Every Time a Rainbow Dies

Chapter One

From on top of Brooklyn, Thulani watched the sun bed the clouds, waiting, as he always did, for his birds to return. He woke each morning with one thought: freeing his birds. Their cooing pulled him from sleep, called him up the attic steps and onto the roof of his brownstone. Each and every time it gave him a thrill to unlatch the door of the dovecote he had built and find himself besieged by fourteen pigeons, each a variation of white: snowy, spotted, dingy, or wing-stained. Every morning without fail he dropped cereal or seeds on the asphalt roof, recalled the meanderings of dreams better told to birds than people, then watched them fly off toward Prospect Park. As sure as he knew the view from the rooftop, he knew his birds would always return to him.

Thulani looked out into the graying predusk. Below him, in their apartment, his sister-in-law, Shakira, rubbed her belly, waiting for her husband to come in from work. On the street city buses became scarce, leaving Eastern Parkway to gypsy cabs and vans. Store owners locked up their shops, and street vendors packed up their tables. The day was coming to a close.

Thulani gazed down upon a couple who stopped to kiss. He watched how the man held the woman's head with both hands as she pulled herself into him. Even if they had felt his eyes, they would not have cared. From above them he could see that the world around the two did not exist.

Caught up in this couple, their kiss, and thinking about what drew people to be entwined so, Thulani was suddenly surprised by a legion of wings flapping about him.One by one, five rock doves descended on him, their pink feet touching down on his arms and shoulders; the nine other birds stopped at his feet.

Of his birds, he loved Yoli and Dija best, two of three snowy hens he found as squabs on his roof. Yoli was the first to recognize him as a “mother,” and Dija followed her lead. Their sister, Esme, however, was indifferent to his attention. Of all his birds, she would be the one to run off with another flock.

His treasured cocks, Bruno and Tai-Chi, were brothers with identical black wing stains whom Thulani could easily tell apart. Bruno was bold, a leader, and Tai-Chi, the graceful one, was proud of his wingspan. Both birds had become his when they followed Esme to the rooftop one evening, but they had eventually mated with her sisters.

These were the only birds he had bothered to name. The three hens, the cocks, and their brood were simply “my birds.” Truer friends did not exist. In the two years since Thulani had become owner and caretaker of his flock, there had been no discord, no change in routine, and, in spite of Esme's iffiness, no defections. His birds needed him to free them in the morning; he needed them to return before nightfall. Only when they died would they leave him.

In an act of dominance Bruno hopped from Thulani's shoulder to his head. Thulani grabbed Bruno's feet and carefully pried the bird's talons from his dreadlocks. “Stop showing off for Yoli. I know she's yours.”

He threw Bruno up to the sky, then flung the others perched on his arms airborne as well. This was how his birds began their chasing game'running, hopping, and flying in circles around the roof. Each bird aimed for Thulani, to land on his shoulders, arms, or head.

Bruno wanted his head, but Thulani swerved, missing those pink feet. He twisted, turned, waved his arms, and ducked. He could not shake Bruno or Tai-Chi, nor could he resist his hens.

When he tired or they tired, or when Shakira yelled up from the apartment window, “Cut the mischief!” he unlatched the door of the dovecote so they could roost.

“Home,” he said in response to their cooing and flapping. “Home.”

On his word they gathered to be let into the dovecote, an improvement on the avocado crate from Yong Moon's Fresh Fruits. The crate had served Yoli, Dija, and Esme as squabs but would not do as the three sisters grew into voluptuous hens that attracted other birds to the rooftop. In shop class he had made a bigger home with a lock and a swinging door. He had enjoyed building the dovecote and was at ease with a hammer.“Home, Dija; home, Yoli; home, Bruno,” he coaxed, until all hopped into the dovecote to roost.

Only one hen, Esme, lingered. Esme refused to breed, which went against the very nature of a hen. He'd watch his cocks do the mating dance, puff their necks, bob their heads in and out, and hop to one side, only to be spurned by Esme, who took the role of coquette too far, never allowing any to catch her. Even though Esme had attracted many male pigeons, a mourning dove, and a seagull, Yoli and Dija were responsible for increasing the brood.

“Home, Esme.”

The lone hen stood her ground.

Thulani made kissing noises at her. This wouldn't do. He knelt and held out his hand filled with seeds, which caused a stir in the dovecote. Still, Esme showed no interest. She preferred to roost under the ledge where she and her sisters had been found, although the dovecote was kept clean and the water bowls were filled.“Don't make me come and get you.”

Esme tried to hop away. Thulani seized her, his thumb firmly planted against her beating heart. He grabbed her body before her wings could open. “It's better when you cooperate,” he said, and dropped her into the box, then flipped the latch.

The July air began to cool. Thulani sat on the tarred roof next to his birds, his baggy T-shirt pulled over raised knees. Each pair, Yoli and Bruno, Dija and Tai-Chi, and others settled wing to wing. Even Esme recovered from the indignation of having been handled and joined in the low cooing.

Every Time a Rainbow Dies. Copyright © by Rita Williams-Garcia. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Every Time a Rainbow Dies by Rita Williams-Garcia
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.