e," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.

"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow--but Tootsie could sing! A
wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough,
you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."

"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."

"Yes," Arlen said. "Tootsie belonged to William." His voice lingered on
the name, and he looked out the window again. "I was just getting to
know William. He asked me to keep Tootsie for him while he was away one
summer . . . I suppose he was testing me."

"Ah," Oliver said, vaguely.

"Tootsie and I got along very well. I tried to teach him to say
'William,' but he preferred to sing." Arlen paused to drink.

"I moved in with William that fall." He uncrossed his legs and crossed
them again, waving the other boot in the air. "To make a long story
short, I moved out three years later. William was away for the night. I
was feeling shitty, and I explained the situation to Tootsie. 'I'm
leaving in the morning,' I told him. 'It's not your fault; it's not
William's fault; it's not anybody's fault. We just didn't quite make
it, that's all. Almost, but not quite.' Tootsie listened to me. You
know how they do, with their heads cocked to one side. He was in a cage
with a fail-safe door; the kind that are hinged at the bottom--if they
aren't positively latched shut, they fall open so you'll know to latch
them." Arlen swirled the whiskey around in his glass.

"In three years, Tootsie never got out of his cage. The next morning, I
got up and went into the living room. 'Goodbye, Toots,' I said.
'Toots?' He wasn't in his cage. I walked over, and there was Tootsie on
the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead."

"No way," Oliver said.

"Stone dead. I don't know how he got out. I don't know what happened.
All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart
was broken."

"What did you do?"

"I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom," Arlen said. "I
haven't seen William for years. He moved out of town." One of the
parakeets burst into song. "There he is now."

"Who?"

"William," Arlen said.

"Oh." They drank in silence. "Guess I'll be going," Oliver said.
"Thanks. I'll put a key under the mat when I leave on Friday."

"You're welcome, Oliver. Don't worry about Verdi." Oliver went upstairs
glad to have solved the problem but feeling sorry for Arlen. He was a
decent guy. Usually alone. You'd think he c