Presently at our touch the teacup stirred,
Then circled lazily about…
—James Merrill, “Voices from the Other World”
It’s twilight in London and I’m crossing the street, looking left when I should be looking right. A double-decker bus nearly flattens me. Blaring horn. Cockney swears that I don’t catch.
My heart is still pounding when I reach my office. As I fumble with my key, I hear a strange mewling at my feet. A baby bird fallen from a nest in the eves is shuddering on the pavement. It’s squeezing its eyes shut with all its might. Pink and veiny, it weighs about as much as a paper clip when I scoop it up in my hand and place it gently in the pocket of my windbreaker jacket.
My office is on the top floor. As I climb the stairs, I finger the bird’s soft body, scaly feet, and the cashew of its beak. My coworker, who I was supposed to relieve ten minutes ago, chews me out for being late. I pretend to listen, hand in my pocket making sure the bird is still warm. Still alive.
When my coworker finally storms out, I scour the grubby kitchen for anything a baby bird could eat. No stale crackers in the cabinets. Only a half-bottle of champagne in the fridge. I rinse a teacup in the rusty sink and place the bird inside. What am I going to do with you? I say aloud.
A phone rings and I hurry into the other room, a small dark studio lit only by a blinking phone bank and what city lights twinkle through the large window.
I place the teacup on the desk, strap on a headset and answer the phone call. A distressed voice—a man’s—is just audible over howling wind. “I’m on the bridge… and I’m going to do it this time.” I take a deep breath and say, “Blueberry octopus.” Wind roars through the receiver. “Marathon grandmother deficit,” I add.
Those of us who work for the suicide hotline have been specially trained. As it turns out, what you say to someone teetering on a ledge is completely irrelevant—what really matters is how you say it. I took a six-week course to learn how to speak in a special tone of voice—it’s hard to describe—neighborly interest mixed with parental indulgence? It’s not baby talk, but it’s not a million miles from that.
Anyway, this tone makes people break down into tears, and once they’re crying, the danger has passed. Suicidal impulse is like a fever, and it’s our job to break it.
For the rest of the night, I field call after call. My bungee cord of nonsense words stretches out across the metropolis, unknotting electrical cords, picking locked bathroom doors, yanking Londoners off railings and Tube tracks.
All the while, I coo over the rescued bird. Its beak is opened wide in a perpetual yawn. It needs sustenance—liquid at least—but I can’t leave my station. “Giraffe road,” I say into the phone as I unbend a paperclip. “Sandwich diplomat,” as I prick my thumb. Blood wells and I squeeze a few drops into the bird’s expectant mouth.
“Hello?” I say, picking up another call. No wind on the line this time. Just silence. “Folklore appendix?” I say tentatively. And then I hear it—the familiar heavy breathing.
We get these prank calls sometimes. We’re supposed to just hang up—the boss says so—but I never do. I disconnect my headphones and put the call through the speaker, letting the heavy breathing fill the studio.
The prank caller breathes in and out. In and out. I lean back in my chair. London glitters through the window. I whisper sweet nothings to the bird in the teacup.
The caller must imagine he’s terrifying me. He doesn’t know that the sound of someone just breathing, not wailing or sobbing, not threatening to end their uniquely miserable life, is a relief.
More than that, it’s a blessing.
It’s the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.
