Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  “I can manage it.” She stretches her legs out like a cat, then crosses one over the other. “I’m not staying here with you, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Johanna told me about your evening together.” She runs a finger along the rim of her cup. “Everything about that night.”

  My face is hot. How mortifying. “So?”

  “So she likes you. You hurt her feelings, but she likes you anyway. She said you’re going through a rough patch and have to be forgiven for acting boorishly.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I say sheepishly.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” she replies charitably. “My point is, Fritz, she’s my friend. I’m not going to have sex with a man my friend’s slept with and wants to see again. I wouldn’t sleep with you anyway, I’m too discriminating. Besides, you’re not my type, but even if you were, I wouldn’t. It would mess up our working relationship.”

  “I see.”

  “I wanted to make sure we understand each other.”

  I don’t like playing games like this, particularly when I’m losing them. “I don’t have eyes for sleeping with you, Maureen. Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m not your type, either?”

  She’s fucking with my head, which normally I could handle, except I’m scared now, having seen Roach and Wallace together. “I’m on the shelf,” I add defensively.

  She starts to reply, but manages to hold her tongue.

  “You’re taking a huge risk, going out there with me and keeping your mouth shut about it,” I say, changing the subject to one less personal.

  “How so?” she asks, blowing on her coffee again.

  “I’ve done some studying up. Whooping cranes are the most endangered birds in this hemisphere, outside of California condors. Every one of them is vital—I’m amazed this one wasn’t reported missing.”

  “So am I,” she agrees. “They must have missed him in the count they do every year.”

  “The point I’m making is, if you’re caught it could be the end of your career. Harboring a whooping crane, as you forcefully pointed out to me, is illegal. I’m an amateur, I can plead ignorance. But you can’t.”

  She nods gravely. “I know. I’ve been thinking about that all morning.” She stares into her cup.

  “Ambition supersedes ethics?”

  She gives me a baleful look. “I’m not perfect. Yes,” she admits, “I want this, and I’m willing to take the chance I won’t get caught, or he won’t get hurt.” She pauses. “I hope our situation—our arrangement—doesn’t blow up in my face. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  On that note, we finish our coffee. I walk her to her rented canoe. She’ll be on my doorstep at the stroke of six tomorrow morning. Driving her rental car from now on.

  “We have a secret,” I remind her.

  “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  I push her off from my dock, watching her paddle away. She does it well—she’s much at home in this world.

  Back inside my shack, I flop down at my kitchen table. My uncomplicated, semimonastic life has gotten complicated all of a sudden. Way too complicated. The murder, the near-fatal shooting on Roach’s yacht, now this woman. I’ve got to simplify, but I don’t know how.

  Roach has become a specter hovering over me. The six degrees of separation between him and the other elements in this drama are too coincidental to be ignored: the murder took place on his property, he’s with the State Department, so most likely would have known the slain counselor, plus the weirdness regarding Wallace, who is a stick of dynamite ready to go off—not the kind of security chief a man in Roach’s position should have.

  I have to check up on Roach. Passive research, nothing that will put me at risk. It won’t be hard to find information about him, he’s been a public figure for decades. I’ll try to find out what I can about Wallace, too.

  I don’t know where this snooping around will lead; but too many coincidences are piling up for me to ignore this and hope it will all blow away in the first strong wind. After that conversation I had with Fred and Marcus, I know that’s not going to happen. And if the shit does hit the fan, I don’t want it splattering me. For my peace of mind, as well as my own protection, I have to know more about what’s going on.

  My alarm wakes me, which is unusual. I’m almost always awake before it goes off. Anxiety—not wanting to face the day. Unfortunately, it arrives despite my perturbations regarding it.

  I was dreaming. It’s vague now, bits and pieces of airplanes, dark corridors, women’s body parts, frightening rather than sexy or romantic, the devouring cunt, the turning of the lips away from the kiss, a cold, almost frozen breast. And guns being fired, cars driving away, being left behind, alone, cut off from all hope. An abandonment dream at its most basic.

  It’s still dark out—I had mistakenly set the alarm for five instead of six. I’m thankful for the jolt into reality, though, I wasn’t enjoying that dream.

  Okay, I’m up, so I might as well get up. Wash my face, balls, pits. My body feels fuzzy, like I slept in a bed infested with caterpillars. When I come back after my early morning bird-run I’ll have a proper shower and a good scrubbing with a loofah.

  I step out onto the back porch and send a leisurely stream over the railing into the murky water below. The first piss of the day always feels good. Out with the old to make room for the new. Idly, I stroke my member as I release my fluid. It doesn’t respond—it knows this is merely pissing, not a precursor of sex. It’s been a while since the little guy got to stand up and salute; my night with Johanna was the last time.

  I feel them. Eyes. Something is watching me.

  I shake off the last drops and take a furtive look around. This area is teeming with nocturnal wildlife: raccoon, possum, muskrat, bobcat. Creatures that have more claim to this territory than I do, they’ve been here a lot longer.

  I don’t see any shining eyes. Back inside, I paw through my clean-clothes pile for a pair of shorts and T-shirt that aren’t too wrinkled. Then I hear a noise and know I am being watched, for real.

  Still naked, selected shorts in hand, I peer out the front window. There, perched on the old porch swing, is Maureen O’Hara, staring at me. The moon, almost full, is still up, radiating enough light for me to see her. She, of course, sees me plainly, I’ve already turned on the inside lights. She’s reclining on the sagging swing, her feet propped up on the bench, her back against one side, a leisurely pose, as if she owns the place. She’s wearing beach flops, rather than the boots she had on yesterday. She sees me staring back, and smiles.

  I drop the shorts to below my waist, a protective fig leaf. Smiling more broadly, she cocks her head as if to say, “I’ve seen everything already, what’s the point in hiding it?”

  Turning my back on her—I’ve never been particularly modest, but this is too much—I shimmy into my shorts. Then I cross the room and fling open the front door.

  “What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “You invited me,” she answers sweetly and logically.

  “Our appointment was for six o’clock. It’s barely past five.”

  “I didn’t want to be late. I was afraid you’d take off without me.”

  “Six means six, not five,” I say brusquely.

  My attempt at anger doesn’t faze her. “I’ll remember that in the future.” She stands up, reaches down, retrieves a couple of paper sacks, holds them aloft. “I come in peace.”

  “What have you got in there?” I inquire suspiciously.

  “Coffee. And Amish strudel.”

  The Amish are a strong presence in St. Mary’s County to the north of us. There are a few small pockets down here as well. They make great pastry. I can smell it through the bag. The coffee, too. Far superior to the supermarket brand I’m used to.

  “May I come in?”

  I nod—the damage has already been done. Holding the door open, I stand aside as she
enters and plops her goodies on the kitchen table.

  “Do you have cups and plates?”

  I point to the cupboard above the sink. She takes two cups and a plate down, sets them on the table, dives into the refrigerator for the milk.

  “You’re not going to have one of those weird drinks, are you?”

  “No. I didn’t drink enough last night to need one.”

  “Good.” She opens the large cardboard container of coffee and pours into the cups. It smells great, what coffee should smell like. “I couldn’t stomach that this morning. Milk?”

  I nod dully. She’s revving at the red line, while my engine’s barely started.

  I sit across from her. She takes the pastries out of the other bag and arranges them on the plate.

  “I hope you like my selection.”

  “It’s fine.” I reach for an apple strudel, bite into it. Like honey straight from the comb. Too decadent for this early in the morning, but what the hell, I’m not on a schedule.

  “Thank you,” I mutter through a mouthful of pastry.

  “The least I can do. For imposing on your privacy.”

  “Let’s not get into that,” I caution her.

  “Sorry.”

  We munch and drink in silence for a few moments. Then I get up, pull on my T-shirt and running shoes. “Excuse me a minute.”

  “Sure.”

  I open the door to my cabinet, shielding her from the combination with my body. I grab the equipment I’ll need for our morning sojourn, lock the door.

  “Ready to go?” I glance at her feet. “You’re not wearing those, are you?” I ask, alluding to the flops. “It’s thorny out where we’re going.”

  “I left my boots in the car. It’ll take a second.” She sips her coffee, lifts a foot for me to observe. “Do you like the polish? It’s a new shade for me, I put it on last night.”

  “It’s bright,” I say. Fire engine red.

  She wiggles her toes. “Sometimes I’m embarrassed by my feet.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re humongous. Like a man’s.”

  “You’re a tall woman. You’d look silly with small feet. Out of proportion.”

  She straightens one leg out, appraising her foot. “I’ll bet they’re almost as big as yours.”

  “What size are they?” This is a silly conversation.

  She almost blushes. “Twelve.”

  “That is pretty big. One might even say humongous,” I say with a straight face.

  She laughs. “Touché. In men’s it would be eleven,” she informs me.

  “I’m thirteen. So you’ve got a ways to go to match me.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not growing anymore. I hope.”

  We finish the coffee and strudel. She goes out to her car, comes back in, boots in hand.

  “Nice boots,” I comment. They have a logo on the side I’ve never seen before. “Where’d you get ’em?”

  “Switzerland. I led an Audubon Society tour across the Alps last summer.” She laughs. “We went native. Lederhosen, the whole schmear. I looked like a refugee from The Sound of Music, but everyone else did, too, so it didn’t matter.” She puts on socks, pulls a boot on. “They are great boots, very well constructed. Custom-made, it’s hard to find made-to-order in my size. I’ll keep them forever.”

  She laces her boots tight and ties them. Then we go outside, load up my skiff, and take off for the birds.

  • • •

  You shouldn’t feed them.”

  I’m doling out grain from my sack. “I know, but I do.”

  “They’ll become dependent on you.”

  “They do fine on their own the days I don’t come.”

  “It’s not good,” she persists. “If they become too friendly with people they’ll lose their natural instincts to stay clear of us. That’s a sure recipe for trouble. Some of us carry guns.”

  I toss the last handful of grain. “It’s not for much longer.” I stand back, watching the birds swoop down to the food, feeling her watching me watching them. Ollie stands out, royalty among commoners.

  “He’s become a pet to you,” she observes. “But he’s a wild creature, he doesn’t belong to you,” she says gently. “He belongs to his own.”

  I have no rebuttal to that.

  “But he’s fine here for a while longer,” she says, trying to cushion my disappointment.

  “What’ll you do when the time comes?” I ask her. I’m assuming she’ll want to take charge of him when he has to be taken away.

  “There are different possibilities,” she says. I’m sure she’s been thinking about this from the first time she spotted him—it’s her job. “One option would be to take him up to the Patuxent Reserve in Prince Georges County, where they’re raising cranes. Another possibility is that he could be taken to Florida, where there’s a permanent colony of nonmigrating whooping cranes. The best thing for him, and the species, would be if he could be united with an existing migratory flock, perhaps one of the new ones from Operation Migration. They’re doing great work with young cranes.”

  “Can that be done, given how he’s been living?” I’m skeptical about that—I’ve read enough about the migratory pattern of whooping cranes to know that integrating a new one into an existing flock is almost unknown in nature.

  “It’ll be difficult enough separating him from these others. But maybe it can be done. I’ll have to bone up on the subject, whooping cranes aren’t my field of expertise. The sandhills will definitely have to be taught how to migrate. But don’t worry,” she goes on, reading my thoughts. “Whatever happens to your crane, it’ll turn out all right.”

  “If you say so. You’re the expert.”

  “Trust me. It will.”

  I don’t tell her I don’t trust her yet, but I’m going to try. Because I have to.

  We spend a few hours in the marsh. I take some pictures, rote behavior. My head isn’t in it this morning. I watch Maureen as much as I watch the birds. She has a battered Petersons Field Guide in her pocket, which she takes out a couple of times to reference some of the hundreds of varieties of birds that have made this area their home.

  I can’t not be attracted to her—I’m a man who likes women, it’s part of my essential nature. I know she’s off-limits, most notably because of her friendship with Johanna, but libido disagrees.

  How I feel, however, doesn’t matter. She’s in the driver’s seat and she’s made it clear there’s going to be no romance between us. Which is good for me, her resolve removes temptation and the likelihood of my doing something stupid; but still, I can’t help but feel pangs of arousal. To paraphrase Woody Allen, the cock knows what it knows.

  I take some more pictures of the birds. While Maureen is preoccupied with studying them I shoot off a couple of her, too. She’d be a great subject for a photo session, with these exotic birds in the background.

  When I feel the heat rising on my face and neck I look up at the sky. The sun has climbed to the nine o’clock position. “Let’s call it a morning.”

  I gather up my gear. She follows me down to the boat. “Do you ever come out in the evening, after dark?”

  “Not often. Can’t shoot without light. Birds roost once it gets dark,” I add. She’s the expert, she knows that better than I do.

  “I meant in the hour before sundown. It must be beautiful light for pictures then,” she says, hitting me on my soft spot.

  What the hell—I’ve got nothing else to do. A few more hours in her company won’t be painful. “Okay. Come by around seven. Bring insect repellent,” I caution her. “The mosquitoes can be a bitch.”

  She beams. “That’ll be great. Thanks.”

  We push off and head upriver toward my place. I glance over in the direction of Roach’s farm. Nothing’s shaking.

  Maureen follows my look. “I have a feeling you aren’t telling me about things that are going on over there.”

  “Like what?”

  “How should I know? You see
m preoccupied with it.”

  “It’s a throwback instinct. That property used to be part of our holdings. I still feel proprietary toward it.”

  “Like Rosebud,” she says understandingly.

  “Sort of. Although Rosebud was destroyed in a fire, as I recall from the movie. Vanished, up in smoke.”

  “I meant emotionally.”

  “I know. Anyway, that’s the past. I can’t go there anymore.” Although that’s precisely what I’ve been doing.

  “None of us should. Until we get old and that’s all we have.”

  She turns her back on me and stares straight ahead as I guide us back to my place through the maze of low-hanging cypress trees.

  • • •

  Mid-afternoon, I throw out a line and pull in some rockfish. My crab traps yield four nice-sized hard-shells, enough for a couple of dinners. I gut and clean the fish and stow them in the refrigerator.

  On the stroke of seven Maureen’s rental Dodge pulls up next to my dusty Jeep and she jumps out, raring to go. We get into my boat and head down-channel.

  The late afternoon light is marvelous today. The sun is already beginning to bathe the horizon, particularly where the sky meets the water, in a golden glow that’s spackled with tendrils of orange, pink, vermilion, purple. The birds, thousands of them, are packed into this small space, all vying for position. Maureen is giddy with delight, jumping around to get a look at one group, then another.

  Her focus, of course, is on the cranes, Ollie preeminent. He stands head and shoulders apart from the throng, looking at the world through his yellow, unblinking eye. He knows he’s special. It radiates from him. He is a regal being, a lost king in a foreign kingdom.

  Maureen watches the birds. Her pleasure in them is almost childlike, rather than professional. I remember feeling that way in my classrooms when a spark caught with the students and we were all on one adventure together, discovering new truths in old passages.

  Time slips by. Before we know it, darkness is almost upon us.

  “Time to go.” I point to the sky, where the sun filtering through the trees is no more than a sliver now on the horizon. “We’re out of light.” I look to the birds, who are settling in for the night. “They’re done for today,” I point out, “and so are we.”