Sparrow Migrations

by Cari Noga

  “I’ll stay with him,” she said, resignation saddling each word. “You go eat. Bring me back a bagel or something.”

  Sam started to protest, then cut himself off. A half hour without Robby sounded pretty appealing right now. “OK. I’ll be back at ten.”

  Before he crossed the street to the diner, Sam glanced back at his wife and son. Linda had walked up to the step where Robby was bunkered but kept a good five-foot perimeter. She looked like a sentinel up there, a watchdog ready to chase away whatever might dare to disturb or unsettle the mind and body shrouded beneath the hooded sweatshirt and headphones. Not unlike any other mother, really. The problem was that simple routines of daily life were a constant bombardment to Robby’s hypersensitive sensory systems. His communication and social deficits further isolated him. Thus the mission never ended.

  And Sam was the only one who could relieve her.

  Robby watched his father’s back retreat. Down the steps. Down the sidewalk, to the corner. The dark-green diamonds of his quilted coat blended into the newsstand. The light changed. He crossed three lanes of yellow taxis and disappeared into the diner. Finally.

  Robby exhaled and wedged his body more firmly into his corner. He liked feeling the cool, solid stone wall behind him. Here, nothing could come up and surprise him. It felt safe. The safest place he’d found in New York. Better than the hotel with the stiff, scratchy sheets and bedspreads. Better than the subways, with the swooshing trains and chiming doors and chattering riders and the surprise invisible announcer voice. Way better than Uncle Tom and Aunt Robin’s house, where they went for dinner last night, before his cousin Tyler’s hockey game.

  Dinner wasn’t ready. Why were they invited at five if dinner wouldn’t be ready for another hour? “How’s it going, buddy?” his uncle had said.

  “I’m not your buddy. We don’t ever see each other.”

  “Robby!” His mother laughed, her gasp-laugh. Then she told him to go upstairs with Tyler. “I’m sorry, Tom. He’s just so literal,” he heard her say as he followed Tyler, sighing.

  Upstairs in his room, Tyler kept asking him questions. What sports did he like? Had he ever been to a hockey game? Did he want to watch Tyler’s hockey highlight DVD and learn everything?

  Robby didn’t answer. He asked if Tyler had any video games.

  “Video games are a waste of time,” Tyler said. “Turn you into a slug. Let’s play hoops in the backyard?”

  When Robby still didn’t answer, Tyler waited, then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go ask Uncle Sam.”

  Tyler’s room overlooked the driveway. Five minutes later, Robby heard the thump-thump-thump-thud of the basketball dribbled onto the concrete, then lofted at the rim. Thump-thump-thump-thud. A shout. A laugh—his dad’s. Then the smack of a high five. More laughter. Robby had drawn the strings of his Detroit Lions hoodie tighter, until the taut gray fabric almost covered his eyes. His own cocoon there in northern New Jersey, miles and miles from home.

  On the museum steps he drew the strings again, but not quite so tightly, peering through the fringe of his bangs. He wanted to be able to see his dad come back, because that would mean it was time for them to unlock the doors. Unlock the doors to this place. Let him in so he could learn about the geese from Canada. Find them and figure out just what had brought them to the Hudson River, these birds in the bird strike.

  Robby chewed the hard end of the drawstring. Just minding their own business, those geese were. Like he did. But that wasn’t enough for everyone else. They had to prod and intrude. And look what happened.

  He tried to imagine how it would feel to hit the plane. Geese usually flew in Vs. He saw them in the fall at home, soaring above the gray suburban roofs, their long dotted lines somehow appearing simultaneously fluid and regimented.

  They must have been flying like that yesterday. What happened to the geese farther back? he wondered. Did they see what happened to their leader? To the next two or three or four? Did they understand? From the docks he saw the geese swimming by the plane. Were they from the stricken flock, circling back upriver to look for their lost companions? Or did they just continue on their instinctive path southward? Who would know?

  “Here comes Dad, Robby.”

  His mom’s voice broke his concentration. Robby blinked. He had forgotten to keep watch. His dad was passing the green newsstand again, carrying a white bag. Robby felt his stomach tighten.

  Finally.

  “Amanda. Amanda. Amanda!”

  Walking to her locker, Amanda felt someone at her elbow just before her earbud was lifted. Abby.

  “Today’s the day! Audition day! How do I look?” She twirled in front of Amanda, showing off her bouncing high ponytail. She did look like Sandra Dee, at least as Olivia Newton-John portrayed her. “Can’t hurt to drop a little hint, right? I’m so nervous. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.”

  “Oh, Ab, I don’t think I can today, after all. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got some, uh, other stuff to do.” She couldn’t explain why, but Amanda didn’t want to tell her Kelsey had been right about her mom being on the news.

  “No way. You’re not serious.” Abby’s face became bereft.

  Amanda tried to placate her. “There’s two days of auditions, right? I’ll be there tomorrow. Promise.”

  “That’s what you said about today. You know how, like, huge this is for me, right?” Abby’s voice quavered. She looked mad and scared and hurt, all at once. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Look, I can’t really talk about it now. I’m sorry. Really, Ab, I am. I know you’ll be great. But I can’t tonight. I just can’t.”

  Amanda was mad, too. Mad at her mom for being gone, and doing something strange like lying about a boat trip. Mad at Kelsey for happening to see her on TV and telling Amanda about it. Mad at CNN for not showing that clip just thirty seconds later, when she’d have been out of the house. Mad at herself for not keeping her promise to Abby, who was her best friend, after all. Maybe she could tell her a little bit.

  “Look, there’s something weird going on with my mom. She’s been out of town the last few days. And I’ve just got to see her as soon as she gets home this afternoon. I’ll call you tonight, OK?”

  To Amanda’s relief, some of the anger disappeared from Abby’s face, though her tone was skeptical.

  “Your mom? That can’t wait till dinnertime?”

  Amanda shook her head. “I’ve got to talk to her before my dad gets home.”

  Abby’s eyebrows lifted as she contemplated Amanda’s answer. “Huh. Can’t you tell me more now?”

  The bell rang, saving Amanda from answering. Abby sighed. “OK. Well, I guess I’ll see you third hour, then?” They had biology together.

  “Yeah.” Amanda nodded, and with a little wave, turned toward her first-hour classroom.

  Unpacking in her bedroom, Brett tried to settle her jangled nerves. She had hoped the miles would distance her from the trip, her near-delirious joy at being free with Jackie, free from the mask and script that she followed every day of her life in Scranton. Instead, her anxiety ratcheted up with each mile. They had not spoken about the future, whether there would be another visit, or even another phone call.

  But sitting on the bed she had shared with Richard for eighteen years, Brett knew there would be. Thinking of sleeping with him in the meantime made her despondent. That night, tomorrow night, the rest of the week, the rest of their lives. She couldn’t do it anymore.

  She didn’t fear making love. Their marriage had long ago lapsed into the platonic status where it had begun, at Penn State second semester. He was a sophomore on the other wing of her floor in her new dorm, and they wound up sitting together in the cafeteria. When he first kissed her—a chaste peck after a movie two months later—Brett was so relieved for a reason to bury the feelings Donna had stirred that she kissed back.

  Now, with t
he memories of true passion so raw, it was the dishonesty of their mutual charade that made her shut her eyes against her reflection in the bathroom mirror, as she replaced her toothbrush and dental floss and makeup in their rightful places.

  But was this the rightful place after all—this small-but-adequate master bathroom in a three-bedroom house in a middle-class family neighborhood in Scranton, Pennsylvania? It had been Richard’s choosing, as had everything since her sophomore year, when she transferred with him to a small Bible college south of Pittsburgh, near the border with West Virginia. He felt called to study ministry, he said, and he was certain she would hear it, too, if she just gave it a chance.

  Whether it was a calling or not, Brett was far more comfortable on the small campus, with its unwritten but proscribed rules of behavior, than she’d been in the anything-goes atmosphere at Penn State. And after a spring-break mission trip across the state line into West Virginia, where they spent a week toiling to build a community center for a rural church, she began to believe Richard was right. The accomplishment she felt looking at the simple wooden structure, on top of the naked gratitude from the community, was deeper and more satisfying than any academic achievement. She felt proud, too, to be with Richard, the group’s unquestioned leader, whose marriage proposal she would accept six months later.

  Brett stared out the window, through the bare tree limbs, down to the snow-dusted lawns. So when did that all change? When did Richard become more preoccupied with being pastor than being pastoral? When did evangelical issues edge out social justice as his priority? When did Donna resurface in her memory? How many other Donnas had she closed her eyes to, until Jackie? Don’t, she counseled herself, as she reached into her pocket for her cell phone. Not yet. It hasn’t been four hours since we said good-bye. Amanda will be home any minute, her conscience hollered in futility as her fingers dialed Jackie’s number.

  It rang several times. Jackie was still in the air en route back to Charlotte, Brett realized as her voice mail recording kicked on. The sound of her voice—its warm, Southern lilt, even reciting the innocuous greeting—electrified Brett’s body.

  “Jack, it’s Brett. I’m home. I miss you already. Call me—no, text me—when you get in. I’ll try to call back when I can. I . . . I . . . I hope you had a good trip home,” she said hastily, hearing the door open downstairs and Amanda’s voice calling to her, dragging her back to her suffocating real life.

  “You made me feel alive,” she whispered with her last breath.

  Amanda watched her mom smile as she came downstairs.

  “Hi, sweetheart! I’m so glad to see you!” She pulled Amanda into a hug.

  “Hi.” Relief surged through Amanda. Her mom looked just the same, sounded just the same. Was that really her on that news clip? Amanda decided not to bring it up right away, after all.

  “How was school? You look like you held up just fine without me. How about I make us some popcorn for a snack?”

  As they walked together to the kitchen, Amanda spotted the sack of bird feed she’d dropped in the middle of the floor before school. So did her mom.

  Curiously, she picked it up. “Why is this sitting out here?”

  Amanda stared at the burlap sack, scrambling for an explanation. Her mom filled in.

  “Your father probably meant to fill it up but got sidetracked.” She glanced out the window at the feeder, nearly empty again, shaking her head as she hoisted the sack. “I guess someone needs me, anyway. Be right back.”

  SIX

  The instant the security guard at the American Natural History Museum unlocked the revolving door, Robby was inside a compartment by himself, his breath fogging the glass. How typical, Linda thought, watching the back of his head, still cradled in the hood and headphones. They spent their lives going round and round with Robby. And like Sam said in the hotel room, they always followed, always a step behind, always separated from his world.

  Inside, Robby didn’t even glance at the dinosaur skeleton dominating the opulent lobby. He aimed straight for two redwood-sized granite pillars that framed the entrance to the interior.

  “Robby, wait. We have to pay first,” Linda called as he dodged past a security guard. Grim-faced, Sam increased his stride and caught his son in five paces, taking hold of him firmly, by both shoulders this time, turning him back toward the admission counter. “Third floor!” Robby protested. “Birds! Third floor!”

  “Pay first. Then birds,” Sam said, using abrupt sentences, the fewest words possible, as the behavioral psychologist advised.

  “Birds!” Robby insisted, freezing his body.

  Still holding his shoulders, Sam said evenly, “We pay first. Then see birds. Pay first. Or leave now.” He released Robby’s shoulders and waited.

  This time, for his own random reasons, Robby chose to comply. Mutely he followed Sam through the line switchbacks to the admissions counter, where Linda exhaled and the guard watched curiously.

  Two regular admission adult tickets and one child—Robby just edged in under the twelve and under limit—cost $48.50. “Good grief,” Sam muttered, putting away his Visa.

  “Come on,” Linda said. “If it’s half as good as he thinks it is, this will be the bargain of the vacation.”

  Sam shrugged, then turned back to Robby, clapping him on the back. “So, third floor, right, Rob?”

  Instead of wincing and shrinking away, Robby merely nodded and fell in step beside them, even removing his headphones, which cheered Linda disproportionately. She hoped Sam noticed.

  She needn’t have bothered with the museum map. Robby navigated them expertly to the Frank M. Chapman Memorial Hall of North American Birds on the third floor, where he suddenly looked uncertain.

  “This is it, right?” Sam walked in. “Come on, let’s take a look around.”

  Robby walked in but barely glanced at the first few specimens on exhibit. He tucked his chin and shuffled his feet.

  “What the hell’s the matter now?” Sam whispered. “Robby, we’re finally here. This is what you wanted to see. Take a look!”

  Robby remained unengaged through the first two rooms. In the third room they found a display devoted to East Coast migration paths. Robby’s head lifted. He read the entire label. Linda could follow along reading his lips.

  Reaching the end of the text, he bounced up and down. “Geese!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the nearly empty hall. “Geese!” He started running from display to display, pausing to scan each, bouncing on his toes, grunting, and flapping his left fist. The anxiety trifecta.

  “This is what I was afraid of,” Sam said. “I didn’t see any geese exhibition listed online.”

  “Let’s ask him,” Linda said, pointing to the next room, where a man typed industriously on a keyboard.

  “Excuse me, could you tell us if you happen to have any exhibitions of geese?” Linda asked.

  “Canada geese!” Robby was suddenly at her elbow. Linda jumped.

  “Robby, you scared me. OK, Canada geese, then,” she repeated.

  “Let me check.” The man’s name tag said he was Thomas, a volunteer from the Bronx. Typing again, he paused, then responded with the head shake Linda dreaded. “Lots of hits, but no Canada geese showing up on display at the moment.”

  “The Museum’s bird collection grew to become one of the greatest in the world and now holds ninety-nine percent of all known species,” Robby said flatly.

  “Excuse me?” Thomas looked at them over the top of his glasses.

  “It’s something he’s read, probably on your website,” Linda explained.

  “I know. I’m looking at it right now. He said it word for word. That’s amazing,” Thomas said, looking Robby up and down.

  “So find them,” Robby said, resuming his toe bouncing.

  “Find what?”

  “Canada geese.”

  “We don’t ha
ve that type of bird on exhibit now. I just told you.”

  “Ninety-nine percent of all known species are here, and you don’t have that one?” Sam asked, catching on to Robby’s unspoken argument. “That does seem kind of odd. It’s not like a goose is some rare, exotic thing.”

  “Well, no, but that’s what the computer says,” Thomas said defensively, pointing at the screen.

  “Canada geese!” Robby interjected again, his voice shrill as he yanked on his sweatshirt strings. His downward spiral was accelerating.

  “Isn’t there someone else we could ask?” Linda said.

  “Well, I could call down to the ornithology offices, I guess,” Thomas said, a note of doubt in his voice. He consulted a phone list and dialed. He hung up almost immediately. “Busy.” He picked it up and tried again. “Still busy.” Linda heard Robby’s low moan of frustration. She hoped Thomas hadn’t.

  He was dialing a third time when a short, bearded older man walked quickly into the room. He passed their clustered quartet without a glance, intent on something across the room.

  Spotting him, Thomas hung up. “Dr. Felk! I was just trying to reach you.”

  “Canada geese. Where?” Robby’s voice was so loud.

  Dr. Felk pivoted. “Reach me? Who are you? Thomas?” He lowered his gaze as he retraced his steps, squinting at Thomas’s name tag through the bottom of his wire-framed bifocals. “I’ve met you before, right?”

  “Yes, many times, Dr. Felk,” the volunteer said. “These visitors here—”

  “Canada geese! Canada geese!” Robby’s pitch and intensity were increasing.

  Dr. Felk turned away from Thomas, taking a long look at Robby. Bushy gray eyebrows rose just above his glasses, then dropped as he took in her son, whose hood was not only up but tight around his face, from tugging on the strings. Now one hand tugged while the other plucked nervously at the headphones around his neck.

  “Visitors. I see. Yes. You’re interested in Canada geese, young man?”

  Mutely, Robby nodded. Hang in there, Linda thought.