The Someday Birds

by Sally J. Pla

  But then I think about the list. Maybe I’ll see that owl for the Someday Birds List. So I do the only thing I can: swallow hard, accept the grimy jacket, and follow her.

  It feels like it’s dropped ten degrees since we first drove up. It doesn’t feel like a summer night anymore. Dr. Joan herds me into the center of this midnight clearing on top of this steep Wyoming mountain, takes my chin in her hand, and before I can reel back in shock from having her cold fingers touching my face, she aims my chin up.

  Whoa.

  The sky above me is like a wheeling slice of thick, black velvet. It’s like no sky I have ever seen before. It’s like I can reach my hand out and touch the stars, they are that close. As close and sparkling as diamonds. So close I feel like I could almost taste them in my mouth. So beautiful, I don’t ever want to stop looking at them. But I am so dizzy, with my head up, that I feel like passing out. I close my eyes, hold my breath, and wait for it to pass.

  “Young scientist, observe. What do you see?” asks Dr. Joan.

  “Um, over there? The Big Dipper?”

  “Yup. What else?”

  “That’s all I see. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Be glad!” Joan says. “Think of all you have to look forward to! So much good stuff still to learn!”

  We stare up at the sky in stillness. Then Joan starts teaching me more constellations. She shows me a bright star called Deneb, part of Cygnus the Swan, and Altair, part of Aquila the Eagle. Who knew so many constellations were named after birds? She is just pointing out the three bright stars of something called the Summer Triangle, when a whooshing noise cuts through the air in the trees right behind our heads.

  Joan whispers, “There’s that big old devil!”

  We turn quickly, and her flashlight catches a brown and white flutter disappearing into pine branches.

  “That’s our Mr. GHO,” whispers Joan. “He’s always around. He’s pretty bold, and used to us. Don’t make a sound, and he might make another pass. Oh—and put up your hood. Don’t want him going after your hair.”

  The jacket hood smells sort of smoky, but I put it up, quick.

  We creep on tiptoe toward the pines, and wait. And wait. My heart is knocking against my chest. My fingers are stiff with the cold. And just when I think the wind has got me chilled through to the bone, and I can’t take it anymore:

  Whoosh!

  A great ghostly shape sails up and across the night sky overhead. I can see white and brown feathers, and giant, black-tipped wings. I see talons, pulled in tight. I swear I can even feel the rush of air on my cheeks as he swoops past. My heart is racing a million beats a second.

  Mr. GHO is gone as quickly as he came. I scan the trees, and the sky, but it’s just plain black velvet out there again, sprinkled with those piercing-bright diamond-stars. The night seems emptier without the owl. The amazing owl. The big old devil. A Someday Bird, the very first check mark I can make off Dad’s list. I can tell Dad this. I can say now that I have seen a great horned owl out in the wild.

  What would Gram say to that? What would Dad say, if he could see me here, on top of this mountain, with stars and birds, and talking to a new person I’d never even met before?

  What would Tiberius Shaw say? Is this how he feels about birds, too?

  We startle when we hear another noise:

  The great slotted opening for the telescope is sliding and turning, its big eye looking up at another sector of the universe.

  Joan says, “When I get too caught up in our digital work, all our computer measurements and calculations, I like to take a walk outside and just look up. It beats all. Doesn’t it?”

  As we are walking back to the observatory-house, I see Ludmila in the window. “We don’t know Ludmila very well,” I tell her. “She just showed up one day. You know her way better. Is she okay? What about her brother?”

  Dr. Joan says in a quiet, flat voice, “Amar was just killed recently, in Afghanistan.”

  We are standing outside, with Joan’s hand on the doorknob. I shut my eyes to concentrate, so my words can come out more carefully. “Ludmila kept visiting my dad in the hospital. But none of us know why.”

  Joan stops and takes her hand off the knob. She puts her hands on her hips.

  “Well. Ludmila has been working on a physical therapy degree, off and on for years. Was she working in the hospital?”

  “Ellie and the nurses told us she wasn’t.”

  Dr. Joan shrugs. Then she says, “That poor young woman has had it rough. She and Amar were war orphans, Charlie. They were born in Bosnia, and got caught in the siege of Sarajevo. But don’t bring that up with her. Let her decide when and what to tell you. Like I said, she doesn’t like to revisit her dark times.”

  We open the door and go back inside.

  Dark times, meaning bad times. And here, we’ve been out in this beautiful cold blackness, here on top of the mountain, and it’s been a good dark time. So good that now, when we open the door to the observatory, with Ludmila smiling to greet us, the warm bright artificial brightness hits like a terrible force.

  16

  The next morning, Ludmila wakes us early. “Time to rock and roll, sleepyheads,” she says, and the little dog, curled up on a pillow on the floor near Joel, yips at her. I look out the window at nothing but gray fluff: the whole mountain is covered in mist.

  I’m sorry to say good-bye. I would have liked to stay and learn more about the infrared telescope. I’d like to see how they cool it down—the students said they use liquid nitrogen, and that it’s both really cold, and really cool. I’d like to spend more time outside with Joan, learning the constellations, and waiting for GHO to swoop by.

  The morning mist is like moist cotton pasted onto our faces.

  “Never fear! I know this trail like the back of my hand!” Dr. Joan shouts over her shoulder as she revs the truck engine with a roar.

  Ludmila is in the back with the twins huddled against either side of her; the dog in her lap. Davis is looking nervously out the far window. I claim “shotgun” because of motion sickness. Also because I think I like Dr. Joan. It seems funny, how I thought we were going to get killed in a cult, but instead it was fine. And the Someday Birds List looks like this, now:

  Bald Eagle

  Great Horned Owl (CHECK!)

  Trumpeter Swan

  Sandhill Crane

  Turkey Vulture

  Emu

  Passenger Pigeon

  Carolina Parakeet

  Joan keeps thinking of more things to yell back to Ludmila. I wish she’d keep her eyes on the foggy road. “You’ll have to stock up on food,” she yells, and the truck goes veering off to the left. “The waste tank should be okay!”—and we skid one tire over the brink into the abyss.

  “What’s a waste tank?” asks Jake, which makes Ludmila smile in a weird way.

  “Old Bessie ain’t the Ritz, but it should get you there and back in one piece!” shouts Dr. Joan.

  There—and back? I’ve never thought about coming back. Will we have our dad with us?

  And what will it be like, once we’re there, in Virginia?

  An idea occurs to me. In Virginia, I will be pretty close to the Sanctuary Marsh.

  To Tiberius Shaw’s house.

  Maybe there will be a way to go see it.

  To go see him.

  When we get to the parking area at the base of the mountain, the twins and the dog jump out of the truck and walk over to inspect this thing everyone is calling “Old Bessie.”

  It’s a faded old camper with an orange-brown stripe along the side. It has a bunch of windows with stiff plaid curtains. It looks like the last time someone drove it was a long, long time ago.

  Dr. Joan pats the bumper. “Ol’ Bessie’s up to it. Don’t worry.”

  Ludmila takes the keys, and we pile into the musty narrow interior. There’s a rubber mat running down the center. On one side is a small table of glossy honey-colored wood, with built-in benches. On the other, a cookt
op, small sink, wooden shelves, and cabinets. A tiny wooden door folds in, airplane-style, to the toilet.

  I am afraid to even peek at how bad that toilet is. I have a public bathroom rating system that I keep in my head, and anything that I think rates lower than two stars, I won’t even enter. My heart starts thudding; I am getting the cold sweats about this trip.

  At the end of the camper are four built-in bunks, with blue mattresses on wooden platforms, two on each side. Dr. Joan hands us pillows and sleeping bags.

  “There are five of us and only four bunks,” I point out.

  “I’ll drive while you sleep,” says Ludmila. “Or the twins can double up now and then.”

  The twins have already both crawled into a bunk. “Cool!” they say, sliding around on a disgusting, dusty blue mattress. “It’s like being in a submarine! Come check it out!”

  It smells like rubber and old rust. I don’t know how I am going to breathe in here, let alone sleep or go to the bathroom. I make my way back to the table-bench, sit, and cup my hands over my nose and mouth, trying to block the rubbery smell. No use. I ratchet down the flimsy window by the table. My hands come away covered with crumbled spiderwebs and dirt. I flap them and start to scream.

  “Start ’er up!” shouts Dr. Joan, slapping the wall, then heading down the steps.

  Ludmila turns the key: Grrrr . . . chug chug chug. A cloud of stinky exhaust curls in through my open window. I jerk it shut again, coughing.

  “You’re off!” shouts Dr. Joan, standing on the safe, nice ground outside. “You’re on your way, sweet ol’ girl!” I don’t know if she means the camper or Ludmila is a sweet ol’ girl. I am going to guess she means the camper.

  We wave good-bye as Ludmila maneuvers us onto the bumpy dirt road, and then, eventually, just when I think I’ll throw up, the highway.

  I just noticed one thing about this vehicle, at least, that’s sort of neat. Somebody custom-painted the ceiling. It’s all dark blue, with silver constellations. I look for Libra, the scales—that’s my sign. Joan showed it to me in the sky last night. I find it over Ludmila’s head, toward the front.

  Davis is humming along to something in her earphones. The twins are bunching up a blanket in the bunk to make Dog a safe nest.

  Dog is looking happier and happier since his rescue. He’s lost that hunched-up look. I think he’s given it to me.

  How will I stand driving in this stinky, dirty rattletrap all the way to Virginia?

  I’m the only one feeling miserabler and miserabler.

  17

  Resilience, Repair, Resurrection. The natural world is capable of all three, if humans would only show a little Redemption.

  —Tiberius Shaw, PhD

  As we head out of Laramie, Ludmila pulls off the road and looks at her map. “Here is the thing. If we take Interstate 80 we could go straight there, almost,” she says, pointing at a horizontal line due east. “But what you think? Look at this.” She digs for her phone and hands it to Davis.

  “What’s it say?” Joel asks.

  Davis frowns. “It says: Tell the kids that all of Robert’s initial test results are promising. He’s doing great! Dr. Spielman says it’s amazing how the brain can learn to rewire itself, after injury. Brain plasticity, I think he called it. Dr. Spielman’s an absolute wonder!”

  Davis rolls her eyes and flaps her hand, imitating Gram.

  “The tests continue, it’s all status quo here, so don’t rush. These poor kids have seen nothing but a waiting room all summer. . .” Davis’s voice slows down. “. . . So why don’t you help them have . . . fun. I’ll wire you money. Do some things, find ways to at least enjoy the trip. Lord knows, it’ll all still be here when you arrive. Thanks again.” Davis heaves a big sigh and claps the phone shut.

  We’re all quiet for a little while.

  Then Davis says, “Have fun? Do things? I’d rather just get there already. How’s it gonna help Dad if we’re just driving aimlessly around the country?” She flops back in her seat.

  Ludmila says, “It might make your Gram feel better to know you at least had some good experiences, amid all the worry of this summer.”

  I have a thought.

  “You know what, you guys? Dad and I had this list of birds to see someday. And we’ve already seen one—the great horned owl. There’s seven more on the list. I want to try to find some of the others. For Dad. So . . . maybe, along the way, we could go some places to do that. To find the birds on my list. Dad’s Someday Birds.”

  “Oh, Lord. Not birds!” Davis scrunches up her face. The twins groan even louder.

  “If we could check off all of Dad’s birds, I think he would really like that. I bet it would make him happy. Which would help him feel better. It’s something that we could do.”

  Ludmila and Davis make eye contact, and then Davis smacks herself in the forehead with the palms of her hands a few times.

  Ludmila says, “Charlie, that’s sweet, but . . .”

  “Yeah, Charlie,” says Joel. “Checking birds off some dumb list is not going to help Dad feel better. It’s only gonna help you feel better.”

  Silence spreads in the car. A small lump forms in my throat.

  Then Ludmila says in a strange voice, “Well, maybe that’s a good enough reason.”

  Two fat raindrops splotch on the windshield. Then more. Ludmila turns on the wipers. “So where do we go, Charlie, to find your Someday Birds? The highway turnoff is coming up. We have to decide which direction.”

  “Don’t worry,” I tell them. “I know just the place to start.”

  18

  Some bird species mate for life and stay together no matter what. Others seem to go through love affairs like changes of clothes.

  —Tiberius Shaw, PhD

  I start to get excited. We’ve passed a huge flat grassy field of elk, peacefully grazing. We’ve seen hillsides of burnt black tree-skeletons, land that was once covered with trees. We’ve traveled along a dark forest road. Now we spy a wooden sign up ahead that announces the wondrous news:

  WELCOME TO YELLOWSTONE

  We’re there!

  Tall evergreens make a canopy over us as we bump along another few miles. It’s way different from San Diego’s palm trees and beaches. Darker, more mysterious. Cooler.

  “Hey!” says Joel, perking up and pointing out the window. “Buffalo!”

  Sure enough, off to the right, through the trees, there’s an open field full of shaggy brown monsters.

  “I want to pet one!” Jake says in the same lovey-singsong voice he uses with the dog.

  “Very funny,” says Davis. “Those things are really dangerous. You can’t get too close.”

  “And besides,” I say, “we’re only here to find Dad’s trumpeter swan.”

  No one answers me.

  The RV campground is strewn with shiny silver bullet-shaped trailers, tiny pop-up tent trailers, giant black monster buses, all kinds of things. Folks have laundry lines with wet towels and underwear and hiking socks and stuff strung across them in the wan sunlight.

  “There are bears here, right?” Joel says.

  “Yup,” says Ludmila.

  I think we were all hoping she would say “nope.”

  We pull into a spot and Ludmila puts on the brake with a squeak. The twins spill out the door, chanting, “Buffalo! Buffalo!”

  “Great,” moans Davis, covering her eyes with her hands.

  “It’s ‘bison,’” I explain.

  I take Dog down the steps on his leash. He limps over to pee on a brown log. The nice thing about having only three legs is he never has to lift that other back leg out of the way when he wants to pee. He just twists his hip and lets it go.

  “What are we going to name this poor dog?” I ask, but Joel and Jake are already racing around the campground. “Come on, Charlie! Run to the field and back with us!”

  “First we buy food and supplies,” Ludmila says.

  Yes! I’m hoping they have a nice clean bathroom so I can wash th
e rubbery Aroma of Camper out of my nose. I refuse to use Old Bessie’s one-star toilet, so I really have to pee. And rinse my itchy, crawly hands.

  The convenience store is so far away from the campground, they should call it the inconvenience store. By the time we get there, my bladder is ready to burst. Ludmila browses the aisles, muttering to herself in a language which I guess, according to what Dr. Joan told me, is Bosnian. While I fidget, holding the dog, she fills her basket with:

  Cans of chicken soup (With soggy flecks of green and orange in the broth.) REJECT!

  Granny Smith apples (I only do Honeycrisp.) REJECT!

  Oranges (Too tangy.) REJECT!

  Bananas (Too many brown spots—gagorama.) REJECT!

  Paper plates, cups, bowls (Okay, no complaints.)

  Cereal (Ugh, raisins.) REJECT!

  Skim milk (Tastes like someone poured water over a cow.) REJECT!

  Orange juice (Pulp! Help!) REJECT!

  Bread (With seeds!) REJECT!

  Peanut butter (Not my brand.) REJECT!

  Strawberry jam (More seeds.) REJECT!

  And popcorn (Which only gets stuck between your teeth. Who can eat this stuff?) REJECT!

  I make her buy me a box of frozen chicken nuggets. It’s kind of expensive, and the box has that slick ice film, like it’s been in the freezer too long. But I’ve gotta eat something.

  Ludmila’s still wandering aisles, and I can’t hold it in anymore. I head for the restroom behind the building. Plus, my hands are desperate with the need to be washed. I still feel unsteady on my feet from the long drive, and my head is wobbly-spinny. That’s what travel does to me. No one else realizes how hard it is. My dumb body gets pummeled by all this stuff that no one else even guesses at.

  The minute I open the door to the bathroom, I know I’m in trouble. It’s a concrete cinder block with no toilet paper, and the soap dispenser is empty.

  Disappointing, to say the least. Half star. One star, at best.