“Dude. I’ve never done anything here except come to the window and ask for reports.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured. Because that is now the new definition of ‘disturbance,’ here.”
“Is it legal to ban someone from public property?” said Risa. “That’s not right. Listen, we are here for—”
“Don’t bother,” said Greg. “I’m going to sweep the file room. Window is closed early. I know you know Jerry. And those old birders and the little angry birder who was here earlier. And I don’t know what you are trying to do, but I gotta make service hours before my folks take us to the beach next month. So I’m not getting fired.”
“There’s something wrong here, Greg,” I said. “You have to know it. Why else are they flagging records? Why are they banning me? All I do is ask questions.”
“And that’s enough of a problem.” He shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s wrong or just a hassle. I don’t care. See you.” With that, Greg hung a Closed sign on a suction hook on the window, and slid the venetian blinds over the glass.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said.
“Unbelievable,” said Risa.
We went back outside to the group and reported our utter lack of progress.
“Well. That settles it, crew. We need to keep on this. We need to take this to the next level.”
“What’s that? Clearly city hall is in on it.”
“Oh, I have an idea,” I said.
Maybe I’d failed at my plan to make it a great, productive day. And maybe I wasn’t able to change stuff at home, with Mom-the-mostly-absent and Gran still in her holding pattern. But I might know someone who could challenge even city hall.
There was still hope.
FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY
JUNE 18
NOTABLE LOCATION: CHANNEL 4 ACTION NEWS LIFE LIST ENTRY 3,287: SCARLET TANAGER
“Richard and Louise’s skepticism about my plan convinced Jerry it wouldn’t work,” I said to Gran. “But like you say, persistence goes a long way.”
I watched her face. Monitors beeped, her leg compressors undulated. A finger twitched. Daily she looked paler, like the border between this world and whatever came after it thinned and the light of beyond lit up her face more and more from within. It seemed more plausible that she could be soaring in the breezy summer sky, so vacant was the once-lively body. Gran’s roommate still had pink cheeks and warm-looking skin.
“Risa’s going to meet me at the Channel Four building today. Funny thing about Risa…” I paused. “I think I like her. Like her, like her. It’s a possibility. I don’t know. But I’m focused on you. On us. Obviously. As Brian Michael Warbley said in the most recent issue of Fauna, ‘Focus on what is most important in the present, to prevent the extinction of a beautiful future.’ That’s me, Gran. I’m focusing on our bird to figure out what you are trying to tell me.”
Unlike some people who spent every waking moment with Brad. Possibly non-waking ones as well.
Barf.
“So that’s where I’m going. I’ll keep you posted.” I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Wait for me, Gran,” I said. “I’m really trying.”
Outside, I hopped on my bike and sped over the hills to Channel Four Action News. Risa was already waiting for me, leaning against the warm gray stucco, legs crossed so that her green cargo pants looked like a curved vine. She’d bleached her hair for the occasion.
“Is that bad for your scalp? Changing color that often?” I greeted her.
“I had to go back to blondish to get another color than black. This is my transition phase. It’s not great for the hair. But I think I’ll shave it off and start over at some point.”
“Ah.” I wanted to ask her more about her family. Or something about her. But in the moment I could never work up the nerve. If Gran had been conscious, she could have given me a pep talk.
“You ready?” said Risa.
“Ready as I’m going to get,” I said.
“Hard same,” she said.
We passed through the sliding double doors side by side, our hands almost touching. A sliver of electricity shot through my arm when her hand brushed against mine. Had that been on purpose?
We stopped at a desk just inside the entrance. The place had the air-conditioning cranked; I wished I’d worn layers.
“We are here to see Bill Andrews,” Risa said. “He should be expecting us.”
“Names?” the bored receptionist said.
Risa gave her our names. She printed out name tags and handed us a clipboard to sign in.
“Someone will be with you in a second,” she said.
Risa and I wandered over to a small fountain.
“I’m surprised it hasn’t frozen over,” I said.
“Seriously, penguins could live here,” she said. “Do you want my hoodie?”
“Aren’t you going to use it?”
“You are wearing shorts. At least my legs are covered. I’ll be okay.” She unzipped her sweatshirt and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, slipping it on. It smelled like the woods and rain and faintly of bleach.
She raised an eyebrow. “It looks better on you than it does on me.”
The heat from my face swallowed any chill left in my body.
“Hey, girls,” said Bill Andrews of Channel Four News. His head popped out from behind a door on the far wall. “Come on back.”
Risa and I walked after Bill Andrews. We followed him into a small office off a bustling hallway.
“How can I help you?” he said.
“Well, like we said in the email, there is something funky going on with city hall and possibly the school board. They want to put the new school in Jenkins Wood and get rid of the pond somehow,” I said.
“We have several documents showing that Richburg and Martinsville are better sites. We have a survey that argues that, while it’s possible to use the land for other purposes, it’s not a great idea to build there. We have several papers written by students at Shunksville Community College about the animals and birds who rely on the site for survival,” said Risa. Louise had gotten the latter from her granddaughter who taught there. “I printed them all for you.”
“And we have a copy of the charter for the nature reserve. The original landowners were explicit in their wishes that the city only use it for public space.” I’d spent all weekend searching through boxes of dusty archives to find it.
“Is a school a public space?” said Bill Andrews of Channel Four News.
“Well—” I paused. Richard had said that the school could, indeed, qualify. It specifically said in the combined school district plan that the new public spaces would be designed for use by the three communities. “Yeah.”
“But that doesn’t change all the other stuff. And maybe that’s a loophole, but it doesn’t change the tone or intent of the charter,” Risa said. She handed over a folder of everything Jerry had printed out.
“Both you and Channel Eight usually report on the bird count weekend,” I said. “This would make the story more compelling, don’t you think? You could save the bird count.”
Bill Andrews chewed on his pen. “Have you brought this to any other news outlets?”
“No,” I said. “We started with you.”
He smiled. “Why me?”
“Because my grandmother likes you,” I said.
He chewed on his pen some more. “Are you going to give it to anyone else?”
“Possibly,” said Risa. “Because everyone should at least know about this, before they rip out our woods.”
Bill Andrews nodded. He paged through all the printouts.
“Okay. I’ll see what I can do. Thanks, girls,” he said.
Risa and I stared at him.
“Are you going to do the story?” I asked.
“I have to pitch it. I think there’s a strong case. But no guarantees, I’m afraid. Do you remember the way out? Here. Have a Channel Four pen.” He stood up and held out non-chewed versions of hi
s. I could tell the conversation was over. Bill Andrews exuded a no-nonsense, zero-small-talk kind of vibe.
Once back outside, Risa and I walked back to our bikes. “I don’t know if he believed us,” said Risa. “But fuck me if this isn’t a nice pen.”
“Seriously,” I said. I held it up for a better look. The weight of it balanced perfectly between my thumb and middle finger. “This is some fancy shit.”
A rumble of thunder threatened in the distance.
“Balls,” said Risa. “We’d better go. Jerry wanted me there early anyway. You on today?” She swung her leg over her bike.
I shook my head. “No, I’m going to check Gran’s yard,” I said. “It’s not ours anymore in less than two weeks, but her feeders are still there. Might as well fill them.”
Risa stopped and looked at me. “Do you want company? I could call in. Make up an excuse about birds. It wouldn’t even be a lie.”
Even though the impending rain cooled the air around us, the now customary heat rose to my cheeks.
“Oh. Thanks. That’s so nice. But it’s bird count prep, you know? Jerry might actually kill you. And me, if he uncovered my involvement.”
“True,” she said. I looked at my sneakers. I could feel her studying my face.
“Next time?” I said. “I’ll have to go back again to check the yard, anyway. You can see the feeders. I keep hoping the woodpeckers will come back.”
“It’s a date,” Risa said, grinning.
My god. Her dimples.
We rode in silence toward the Nature Center. I waved as I turned to Gran’s road. There I found the feeder empty and hungry fucking squirrels watching me unearth the bag of suet from the storage bench next to the porch.
“Don’t even think it, motherfuckers.” I unhooked two of the feeders from their curled iron rods and poured suet into the holes. For the millionth time, I cursed Jerry for not springing for the neat blocks, but this was the cheapest way to get the good stuff. I uprighted the feeders, and in two seconds a squirrel sauntered over, undeterred by my presence.
“Are you actually serious, motherfucker?” I said. “This is not for you!” I lunged to chase him, but a strange song wafted over from Gran’s spruce.
“Hello?” I said at the tree.
It wasn’t the mystery bird, exactly. It resembled the mystery bird. Or it possibly resembled a hoarse robin. I crept slowly to the left, hoping not to scare whatever it was. I changed my mind and backed toward my bike. I debated for a second between binos and camera, and opted for the camera. I moved back toward the sound.
“There you are!” I said as a flutter erupted from the needles. Red body. Black wings. “Another one! “I said to them. Yellow body. Browner wings. They resembled one another, so it must be a male-female pair. The two of them made their way over to the suet. They talked to each other, pleased with the discovery.
I moved around them and kneeled on the ground to get a better angle. I snapped and snapped them eating, stopping only to throw an occasional dirty look at the squirrels hungrily eyeing the suet.
Just then, lightning cracked across the sky, scaring the shit out of girl, birds, and interloping squirrel alike. The pair took flight and I ran to the porch just as the heavens opened up.
I sat on the porch for a few minutes. There was no way I was going to bike home in this. I opened my bird identification app and looked for their features. It located the scarlet tanager easily, and I confirmed the yellow female.
“Sweet, another one on the life list!” I said to Gran’s porch. Even better than that was when I scrolled through my camera and found my shot of the birds framed by lightning. Streaks of light highlighted the serious “WTF” look on the birds’ faces.
“I just might have a winner here, Gran,” I whispered.
Eventually my camera battery died. I swung back and forth on the porch swing, the rhythm of it reminding me of countless days there from when I was a little girl. Gran and I used to love to watch the rain, just like this. I curled my knees under my chin and wrapped my arms around my legs. I drew in a deep breath, ready for the deep, profound loneliness to swallow me whole. But then I smelled the rain mixed with—woods. And bleach. I realized I was still wearing Risa’s sweatshirt.
Instead of lonely, I felt warm.
FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY
JUNE 21
“This is the big show,” I said. “Everything has been a rehearsal for today.”
“Binoculars at the ready, Birdscouts,” said Risa.
“I want more birds than Pittsburgh,” I said.
“They can shove their three rivers,” said Risa. “Our water fowl outnumber theirs even on a good day.”
“They do have Penguins,” said Karen.
The kids around her laughed. I resisted the urge to tell her that unless Pittsburgh won something for their small, flightless, fish-eating penguins, I wasn’t interested.
“Go,” I said. “You are round one, day one.”
“Find! Those! Birds!” said Risa.
Fourteen Birdscouts and their chaperones took off down the path. That kind of noise was going to frighten the shit out of almost anyone perched nearby, but maybe most of our birds were used to it by now.
“You girls go watch them,” said Jerry. “We don’t want no kids getting poison something by going off path.”
“Yes, sir,” said Risa and I together. We followed after the raucous birders slowly.
“Sparrows on the left. Four male and one female,” I said.
“They blend in. Do you think there are five?”
“Six. One is up top there.” I pointed to a stealthy female on a higher branch.
“Got them,” said Risa.
“There’s an oriole. Nope, two. Oh, and a nuthatch! He’s on a reed.” I sipped hot chocolate from my stainless steel tumbler. Normally early morning birding didn’t bother me, but bird count weekend required a special diligence. Sugar prevented me from throwing the more enthusiastic Birdscouts to the swans.
“Blue jays. Male and female. Right there,” said Risa, more to her binoculars than to me.
“Got it,” I said.
Risa stopped walking and stared through her lenses. “I…,” she began, but didn’t say anything or move for several moments.
“You what?” I said.
“Nothing. It’s just—his crest.”
“Oh, the jay? They are indeed crested. Actually, that one is particularly blue, isn’t he?” I made a notation of that. The jay squawked at us. Their call is harsh, somewhat belying their dickish nature.
“It kind of reminds me of your bird. The bird we saw in the park. Like, his silhouette. I mean … I think your bird could be a jay.”
“What? There’s no way. Listen to them.”
The jays flew from tree to tree around us, angrily calling to one another, or possibly other birds farther away who answered. Short, brusque sounds. Each sound they made was as far from the mystery call as possible.
“I know,” said Risa slowly. “Yeah.” She sounded skeptical. She watched the jays flutter up to the canopy and stay there.
My bird did prefer to be up higher, generally. I closed my eyes and tried to fix my attention on their sound.
Not my bird.
“I’ll have to look up crested birds again,” I said. “I listened to every call I could find, and none of them matched.”
“Jays are master imitators,” said Risa. “They are in the crow family. They are wicked smart.”
I frowned. There was just really no way Gran could be something so … common. What kind of message from the universe would that be? Jays are everywhere. Fucking jays steal from other birds just for the fun of it. They take out other birds’ young if given the chance.
“But you’re right. There is no call I recognize as yours here,” she said.
I nodded. I’d surely have had visual confirmation of a shitty blue jay by now. They were all over. In fact, there were sixteen of them around the pond. The buntings were there (suck it, Richburg!)
, but no tanagers. Risa and I collected an exciting owl pellet (no owl that I could see, though), three bluebirds, two herons, two swans, four cormorants, five juncos, seven orioles, eleven wood ducks, twenty-five mallards, and one Channel Four reporter Bill Andrews.
Bill Andrews stood in suede dress shoes and crisp khaki pants, staring up at Elder Oak. Elder Oak watched him, unimpressed by his inappropriate footwear choice.
“Hello there,” he greeted us.
“Counting birds?” I said.
He leaned toward Risa and me. “Those documents you gave me were sure something.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Are you doing a story on them?”
“I believe I am,” he said. “Want to go on camera?”
“Um.” I glanced over at Risa. I wasn’t really an on-camera person. I much preferred to be behind it.
Risa shook her head slowly. “Let me get our boss. He’ll talk to you,” she said. She ran into the Nature Center to grab Jerry.
“A reporter,” Jerry’s voice boomed from inside the small center. “About time.”
We couldn’t hear Risa’s response. But the wooden screen door banged open and Jerry charged toward Bill Andrews.
“Do you have a microphone, sir?” Jerry asked with loud deference. “I’ll give you the what-for.”
“I do…,” said Bill Andrews. He gestured to his camerawoman to point the lens toward the stream of consciousness pouring out of Jerry’s mouth and into the microphone Bill Andrews barely managed to get in front of him.
“For twenty years I’ve worked here. The city pays my salary. It’s not big, but it’s enough. It lets me have a staff.” He gestured to Risa and me as we backed farther and farther off camera. “It lets me do programs for the kids. Birders from all over come here because of the migrating populations. I swear to god one August we once had a Kirtland’s warbler and a gyrfalcon. And last September we had a whooping crane. A whooping crane, I tell you.” Jerry pointed to Bill Andrews to emphasize his point. “Those birds have little business in Pennsylvania, right? But they were here. This one got a picture of the crane.” He gestured again toward me.
I had. It was true. It was silhouetted against a cloudy sky. I hadn’t had my settings right to get it, because who can think straight when a whooping crane flies by?
The Confusion of Laurel Graham Page 16