Bird After Bird Read online

  I erased the “worse than mine” and drew a bird over the mark.

  Some vets get home and go nuts and shoot people—that's not "handling" things, is it? But God lets it happen. Maybe God doesn't "make" those situations, but He lets it happen.

  Maybe I’m a fool for thinking someday, someone out there is going to be able to talk about this stuff with me without getting uncomfortable and flying away. And maybe—just maybe—she’ll have her own stuff to deal with, too. I’m not asking for a basket case, but it’d be crazy to try and stand up to perfection.

  I’m so alone. It was okay for awhile, but not anymore. And if there’s a God, I can’t believe that’s how it’s meant to be. And I can’t believe you’d want me to stay this way. So wherever you are, however you are, if you pray, send one up for me, okay?

  Thanks for listening.

  Always,

  Your Birdy

  I tore out the page and folded it into a crane.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wren

  “Welcome to Crane Days! While you’re with us today please remember: birds don’t really mind if you are loud, but they can spook at sudden movements, so please keep that in mind if we are fortunate enough to come across any Whooping Cranes or even a Snowy Owl. If you do see a flock of birds flying scared, look up! You’ll probably see a few bald eagles today!”

  I took a deep breath and continued. “I hope everyone brought binoculars, sunscreen, and a hat, because the basic tour is going to run a couple of hours out in the field, and there are no restrooms at Goose Pond Fish and Wildlife Area. Go on and hop off the bus for a comfort station if you’d like, before we go. We’ll hold the bus ‘til you get back!”

  The minibus was packed with tourists. Most of them were serious birders like me, although few were as experienced—otherwise they’d have been roped into leading tour buses, too. A family of six sprawled across the back seat, a sleeping baby draped limply across mom’s shoulder. A haggard but happy-looking father joked with three boys.

  “Nice to have you here, Wren,” said the bus driver. It was Rhoda, one of the festival organizers. She knew more about wild birds than anyone I had ever met, and I looked forward to her chiming in as we made the rounds of Goose Pond.

  “Ladies and gents,” I said, as no one made a move for the door, “are you sure there won’t be any last potty breaks? I promise the stalls here at the fairgrounds are a lot nicer than the reeds of Goose Pond!”

  One of the little boys in the back raised his hand, and scooted down the aisle of the bus, the father going after him. Rhoda started to close the bus doors against the cold, but the two brothers decided to follow their brother and dad. The tourists chuckled as the kids disappeared into the rustic restroom, little more than a port-o-john.

  “Three pee-ers in a pod,” Rhoda said, and the bus erupted into laughter. The tired mom in the back seat nodded her agreement.

  “Ladies and gents, you got the best of the bunch here with Ms. Rhoda,” I said. It was true. Linton was never far from my mind in between all the work stuff in Chicago, but somehow it seemed that Crane Days was the only time I found to slip away.

  As the three little boys and their father reboarded the bus, I called out “Last chance!”

  “Let’s hit the road!” a fellow in the front seat said. At least, I think it was a fellow. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, dark glasses, and so much zinc oxide on his nose that all facial features were obscured. If we hadn’t already been in the middle of nowhere, I’d have thought maybe he was some kind of terrorist. Bird-Qaeda.

  “Away we go!” Rhoda answered, and then we were off.

  Goose Pond is an enormous inland marsh. The first time I saw it was during my Big Year with Dad, when I was 12. I remember thinking “Birds? Why would birds come here?” I guess when I was a kid I only thought of the species that lived in the woods when it came to bird watching.

  Growing up in Birdseye, we had our share of warblers and sparrows, but nothing like the diversity of birds that visited Goose Pond. On a good day, you could see species that didn’t stop anywhere else in the state. Pelicans soaring in stark white flocks, galloping cranes thicker than Canadian geese, and a virtual sea of coots—little black ducks that made excellent eating for the plethora of eagles and hawks in the vicinity. Even the common birds were made wondrous from the enormity of their numbers.

  To a layman’s eye, it might just look like acre after acre of empty fields, with a few shallow ponds scattered here and there. To a bird, though, Goose Pond was paradise.

  I saw it now with the eyes of an adult birder. A city girl who had come to appreciate all that nature had to offer. I loved my life, but being able to escape to a place where wild birds soared and dived was a treat that money couldn’t buy.

  It did take a lot of money to support it, though. The Department of Natural Resources was one of the first government agencies cut when political allocations were rejiggered, and it took a lot of fundraising to keep Goose Pond running.

  Our first stop was a fallow cornfield just outside Goose Pond, where a flock of about two thousand Sandhill Cranes moved. “Wow!” the boys in the back of the bus cried. The more experienced birders began clicking off shots with their digital SLRs as I shared a few facts about the birds. I’d learned from previous years that when it came to factoids, it was best to stick to trivia and personal observations. Anything that sounded like “education” usually hit tourists like the stuff yawns are made of. If they had questions, they’d ask.

  “The Sandhill Crane is usually three to three and a half-feet tall at maturity, which means each one of these birds is probably almost as tall as you boys in the back of the bus!” The giggling in the back told me I’d shared the right factoid.

  “Are they rare?” the father asked.

  Looking out the bus window at the hundreds upon hundreds of birds, I had to laugh. “Only about as rare as a longhorn in Texas, sir.” The bus collectively chuckled, and the dad stared out the windows as his wife patted him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings.

  As soon as the shutters finished clicking, Rhoda moved the bus onward. Her walkie-talkie gurgled and snapped to life, and she talked to someone at another location for a moment.

  “You want to see a rare bird, sir?” she called to the man in the back.

  The bus collectively gave a “Yes!” in response.

  “Well, let’s give the man what he wants, huh?” I said.

  Picking up her PA mic, Rhoda announced, “I just got word that we’ve spotted two Whooping Cranes. These are two of only about 100 of these birds left in the wild. If you see them today you may never see one of these birds again in your lifetime, so get those cameras ready!”

  The Whoopers chose to fish that day near a larger bog teaming with bird activity. Once we’d finished paying homage to the rare, endangered birds on our left, we exited the bus as a group and meandered toward the heavily-peopled banks of the lake, opposite.

  Aimed toward an island in the midst of the shallow lake, several gentlemen with expensive cameras and stacks of field guides were arguing about whether they were observing a juvenile bald eagle or a juvenile golden eagle. Many yards away on an island of plant material, the eagle feasted, completely unconcerned for its pedigree.

  “C’mon, baby…spread those wings and show us your tits!” one of the men said, hunched over a telescope, his legs spread nearly as wide as the tripod for which he’d doubtlessly overpaid. “Show Daddy if you’ve got white patches on those scrawny wings!”

  One of his friends reddened, grinning at me. “We’ve got a bet going—$50 and the loser buys a round for the guys tonight.”

  “Juvenile, indeed.”

  “You’re welcome to join us,” the red-faced guy said.

  I glanced at the family of six from the bus. Mom held her hands over the ears of her youngest.

  “And this, ladies and gents, is a pair of typical Indiana coots—not juvenile in the least, although their behav
ior smacks of immaturity. No, I don’t think these two will be breeding any time soon! Okay, grab your binocs and let’s have a look at this eagle, shall we?”

  While the tourists stood in awe, I got fidgety. Part of the point of the fundraising event was to elicit new birding enthusiasts to understand the importance of the wild habitat maintained here at Goose Pond. I enjoyed doing my part by leading tours and spearheading the firm’s annual capital donation, but while they watched the birds swoop and soar, I busied myself with gathering litter from the roadside.

  A few yards down the shoreline, the glare of a white piece of garbage caught my eye. I treaded carefully in the muddy marsh to retrieve it.

  I gasped as I realized it was another paper bird. This one was folded into the shape of a swan, and I couldn’t help but open it, immediately.

  Much of the ink was washed away, but the pencil sketch of a bluebird was unmistakable in the corner of the page. I could make out a few words from a paragraph on the right edge.

  …day will come when I don’t wake up and think of you

  … morning. I know it’s natural, I know it’s right, I know

  …it doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I wonder how

  much of my guilt over your death is mingled with guilt over

  …odriguez’s. Can you forgive me? Can I forgive myself? Maybe

  …the question, really.

  I couldn’t refold the swan, but I carefully pressed the letter and tucked it into my jeans pocket, hoping it would survive the day.

  Eventually the birders ran out of steam and we returned to the fairgrounds to release our charges. Not before I caught a glimpse of a lone truck, though. Something about it seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Rhoda, do you know whose green truck that is?” I gestured to an old restored pickup, almost blending in with the wild grasses of the marsh. No one was in it, but a black and white puppy ran out from under it, chasing the bus for several yards before the tall, lean figure of a man ran after it, leashing it and pulling it back.

  Laurie.

  “No clue. Cute guy,” she said, checking him out in her rearview.

  “You coming to the bar for drinks with the rest of us tonight?” Rhoda said as the last of the tourists disembarked at the fairgrounds. The little boys from the back of the bus were calling out their thanks, one of them hugging my leg at the last minute as though he wasn’t ready to leave. “I owe you a brew, at least. I’m headed there as soon as I drop off the bus.”

  “You know, Rhoda, I’d like to…but first I have to check on something.”

  “You don’t mean the green truck guy, do ya?” She flashed a knowing smile. “Tell him to keep his dog on a leash. Great opening line.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “Can it, Groucho. I think I know the guy.”

  “Oh, I hope you do, honey. He was cute. Go bring him back to the bar, and I’ll buy each of you a beer!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Laurie

  Before I could let Hap off-leash to train, I wanted to find my missing swan. I’d been writing the letters and leaving them folded as birds at the different parks, but when I got to Goose Pond, I realized one must have flown out the window.

  “Damn it, Hap. I didn’t mean to come up here and litter the place.”

  It was one of the weirdest parks I’d ever seen. No monkey bars, no picnic areas—just a lot of cornfields and the kind of shallow lakes that farmers give up and let go after years of losing crops to flood.

  I was retracing my steps, and had finally reached a section of the park without many people around, so I let Hap off the leash.

  The first thing he did was run right after a bus. Once it was gone I walked him on-lease again. No sign of the swan.

  Finally, I showed him the treats in my pocket and let him off-leash again. He ran right up to a car. The first car I’d seen in a half an hour.

  A little blue Beemer.

  Wren’s car.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” she said.

  “What, at lakes with questionable bathroom facilities?”

  She nodded, chuckling. “Good to see your face, Laurie...” She hesitated for a moment, like she intended to say my last name, but forgot.

  She looked amazing. The cool breeze off the marsh lazily wisped her long red curls. There was minimal parking at this place—maybe that’s why the DNR called it an “area” and not a park, I realized. She pulled to the side of the road and got out of her car.

  “Wow,” I said, Hap biting at my pant leg for attention. I tossed the tennis ball for him and let him run. “You look amazing, Wren.”

  She laughed. “You remember my name?”

  I approached her, reaching for her nametag. “Well, even if I hadn’t, it’s right here.”

  She smiled, removing her nametag. Her fingers grazed mine and closed over them for a moment. I felt a jolt, like the kick of my M-9, or the way I’d felt when I saw my first Duchamp. “I wasn’t sure since you didn’t call.” She blushed a little as she shoved her nametag into her pocket.

  “So you’re a tour guide or something?”

  “Just for the weekend. Special event to raise money for the marsh. It’s one of the most important migratory stops in the region.” She took a breath. “I have to admit, though, I’m a little disappointed. I felt pretty special when I thought you remembered my name from the Beer & Bait fiasco.”

  I wanted to say “Oh, you are special,” but I bit my tongue. Too soon. Too corny.

  “Your nose looks better,” I said.

  She gave me a funny look. “My nose?”

  “Yeah, it was kind of swollen before.” Crap. I’d was trying to be clever, and failing. I laughed nervously, hating the sound of my own insecurities. I’d driven all this way in the hopes of running into her, and now I was going to blow it?

  It turned out it didn’t matter what I’d said, because my puppy blew it for me.

  “Shit, your dog!” she yelled, pointing toward the water.

  My puppy was swimming as hard as he could after a crane.

  “Crap, um…should I go get him?” I hated the sound of my voice. Of course I should go get him. What an idiot.

  “That’s a rare bird!” Wren yelled, and I could hear the desperation in her voice.

  “Oh, no.” I ran to the edge of the marsh closest to where Hap was doggie-paddling after a pair of tall white birds. “Will they fly away?”

  Wren wasn’t waiting to find out. I guess she must have been crazy about these birds, because she’d jumped into the pond with all her clothes on. Although it was late spring, in north-central Indiana it’s still too cold that time of year for a dip in the lake. The water seemed to only be about waist deep, but it had to be freezing. She was pissed and on the move toward my errant dog.

  “You blasted mutt,” I said, removing my shoes and pants. I dropped them in a heap and pulled off my shirt, until I was down to my boxer briefs. Maybe I should have jumped in with all my clothes on, too, but I just couldn’t see wearing wet clothes all the way back home. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t crazy. “Wait!” I said, as I waded into the marsh. The bottoms of my feet hit slippery mud and what felt like layers of dead reeds, but I didn’t have time to think about it. Wren was going to think I was a total jerk with an a-hole of a dog. If he got to those cranes she’d never forgive me.

  “Hap!” I called. “Heel!” I moved as fast as I could toward the dog, but he couldn’t be bothered.

  Wren climbed onto a small island in the center of the marsh. As I caught up to her, she pointed to the birds, who were whooping like all get out against the invading dog. I was about to give Hap a good “whooping,” myself. I finally reached his collar, and I think we both let out sighs of relief. The dog and me, that is. Wren was still pretty stressed.

  “They’re not flying away because—Oh my God, they’re on the nest!” Wren’s tone was equal parts horror and amazement.

  We stood for a few moments, and I took it in, hol
ding the wriggling water-logged puppy against my chest. The reeds were the perfect camouflage for the nest, sticking up all around like a fence. In the middle, the birds had created a sort of floating island for their home.

  After a moment, I could see Wren’s shoulder’s dropping back down to a more human position. Even soaking wet and covered in muddy water, she was beautiful. In a much quieter voice she asked, “Do you have any idea how precious these birds are?” She didn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact. I could barely understand the question over my own relief.

  “Sure,” I said, then regretted it, as her eyes danced with fire again. “I mean, no-no, I’m sorry. I love birds, but I don’t know much about waterfowl. My knowledge is more about songbirds, I guess.” Hap moaned, and she gave him an appraising look.

  “I guess it’s no use scolding him,” she said. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant the dog or me.

  “Did he hurt anything?” I asked.

  The large white cranes whooped at us again. The sound was so loud, I thought for sure Hap would have run away in fright, if I hadn’t been holding his collar.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, peering through the reeds to the straw island the two birds were loudly defending. “We should get out of here, though, before they abandon the nest. If she’s hatching eggs, they’re worth more than their weight in gold. It’s a federal offense to disturb them, too.”

  I was covered in grime and my dog was a trouble-maker who roused protected wildlife. I felt lower than dirt. To think, I’d driven all this way in hopes of running into Wren again—and now I was putting her favorite bird at risk.

  After we waded our way out of the marsh, I put Hap in the back of the truck, holding his collar with one hand and fumbling with the other for a beach towel I kept in the cab for emergencies. I was about to pat him dry, when I noticed Wren shivering on the banks of the marsh.