by Cari Noga
“I heard the commotion and recognized Robby when I looked over. What’s going on, son?”
“He stole my theory!” Robby insisted again. “I used his databases. Yesterday I told him more about the geese in the crash.” His words sputtered, the sentences clipped into fragments. “Late migration date. Fly to South Carolina. No data points since the crash. I was right, Dr. Felk!
“But he said I was wrong. ‘Better luck next time,’ he said.
“Then, in there, he took my idea.” Robby dropped to his knees in the middle of the hall and rummaged in his backpack, pulling out a handful of disorganized, torn flash cards. “I can prove it. It’s all here!”
“Robby, please. Keep your voice down,” Sam pleaded. Some passersby carefully threaded past the hallway tableau, studiously avoiding even a glance. Others watched furtively. Felk was listening intently. He took a flash card, then another. “You did all this research yourself?”
Robby nodded. “It’s here, too.” He held up the thumb drive.
“Are you free for lunch?” Felk looked between father and son.
“Yes. Tell him yes, Dad. Tell him yes!” Robby stood up, staring at Dr. Felk as if at a redeemer.
Sam hesitated. He looked at Robby’s face. “All right. I suppose.”
As Robby walked ahead to the hotel restaurant, Sam spoke quietly to Felk. “He’s so deep into researching this crash. It’s like some complete alternate reality. I’d heard autistic people could get really involved in their arcane niches, but I never expected anything like this.”
Felk nodded. “I had an instinct about Robby back in January. I just want to see where he’s gone with it the last couple months.”
Father, son, and ornithologist sat down in a booth. Robby dumped his backpack out on the table and began reciting again the trends he’d discovered in Baxter’s database of banded Canada geese.
The South Carolina–bound flock with late arrival dates in New York. The lack of data points after January 15. His group of forty-eight most likely victims. His second-tier choices. Felk listened, waving off the waitress multiple times.
After fifteen minutes, Robby finished. He sat back, as drained as after a meltdown. But though his adrenaline was obviously revved up, he’d remained coherent and in control of his body except for the outburst in the lecture hall, Sam realized.
“You’ve been busy the last couple months,” Felk said, pushing the backpack contents around on the table. Flotsam and jetsam, Sam thought. The giant, outdated headphones; the flash cards, dingy from constant handling even before Robby ripped some; the brown notebook; a cheap solar-powered calculator.
At the bottom on the pile, Felk’s fingers brushed more ripped paper—larger than the flash cards, the sheets unlined, hastily crumpled. Seemingly idly, Felk’s fingers smoothed the wrinkles. Sam leaned over to see better.
It was a sketch. A bird perched on a branch, building a nest. Done in pencil, like the flash cards. Unlike Robby’s sloppy penmanship, though, the lines of the drawing were finely done, from the precise edges of the bird’s beak to the variegated shading of its feathers.
Next to him, Sam felt Felk sit up straighter. “Mmm-hmm,” he said, setting aside the sketch and returning to the pile, sifting through the papers more urgently now. He found another crumpled sketch, this one a close-up of the nest. Then a third of a bird in flight. He turned them to face Robby. His son ducked his head, pushing the sketches back into the larger pile.
“Robby, did you do those?” Sam tugged them back out, amazed. Linda mentioned Robby doing some drawing, but he’d never imagined anything this good. “They’re wonderful. Why are they in the bottom of your backpack, crumpled up?”
Robby looked at his lap, then at the sketches sticking out of the pile. He shrugged. He looked at Felk, who held the gaze a long moment before he spoke.
“Your dad’s right, Robby. Those sketches are excellent. They show attention to detail, accuracy, and skill. And they show the most important thing. Far more important than the data on your flash cards, believe it or not, or even whether you reached the right conclusion before Baxter did. They show passion.”
A strange look crossed Robby’s face. Embarrassment? Confusion? Both? Sam couldn’t tell.
“I see your passion for birds in these sketches, Robby,” Felk continued. “And that’s the piece that an ornithologist must have. It’s not just about the mystery of flight, the aerodynamics, the fascinating ancestry of birds that makes people dedicate their lives to studying them. There has to be a passion. A personal one.
“For me, it’s hearing the rare songbirds, like the Bicknell’s thrush. For the last thirty years, every spring, I go to Vermont, hoping to hear one. For Baxter, it’s establishing a sanctuary on his reserve up there in Canada, providing safe haven from all the threats we humans impose.”
Robby nodded slightly, his brown eyes lifting to look at Felk.
“I don’t know what it is yet for you. But looking at these sketches, I know you’ve got that passion. You’ve got the head for the data, that’s for sure, not to mention the intellectual curiosity. But think about these past two months. What kept you at your computer, querying that database every which way till Sunday?”
“I could imagine how they felt.” Robby seemed to be talking to himself. “I saw them from the ferry. Flying along the river. Not bothering anyone.”
Felk nodded. “Go on,” he said, softly.
“Just there in the sky. Their home.”
Felk nodded again.
Robby cleared his throat, his voice getting a bit louder. “Then comes the plane. Invading. The birds don’t have a chance.”
Watching the tears form in Robby’s eyes, Sam felt dampness in his own.
Robby looked at Felk. “I thought if I learned about them, maybe I could help them.”
Felk smiled. “You will, Robby. I would stake my recording of the Bicknell’s thrush on that. And after lunch, I’m going to introduce you to someone who can help you with the first step.” He looked around the restaurant. “Do you suppose we could convince the waitress we really do want to eat?”
Flagging down a waitress, he waved for Robby to order first. Sam caught Felk’s eye. “I think you mean the second step, right?”
Felk’s brow furrowed. “How’s that?”
“You said you’d introduce him to someone who can help him with the first step.” Sam held Felk’s watery blue gaze. “Robby met that man three months ago. And it’s past time I thanked you.”
“Christopher! Christopher Goldman. Is that you?”
Christopher turned and smiled, the voice lifting his low spirits. Class of ’56, Arthur Felk was one of Cornell’s most venerated biology alumni and an institution himself at the American Museum of Natural History. The summer internship he offered there every year was one of the most competitive at Cornell. He had mentored dozens of greenhorn students who didn’t know the difference between a crest and a cap into confident, credible scientists—including Christopher.
Lately Christopher wondered whether the man’s age was catching up with him. Last year, he’d caught a few methodology mistakes in research Felk asked him to review before journal submission. Still, his lifetime stature was towering.
“Dr. Felk! I didn’t know you were going to be here. Why didn’t you get in touch? Can we meet for dinner later? A drink?”
“Arthur, please, Christopher. You know to call me Arthur now. Sort of a last-minute decision, my boy. Later, yes, indeed, we must meet. But there’s something else first. You’re on your way to the Expo, yes? Staffing the camp table?”
Christopher nodded.
“Excellent. I’m going to bring by some people this afternoon. Robby and Sam, boy and his dad, from here in Michigan. Met them at the museum back in January. We spent an hour down in the archives. Christopher, this kid’s brilliant. Twelve years old. I’ve never seen so much ra
w potential.” Felk was visibly excited, his eyes bright, his words rapid. “But it’s raw, you know? I think his parents mean well, but they really don’t have any idea how to help him. So he’s got his local club. And this. The camp could be what cements it for him.”
“Twelve years old?” Christopher shook his head. He hated to disappoint Dr. Felk. “Thirteen’s the minimum age for camp.”
The older man paused, his train of thought interrupted. “Really. I didn’t know that. Well, maybe he’s got a birthday coming up.” He resumed. “Anyway. I want you to meet him. Robby Palmer. We’ll be by in about an hour.”
“I’ll keep an eye out.” They shook hands again.
Absorbed in talking to another prospect, he didn’t notice Felk approach with the Palmers an hour later. So he couldn’t stifle shock when he recognized the kid seated next to him at Baxter’s presentation, the one who had the screaming outburst. Clad in the same oversize gray Detroit Lions sweatshirt, hood up, accompanied by the furious father who had dragged him into the hall. This was the prodigy?
“Robby and Sam, this is Dr. Christopher Goldman. He’s the one I told you about at lunch. He’s a biologist at Cornell University, the very best in the country. They run a special summer camp for young birders.”
“Hi, Robby,” Christopher extended his hand. He owed it to Dr. Felk to at least give the kid a chance. Robby stared at the floor, not meeting his eyes.
“Go on, Robby.” The dad nudged his son, who reluctantly withdrew a hand from his pocket and wordlessly placed it in Christopher’s.
Felk crouched down to Robby’s eye level. “Robby, it’s OK. Dr. Goldman can help you. He’s an accomplished scientist. He studied with me at the museum years ago.”
Robby’s head lifted to look at Felk. He glanced back at Christopher, reappraising him silently, skeptically, then nodding. Ridiculously, Christopher felt reprieved.
Felk stood up. “Christopher, you’re on.”
“OK. Well.” Christopher handed a brochure to Sam. Robby stuck his hand out and after missing a beat, Christopher handed one to him, too, suddenly wishing he’d let someone else handle this conference. Someone with kids. He didn’t know how to behave around kids.
After last summer’s camp, when Peter has raised the budget alarm and presented this conference as a prime recruiting opportunity, everyone in the department was surprised when Christopher not only volunteered to go, but to help with the summer camp.
Christopher tried to act noncommittal. It had been a sentimental impulse, a way to show Deborah he was trying, too, trying to prepare for potential parenthood. Well, maybe not just to show Deborah. Deep inside he did carry that imaginary video clip, of himself and a child in Sapsucker woods, each with a pair of binoculars. In the first frame he pointed where the child should look. In the next frame he crouched down with his own set level. In the third, he put his hands over the child’s, gently aiming the lenses together. He hadn’t even told Deborah about the camp before everything started happening: the crash, the transfer, the news about Helen, the positive pregnancy test.
Well, he was committed now. Christopher launched into his spiel, still directing his words at Sam. “Cornell’s summer birding camps are considered the premier learning experience available to future generations of ornithologists. Every summer young people ages thirteen to sixteen gather on our campus to spend two weeks—”
Sam interrupted. “Thirteen? Robby’s twelve.”
Christopher nodded. “Thirteen’s the minimum. When’s his birthday?”
“October.”
“Then he could come next summer.”
“Coming this summer.” Robby spoke for the first time.
Christopher shook his head and directed his answer at Sam again. “It’ll be better if he waits a year. Gets a little more mature.”
“This summer!” Robby insisted. Sam and Christopher both glanced nervously at Felk, who seemed unperturbed.
Felk looked at Christopher. “Robby and his family were visiting New York this winter when that plane crashed in the river. The one struck by the Canada geese. They were on a ferry in the Hudson, in fact. That’s when Robby got interested in geese. They came to the museum afterward. That’s how we met.”
“You were on a ferry in the river that day?” Stunned, Christopher looked first at father, then son.
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “It was a pretty pivotal experience for Robby, seeing that. You can imagine.”
“I can.” Christopher nodded. “I was on that plane.” His voice sounded like someone else’s.
“On the plane?” Sam echoed.
Robby’s head whipped up as Felk spoke. “Christopher, you were a passenger? I didn’t know. My God, what a thing to go through. Was Deborah with you?”
Before Christopher could nod again, Robby cut in. “Did you see them fly into the engine?”
“See the geese?”
Robby nodded.
“No. It all happened so fast, just a couple minutes after takeoff. We were—”
“Did you hear them?” Robby plunged forward with another question. “Hear them get sucked in?”
Christopher blanched, remembering. “Kind of. There were some thuds. Then the engines stalled.”
“The right side first, right?” Robby was bouncing up and down on his toes. “The news said both. But the NTSB report said the right side was hit first. About ten seconds before.”
“You read the NTSB report?” Christopher’s attention was now fully focused on Robby.
“How did you get your hands on that?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Internet,” Robby answered. “It’s unusual for both engines to be taken out. Most bird strikes are single-engine events.” He continued, reciting the report apparently from memory. “Were it not for pilot Sully Sullenberg’s quick thinking, the outcome could have easily been tragic.”
Felk jumped in. “Christopher, I think you can see Robby’s pretty interested in birds. Maybe we can work around that age limit.”
“I’ll check into it.” Christopher felt dazed, transported back to that cold day, so pivotal in his own life.
Another parent-child pair approached the booth. Felk took the cue, shepherding Robby away. “We’ll read through this material. I’m sure there’s plenty online, too. Christopher, how about one of your cards, too, in case Sam or Robby have questions later?”
Christopher had extended his card. As Robby reached for it, he handed Christopher the thumb drive. “Check this out, too.” As their fingers brushed, the momentary touch startled him.
From a dozen steps away, Felk had called over his shoulder. “Meet me in the bar for that drink at six.”
TWENTY
In the kitchen, Brett shuttled between sink and stove. Amanda was closeted in her room, Richard in his basement home office. Her only company was a pair of persistent sparrows twittering outside the window as they scrabbled for the dregs under the empty feeder.
Brett scooped the potatoes into a serving bowl. She filled the water glasses and lined up the salad dressings. Then she took a deep breath.
“Amanda, Richard! Dinner’s ready.”
Gathered at the table, she imagined them as a three-part Venn diagram, each one’s edges barely overlapping around the oak dining set. She and Richard had bought it when she was pregnant with Amanda, still suppressing the sensations from freshman year and deluding herself that she might bear the brood that would need a seven-piece set.
Richard started the grace, extending his hands to Brett and Amanda automatically. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest. Let these gifts to us be blessed . . .” As she gazed at the chipped purple polish on Amanda’s nails, Brett felt grateful for the hand-holding tradition, the first touch she’d had in a week. Now that she’d thrown away her life script, she was discovering there was a fine line between freeing and floundering.
“Amen,” Richard
said, his eyes still closed.
“Amen,” Brett repeated, releasing Amanda’s hand. But on the other side, Richard held on. “Lord, we come to you tonight with heavy hearts, to ask for your forgiveness and guidance to help us find our way back to your path.”
Brett’s head whipped toward her husband. Richard squeezed her hand tighter.
“This path Brett is choosing, Lord, I know it’s unnatural. I know it’s not your way. Help me to help her realize that, Lord. Help us to again be husband and wife, as you intended. Parents to Amanda. A Christian family once again.”
Opening his eyes, he released their hands and picked up his fork. “Pass the potatoes please, Amanda.”
“Richard.” Brett felt ill. “My God. What are you saying?”
“What I believe, Brett. I’ve been praying about this all week. I’m not going to allow our family to disintegrate. We’ve turned away from God. Me too, I’ll admit it. I’ve been swept up with being pastor, spending so much time at church. I’m praying for the strength to change, to be more humble, more fulfilled in my role at home.” He turned to Amanda. “The potatoes, Amanda?”
Amanda looked as shocked as Brett felt, her hand frozen on the serving bowl.
“Richard, your prayers aren’t going to change me.”
“Don’t underestimate the power of prayer, Brett.”
He was so calm, so damn complacent.
“I don’t. I’ve been praying for years for the strength to tell you the truth. Both of you. And I finally did.” Brett’s chest heaved. “John, chapter eight: ‘You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.’”
“Don’t you twist sacred Scripture. Don’t tell me God played a part in this.” An edge crept into Richard’s voice. “It’s Satan at work. He’s seized your soul, Brett. Lying for all these months. And this—this—sinful behavior.”
“My behavior is not your concern anymore.” Brett felt like her words might singe the air, she was so angry. She saw Amanda’s head swiveling between them. She looked torn between wanting to run to her room and not daring to miss a word. Watching her, Brett didn’t notice Richard’s clenched fist on the table until he banged it.