The Hummingbird

by Stephen P. Kiernan

  MICHAEL WAS WEIGHT LIFTING OUTSIDE AGAIN, this time with his shirt off. ­People who flaunted their fitness annoyed him—­runners in short-­shorts, Zumba ladies with tassels on their bum. But that day the temperature was in the 90s. He was working out in the shade.

  I indulged in watching his back muscles shift and clench as he alternated curls with each arm. I knew every sinew of that back. Two days before the end of his first deployment, Michael hoisted a generator onto a truck and came home with torn muscles and daily pain.

  It was January, Oregon’s wet season. After dinner, I would turn up the heat in our bedroom. I’d microwave a damp towel till it was so hot I could barely carry it, then smooth it across his back while he moaned with relief. I worked massage oil all over his shoulders, thick neck, and especially that clenched lower back. The room smelled wonderfully of sandalwood. I was determined not to stop till my hands ached.

  Each time I promised beforehand that the goal was relaxation, not foreplay. But it rarely worked out that way. Michael would reach a certain degree of relief, his back would unknot just enough, and he would roll over.

  By then I was in a state myself, and off we’d go. The rain could fall, the wind howl, and we were safe. Michael began to call the bed our tropical island, because we went there for vacation so often.

  Now those memories were my vacation. Meanwhile, he dropped the dumbbells on the grass and shook his arms loose. The muscles flexed and relaxed. No question, my husband was getting his physical strength back. Between his workouts and all that walking, the man was in formidable shape again.

  “Michael?” I called from the edge of the lawn.

  When he turned, I expected to see the weight-­lifter expression. Instead he appeared sheepish. Maybe even intimidated.

  And no wonder. My schedule with the Professor meant that we no longer saw one another in the morning. So we hadn’t spoken since he told me about shooting the dog.

  “How was your day?”

  “Cars.” He wiped his face with his upper arm. “Broken, then fixed.”

  I slipped off my sandals and barefooted it across the lawn to kiss that sweaty arm. “How about Michael? Broken, and then fixed?”

  “Still in the shop, Deb.”

  “Well, one of the parts you’ve been waiting for has come in.”

  “Is that right?”

  He bent to pick up a weight, but I pulled him upright. “It is. I hate to interrupt, but I brought you something.”

  Michael sighed. “Can I just finish here, please? I’m really not in the best mood right now.”

  I was beginning to think I had made a mistake. But I persisted. “Right now? How about all the time, sweetheart?”

  “This year.” Michael gripped the handle. “I’m in a bad mood this year.”

  “So hold on a minute. I think I have the cure.”

  His shoulders dropped, and his expression was pained. He did not even bother to hide it.

  Maybe my idea wasn’t so brilliant after all. Maybe I should have mulled it over for a ­couple of days. Maybe I was too much in the thrall of the Professor and his well-­reasoned notions.

  “If I see what you have now, can I please go back to my workout?”

  “Wait one second,” I said, sidling back to my car. “Just wait right there.”

  All my earlier certainty had abandoned me. I felt like a bomber, who might bring peace and reconciliation or who might set a forest on fire.

  “When I say three, you have to clap your hands.”

  Michael swayed with impatience. “Damn it, Deb. I’m really not—­”

  “One.” I grabbed the rear handle. “Two.” I opened it an inch. “Three.” And I swung the door wide. Michael, bless him and his indulgence of his wife, clapped his hands rapidly. From the backseat, the dog burst out with a bound. She ran directly to the noisy man, who was squatting by the time she reached him. She barreled into him, knocking him back on his butt and licking his face.

  “Oh my God,” Michael said, his voice quaking. “Oh my God.”

  The dog, a black Labradorish galoot I’d found at the Humane Society that afternoon, was shameless: sniffing Michael everywhere, snouting his crotch. Michael’s head hung as though he were stunned. The dog leapt side to side over his legs, smacking him with her wagging tail. I inched across the lawn, hoping.

  When at last Michael raised his face, he was smiling. “I think he likes the salt from my sweat.”

  “She. It’s a she.”

  “OK,” he said. “She.” And then his face dissolved in tears.

  I knelt and wrapped my arms around him. Michael burrowed against me and bawled like a calf.

  I could not help weeping with him. Finally we had arrived at the truth. Not the angry man who barked at me, or punched a wall, or smashed his truck in road rage. Not the frightened man, armed and cowering in his kitchen. But this man, here in my arms, this wounded, grieving man.

  I felt wetness from his tears through my shirt, and had one fleeting thought that I had missed something by never nursing a child. But Michael sniffled and brought me back to the present, to his warm and sweaty presence against me. It would not last, it was only for now. So I said nothing, did not move, and was supremely grateful.

  Then the dog poked her nose under his arm, and between us, wagging and wiggling till she was inside the embrace as well.

  Michael ran a hand down her flank. She was sleek like a seal.

  I leaned to his ear and whispered. “Is she OK?”

  “She’s fantastic. What’s her name?”

  At the shelter they called her Stella, fine enough but not a name to keep. I was about to say we should name her together, when a better idea arrived.

  “Shouri,” I said. “Her name is Shouri.”

  Michael cradled the dog’s face in his hands. They regarded one another. “What is that?”

  “A Japanese word. A patient taught it to me.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Shouri means . . .” I paused, feeling my throat close with emotion. Victory, surprises at dawn, something about a sudden blow. But then I offered my own made-­up translation. “It means good things will happen.”

  Michael rubbed the dog’s ear and she leaned into his touch. “Hello, Shouri.”

  ICHIRO SOGA CLIMBED DOWN from his seat in the Cessna 182 as cautiously as if the ground were molten, then stood on the tarmac clapping his hands in glee. Donny Baker III hurried beneath the wings, attaching the tie-­down straps before handing Soga his cane.

  For once, Donny did not refuel upon landing. Instead, he helped Soga into the pickup truck, and they drove off to their various appointments. Piper Abbott, ever diligent, tailed them once again. Her interview with Soga that night brought her the tale of what had happened on the flight.

  The following morning Donny provided the Japanese pilot with a penultimate tour of Brookings—­with Heather sandwiched between them in the truck. They visited the harbor, Azalea Park, the upland avenues away from the sea. Donny also chauffeured through some less-­known sites: the vast lily farm, a high view down on the broad Chetco River, the county’s tallest redwood.

  Afterward Soga and Heather embraced in the Kerrs’ driveway. Soga bowed deeply to his fellow pilot. “Aw, cut that crap out,” Donny replied, shaking the foreigner’s hand.

  There were other good-­byes: Jaycee leaders, the mayor. Then the city’s rented limousine transported Soga to Portland, where he boarded a plane to San Francisco, connecting to Tokyo.

  Four years later, the Brookings roads department announced plans to erect a highway marker that would direct ­people to the memorial shrine. A sign at the site would acknowledge Soga’s gift of the tree, and the date of its planting. The sponsor of this plan was none other than Donny Baker III.

  Public reaction revealed that controversy over Soga, even in 1994, had not ceased.
“We feel it is a slap in the face,” Elmer Hitchcock wrote in the Pilot.

  City officials invited Soga to attend the dedication of the highway marker. When the question of the travel expense arose at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast, Donny suggested that the business group pay Soga’s airfare. Many of the members present responded by laughing.

  “Look,” Donny said. “I’m late to the party on this, I know. But I got my reasons for wanting to talk to him again. Besides, whatever the guy did all those years ago, he has made our town a pile of cash since then.” He pointed at two brothers sitting together, who between them owned half of Brookings’ restaurants and nearly all of the hotels. “You guys alone ought to shell out for Soga’s plane tickets. You’ve made a killing because of him.”

  The motion carried. The town’s invitation went out with an offer of free travel.

  Donny began preparations for a different kind of tour: This time Soga would take a ride on a seagoing commercial fishing vessel, spend a day at a working logging site, maybe kill a night strolling among the hippies in Portland.

  “Enough of this banking bullshit,” he told Heather. “I’ve got ground to cover with this guy. Let’s show him the real Oregon.”

  A reply to the invitation came from Soga’s son in a handwritten note marked by reserve and formality.

  “It is with deep regret that I must inform the honorable ­people of Brookings that Ichiro Soga cannot accept their kind invitation. My father is not at present strong enough to make the journey. He has lung cancer.”

  CHAPTER 18

  IN THE MORNING I WOKE EARLY, but Michael was not in the house. I pulled on clothes and went searching. He was not in the guest room, no clanking rose from downstairs, there was no one in the kitchen. I put on coffee and went into the living room. In the middle of the rug lay one of Michael’s military boots, and it was ruined.

  The top had been chewed, the sole gnawed up by the toes, and the tongue ripped from the boot entirely. I snatched the pieces up, rushing them to my closet while calculating how I could find a replacement boot before Michael discovered what Shouri had done. Otherwise there would be a hurricane. This was not any old shoe the dog had destroyed.

  I put the pieces in a plastic shopping bag, stuffed a t-­shirt in on top of it, and hurried it all out to my car.

  They were out on the back lawn, Michael and the dog. He was kneeling in the grass and throwing a tennis ball. Where had he found such a thing in our house? The dog was chasing the ball at full speed and snagging it with her mouth.

  She dashed back to him faster than I thought she could run, plowing into him headlong. He fell over on his side, grabbing the ball for a tug of war.

  “Shouri, huh?” Michael said. “Maybe instead we should call you Spaz.”

  But he was laughing. Laughing.

  THAT DAY, THE PROFESSOR AND I had three brief conversations. I wanted more. I longed to share with him how his gift had inspired me and helped my husband. But those three snippets were all he had the energy for. Otherwise he was quiet, doing his work, making his path. When he did awaken, his agenda mattered infinitely more than mine.

  “How old am I, again?”

  “You are seventy-­eight, Professor.”

  He wagged his head. “How in the hell did that happen?”

  “That you’ve lived so many years?”

  “That they passed so quickly. As brief as lightning.”

  IN LATE MORNING I took Barclay Reed’s pulse, and his hand was cold. His feet, too. It was a chilly premonition. The circulatory system had begun prioritizing essential organs. But a dying person feels cold every bit as much as a healthy one, so I added a blanket for his feet and gave his hands a vigorous rub.

  The Professor opened his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “Have you decided whether or not you believe?”

  “The Sword, you mean?”

  He nodded, swallowing noisily.

  “What I can say is that the book is bringing up things that are helping Michael. Knowing his weapon, giving a courageous gift. So to me, it doesn’t matter whether or not it’s true.”

  “It is the only thing that matters now.” The Professor grimaced as though he had a terrible sore throat. “The only thing.”

  LATER I FOUND HIM SLEEPING with his mouth open. I could see it drying out. I opened a fresh glycerin swab, and wiped around his gums. Those are tender tissues, so it can be an extremely intimate form of care.

  Barclay Reed appeared to like it. After I had swabbed the near side of his mouth, he turned his head and opened wider so I could reach the far side.

  “Professor, is there anything you might want to eat or drink?”

  He frowned. “It’s all shut down now.”

  “If you’re comfortable here for a moment, I’d like to go get you something.”

  “I doubt I have the strength to chew.”

  “Trust me.”

  Quickly I hulled three strawberries, and rinsed them in the sink. I reached for the ordinary bowl, but then decided to take a risk—­and used the one his wife had made instead.

  “Not fair,” he said.

  “What’s not fair, Professor?”

  “As I grow weaker, you become more stubborn.” He made a feeble cough. “You are an inferior listener, as well. Didn’t I just say that I can’t eat? And I certainly don’t want that bowl.”

  “I always listen,” I said. “But not everything is said out loud.”

  I picked a berry, the reddest, ripest one. I reached across the bed and held it directly under his nose. After a perplexed moment, Barclay Reed understood what I was doing. He took a long, deep sniff.

  “Ah. Heaven.”

  The way he was positioned, I had to put the bowl on his bed so I could stretch my hand to keep the berry beneath his nose. But he hooked the bowl closer with the crook of his arm, snug against his ribs, and something in the room relaxed. Under the sheets, the Professor uncrossed his legs. The hummingbird bowl was permitted again. Some old knot had untied itself. Then he smelled the berry under his nose deeply once more. “Yessss.” He nodded. “Absolute heaven.”

  Though eventually my arm grew sore from its own weight, I kept that berry in place till Barclay Reed was sound asleep again.

  TWO MORNINGS LATER, Sunday, when Michael took Shouri for a walk, I decided to visit the weight room. I told myself I intended to finish the cleaning he’d begun with the papers a few days before. But if that were the whole truth, I would not have waited till my husband was out.

  By then I felt tired all the time. Like a little bird, endlessly zipping from one needy man to the other, trying to ferry a little nectar back and forth between them, flying as fast as I could. It was exhausting. I hadn’t gone to yoga in months, hadn’t participated in the book group since Michael came home. Forget those activities, though. A nap would have made more sense.

  But on that morning I wanted to be in his space without him there. I was curious how it would feel now, in this different phase of our marriage. There was none of the base temptation I’d felt earlier, when I considered snooping in his computer’s history. This time I had higher aims: learning, and maybe understanding.

  Immediately I marveled that he could exercise in such an unpleasant place. The light came from bare overhead bulbs. The floor was gray cement. The air smelled musty and stale. Tools lay scattered here and there, stacks of neglected books, moving boxes we’d never unpacked. Against the wall leaned posters we’d owned before living together—­his red Ferraris, my Springsteen in concert—­which each of us had vetoed for the walls of our mutual household.

  At least Michael’s gear was tidy. The weights were organized, dumbbells on the floor in order of size. But over some of my parents’ old furniture, the tarps we’d thrown years ago had visibly mildewed. I suspected they were the cause of the basement’
s poor air quality.

  Obviously Michael didn’t mind, but it would be no great task to clear them out. Not remembering even vaguely what was beneath, I lifted the nearest tarp with care. That was when I made my discovery.

  On my father’s old desk, the one he had used for grading papers, three bottles of ceramic glue made a little tent over a work space. And there, in the middle, sat two-­thirds of a reassembled blue china dinner plate.

  At first it did not register. I had grown too accustomed to receiving bad news, to absorbing emotional blows and the whole downward spiral. I did not recognize good news when I saw it. I had no idea what to do.

  I sat on the weights bench with the partial plate in my lap. So that’s what he had been doing in the trash the other night: digging for remnants. There were lots of shards on the desk, some as large as a dime, some as small as a sliver. I ran my fingertip over the repaired portion and it was surprisingly smooth. Michael was not a man with fine motor skills. I could not imagine how painstaking this project must have been.

  “Oh, lover,” I said out loud, since he was not there to object to the word.

  What did I know about Michael’s interior life? At one time I had known it nearly as well as my own. But this was a total surprise.

  The man was trying. I had to give him that. He was sincerely trying to repair what had been broken.

  The fact that he had concealed it was part of the sweetness. He hoped someday to surprise me with a finished plate. Incredible. After all he had been through, enough to crush the kindness out of anyone, somehow this man had a reservoir of it left. I felt his marital commitment more in that moment than I ever had before. It wasn’t noisy or passionate. It was quiet, and patient, and slowly piecing itself back together.

  Maybe sometimes love shows its true self, and reveals how much deeper it can be than anyone would have imagined.