Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  The killer bends over and picks up the discharged bullet shells. Then he grabs the dead man under the arms, throws him over his shoulder as one would a sack of potatoes, and carries him onto the airplane. The stairs are pulled up. A moment later the airplane takes off down the runway, gathering speed as it ascends into the sky.

  I watch, frozen and mesmerized, until the plane disappears from view. Then I put my equipment away, dump my gear in my boat, and wait for several more minutes until I’m sure they’re gone. Using extreme caution, I pole out into the narrow channel, keeping as close to the shore as I can, and sneak away for home.

  My houseguest is awake when I return. She’s lounging at the kitchen table, bare-ass naked, sipping from a cup of steaming black coffee. “The early bird gets the worm?” She gives me a half-sleepy smile.

  I’m shaky from what I’ve just seen, but I manage to hide my nervousness from her. “How do you feel?” I ask solicitously, the good host. Despite the traumatic episode I just witnessed I’m getting hard looking at her. There is a rich soft-earth fragrance wafting up from her nether regions.

  “Kind of blurry,” she admits. “And hot.” She fans herself with a folded-up page from yesterday’s Washington Post, holds up her coffee cup. “This helps—the blur, not the heat. And a Bromo. You don’t drink that much all the time, do you?” We don’t know each other well enough for her to know all my habits, especially the bad ones.

  “I kind of got carried away.”

  “Didn’t we both?” She shakes her head at the wonder of it. She shifts in the chair. Her pussy’s staring at me. I look away from it, up to her face.

  Dakota Chalmers. Named for Dakota Staton, the ’50s jazz singer, her mother’s favorite vocalist. This Dakota is a fine-looking woman. Robust. Pretty face, big luscious tits, bodacious ass, long muscular legs: storybook. I especially like her complexion: coffee with cream and a little peach thrown in the mix. There’s a resemblance to another jazz singer, Billie Holiday, when the great diva of blues was young, before the drugs wasted her looks. This lady will never have that problem. She’s smart. She’s a lawyer for HUD.

  Dakota and I were introduced at a party in Annapolis that was given by a mutual friend. We’ve dated casually a few times; I go up to her place for dinner and a movie or some music, she comes down here for some country relaxation. Last night we went to a party not far from here that was given by a friend of hers, and got relaxed enough to decide to have sex.

  By mutual understanding, there will be no demands on either side. What more could you want in a nice noncommitted relationship? Nothing, except that she not linger too deeply into the morning. I’ve got shit to do. A lot more than I bargained for when I woke up.

  She’s on my wavelength—after we share a cup of coffee she showers and dresses, gathers her things.

  “Drive safely,” I advise her as I walk her outside to her Lexus. “Do you remember the way?”

  “I can find my way,” she says with easy assurance.

  I stand there for a moment with the hot morning sun beating down on me, watching her disappear around the bend. Then I go back inside.

  Now that she’s gone I can indulge my emotions. I forage for anything in the liquor cupboard—Chopin vodka is the first thing to hit my hand, so I drink a shot of that, straight from the bottle. That helps; my heartbeat isn’t as rapid as a hummingbird’s anymore.

  Here’s what I’m thinking: what the fuck am I supposed to do? I just saw a murder being committed. I know what I’m supposed to do—go to the cops. But for several reasons, I don’t know if that’s what I’m going to do.

  I don’t want to get involved. If that makes me a bad citizen, so be it. I wasn’t supposed to see that murder take place, it was pure coincidence. If I’d left ten minutes earlier, or had stayed in bed with my guest, like a good host should have, I would never have seen one damn thing. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? Not to me, if I don’t hear it.

  Besides that, there’s my credibility, or lack thereof. The local constabulary, some of them friends from childhood, view me with a skeptical eye these days. College professor who throws it over and comes home to live in a piece-of-shit shack out in the boonies? Doing nothing except drinking too much, smoking weed, hitting on women? This is not a man to be trusted, not an upstanding citizen. I call in and report a murder, they’re going to first want to know how much I drank last night, how much dope I’ve been smoking. Since the answers are too much and too much, they’re going to drag their ass getting in gear. And if they do go check out the scene, what will they find? No bullet shells, I saw the killer pick them up. Will the body still be there? Of course not. That was a premeditated hit, most likely a contract killing. There isn’t a shred of evidence lying around.

  I take another hit of vodka to calm my nerves some more, and formulate a plan. I’ll wait a day or two, see if anything turns up. A story on the news. If there is something, then I can go to the police. Otherwise, I’ll clam up. The killer doesn’t know I saw anything. Hell, the killer doesn’t know I exist.

  I hope nothing turns up. I don’t want to get involved. Whoever that murderer is, he’s not a remorseful person. I put my nose into this, that could be me staring down his gun barrel.

  It’s not my problem. And I’m not going to make it my problem.

  I dump my gear on the kitchen table and unload my camera. I have to go into town for supplies later this morning. I’ll drop the film at the community college film lab. King James Community College in Jamestown, the county seat, has a nice photography facility, and I’ve become friendly with the head instructor, a retired Baltimore Sun photographer named Pierce Wilcox. He lets me use the facilities.

  I didn’t check my phone messages when I got home last night; I had more important things to take care of. I dial up my service.

  Sent yesterday at 8:15 P.M. A woman’s southern Maryland drawl. The age doesn’t show in her voice. “This is your dear old mother, Fritz. Where are you, anyway, son, you never seem to be in when I need to talk to you. I have left you an e-mail. I’ll need your answer by ten in the morning.” Click.

  I glance at the wall clock—it isn’t nine yet, ample time to reply to my mother. I continue listening.

  Sent yesterday at 9:38 P.M. “Fritz. Sam. See you tomorrow night. Hope you’re sober, for mother’s sake. Wear clean clothes, if you have any.” Click.

  Lovely. This evening is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

  Sent this morning at 12:49 A.M. “Fritz? This is Marnie? Are you there, Fritz. If you are, pick up, please! . . .”

  A few pregnant beats, then silence, end of message. I stare at the receiver in my hand like it’s alive, a cobra that’s going to rise up, spread its hood, and sink its teeth into my arm.

  Twelve-forty-nine was minutes before I got home. That would’ve ripped it as far as Dakota and I were concerned. Thank God I missed the call. But in a perverse way, which has been my way these last months, it would have been something to hear Marnie’s voice for real. Too late now.

  Zap. Button pushed. Message gone. Marnie—the light of my life, and the ruination. I don’t need to hear any more of that, I know where it was going. Straight to hell on a rocketship, with me riding shotgun, like Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove.

  Is this a portent of some kind? What I saw on the landing strip across the water, and now this phone call? I hope not—I’ve been successful in avoiding the world, I want to continue to do so, for a while at least. They say troubles come in threes—already this morning, two bad episodes.

  There are no more messages. I turn my Apple PowerBook on, check my e-mail. There isn’t much. Four items, two of them porno come-ons. Does everybody get this garbage, or just people with bad reputations like me?

  I delete the stroke stuff, open the one that isn’t my mother’s (I’ll save that for last, because it will require an actual response). It’s a missive from a friendly colleague at Stanford, a fellow I did graduate work with, wondering how I’m
doing, if I’m planning on teaching again anytime soon, would I be interested in relocating to the West Coast, there might be an opening at UC Santa Cruz, or maybe even UCLA, a plum situation.

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to not teach forever, but I don’t feel I’m ready to get back into harness yet. I’m certainly not ready to undergo the rigors of a tough interview process, trying to respond to questions that have no explainable answers.

  I type back a quick response. “Thanks for thinking of me in my time of need, but I am currently on a project here that although not in my direct field is providing enjoyment and insight. If these are legitimate openings, rather than either fishing expeditions or an old friend trying to help out (which I appreciate, believe me), send me the info. Great hearing from you. Fritz.”

  My mother’s message is simple and to the point. “Fritz: I am having a small dinner party tomorrow night.” (That’s tonight.) “Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight. Jacket and tie, preferably a suit. Your presence is requested.” (Meaning I’d better show up unless I’m in the hospital, and if I am, why haven’t I called her?) “There will be interesting and important people present, it would not hurt you to meet them. I’m sure that even you will find them charming and amusing. Please reply by tomorrow morning, so I can make the necessary seating and catering arrangements. Mother.” Then as a postscript: “Do you have a presentable summer suit? You should. If you wish to go to any good men’s clothing store in Washington, Baltimore, or Annapolis, you can put it on your charge card and I will reimburse you. Love, Mother.”

  Thirty-eight years old and my mother’s still offering to pay for my clothes? How low does she think I’ve fallen? Extremely low, apparently.

  I write her back: “Mommy dearest. I’ll be there. I have a suit which I trust will be suitable, but thanks for the offer. Fritz.”

  Seven o’clock tonight, the family manse, in mufti, plus my brother. Whoopdeedo.

  Being out on the water gives me an appetite. I make myself a couple of fried egg sandwiches on white bread with garlic mayo, accompanied by bacon, lettuce, tomato, and onion. The vegetables are from the garden I’ve cultivated behind my house, the tomatoes so ripe the saliva drools down my chin as I’m slicing them. Iced tea to wash it all down; I’m not going to drink any more alcohol until dinner, there’s a point where abusing my body stops, and I’m at that point now. Not that bacon and egg sandwiches are healthy, but I like them. I try to live in the present now, as much as possible, so I do as I like. Tomorrow I’ll run four miles, sweat the garbage out.

  It’s a half-hour drive into Jamestown, the only town of any size in the county. I stop by the college and drop off my film. It’ll take about three hours to process my transparencies—it’s all done by machine. The technician, a male student in this case, doesn’t even have to look at them. The images are there or they aren’t, the developer can’t create what the camera didn’t capture.

  If Pierce was around I’d spend some time bullshitting with him, but he isn’t, so I go into town and do my weekly shopping. Then I go back to the college, hang out until my slides are ready, and drive home.

  I put the groceries and other sundries away and scan the transparencies on my Nikon cool-scan and into my computer via Adobe Photoshop, tweaking the colors a little to cherry them up. There are some good shots of Ollie. I also have a nice one of a bald eagle—they’ve come back well from near-extinction in this area. I hope the same will be true about Ollie and his tribe someday.

  After playing with those pictures for a while, I look at the images of the two men who were arguing by the airplane. Their faces are indiscernible. I mess around with the pictures, trying to lighten the images, but it’s impossible, they’re directly backlit.

  But those pictures aren’t why I start shaking so violently.

  The final two pictures on the roll were shots I didn’t realize I’d taken. My finger must have been snapping them reflexively.

  They’re of the murder itself. The actual act. The killer is standing over his victim, his pistol pointing down.

  I stare at them, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. My first impulse is to call the police, but I nail that in the bud, fast. I’m not getting involved in this unless I have to, I’ve already decided that. The fact that I have proof is no reason to change my thinking.

  I make a fast decision: no one in the world except me knows these pictures exist. And unless there’s a good reason for me to come forth with them, no one is ever going to.

  I save the pictures in my computer. Then I put the mounted transparencies of the birds into a file drawer, noting the date and subjects. I’ve become an efficient cataloger. This collection could be valuable someday.

  The other transparencies, the crime evidence, are a potential land mine. I need to keep them separate from the bird shots. Locking the cabinet behind me, I stash them in an old pair of wingtips I haven’t worn in years and bury them in the back of my closet.

  Time to get motivating. I shower, shave, apply liberal amounts of antiperspirant to each underarm, foot powder in between my toes. Then I don a short-sleeved white dress shirt, the kind one associates with nerdy accountants and computer geeks, and take my good summer suit out of the closet, still in its plastic laundry wrap. I haven’t worn it once this summer. I hope my mother appreciates the sacrifices I make for her.

  • • •

  There will be eighteen at table, including my mother, my brother, Sam, his wife, Emily, and me. My mother’s idea of a small, intimate gathering. I’m acceptably late, twenty minutes, but most of the other guests have already arrived and are on the back veranda, drinking and chatting.

  Conversation lulls for a moment as the others take notice of my entrance. My mother, looking cool and comfortable in a summer dress she’s undoubtedly owned for fifty years (waste not, want not), excuses herself from her conversation, bustles over, and gives me a dry peck on the cheek.

  “You’re not too late,” she says approvingly, giving my apparel a once-over, but wisely not commenting on it.

  “What’s the occasion?” I ask, looking around. “And why was I invited?”

  “You’re my son, why wouldn’t I invite you to my party?” she asks indignantly.

  “Because you often don’t.”

  “Well, this time I did.”

  “Just because you wanted to.” I’m looking around for the reason I’m here.

  “I wanted you to meet our newest neighbor, who bought the old parcel at the edge of Swanson Creek last year, shortly before you . . . moved back,” she says, having a hard time, as always, with my current status. “He’s an interesting individual someone of your intellect might cotton to. I’ve been meaning to get you two together, but the opportunity never presented itself until now. He’s a very busy man,” she adds, almost conspiratorially.

  My pulse rate begins spiking immediately: the parcel at the edge of Swanson Creek is the farthest parcel from our original property. It’s the place I was spying on this morning. Maybe this recent addition to the neighborhood is one of the men I saw. Jesus, that would be a bitch. I’m intrigued by the possibility of coincidence. And scared, too. I’ll try not to show it.

  “If you say so,” I tell my mother.

  “I do. So be good.” She drifts back to the old friends she was in conversation with when I arrived. My brother, looking spiffy as usual in one of his British-made custom suits, this one a beautifully cut charcoal gray silk shantung, ambles over and sizes me up.

  “Nice suit,” he says, grinning wide, fingering the material at the lapel. “You buy this at an outlet store in Moscow?”

  “Dubuque, Iowa,” I correct him. “And I paid retail.” It’s a tan and white wide-wale seersucker of a style that peaked around 1949. Harry Truman wore such a suit. He was a haberdasher before he went into politics, he knew from clothing. Brooks Brothers still sells them, which is where I bought this. They’re comfortable, and they’re supposed to be wrinkled. They go good with bow ties and two-tone shoes, neither
of which I’m wearing, since I don’t own either.

  “A bargain at half the price,” he says sarcastically, using one of our late father’s pet epigrams.

  “I have to keep up with you, Sam.”

  “You have a warped sense of humor, Fritz.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  This initial sparring aside, I say hello to his wife, who’s wearing a simple cocktail dress that I’m sure cost at least a thousand dollars, and cross over to the small temporary bar to greet Louis, the black bartender who’s been working functions at my mother’s going on sixty years now. He’s as old as she is, maybe older. He is the only black person visible (Mattie’s in the kitchen overseeing the caterers—there are too many guests here for her to manage, at her advanced age, by herself). My mother is liberal by her standards, but the generational separation of races is ingrained in her too deeply for her to have black friends on this kind of social level, unless they’re of the Vernon Jordan caliber.

  “How you doing, Louis?” I ask him as we shake hands. “I thought you were retired.”

  “I am, Mr. Tullis,” he says warmly, starting to fix me a Jack Daniel’s Manhattan, “but for old clients, like your mother . . .” He hands me my drink. “You’re looking fine. Being home agrees with you.”

  “It’s a ruse,” I stage-whisper, grinning at him like a conspirator.

  “Well, you’re pulling it off well,” he tells me, smiling back broadly. Being the youngest, I was always the jackanapes of the bunch. Loved and tolerated by all, with much head-shaking and forgiving of my youthful fuckups, some of which weren’t so innocent.

  Drink in hand, I join the gathering. Some I know, old friends of my mother’s, who are happy to see me, we exchange innocuous pleasantries. They don’t know the true facts of why I’m living here, instead of in Austin, Texas, where my job was. I’m easy about playing along with the fiction my mother’s created, academic burnout and such. I do like to shock and upset people for sport, as Shakespeare says famously in another context, but these are old codgers. Some have weak hearts.