The Bird Artist

by Howard Norman

  I hung up the sheets on their nails. We went to Spivey’s.

  At our table, before we had supper, Margaret said, “Tomorrow’s Guy Fawkes Day. A year’s gone by, Fabian. A person can pack a lot into a year, can’t a person. It’s Guy Fawkes, plus it’s a Thursday. I’d agree to sleep at your house if we pass up the festivities.”

  “I wasn’t planning to attend.”

  That Thursday night—the bonfire blazing near the lighthouse—Margaret and I met in my kitchen just after dark.

  “I want to get into bed right away,” she said.

  Before we took off our clothes, Margaret did not have a drink of whiskey as she customarily did. She just began kissing me, tenderly one moment, the opposite the next. She kissed every part of my face, then moved down my shoulder to my chest. I was so taken by her dreamy expression—eyes half closed, glancing at my face now and then, arms holding on for dear life more than in an embrace—that at first I did not fathom the words she whispered between kisses. Words having nothing yet everything to do with the moment. “You have to build a new bed.” She kissed my neck now. “I want every last thing of Alaric’s out of the house.” She wrapped her leg around mine and held my hands above my head. “I’ll have supper once a week alone with my father.” Now she gently rocked on top of me, eyes closed. “I wouldn’t be a bride in front of that mural. Never.” She lay across my chest, breathing into my ear, and continued with the rules of our marriage. “Halifax is out, for a honeymoon place. I’d rather not go anywhere.” Now, lost in her motion, she grasped the headboard, her words deepening to moans, and suddenly she kissed me hard, bit her lip, moaned again, closed her eyes, and said, as though forcing out the first part of a song, “This child …” She pressed her forehead to mine, collapsing against me.

  “I never left you, Margaret, not really. Yet at the same time it’s strange, I feel that I’ve come back around to you.”

  “Get me a glass of water, will you, darling.”

  I got up from the bed and poured each of us a glass of water. I sat on the edge of the bed. Margaret pulled the sheets up to her chin.

  “Did you just propose to me?” I said.

  She drank the water to the bottom of the glass.

  “Only if you say yes.”

  Here is how we planned our wedding. Margaret said, “How about November 10? It’s soon enough to stay excited about till it happens, and to not wait too long to get over with.” I agreed.

  We asked Enoch to officiate. “I’ve been volunteering for years, haven’t I?” he said.

  On my wedding day I went early to find Sillet and, when I found him in the store, asked him to finally come and see the mural. I met him in the church at three o’clock.

  “You have your church suit on,” he said. “Do you consider this a pious occasion?”

  “Showing you the mural? No. I’m just going to show it to you, after which I’m getting married.”

  “Sander Muggah isn’t going to officiate, is he?”

  “Enoch Handle.”

  “Ah, a marriage at sea.”

  “Well, anchored in the harbor. Or tied up at the dock. A plain and simple location.”

  “Legally, I know he can. But has Enoch ever performed a marriage?”

  “He hasn’t performed his daughter’s, which is all that counts to me.”

  “Well enough and good.”

  “Take a look now.”

  “Indeed.”

  I took down the sheets. As I sat in a pew, Reverend Sillet walked the length of the mural, inspecting it close up, bird by bird, person by person, house by house. “Oh, Lord” is all he said at first. He stepped to the other side of the church for a long view.

  “Interesting enough, through and through,” he said, somber-voiced. He walked over and stood next to me. “Yet in the main, in my humble opinion, your imagination went a bit—awry. I admit to recognizing certain things. I recognize certain people and the things they do. I recognize our village in general. But as for the unfortunate event—”

  “The murder.”

  “—You don’t really—Your rendering of Botho August. Of myself. There’s a certain folly. But, alas, I privileged you that, didn’t I? I paid you to paint this mural as you saw fit for the most part, didn’t I? However, I would have thought the process of redemption—”

  “That’s me lying facedown in the mud.”

  A gunshot exploded in the air and set the church to ringing, louder than the bells ever had. A second shot—a third. I felt Reverend Sillet throw himself in fear, protection, or sheer clumsiness over me, and we toppled to the floor. Looking up from under his body, I saw that the cluster of ducks near where my mother rowed on the mural had been pulverized.

  Sillet gathered himself back up to his feet. “Margaret!” he said, with seething restraint. He brushed himself off.

  Margaret shrugged. She had on her mother’s wedding dress. She held the revolver by her thumb. “Mitchell Kelb sold this back to Romeo Gillette,” she said, holding forth the gun. “The damning evidence revolver here. Did either of you know that? Well, you just don’t keep up on things, now, do you? My father in turn bought it from Romeo to take along on his mail route. He says that times are changing for the worse where human nature is concerned. He says there’s a rougher sort in Halifax than there used to be. Even mail—just everyday letters and packages—is fair game to galoots, he says. I just borrowed the pistol for the purpose you just witnessed. There now, I’ve added the right touch of spice to the mural, don’t you think?”

  Sillet moved toward Margaret, holding his fist in his hand. He stopped a few steps in front of her. “You’ll never, never set foot in my church again,” he said. “Margaret Handle, I could easily have you arrested for damaging church property.”

  “If I wanted to damage church property, I’d start with you,” she said.

  “Very well, then, Margaret. You are who you are. I’ll simply have the holes puttied and sanded, and there’ll be no trace of your wrongdoing. Fabian, I’m sure, will paint in new birds. Now kindly leave.”

  I looked at Margaret. Her expression of nonchalance. The revolver held now against the wedding dress. Her hair done up in coiled braids.

  “Fabian,” she said, “I’ll need an escort.”

  Sillet turned back to the mural.

  As we walked along the cliff path to the wharf, Margaret slipped a coat over her shoulders. I took the revolver from her hand and tossed it into the sea. “I’ll get Enoch a new one if he wants,” I said. “Margaret, what got into you back there?”

  “Believe me, husband-to-be. I changed a lot in hospital and have changed some since. But not entirely.”

  When we reached the Aunt Ivy Barnacle, Enoch was waiting on deck. It was a cold afternoon, with a biting, wet chill off the water. The sea was calm, though, and waves lapped evenly against the hull.

  “Were those shots I heard echo down?” Enoch said.

  “Yes, Pop, they were.”

  Enoch waited a moment, then decided to ask nothing. “Well, you and Fabian look healthy enough.”

  “Let’s all go to Spivey’s after,” Margaret said. “I’ll sit there in my wedding dress.”

  “I’m sure Bridget and Lemuel will compliment it,” Enoch said. “I’m ready when you are. I’ve brushed up on the vows. You two will be your own witnesses. We’ll call that legal. Let’s go into the steerage, out of the wind.”

  In the cabin we held hands and Enoch conducted the ceremony. Bible, rings, vows, all in as few words as possible. It pleased us.

  “You may kiss the bride,” Margaret said.

  We kissed a moment, then we heard Enoch say, “My God, some courtships are more difficult than others, aren’t they?” He pointed to his eyes, which had teared up. “This is from giving the bride away and your mother not here to see it, Margaret.”

  “Cry all you want, Pop. As long as it’s in the knowing that I’m happy.”

  She kissed her father’s cheek and wiped his tears with her fingers.
/>   Enoch left for the south on the last mail run of the year, and Margaret and I set up house. I built a new bed, putting the other in storage. We slept in my parents’ old room. I began to use my former bedroom as a place to paint and draw. I set up my easel. I set out my paints. Enoch had given us fifty dollars as a wedding present, a lot of money, which handsomely tided us over. When asked, I worked at the dry dock. I was not shunned. Margaret kept her employment as a bookkeeper, working in Enoch’s attic. Things were all set up in perfect order there, so why change it?

  By November 23 Enoch had not returned. That evening Margaret had no appetite. “Why not just go to Spivey’s and have supper?” she said. “I really don’t mind. I know you’ll come back. I’m going to sleep. Besides, we’re out of coffee, so you might want to get some at Gillette’s. I’m sleeping so well these days, and at odd hours, too. The bottles all out of the house. And look at me, drinking tea. Just look at me. I really just want to sleep now. Have a nice supper.”

  I went to Spivey’s, but as it turned out, the only available place was at a two-chair table where Reverend Sillet was already seated. Seeing me hesitate at the door, Bridget whistled and pulled out the empty chair, then went into the kitchen. I sat down. We ate mostly in silence. When our dishes were cleared, I said, “You were a fair employer, and you paid me on time.”

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin, paid up, and left Spivey’s.

  “Any mail for me?” I asked Romeo the next afternoon in his store. The Aunt Ivy Barnacle had tied up that morning. Enoch was over to visit Margaret.

  “No,” said Romeo. “But Enoch brought a visitor, come all the way from Halifax to see you.”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “He’s gone to Spivey’s to freshen up, then was going to look for you. That’s what he said. A gentleman from the city.”

  I walked to Spivey’s and asked Bridget about my visitor, and she said he was resting up in the spare room, where he would spend the night.

  “Can I knock?” I said.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  But before I could, the man appeared in the restaurant. “Fabian Vas?” he said.

  “That’s me.”

  He was, I would guess, in his early sixties and wore a black overcoat partly open at the collar. He was neatly dressed. Though this was my first glimpse of him, his face looked ravaged by poor health. He had thick white hair combed to one side. He had dark pouches of skin beneath his eyes. It struck me as a very tired, proud, dignified face.

  “I am Isaac Sprague,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll say it slowly. Isaac Sprague. From Halifax. You wrote me of late. I’m here in person to answer.”

  “Do you want me to go upstairs?” Bridget said.

  “No, we’ll step outside,” I said.

  On the porch I said to Isaac Sprague, “My letter, I—Nothing much in it was true. The wing was not too high on the shoulder.” I hesitated, then looked at Sprague. “You can’t imagine how much I relied on your—correspondence.” It wasn’t easy for me to say.

  He looked at the harbor. I looked to see what bird he might have seen, but the harbor was empty of birds. He buttoned his coat at the collar.

  “The most recent kingfisher you sent,” he said. “The one above the pond. It was adequate. But the bird’s reflection itself too closely resembled the actual bird’s face. It was not even slightly distorted on the surface, so the texture of the water wasn’t at all represented. There’s no such thing as a perfectly still watery surface. I once saw a kingfisher dive right into its own face on the water—it was on a branch as low as the one you drew. Though usually a kingfisher prefers a higher branch.”

  “I’ll draw that over again, then.”

  “Yes, well. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

  We sat on the porch step.

  “Why am I here, you asked. You see, Mr. Vas—look closely at my face. When there’s little time left, one perhaps tends to say things even more bluntly. I am dying. It’s not important from what cause, but is important to me how I spend my remaining days. My painting is completed, my teaching almost. In perhaps a moment of delirium and weakness, I decided to visit certain of my students. I agonized over the names. I didn’t want to visit the utterly hopeless ones, simply because they are hopeless. So many of those over the years, it makes me shudder to think of it. And I didn’t want to visit my one or two geniuses, who really didn’t need me to begin with.

  “Let me put it this way: where you are concerned, Mr. Vas”—he began coughing, then righted himself, slouching only slightly—“I don’t exclude potential. I’ve come to see your work. May I?”

  “There isn’t much of it of late.”

  “On the contrary. Enoch Handle told me about an extensive mural.”

  “Well, there are birds in it.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  The church was empty. I sat in the rearmost pew. Sprague walked slowly to the mural. Much as Sillet had, he inspected it closely, though he used a monocle as well. He sat down in a pew and continued to study the mural.

  “I’ve never been a sentimentalist, Mr. Vas, as you know from my letters. Especially when it comes to bird art. And I won’t start to be one now,” he said.

  He stood, thought better of it, and sat down. He spoke while looking at the mural.

  “Overall, I’d say there’s been improvement.

  “Now, I realize that a wall is not as useful to bird art as a canvas or a white piece of paper, except to certain geniuses throughout history, particularly in Europe and the Orient. But, yes, I’d say there definitely has been an improvement. Especially with the petrels, kittiwakes, and most of all the sandpipers. The teals and mergansers—excellent, within your limitations.

  “The cormorant, while perhaps your best thus far, is pitiful. That species is simply too much for you, Mr. Vas. I once had a student for whom owls were an insurmountable torment, more to him than to me, I imagine. Mr. Vas, do them a favor and leave cormorants alone.

  “I won’t bother to remark upon the people you’ve represented here. I don’t know this village, obviously. And I don’t care. For the purposes of my visit, I’ll simply block out certain scenery. I don’t much care for people anyway, in painting or in life, truth be told. That’s my failing and I’ve relied on it for much of my happiness. I’m sixty-seven.

  “The ibis is splendid. The owl working over the trout with its talons has a proper ferocity, and I’d recommend that you put birds into action more often—have them doing something.

  “Now, over there, that teal-blue-winged-though the hazy blue is slightly off. The veins on its webbed feet can be seen from too far away, which is inaccurate. And yet, at the same time, you’ve managed to reveal the pattern of its feathers as one would see it from the same distance, and a more detailed feather-pattern close up. That’s highly commendable. A difficult accomplishment.

  “That lagoon, or inlet, with all its birds in close proximity! We’re in Eden, are we? Ridiculous.

  “In this mural the ibis, sandpipers, and ring-necked ducks are your very best. Clearly your strength is shorebirds and ducks.

  “My best guess is that you’ll continue to contribute. You’ll place your ducks, sandpipers, crows perhaps, and a few others in journals. For practicality’s sake, you might specialize in those.

  “You’ve got a knack. And while you may never wholly earn a living from bird art—difficult for anyone—your mergansers, teals, all of your ducks, and if you work at it, a garganey or two, may secure you some small reputation outside of Witless Bay. I’m sure, anyway, you’re highly valued at home.”

  He stopped talking and we sat for perhaps half an hour in silence. I thought that he was working more ideas and comments around in his mind, yet when I stood and approached, I saw that he was asleep. I sat in front of him and said, “Mr. Sprague,” in a loud whisper.

  Blinking, coughing a few times, he said, “Yes, well—”

  “Mr. Sprague
, how long do you expect to stay?”

  “I’ve arranged with Mr. Handle to go on to student number—I think it’s seven on my list. In a Canadian city. I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.”

  I walked arm in arm with Isaac Sprague out of the church, then to Spivey’s, where he took a nap.

  The next afternoon I found him at the wharf. “I studied your harbor here, on my way in,” he said. “I was surprised to see even one duck this far north so late in the season.”

  “Each year is slightly different. One year, I forget which, a few teal were here till mid-December.”

  Isaac Sprague nodded. He looked as if he had not slept all night. “We had a Siberian plover in the harbor in Halifax this summer,” he said. “How remarkable, to be carried so far off course, and where could it have thought it was going? And how did it manage to cross the Atlantic? Let alone the mass of Russia. No one but God can answer this. Just my luck. So, the plover in the harbor where I’ve spent my entire life is the mystery I’ll take to my grave, to puzzle over in eternity. Do you think that’s a foolish notion? I don’t. No matter. It was a Siberian plover, of that I’m certain. I sat hours and matched my sketches of the plover to paintings from Siberia, which I found in books. And it was indeed the same bird. I lived to see it visit my harbor. And seeing it, I was suddenly inspired to travel, to die en route. I think that will happen.”

  He coughed deeply.

  “I was so certain I wouldn’t see my harbor again,” he said, “that I closed up my house in Halifax. My sister will look after it.”

  Enoch walked up and said, “Mr. Sprague, your bag is on board.”

  Enoch continued on down the dock and climbed onto the Aunt Ivy Barnacle.

  Isaac Sprague and I shook hands.

  I stayed on the dock until the mail boat was out of sight.

  The next year’s spring issue of Bird Lore contained a photograph of Isaac Sprague, and his obituary. He had died of tuberculosis in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, on March 4, 1913.