Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  “…there is a kind of lark here that much resembles the bird called the Oldfield Lark with a yellow breast and a black spot on the crop; tho’ this differs from ours in the form of the tail which is pointed being formed of feathers of unequal length; the beak is somewhat longer and more curved and the note differs considerably; however in size, action, and colors there is no perceptible difference; or at least none that strikes my eye…”

  For forty years after Captain Lewis first noted the bird in his journal, the species was overlooked or ignored. Audubon took note of this neglect and in 1844 gave the species its specific subspecies name of neglecta—the Latin word meaning “neglect.” Had the species not appeared to have been neglected all those many years, it is doubtful as to whether John Audubon would have chosen the scientific name he did.

  The Western Meadowlark is very similar to its cousin, the Eastern Meadowlark, Sturnella magna, and it can be quite difficult to distinguish the two from one another. The best way to identify them is by their songs. The eastern variety sings a clear and distinct series of simple notes, whereas the western variety sings a more melodious song that has a complex and almost flute-like quality.

  The Western Meadowlark is a popular and common bird in the Western and Central United States, ranging from Mexico to Canada and from the Pacific Ocean to the Great Lakes region. Of course, long before Captain Lewis took note of the Western Meadowlark, Native American people had certainly noticed and named the meadowlark with their own language. They probably did not distinguish between the eastern and western varieties, but they called all meadowlarks the näkwïsï, which translates as “star” or “star-tail.” The name is at least visually appropriate, as the bird’s tail feathers form a pronounced star-shape while gliding in flight across a meadow. One can almost imagine, hundreds of years before Meriwether Lewis spotted his first Western Meadowlark in Montana, some young Native American roaming the very same countryside, looking for a tail feather of the näkwïsï so that he might capture a piece of a star, and thereby, a piece of the heavens.

  The fact that not one but several states had adopted the Western Meadowlark as their state bird was something unknown to Agent David Westmore, so he was, therefore, equally as unaware that one of those states was the very one he was now temporarily visiting—the beautiful state of Oregon. Even of less interest to David Westmore at the moment was the fact that the noisy bird that had been singing from the tree near his rest stop picnic bench was indeed the Oregon State Bird. Only of mild interest to the agent was the fact that the bird had suddenly stopped singing when he tossed some breadcrumbs its way.

  He was sitting at the picnic bench, sipping a beer, contemplating the newfound silence, when he glanced over the next page of the case file of Matthew Duncan resting on the table next to him. Almost immediately upon doing so, the meadowlark sang out:

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet!

  The apparent coincidence was missed by the agent, but he did feel a sudden urge to read the next page. He picked it up and read:

  Edgewood Medical Center

  Psychiatric Unit

  Patient Psychiatric Evaluation

  Evaluation given by: Dr. Cedric Moore

  Patient: Matthew William Duncan

  Summary of Interaction/Evaluation: The patient was to have been discharged from the facility this morning, but events, as outlined in this report, delayed that discharge temporarily, and the patient is now under a security watch with a full-time Edgewood police guard outside his door. Mr. Duncan is under suspicion of interfering with the care of another patient in the hospital. The circumstances are as follows:

  Last night, the patient was found in the room of another patient in a separate wing of the hospital. That patient, a Mr. Dominic Montoya, who had been admitted to the hospital on the same day as Mr. Duncan, subsequently died. A full investigation of the exact circumstances surrounding that death is currently underway. What is currently known is that Mr. Duncan broke hospital rules and managed to get around all normal security measures to visit Mr. Montoya. Mr. Montoya was a patient on the Critical Care Unit and had been recovering from multiple stab wounds. The nurse found Mr. Duncan in Mr. Montoya’s room speaking with him a few hours before his death. A concern was raised that Mr. Duncan may have upset Mr. Montoya in some way, as, according to the nurse, Mr. Montoya appeared to be highly agitated after Mr. Duncan was removed from the room by security. According to Mr. Montoya’s charts, prior to Mr. Duncan’s visit, Mr. Montoya’s condition appeared to have been stable and improving. Mr. Montoya was the patient who had been the subject of much conversation around the hospital, as he was the so-called “miracle patient,” after having recovered on the operating table a few minutes after being pronounced dead.

  After learning of Mr. Montoya’s death, it was the decision of the chief of staff of the medical center to request that the Edgewood Police Department detain Mr. Duncan, pending an investigation. It is currently the position of the hospital that Mr. Duncan’s visit to Mr. Montoya directly impacted that patient’s treatment process, leading to his death. Had Mr. Montoya not been stable and improving, the position of the hospital might not be as strong.

  Under the advice of our staff attorney, I was advised not to discuss the incident related to Mr. Montoya at all with Mr. Duncan, but I was to make an assessment of Mr. Duncan’s overall mental state and decide if he should be transferred to the custody of the Edgewood Police Department to await the results of the hospital’s investigation and potential further legal action by the Edgewood District Attorney’s Office.

  Because of the sensitive nature of this, I was also advised to be accompanied by the detective assigned to Mr. Duncan’s case. The detective is Mr. Vernon Mitchell, and he had already met Mr. Duncan earlier in the day and, I believe, read him a statement of his rights.

  Detective Mitchell and I entered Mr. Duncan’s room and found him facing the door, almost as though he were waiting for us. I entered first, followed by the detective. I will try to document our entire interaction here, as I realize that it could be used during any legal actions against Mr. Duncan.

  “Good morning, Cedric,” Mr. Duncan said to us, and then he said, “and I see you’ve brought Vernon with you as well. Nice to see you again, Vernon.”

  A few other basic pleasantries were exchanged, the exact nature of which I can’t recall, but Mr. Mitchell did remind Mr. Duncan again of his rights and asked him if he’d like to have an attorney present before answering any questions. Mr. Duncan said quite clearly, “I neither want nor need an attorney in order to answer your questions. How could they know more than I do about the truth of the things I’ve done and experienced?” Mr. Duncan then said to Mr. Mitchell something very close to these words, “You are still trying to figure out the cause of Dominic’s death.” Mr. Mitchell said that was correct. Mr. Duncan then said, “He died from knife wounds, I believe.” At that point, Detective Mitchell said, “I understand he was recovering from those wounds.” I remember Mr. Duncan then smiling as he said, “He was being kept alive so that he could make a choice.” Detective Mitchell asked him what kind of choice, to which Mr. Duncan said, “He had the same choice we all have—how to live your life.” Detective Mitchell asked the patient to elaborate on that statement. He said, “Dominic died on the operating table, but I saw that he had a chance to change how he lived. He was given that second chance. He had to decide. His life had been wasted, and he died, but he was offered a chance to change that—to turn his life around. It was his choice. He chose not to. I can’t help that, as much as it pains me, because I love him, but I couldn’t change his decision. It was his free choice.”

  I remember looking at Detective Mitchell at that moment, and he then asked Mr. Duncan, “Are you saying you had something to do with Mr. Montoya’s recovery on the operating table?” Mr. Duncan stared at Mr. Mitchell for a moment and said something to the effect of, “Vernon, what is it you are really looking for when the true answer to a question is not something that you a
re prepared to accept?”

  Detective Mitchell ignored Mr. Duncan’s question and then asked Mr. Duncan if he had visited Mr. Montoya in his room on the previous night, to which Mr. Duncan answered that he had. Detective Mitchell asked Matthew if he was aware that his presence in Mr. Montoya’s room was upsetting to Mr. Montoya. Mr. Duncan said quite plainly, “I understand that the truth can be upsetting to anyone when they don’t want to face it. Yes, I knew he was upset, and I knew why he was upset, but there was no getting around it. Dominic had to make a choice to change his life. His choices had brought him to his near death situation, and he could choose something different. It was not my presence that was upsetting to Dominic, it was that he looked at the truth of his life for what it was and had to search his heart to find a way to change or accept the fate that had been waiting for him on the operating table.”

  Though my primary role was to observe the interaction between Detective Mitchell and Mr. Duncan, I then asked Detective Mitchell if I could ask Mr. Duncan a question. He said it would be fine. I said to Mr. Duncan, “Matthew, are you saying that you came to visit Mr. Montoya to ask him to change his life or accept death, and that you knew full well your visit would be upsetting to Mr. Montoya?” Mr. Duncan looked at me and said, “Cedric, aren’t my words clear enough for you? I did not know how Dominic might respond. A person can change. He had free will, just as you do. He could have been brought to tears by a second chance at life, and things might have ended differently. His heart had been hardened, and he chose another path.”

  Detective Mitchell then indicated that he had no additional questions for Mr. Duncan, and we both left his room.

  Analysis: I still consider it a strong likelihood that Mr. Duncan is faking his mental illness for the purpose of filing for an on-the-job injury-related disability from his employer, the U.S. Forest Service. While his behavior doesn’t exactly fit the model for someone attempting such a deception, I am otherwise at a loss to explain his odd behavior. His ability to evade hospital security and make it to Mr. Montoya’s room indicates that he has a high degree of mental functioning and a high capacity for deception. Unfortunately for Mr. Duncan, whether he is faking it or not, he stepped over the line by entering Mr. Montoya’s room. With the death of Mr. Montoya following that event and the statements by Mr. Montoya’s doctor that his patient’s condition deteriorated almost immediately after the visit, this is no longer a purely mental-health issue, but has become a legal one as well. It is my recommendation that Mr. Duncan be removed from our facility and placed in whatever custody as recommended by the Edgewood Police Department or other legal authorities.

  Agent Westmore rubbed his eyes and then placed the document with the others into his briefcase and headed for his car. The afternoon sun was getting lower in the sky, and he decided it was time to get back on the Interstate. He had hoped to make it as far as Boise before stopping for the day, but he knew that was out of the question unless he drove well into the night. He checked the map and gauged his level of fatigue. He decided if he made it to the Oregon-Idaho border by sunset, he’d be doing fine.

  As Agent Westmore pulled out from the rest stop and back onto I-84 southbound toward Idaho, his car windows were up, and he couldn’t hear the Western Meadowlark giving one last flute-like song upon his departure.

  As the meadowlark flies, about nine hundred miles southeast from where Agent Westmore was driving through eastern Oregon, Rebecca D’Arcy was sitting on her back patio in Cottonwood, Colorado, sipping on a glass of iced tea and visiting with her mother. It was late in the afternoon and still warm.

  “I still think it’s strange that he pointed out the meadowlark,” said Diane D’Arcy. “Did you say he asked you to listen to it before or after the traffic died?”

  “To tell you the truth, I think they happened about the same time,” said Rebecca, “or maybe the traffic noise stopped first and then he had me listen for the bird. Either way, they happened pretty close together.”

  “And you still haven’t told me when you plan on seeing him again.” Rebecca remained silent as Diane continued, “Well, I hope I get a chance to see him, too. He was pretty cute, as I recall—but that was twelve years ago—and from your description, it sounds like he’s grown into a very handsome man.”

  Rebecca still did not answer but was now staring out into the yard. A tan and gray bird with a black V-shape across its yellow breast was perched on the birdfeeder in the yard. Diane turned to see what Rebecca was staring at.

  “You know,” said Rebecca, “I just don’t recall ever paying much attention to birds before. I remember learning in a science class somewhere that they are incredibly important to the overall ecosystem, but they come and go from that birdfeeder all the time, and I just think of them as small animals with beaks, claws, and wings. Except for the obvious ones, like eagles or owls maybe, they all seem the same to me—they’re just birds.”

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet sang the meadowlark.

  “I wonder what kind of bird that is,” said Rebecca quietly to Diane.

  “It’s got pretty yellow on its chest and a nice song, whatever it is,” replied Diane.

  “Funny how some things can be around you all the time, and you never really pay attention to them,” said Rebecca, continuing to look at the bird. “It’s almost as though they become invisible to you. Then suddenly a light goes on, and you just notice them.”

  “I don’t find birds all that interesting,” said Diane, glancing at the bird and taking a sip of her tea. “I really don’t like them flying near me—especially near my head.”

  “I was amazed that Matthew could identify that bird by its song. We both heard the same thing, but it meant something different to him. Interesting…”

  “That’s what birdwatchers do. Your father was interested in that sort of thing. He’d go out with his binoculars and bird books and be gone for hours. Sometimes he’d come back all excited because he’d seen some rare something or other. All that never interested me in the least. The closest I prefer to come to birds is by cooking chicken or turkey.”

  Rebecca looked at her mother, smiled slightly, and shook her head.

  “What, you don’t like the way I cook turkey?” quipped Diane with mock surprise.

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet sang the meadowlark again, causing Rebecca to turn and look at it once more.

  Then a different sound came from inside the house. Rebecca’s phone was ringing in the kitchen. The bird flew away as she got up from her seat and went inside to answer it.

  A few minutes later, Rebecca returned and sat back down. “That was Amanda. She wants to meet for dinner tonight down at Ernie’s. She said she’s got an amazing story to tell me about something that happened to her and Chelsea today—but of course she wouldn’t give me any hint about what it was.”

  “That sounds like Amanda,” said Diane. “She gives you just enough to make sure you want to come back for more.”

  “You want to join us?” asked Rebecca.

  “No…but thanks anyway. It’s card night at the Reynolds’. I missed Tuesday, so I’d like to show up tonight. You can fill me in on Amanda’s amazing story later.”

  The two visited a bit longer, finishing their tea and enjoying the perfect summer afternoon weather, until finally Diane left for home, leaving Rebecca alone in the backyard. She pulled a few weeds from her garden and hand watered the many potted flowers that were scattered about the yard.

  As Rebecca was kneeling on the ground and finishing with the last pot, from behind her she heard:

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet.

  She looked toward the sound. A bird with the same markings as before was now sitting atop the fence post on the opposite side of the yard. She slowly set her watering can down, turned fully around, and carefully sat on the grass, trying not to scare the bird away.

  Rebecca looked closely at the bird. What kind of bird are you? You’re very lovely, and I love your song.

  Tweeta�
�tweet…tweet…tweetatweet replied the meadowlark.

  Rebecca didn’t know why, but the bird’s little song made her feel a small sense of joy inside—a simple contentment that was not unlike the joy her gardening gave her. There was also a second more brief and vague thing she felt as she listened to the bird’s song. It flashed across her mind like a tiny, dim, shooting star—the bird was not just singing—but telling—imparting some meaning. Is that possible? Could birds sing for a reason? Though she was certain it was only her imagination, she felt that the bird was trying to tell her something important. That’s silly. It’s just a bird singing happily, late on a summer afternoon.

  Tweeta…tweet…tweet…tweetatweet sang the star-tail.

  Rebecca continued to puzzle over the meadowlark’s song, and though she was a brave and determined woman, some messages were best kept hidden from the receiver.

  Twenty-Three

  The Emergency Committee

  The Cottonwood emergency committee consisted of six members: Mayor Cameron Gilmore; Fire Chief Paul Redmond; Sheriff John O’Neil; Wes Stein, the manager of public works; Brenda Quintana, the manager of communications; and a recording secretary, who currently was Marlene Anders. The committee had various contingency plans drawn up to handle blizzards, chemical spills, acts of terrorism, and even a pandemic flu outbreak. Never in their planning efforts had they ever imagined the unusual circumstances they were now facing. All vehicular traffic, including cars, trucks, and motorcycles had stopped operating within approximately five miles of the town. The only exception seemed to be those vehicles that were completely electric, and aside from the electric carts used by the Home and some farm vehicles, only one full-sized vehicle was currently known to exist in Cottonwood. That vehicle was owned by Ned Quinlan but was now being used by the Cottonwood Sheriff’s Department.