Birds of a Lesser Paradise

by Megan Mayhew Bergman

  When under attack, he’d said, hold it in front of you for the animal to bite, then strangle the bastard.

  I felt my waist. Bare.

  A few hundred yards and I’d be near the Wells’s old dairy, the yard where Millie had fought off the cougar with her bare hands and soft voice. So this was Vermont in the dead of night—wild, beautiful.

  A snow plow seemed to appear out of nowhere on the road nearby, metal against ice. The sound sent something flying through the woods on my right.

  I stood, motionless. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  I thought of Mom then. How brave she’d been this year. I thought of the night she’d come sprinting back to the trailer in Utah, sobbing, her pant leg soaked in blood, saying: Aida, Aida. I thought of the way the painkillers took something out of her, put a crazy look in her eyes, the way she gripped the backs of chairs and stood with her teeth clenched while the tumors inside of her grew.

  The rustling stopped. It seemed as if the snow had muted everything around me—the birds, the road, the wind. I saw thin strips of smoke rising on the hill, wood fires dying as people slept beneath their thick winter quilts.

  I knew I couldn’t stay in one place for long with my feet this cold. I stumbled through the pasture, backtracking. I paused and listened. Nothing. I went on. I paused again. I was convinced I heard the soft shuffling of feet in fresh snow. I groped around in Mom’s pockets and found her penknife. I switched open the blade and began to run.

  For maybe half a second, it occurred to me that I could die, maybe from the cold, maybe from something worse, and that if I did, I wouldn’t have to live through my own mother’s death. But then I pictured her face, how tired she was, and I knew I couldn’t let it happen. I’d been looking for a fight, and maybe I’d found one.

  I stopped at the creek that branched down the hillside and into the valley. In the dead of winter it would be frozen over, the ice blue and warped by rocks. But for now it was moving too fast to freeze and I could hear it, full from the snow and late-fall rains. I stood on a slick rock in the middle of the creek, trying to regroup. The cold adrenaline made my body feel electric.

  I heard the coyote huffing, sucking in air and releasing a series of small yips. Large, white, and graceful, she trotted past me, circled back, and stood on one side of the creek. Her three pups followed. She curled her lip. She was close; it would take nothing for her to lunge at me. I didn’t know whether the water would stop her.

  I could see her eyes shining gold. My stomach plummeted; my mind and heart began to race.

  Get the fuck out of here! I tried to shout, but my voice was small and scared.

  I put the knife in my mouth and without breaking eye contact I stooped to pick up a large rock. My fingers went numb in the water.

  I’d always hated my grandfather’s hunting. I’d never understood how he could kill another living being, not until this night, when, for the first time, I realized I might do anything to survive.

  The coyote paced the bank and came close enough for me to strike. We were both desperate. Her eyes locked on to my body. I was sure she wasn’t going to let me pass, and still I hesitated. I didn’t want to hurt her. She came closer. Her lip curled.

  I thought, then, of Mom coming into the trailer in Utah, her leg covered in blood. I thought about the way she avoided the backyard after twilight now, sick and lacking the strength to face down her fear.

  I hurled the rock and hit the coyote on the right side of the head. She went down. She’d begun to pull herself back up when I took off. She was plenty big, but smaller than people said she’d be.

  I ran with her eyes at my back. I ran for ten minutes, tripping over rocks and roots. I didn’t find the ATV trails. I bushwhacked, prickers dragging across my pants. I was breathing hard. My extremities began to warm. Blood began to seep from my right hand.

  Without realizing it, I had clamped down on the open switchblade.

  As I ran, I thought of the bare skin on the underside of a dog, the vulnerable patch of naked flesh on the torso and hind legs. I pictured the coyote bitch rolled on her side, her pups curling against her body, taking the last of her warmth. She would give it to them; she would give them everything.

  I broke through the woods and spotted our house, a white farmhouse, faintly lit from within. The woodstove chimney sent up a sad stream of smoke, the fire nothing but cinders by now. My fear was beginning to turn to grief, my thoughts to the wounded coyote whose pups wouldn’t make it through the winter. I thought of my mother in bed and hoped she was still asleep. I thought of the wild cells ravaging her body without pause.

  The dogs sensed me coming through the woods; I could hear their muffled barks, and, as I neared, their claws digging at the front door.

  I stripped down and left Mom’s coveralls on the floor. I wrapped a washcloth around my hand to stop the bleeding. Shivering, I opened Mom’s bedroom door. She was sitting up in bed, still in her faded party clothes, her arms outstretched. I went to her. She pulled me against her body, as she had done when I was a child, and held me there, in the cave of her chest, in the place of everything that was missing.

  Every Vein a Tooth

  He left when Salli, the one-eared retriever, ate one-third of his leaf collection.

  She has separation anxiety, I said, pleading her case and mine. She was abandoned, attacked by a pack of dogs and left for dead.

  What kind of house is this? he asked.

  The technical answer: A Victorian Queen Anne with stick detailing in the gable. A spindled gingerbread in disrepair.

  Gray was referring to the three golden retrievers in various states of decline—Salli with her missing ear and lumps of scar tissue, paralyzed Prince dragging his cart down the hallway, toothless and epileptic Sam dreaming wild on the kitchen floor. Or, it might have been the declawed raccoon marauding in the living room. The one-eyed chinchilla nesting in cedar chips in what could have been the nursery. I didn’t count the feral cats—they lived underneath the sofa, largely out of sight.

  Before he left, we had spent a day at Lake Mattamuskeet, collecting what Gray called “complete leaves”—leaves undamaged by frost or insect.

  Ideally, he had said, we want the entire leaf, a small part of the twig, and a terminal bud.

  Mattamuskeet was a mosquito-filled wetlands depression surrounded by flat farmland and hunting clubs. Just deep as a swan’s neck, Gray had said.

  I tried not to think of the hidden predators—red wolves behind the tree line, alligators in the marshlands, as I stood next to Gray in a patch of wild millet.

  Don’t get me wrong, I told Gray, I love predators. I’m just intimidated by teeth.

  You should think about getting rid of that chinchilla, he said, waving a bandaged finger at me. What good is a snap-happy, one-eyed chinchilla?

  Gray reached for the triangular toothed leaf of an eastern cottonwood with his pocketknife shears. In the distance I could see a great blue heron standing awkwardly in the water. A cormorant floated by, and I wondered what it would be like to be aerodynamic, to shoot through the water like a bullet.

  Hand me the magazine, Gray said, looking down at me from his portable ladder.

  Cat Fanciers’ Almanac or Guns & Ammo? I asked, handing him both.

  You won’t be getting this one back, he warned me, holding the magazine fronted by a sleek Japanese bobtail.

  I don’t have much love for hobby breeders, I said. Put it to good use.

  And this? he asked, holding the camouflaged cover of Guns & Ammo.

  Compliments of the local hunters’ association, I said, after the press covered the shelter’s protest on Sunday hunting.

  Don’t tell me, he said, shaking his head.

  The cormorant made a quick exit from the water and perched at the top of a bald cypress, drying his wings in the winter sun.

  Gray carefully inserted the cottonwood leaf into the pages of Cat Fanciers’. With the toe of his boot he nudged an open sleeve of Laffy Taffy and a con
dom wrapper that lay in the grass.

  There’s a story here, he said, raising an eyebrow.

  We cast off in the canoe with a bag of peanut butter sandwiches and a small cooler of beer. Deep as a swan’s neck or not, the water was opaque and choppy.

  I looked for the yellow eyes of alligators.

  I always count the geese, Gray said, eyes to the clouds. If they aren’t an even flock, something’s wrong. Someone’s been left behind.

  One thing I do not understand are sentimental hunters.

  Did you scoop the litter before leaving? I asked, already thinking about my house full of pets, the chaos of dinner.

  Nope, Gray said, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  He’d been mad at me since I’d brought home the last feral cat. I considered his negligence of the litter box just one in a string of rebellious acts.

  Gray stared at the sky, inspecting a skein of Canadian geese.

  Two, four, six, eight . . . all’s well, he said, his words tangled in peanut butter.

  When we got home, the cats had marked on the couch. Prince had pulled cereal boxes from the recycling bin. Salli had gnawed through two of Gray’s leaf albums, spread the pages and specimens from one end of the living room to the other.

  Gray grabbed a fistful of his hair in frustration and knelt next to his chewed albums.

  Unacceptable, he said.

  I tried to keep the house clean. I kept the closet door closed. I bought a special vacuum cleaner for pet hair. I lit fragrant candles. I wrapped the couch in plastic sheeting. But there were some things I could not control. I said nothing and went to the kitchen for a beer.

  As Gray packed, I sat on the living room carpet with my chin on my knees and listened to the sound of him leaving me. He cleared his throat. Walked to and from the closet. Splashed water on his face. Riffled through the junk drawer. Zipped the duffel bag.

  Maybe if you can get your life together, he said, pausing at the door.

  I accepted his assessment. My mother had felt the same way. Not everyone could live with tumbleweeds of dog hair on the steps, the night sounds of feral cats exploring the house, the raccoon rattling his cage door at two in the morning.

  The retrievers came to me, stuck their cold noses on my cheek. Aged and humbled, they looked like orangutans, their cinnamon-and-honey-colored coats matted, their eyes framed in white.

  When Gray left, the cats came out of hiding long enough for me to name them.

  Two weeks after Gray moved in with his mother, the head of the shelter called.

  They finally busted him, Emory said. The suburban shepherd. I’ll be there in fifteen, I said.

  Bring your mask and gloves, she said. It’s worse than we thought.

  I hung up the phone and took the retrievers outside, topped off the various water bowls around the house, and caged the raccoon. I’d learned early there was no such thing as a raccoon-proof home. I had a hole in my mattress to prove it.

  The suburban shepherd lived in a termite-eaten farmhouse on the edge of town. His porch sagged and the paint peeled. A weather-beaten American flag flew from a piece of PVC pipe. There were a handful of small businesses and a chicken joint across the street. A new school was being built nearby. It was an increasingly gentrified area in a good location; the people around him had fixed up their homes and petitioned to have him investigated. There were pens outside, but everyone knew he was also hoarding sheep inside of his house. You could smell them in the heat of the day, see them in the windows at night, strange silhouettes standing on the couch.

  I arrived at the suburban shepherd’s house in the late afternoon. Three television news vans were parked out front. The shelter had pulled their mobile unit around back. Two police cars blocked the driveway.

  I’m with the shelter, I said to the cop.

  He didn’t question me further—my car must have said enough. Most of us shelter folks drove pickups or wagons with the paint nearly invisible under layers of stickers. I Love My Mutt. Woof. Give Wildlife a Break. My Cat Adopted Me at the Hoke County Shelter. The back of my wagon was stuffed with crates and ramps for my special-needs retrievers.

  You won’t believe it, Emory said, grabbing my arm and leading me into the house. She was a heavy woman, breathing hard. Her dye job had grown out and her clothes were covered in white cat hair. Emory smelled like cigarette smoke and wet dog, but she was beautiful to me. Powerful. Her voice was loud and her passion was evident. Her eyes flashed when she was interviewed on television. People always say “It takes a special person to do that job.” That person was Emory. She was tireless. She could stabilize an emaciated horse in the morning, trim a goat’s overgrown hooves before lunch, attend a court hearing in the afternoon, and still be home to feed all of the animals she kept herself.

  We were the purveyors of the downtrodden and hard to love, the Quaker parrot with a swearing habit, the incontinent Chihuahua, the tetraparetic Pekingese, the Tennessee scare goat with skin allergies.

  And now, sheep. Seventy of them. But Emory could find anything a home.

  Show me, I said.

  I first met Gray at a Ducks Unlimited banquet. I was disguised as a waitress. Black jeans, black shoes, white button-up.

  Emory had a knack for PR. She knew how to get herself on television.

  When they turn the music down and cue the mics, that’s when I’ll run to the front, she had said. I know someone in catering who knows someone in event planning, and they’ll give me a signal.

  What do you need us to do? I asked.

  Bail me out of jail, she said, and winked.

  Emory had requested that four shelter workers sign on as temporary waitstaff for the event. We’d been interviewed over the phone by someone who had asked if we were on drugs or had a critical record.

  You mean criminal, I had said.

  Whatever, she said. You’re slinging plates of microwaved chicken cordon bleu. Can you handle that?

  I went to the banquet filled with nervous energy. Here I was, part of a plot that would piss off a hundred semiwoodsy men, some possessing sniper-level accuracy, some already drunk on boxed wine.

  As dessert was served, Emory received the signal. She refilled the speaker’s sweet tea and then turned to command the mic.

  How can ducks be unlimited if you shoot them? Emory asked the audience. You conserve so you can kill them? So your children can kill them?

  She cleared her throat. The screech of feedback from the microphone ricocheted off the walls.

  You talk about how to save them, she said. Then you talk about how to hunt them.

  An embarrassed man in a bow tie tugged her down from the podium and escorted her out of the room by the elbow.

  I finished serving flourless chocolate cakes to a roomful of disgruntled hunters and businessmen, and when the catering staff moved into the dining room for cleanup, I took an extra cake and snuck out the side exit.

  Golf carts lined one end of the parking lot, which was filled with expensive SUVs and luxury sedans.

  Gray was sitting on the curb outside the door, legs outstretched, smoking a cigarette and drinking whisky from a flask.

  The spring night held a chill. Gray offered his sport coat.

  You want to share some of that cake? he asked.

  I sat down next to him and handed him the ramekin.

  Dig in, I said. Fingers are fine.

  Gray was tall and lean and kept his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was wearing what looked to be a pair of wing tips.

  He saw me looking at his feet.

  An old pair of golf shoes I took the cleats out of, he said, shoveling chocolate into his mouth.

  Whenever I dine at country clubs, I said, which isn’t often, I only eat dinner rolls and dessert.

  I know what you mean, Gray said. They think they can slap nuked cafeteria food on nice china and fool us all.

  Why are you here? I asked.

  I’m a bow hunter, he said.

  I pictured him in a loincloth,
jogging through the forest with a handmade bow and feathered arrow.

  We passed the flask of whisky back and forth until both of us were drunk.

  A friend once told me there were two kinds of urban naturalists. The McDonald’s-eating semihoarder animal activist, and the armchair conservationist with bloodlust.

  I have to tell you something, I said.

  He bent down close as if he was going to kiss me.

  You’re the enemy, I said, laughing.

  Maybe not, he had said. We want the same thing, right? Ducks?

  We made out behind the bushes. I felt like a traitor.

  Emory led me by the forearm to the basement of the suburban shepherd’s farmhouse. The brick walls were lined with skulls.

  We stood in silence, taking it in. There were at least fifty sheep skulls with open sockets, worn molars, and gently curved mandibles stacked in neat rows.

  The smell was too much.

  I need to go outside, I said, pushing open the basement door.

  The bright sun made my eyes water. There were sheep tightly packed in the small backyard pen. Some dragged themselves across the grass, their hooves so destroyed they were forced to walk on their knees. You could count ribs on each of them like the bars of a birdcage.

  The ground was littered with Styrofoam and paper bags from the fast-food joints across the street.

  My first reaction was to throw up, my second to cry. I pictured the slow torture of the suburban shepherd in his own basement.

  Two malnourished lambs licked each other’s coats in the fence corner.

  These are things we need to see, Emory said, wiping her eyes. To remind us.

  Show me someone who can explain her first love, my mother once said.

  I tried to explain Gray to myself. Here I was, in love with someone who killed animals for sport. We were like people of opposing religions, but I wanted it to work.

  He was passionate about his hobbies. He spoke beautifully of his love for rare tree species, his need to see a Lost Franklinia and protect the Carolina silverbell. I was with Gray the afternoon he saw his first mountain camellia. It was like watching a man find God.