Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  “Ten more minutes,” she begs.

  “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I sit down on a grassy knoll, employing my bag for a backstop. The mosquitoes and other insects are out in force now; I spray insect repellent in the air, on my damp T-shirt. It won’t help much—we’ll be eaten alive if we don’t skedaddle pronto.

  She starts slapping at her arms, forehead. “Ouch!” More slaps. “Okay,” she yells at the unseen provocateurs. “I get the message. Let’s get out of here before they eat us up alive.”

  I resist saying “I told you so,” since I just did. Gallantly, I grab her gear and we walk down to my boat.

  Across the water, lights come on. Two long lines—Roach’s runway. From a near distance, I hear the sound of an airplane approaching.

  “Company,” I tell her, immediately stopping. “And we’re not invited. Stay still until they land.”

  She stands next to me as Roach’s Lear comes in, lands, taxis to a stop.

  “This feels creepy,” she says. I can hear the apprehension in her voice. She slaps at an unseen tormentor.

  “Not a problem,” I assure her. “We’re not trespassing.” I’ve got to stay calm; if I show panic I’ll freak her out. “No one knows we’re here.”

  But I’m apprehensive, too. Roach had told me he only came here on the weekends. What’s he doing here in the middle of the week? I wonder. This is the second time this has happened. Something’s going on, and it isn’t an ordinary visit—I feel that in my gut. Instinctively, I reach into my bag and take out a camera, the one with the long lens, and load a cassette of 800 ASA black and white film. You can shoot in near pitch-blackness with this film and still get an image. And I can process it in my darkroom.

  Roach emerges from his plane, followed by Wallace. No one else follows.

  “Why—?”

  I put up a hand to silence her.

  “Be quiet.” No time for politeness. “Don’t move.”

  She stands stone-still next to me. I can smell the sweat on her. Not all of it is from the heat and humidity. Then I hear the sound of another plane, approaching on a different flight pattern.

  “More company,” I observe in a whisper. “It’s a regular hoedown over there.”

  We watch as the second plane lands, taxis near Roach’s. This, too, is a corporate jet. Not a Lear like Roach’s, but about the same size. It looks smaller than the airplane the counselor and his killer came in on, but in the diminishing light I can’t be sure.

  The door swings open. Men start coming out. Three are dressed in dark suits. A fourth man hustles out after them. A machine gun is slung over his shoulder, a serious piece of business.

  “What in the—”

  I put a hand over her mouth, to silence her. “They’re not looking for us,” I say. “But they wouldn’t like it if they found out we were looking at them. Just chill.” I wait a moment until I know she’s going to be quiet, then I move my hand from her mouth. There’s a trace of lipstick on my palm. I wipe it on my shorts.

  A fifth man emerges from the airplane. He’s dressed pilot-fashion, similar to the pilot who flew the plane that had transported the slain counselor. He buttons his craft up and joins the others.

  Roach greets the other newcomers, then turns his attention to one in particular. The two talk for a moment. The conversation seems easy, but animated. I take pictures of them. Maybe I’ll get an exposure, maybe not. It’s worth the try.

  After a few moments, Roach points toward a couple of Range Rovers that are parked off the runway. They all walk toward them, get in, and drive off—toward Roach’s house, I assume.

  Maureen and I watch until the lights of their vehicles can no longer be seen. A moment later the runway lights also go out and we’re standing in darkness, but for the moonlight overhead.

  “This is weird,” she says, once she’s sure they’re gone. “What’s happening that you aren’t telling me?”

  “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. It’s nice not to have to lie for a change.

  “Why are you taking pictures of them?”

  “In case.”

  “In case what?”

  “In case I don’t know why. Can’t hurt, can it?”

  “I’ll bet if they knew you were taking pictures of them it could,” she says.

  “Let’s not tell them then.”

  I dump our bags in the boat, help her climb aboard, follow her in. Pushing off, I start rowing into the channel. I won’t start the engine until we’re well out of range, both visual and auditory.

  “Were we in danger?” she asks. She’s scared, she can’t hide it.

  “I don’t think so. Although we were spying on a high government official. I don’t know who those men with him are, but they don’t want to be seen, that’s for sure.”

  “So we were.”

  “No, because they didn’t know we were there. If Roach doesn’t want people spying on him, he knows how to avoid it, I’m sure.”

  “But he doesn’t know,” she persists. “He must think he’s safe, doing that.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’re the only ones who know. And we’re not talking, so it’s all right.”

  I don’t believe that, and I don’t think she believes that, but she doesn’t argue the point further.

  After I’m sure we’re deep enough up-channel that we won’t be heard, I start the little engine. In the moonlight I can see her smiling at me. “It’s kind of exciting,” she says. “Like being in a James Bond movie.”

  “I don’t want to be James Bond,” I tell her. “Too many people get killed in his movies.”

  She puts a hand on my knee. “You’re fine as you are.” Her hand is warm. I look down at it. She catches herself, removes it. But she doesn’t stop smiling.

  • • •

  Care for a drink?”

  “I could use one, thanks.”

  “Anything special?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  We’re back in my house. Maureen excuses herself to wash off the insect repellent. She emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, having wet down her hair and combed it back in a twist. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup; she looks like a schoolgirl, not a professor—the prettiest coed on campus.

  I assemble my mai tai fixings and make us a couple of stiff ones. We click glasses. “Skoal,” I toast.

  “And to you.” She knocks down a hearty swallow. “Whoa!” She wipes foam off her lips with the back of her hand. “Strong.”

  “I’ll back off the next one.”

  “I’ll drink to that. Although I can’t handle another one of these. I’ve got a thirty-mile drive to look forward to.”

  “Your choice. Although it’s no fun if you stop after one.”

  “Says you.” She takes a more temperate sip. “I can’t drink at your level, Fritz. A man who drinks beer mixed with raw eggs for breakfast is out of my league.”

  Funny, I’m thinking, I feel exactly the opposite about who’s out of whose league. “I could fix you something to eat, to absorb it.”

  She considers that. “If it isn’t any trouble . . .”

  “I haven’t had dinner, and cooking for two’s the same difference as one.”

  “Thanks. I’m ravenous, actually.”

  Putting the hard stuff aside, I open a bottle of white wine. Maureen watches while I dice potatoes and onions and stir-fry them in my wok with a slice of chopped-up bacon for flavor, then pan-fry my catch of the day. The crabs and rockfish steam in a couple of minutes. Some lettuce from my little garden for a salad, and we’re set. We take our plates and glasses out to the screened-in back porch, eat off the battered telephone line spool I use as an outdoor table. All the elements are in place for a late candlelight romantic dinner, except there’s no romance, and lighting candles would be pushing it.

  “Hey, this is pretty damn good,” Maureen praises me as she tastes a bite of fish. “Why didn’t you tell me you could cook?”

  “You didn’t ask.” I
’m pleased I’ve done something that impresses her. Sometimes a vicarious experience is enough, if that’s all that’s available. “Most of the great chefs are men. Not that I’m in any category like that,” I add modestly.

  “I’ve never known any of them. Not up close and personal. You’re plenty good enough for me tonight.” She whams a hammer down on a crab shell, splitting it apart, picks pieces of crabmeat out with her fingers and devours it. “You’re uncomfortable taking compliments, aren’t you?”

  “I’m okay with them,” I say a bit stiffly. I need to be careful that I don’t cross the line with her and make a fool of myself. It would be easy to do.

  “Well, you’re a good cook and a nice guy. Nicer than I was expecting.”

  I don’t reply to that—I know when to quit while I’m ahead.

  One bottle of wine doesn’t last long in the evening heat and humidity. “Another?” I toss the empty into the oil drum which serves as my trash barrel.

  She doesn’t flinch. “Why not?”

  I carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen and dump them in the sink, crack open a decent zinfandel. We sit on the porch, feet propped up on the railing. I’m barefoot, she’s kicked her fancy boots off. It’s all very comfortable and easy. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop; after a long silence, it does.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious about what’s going on with your neighbor?”

  She’s trying to sound like it’s a casual thought that just popped into her head, but I know that isn’t the case. I’d be curious, too, if I were her and didn’t know the full story. She’s already seen more than she should.

  “Sure, but it’s none of my business. I learned a long time ago to mind my own business.” I wish.

  “Isn’t he like a secretary of state or something?”

  “Not like, is. Assistant. What I think is going on,” I tell her, spitballing a story, “is he has meetings with people who don’t want to be seen in an official capacity in Washington. He’s got the perfect location—close, but out of the way.”

  “I don’t know,” she says dubiously. “It feels awfully hush-hush.”

  “Meetings like that would be.”

  She thinks about that. “Why were you taking pictures of them?”

  “Force of habit. I see it, I shoot it.”

  “But couldn’t it get you into trouble, if the wrong people found out?”

  “It’s a free country. Anyway, who’s going to tell on me? You? No one else knows except you.”

  “Why would I do that? I wouldn’t be able to observe the birds anymore,” she counters logically.

  “Then there’s no problem, is there? And why do you care what I do? You’re getting what you want.”

  “I’m curious, that’s all.”

  “What Mr. Roach does is his business and not mine, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  She backs off. “Okay. Listen, I’m here for the birds. Whatever else you do isn’t any of my affair.” She smiles, touches my arm with her hand. “You’re not going to hog that wine, are you?”

  I refill her glass. “You going to be all right, driving back to your motel?”

  “You know the saying about how do you hold your liquor?” She laughs, a hiccupy kind of laugh. She’s getting high, which amuses me. If the circumstances were different . . .

  “Yes, I’ve heard that saying.”

  She laughs again. We’re on the same loopy wavelength. “I shouldn’t jabber like this,” she says. “You’ll get the wrong impression.” She’s definitely high, and enjoying it.

  “What impression should I get?” I shouldn’t be pushing this, but I can’t help it. She’s too damned sexy for me not to. She’ll stop me when she wants—she’s feeling frisky, but she’s still in control.

  “The right one.”

  “I think I’ve got that.”

  She looks up at me. Is there genuine feeling there, or am I kidding myself?

  “I hope you do.”

  • • •

  All too soon, our evening comes to an end. I don’t know where to go from here, we don’t have much to talk about, we don’t know each other beyond the superficial details. I’m about to say “I guess you’d better be hitting the road” when she preempts me.

  “Can I sleep here tonight?” She stretches luxuriously, a big cat after a satisfying meal.

  “I don’t . . .”

  “On your couch. It looks comfy.”

  It is—I’ve fallen asleep on it countless times. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She gives me a peculiar look. “Why not?”

  “Because you’re sexy as hell and I’ve had too much to drink. We both have. I might do something stupid, like hit on you in the middle of the night, which would fuck things up.”

  I look at her, for her reaction. She’s still staring at me, but there’s no clue.

  “And I don’t want that. I mean, I do, you’re a beautiful woman, desirable as hell. But I can’t get involved with anyone now, and I wouldn’t want to have casual sex with you.” I’m getting nervous, just thinking about the possibilities. “We’re going to be together almost every day for the next few weeks. It wouldn’t work. Even if you wanted to. Which you don’t.”

  “Yeah.” She pulls herself together. “We don’t want to put ourselves in the path of temptation.” She gives me a sisterly peck on the cheek. “You’re a nice guy. I’ve already said that, haven’t I?”

  I don’t say “nice guys finish last,” but I feel it. “Yes,” I say instead. “I’m a nice guy.”

  • • •

  I drive her to her motel—she doesn’t know the roads that well, and she’s jagged around the edges. Parking in front of her unit, I walk her to her door.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Not too early. We both can use a good night’s sleep.”

  She leans over and gives me a kiss. A mere brush of the lips, but it’s a real kiss. “Thanks for everything.” She goes inside, closing the door behind her.

  I drift back to my car and take my time driving home. Her taste lingers on my mouth, but not as long as I want it to.

  I fetch Maureen the following morning and take her to Maizie’s Lunchroom (formerly the Tobacco Broker’s Bar & Grill) for an old-fashioned country breakfast. A local landmark, built at the turn of the century, it features dark wood walls, beat-up leather banquettes, a pressed-tin ceiling. Faded prints of Scottish country scenes adorn the walls. The restaurant’s popularity peaked in the heyday of King Tobacco, when the high rollers—the growers and auctioneers and out-of-town buyers for the tobacco companies—bellied up three-deep to the bar at the end of the day, abused their livers with Old Grandad and Jim Beam, and gorged themselves on two-pound porterhouses. Tobacco’s not as much of a cash crop in this country anymore, but the restaurant keeps chugging along. Maizie, whose real name is Frank Wheatley, a teetotaling retired fireman, bought it twenty years ago and turned it into a luncheonette. The place quit serving liquor soon after, and now closes at two, after lunch.

  By mutual consent we’re not going to do our usual bird-watching today. We both feel the need to steer clear of Roach’s property for a few days, let our emotions settle down.

  After a leisurely, gut-stretching chowdown—eggs fried in butter, spicy sausage, grits, biscuits with homemade jelly, strong chicory-flavored coffee—I give her the deluxe tour of the area, such as it is. There are a few pre–Revolutionary War homes in Jamestown that are open to the public, but nothing much else of historic interest. Still, this is an engaging region, if you appreciate the throwback life, because it is rural and slow. There are two car dealerships, a Ford and a GM, a John Deere store, various small shops that sell items you can find anywhere. Mostly it’s a farming community, lots of dairy cattle, chickens, hogs, vegetables. Except for the basic life-style improvements—electricity, indoor plumbing, cars, TVs, etc.—much of it is still as it was a hundred, two hundred years ago. Certainly in attitude. Hardly anyone lives here who isn’t from here—there
’s nothing for an outsider to do, except buy a local business; and since it’s insular, it can be boring and closed off to a newcomer.

  After that we jump into my car and tour the countryside. I point out some of the Amish farms and we stop at one to examine their crafts, in this case wooden cabinets, beautifully made in the old-fashioned way, without nails. Maureen thinks about buying one for her place back in Boston, but it won’t fit into my Jeep.

  It feels domestic, cruising around with her, looking at this stuff. A good feeling, comfortable. It reminds me of similar forays I made with Marnie, out in the Texas countryside.

  By early afternoon we call it a day for sightseeing and head on down the road toward my place. It takes the better part of an hour on the narrow back roads. I put an old Grateful Dead CD on and we groove with it as we cruise along. The first time I laid eyes on her I thought she could be a Deadhead, or at least a connoisseur.

  I wasn’t wrong. She even knows the lyrics.

  “Want a cold beer?” I ask as we park and get out of my car. Her rental Dodge is where she left it, in front of my house.

  “Sure,” she answers willingly. “Only one, though, Fritz. I can’t be having you driving sixty miles round-trip again.”

  I pop a couple of cold ones and we sit around the kitchen table, drinking our brews from the bottle. “I’m going to be gone for a couple of days. Shit to take care of in Washington,” I tell her. “So we’re on hiatus until the day after the day after tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” she replies cheerfully enough. “I’ve been wanting to hook up with some local Audubon Society members, check out other sites. Don’t worry.” She smiles as I look at her anxiously. “Ollie is our secret, no one else’s.”

  “I wasn’t worried,” I fib. A fib is a small, acceptable lie.

  “I want you to know you can trust me.”

  “I trust you okay. I don’t trust myself all the time.”

  I walk her outside to her car.