Diane’s office was faster than it was strategic, and as soon as she hit the sidewalk, she took an Uptown bus that left her at the 84th Street entrance to the Carl Schurz Park.

There is something of a Keystone Kops aspect to the rest of this story. It starts with Jeannie leaning casually (too casually!) against the wrought iron railing overlooking the East River, observing with quiet joy the sun glistening upon the silvery gray surface of the water, and contemplating how suitable a resting place that would be for her Fine Feathered Friend.

She opened her purse, pulled out the Arabian Nights box in which Tweety was interred, and grasping it firmly, reached her arm back behind her shoulder like a baseball player about to throw a perfect pitch. But on instinct – or courtesy of her peripheral vision – she first turned to her left and saw a very bulking, very tall, very authoritarian police officer striding her way. Instantly, she reached up her other arm, turned both into a gigantic stretch, smiled at the approaching officer of the law, and exclaimed, “Gorgeous weather!”

Jeannie surreptitiously re-deposited Tweety and his box into her purse.

The enormous policeman smiled back, said, “Have a nice day, ma’am,” and continued up the promenade without a backward glance. Which was just as well, because she was already headed toward the curved staircase whose elegant, wide steps unfurled like a fan and led down to the Peter Pan statue in the center of the Park ... a perfect place and a perfect companion, Jeannie suddenly realized, for Tweety to spend the rest of eternity.

You may be wondering why my friend chose such conspicuous places to dispose of Tweety’s mortal remains. Good question. The answer goes back to her broken hip. On her first day of physical therapy (the day Tweety died), she was still in considerable pain and had neither the mobility nor the flexibility to crawl beneath bushes or under fences in search of a suitable pet cemetery. The East River, her first choice, was out. However, it was mid-afternoon on a pleasant autumn weekday: not too many kids zooming around on skateboards. Not too many lovers strolling hand-in-hand. Not too many birdwatchers with binoculars looped around their necks.

Jeannie limped to a nice wide step bordered by a graceful curb that separated the slate staircase from the slopping earth surrounding a late blooming pink rose bush. She inched herself down to a seated position, lifted her head, and looked to her left.

No people.

She looked down.

No people.

She lifted the Arabian Nights box out of her purse, removed her large serving spoon, and quickly, quickly, quickly, dug a wide, deep hole in the earth between the curb and the rosebush. But just as she was about to position the Arabian Nights box inside the hole, she heard a concerned voice.

“Lady! Lady!” It called out.

Jeannie turned and saw a tall, slim, muscular young man wearing a Superman suit (yes. Even to the blue tights and red cape) moving down the stairs. He had dark hair, dark skin, and wore Clark Kent horn-rimmed eyeglasses. She lowered her purse to her hip (the undamaged one), and then kicked the purse, so that it tumbled down three steps, and all of the contents spilled out.

Superman called to her again, “Are you all right?”

Jeannie turned and smiled. My friend is a very beautiful woman (I always call her “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” ... after the song) and she has an enchanting smile. “Yes,” she said, sounding grateful for his intrusion. “But I dropped my purse, and I just had hip surgery, so ...”

The young man bounded down the steps, calling out masterfully, “Say no more,” and began to gather the scattered contents and replace them in her purse. Jeannie, meanwhile, quickly jammed the Arabian Nights box tightly into its hole, covered the hole with five inches of dirt, spread fallen leaves over the gravesite, and then tossed the silver spoon as far back into the woods as her arm could throw. All mere seconds before Superman came bounding back up the stairs (faster than a speeding bullet!) carrying her purse.

Although she has never told me how she got home that day – by then her new hip must have been killing her – I’m sure that in time, I will be able to extract those details and add them to this saga. In the meantime, though, Jeannie has a new roommate. His name is Happy. He is bright blue, and I am absolutely certain that Happy makes Jeannie happy. He is only eight months old, and parakeets can live 15 or 20 years.

Life is long, Jeannie is strong, and she always seems to be in the middle of some delicious turmoil, so I’m in no hurry.

I can wait to hear what will happen next.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2023. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com