It was a sunny day in April, warm enough to make spring seem possible, warm enough for lunch in the garden at the back of Maria Pia. The beautiful Miranda had spent several days in Massachusetts, where the extended family of her great-aunt had gathered to celebrate the aged relative’s ninetieth birthday, and she had warned me that she might be late, so I ordered a martini to beguile the while that I would have to wait for her.
    A ceramic bird was perched atop the garden wall.
    I felt the chill of danger, the danger of my being charmed—by the sun, the promise of spring, the ceramic bird. “Grrrr,” I said under my breath, as a charm against the danger of my being charmed.
    Miranda swept into the garden, trailing clouds of joy. “I bring good news from the north,” she announced. “The culture is not yet dead!”
    “Grrrr,” I said by way of reply.
    “There I was,” she said, “at the celebration, surrounded by relatives, when the commencement of the tributes and ‘roasts’ was announced.”
    “And you ran for the exit?”
    “I did no such thing. I was in the bosom of my family, among my nearest and dearest. I poured myself another glass of wine, brim-full, and girded my loins.”
    “Do women gird their loins?”
    “I do, figuratively speaking.”
    “All right, there you were, soused and girded.”
    “Girded, but not quite soused.”
    “Bring on the entertainment!”
    “The older generation, Great-aunt Felicity’s children, had prepared reminiscences, some of them touching, some of them amusing, all of them more or less conventional. However, when her grandchildren and great-grandchildren began their tributes, it was clear that they were going to do more than merely reminisce.”
    “Oh, no, no,” I said, beating my head with my fist. “They went creative on you—and you discovered that the wine had run out and the doors were barred and locked. I am so sorry that you had to go through this.”
    “Are you going to let me finish?”
    “Yes, yes, of course, let it all out, my poor darling.”
    “A boy of fourteen came to the front of the room. He was holding a clarinet.”
    “You began searching in your handbag for the cyanide capsule.”
    “He said, ‘Gram, with apologies to Charlie Parker, I’m going to play ‘Scrapple from the Apple’ for you.’”
    My jaw dropped. I looked heavenward. The ceramic bird atop the wall looked as if it might sing.
    “The hint of a smile has formed on your lips,” Miranda said. “What are you thinking?”
    “What else could I possibly be thinking?” I said. “I’m thinking that Bird lives.”
    “Grrrr,” she said seductively.