Darren Effect

by Libby Creelman

  “You’re letting her take advantage of you, Darren. That’s not going to help that poor woman.”

  “I was thinking of Cooper.”

  Darren was running late. Embarrassment about the pool, combined with the sensation of summer that it had never- theless stirred, brought on a terrible lethargy. Besides, the day was actually warm, the warmest this year. Darren would need to make good time in order to be back on the road by dark. He knew he should take the new bypass, since the alternate route crept through a string of towns — a congested, aggravating drive.

  But Darren avoided the bypass because of the dead beagle.

  The first time he took the new route it had been open only a day or two. It was November, frosty and clear, and Darren had swung onto the road with surprise as he left St. John’s early one morning. The surprise was due as much to the fact that the Department of Highways had opened the road, as promised, before winter, as by the landscape it revealed: hills of fir and larch, fields laid out in rolling strips, bogs dotted with stumpy spruce. To Darren, it was virgin, unexplored. He passed only one other car in the five minutes it took to drive the length of the bypass.

  But as he was coming down a long sloping hill, he spotted movement ahead near a culvert. He slowed as a German shepherd followed a beagle partway up the embankment to the new road. The beagle stood at the edge of the pavement, sniffing the air and looking first at Darren’s stopped car, then back at the German shepherd.

  Darren waited, hoping they would cross now while it was safe, but the German shepherd retreated several metres into the adjacent field and refused to budge. If not for the new road and occasional car, it would be like any morning, with visits to duck ponds, pig farms, garbage dumps, the homes of other dogs. Habit was hard to give up, but Darren sided with the German shepherd. After a few minutes the beagle crossed the road alone.

  A week later Darren took the new bypass a second time. There was plenty of traffic and no opportunity to slow down. As he crossed the culvert he saw the beagle on the side of the road. Dead, it looked considerably larger than it had the previous week.

  That was also the day he first noticed the red Echo.

  *

  Darren drove through the downtown and onto Pitts Memorial Drive. A minute later he exited to Kilbride. The speed limit was only fifty kilometres and he slowed, instantly regretting his decision not to take the bypass. He passed split-level bungalows, Chinese takeouts, convenience stores and service stations, then just before the junction with Old Bay Bulls Road, the view opened up. Pastureland dotted with ring-billed gulls was surrounded by bus lots, medical clinics and hair salons.

  Halfway between Morry’s Sheep Farm and Lees Vegetable Market, he watched a gull swoop towards an oncoming truck top-heavy with hay. The gull, perhaps realizing the approaching danger, flew to the other side of the road and directly in front of Darren’s truck. It made a hard cracking sound as it hit his windshield, before being thrown upwards and out of sight behind him. In the rear-view mirror Darren saw the gull land on its back on the road, its wings flapping as it righted itself. A half dozen crows materialized over the treetops.

  He pulled over. The bird would be either dead or seriously injured. It had looked like a herring gull. Thick as two bricks, he thought, yet the sight of it crashing onto the pavement was unnerving. Darren got out and walked back down the road. If only he’d taken the bypass.

  The crows were silent, perched on wires and fences.

  A subadult herring gull was standing in the gravel beside the road. Darren walked to within a few feet of it, but it didn’t flinch. If it would just move, he’d be satisfied, he could get back in the truck and on with his shrinking day.

  He waved his arm at the gull. Abruptly the gull turned and walked down into the gully and lowered itself next to a crushed pop can. It had showed no indication of limp or wing droop and looked relatively alert. Darren wasn’t even sure it was the same gull. And it would be difficult to catch. As he was getting back into his truck, he glanced down the road. A red Echo was parked under the sign for Mullowny’s Puffin and Whale Tours.

  He stopped for gas in the Goulds, though the tank was three-quarters full. As he pumped the gas, washed the windshield — no cracks or blood — and paid, he kept his eye on the road. Nothing. Perhaps the car had turned off at Ruby Line or gone down to Petty Harbour. Perhaps it was owned by someone living in Petty Harbour, which would explain how frequently he saw it. Just a coincidence.

  He got back in his truck and drove across the street to Tim Hortons and joined the drive-through. He was fourth in line with a good view of the road. But the line barely moved — what were those people ordering? After ten minutes he was both disgusted with the human race and concerned with his own sanity. It was almost noon, a ridiculous hour to embark on work that demanded a full ten-hour day. The thing to do now was return to town and get an early start tomorrow. He was manoeuvring the truck out of line when he saw the red Echo fly by, right there in front of him. It would not have seen him because it was going so fast.

  He wondered what had delayed it.

  Without allowing himself time to think, he pulled out onto the road after it. There were several cars between them. They passed Bidgoods, St. Kevin’s School, Headway Hairstyling, Needs Convenience, and then the road dipped through a valley of scrubby empty lots, signs for dry wood and more widely spaced homes. Here he got stuck behind a van and the Echo disappeared ahead of him.

  At this point he came to his senses. He would turn around at the next opportunity. But opportunities were being passed. Still no Echo. As he passed the van in a no-passing zone, he suddenly wondered whether the Echo had seen him hit the gull. He was thinking this when he realized the Southern Shore Animal Rescue Park was coming up, just past the pond.

  He’d forgotten about Byron. Byron would have reminded him that you could never rule out the possibility of internal hemorrhaging. Byron would have done his best to rehabilitate even a herring gull. It had been a while since Darren had visited Byron. His last visit to the Southern Shore Animal Rescue Park was the previous August when he’d brought in a harlequin duck. It had been so starved it died the next day.

  The Echo and police car were pulled over onto the dirt shoulder right before the tiny sign for “Live Worms” that had been there for years and throughout all seasons. Darren slowed as he passed, trying to see the driver, but she was rummaging through her glove compartment and, to his disappointment, did not see him. He would have liked her to observe him driving on and out of sight. He was not surprised it was a woman, or that she looked like the lone female birdwatcher he had met that afternoon on Cape Broyle Head standing in the midst of a flock of red crossbills. Though he caught only a glimpse of the woman now, he could see she had the kind of curly blond hair that escaped easily from clasps, though hers did not look to be restrained in any way.

  He had heard two people went missing out on Cape Broyle Head and, though rescued, had narrowly escaped calamity. She had told him she was alone and he had walked away from her. But first he had started going on about crossbills — what had come over him? His sudden frankness had alarmed and embarrassed him and made him anxious to get away.

  Darren put his foot on the gas and both the woman and the gull out of his mind. He was heading in the wrong direction, but turning around now was out of the question. It was ridiculous to think he was actually being followed by a woman, whom he was certain he’d never seen before the encounter on Cape Broyle Head — if indeed that had been her. Did she blame him for her misfortune that day? For his walking away? He wasn’t afraid of her, but it made sense to preserve some distance. Still, the situation surprised him. Until now, his expectation of human behaviour seemed unimaginative.

  *

  At three o’clock Darren parked the truck near the end of the beach but before getting out, paused to watch the silhouette of an ATV pulling its wooden cart across the highest berm. Normally he arrived early, before the handful of men came down looking for what the tide
had brought in. They collected wood, though at one time, when they still fished, they’d searched almost exclusively for rope. Darren liked to think that whatever washed up got used, but that was difficult with all the rubbish in the ocean now.

  At the far end of the beach fog was coming down over the hills, over the sheep, fallen fences and square houses. Darren got out of the truck and immediately heard the surf rolling onto the cobble beach, a rackety sound like applause. He thought of the wading pool, which now, with the distance of the long day, seemed an ill-considered purchase.

  He crossed the footbridge that linked the parking lot to the beach and spotted a female red-necked phalarope in a pool of brackish water. Darren stopped to watch her spinning like a toy top, churning up tasty copepods with her feet. Her plumage was lavish and striking: a rich chestnut collar, pale throat, a white stripe above the eye as brazen as a geisha’s face. It was the male — brown, drab, unmemorable — who sat alone on the eggs, keeping them warm as toast until they hatched. Then he raised the young. The female left shortly after egg laying to seek other males.

  Polyandry. Atypical, given that monogamy was the rule of the mating game in most seabirds. As it was in humans.

  Monogamy was hard work. It wasn’t fair to draw parallels with humans, but Darren knew it was unavoidable. The offspring of monogamous species were demanding. They could be nearly impossible to raise — unexplained leg injuries in boys, insatiable appetites in birds — without substantial care from both parents. Monogamy required teamwork.

  But even then there was the unexpected: death, desertion, betrayal. It was not always easy to stay within the rigid confines of your own species’ reproductive strategy. Darren thought of Cooper, the odds against him, being raised in a single parent nest in a chiefly monogamous context.

  He patted his jacket pockets, absently eyeing a headless seal rolling in the surf zone, and realized he’d left his notebook in the truck.

  He was just heading back across the footbridge when the red Echo came hurtling over the road. It stopped several metres from his truck, kicking gravel. The ignition was turned off; with it went some loud music he hadn’t been aware of until it was gone. The occupant did not get immediately out of her car.

  Chapter Ten

  As Heather came over the crest of the winding road that led to the beach, she was remembering the dream. In it she was dead, lying on a mat inside a seaside hut, while in an adjacent room people were talking, Benny among them. Just before waking, she slipped out from beneath a block of white ice and came back to life. When she opened her eyes and found she was both awake and alive, her body felt heavy and luxurious, as though she’d slept a long time without fear. She’d had the dream that very morning.

  She watched Darren cross the parking lot towards her, change his mind and head for his truck. He hadn’t actually looked her way. She put on the huge coat she had brought, though it was probably unrealistic to think it would hide her condition, then grabbed the binoculars and field guide and got out of the car.

  She walked directly towards him. There was nothing to do but pretend it was a coincidence. It was possible he wouldn’t remember her. She found her heart was racing.

  He said something she didn’t quite catch. Not you again?

  “Excuse me?”

  But he shook his head dismissively, meaning it wasn’t important. He was busy with something in the cab of the truck. A moment later he said, “Thought we were going to get some sun this afternoon. They’ve been predicting a nice day all week.”

  She glanced up at the sky. “I guess they were mistaken.”

  He laughed. “They’re right every once in a while, but they really don’t know anything more than a day in advance. When we’re on the edge of the jet stream like this it’s nothing but misery.”

  “I hear this is a good place for birdwatching.”

  He turned. “You haven’t been here before?”

  “No.”

  “Just so you know, don’t wander over in that direction.” He pointed down the beach. He could have been pointing at anything. “Tern colony. Pair formation is just underway. With the ATVs they get enough disturbance. I’m astonished they keep coming back.”

  They were crossing the parking lot towards the water. He had said nothing else about having seen her before. “Are you a birdwatcher?” she asked.

  “No. I’m a wildlife biologist. And you?”

  She was confused. “I’m a clinical social worker, but I’m on leave.”

  He glanced at her.

  “And a birdwatcher.”

  They crossed the wooden bridge. “Some load of garbage, isn’t there?” she said, surprised by how aggressive she sounded.

  “It’s shocking,” he said.

  Was he being sarcastic?

  She followed him along a ridge of sand criss-crossed with the tracks of hundreds of passes by ATVs. In a row of distinct piles, as though an Alzheimer’s patient had raked them up then wandered away, seaweed, sticks, urchins and shells lay tangled among a variety of garbage, from plastic bottles to car parts.

  Closer to the water the sand gave way to polished stones. He hadn’t invited her to tag along, but as he moved on, she followed him.

  “What exactly are you doing? If you don’t mind me asking?” she asked, stepping over a cracked toilet seat.

  Heather found it difficult to keep up. The grainy sand sunk beneath her and she was unprepared for the tenderness in one of her feet, though they had told her she might have some permanent, though mild, damage. The small of her back was also beginning to ache.

  “Looking for dead seabirds.”

  “Like this one?”

  He turned and came back towards her. He seemed miffed. She pointed to a carcass nestled in a cluster of Styrofoam plates: two black wings linked by bone. He picked it up, shaking off the plates.

  “Almost missed one,” she said.

  “I would have seen it on my way back.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’re a bit of a pest, you know that?”

  She couldn’t tell if he was kidding around, or irritated.

  “What is that, anyway?” she asked.

  “Common murre. Code Four.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning only the frame is left. Not enough of the bird to know if it was oiled or not.”

  “So you’re investigating oil pollution?”

  “I’m trying to get an idea how useful this kind of fieldwork is in predicting oil-induced mortality rates in seabirds.” He swung the bird back and forth in his hand as he spoke.

  “Do you find a lot of birds with oil?”

  “Depends what you call a lot.”

  Of course he would say that.

  “Years ago, in the fifties and sixties, vessels were pumping oil offshore so regularly you could be knee-deep in oiled birds some mornings. A whole variety of species. The old-timers can tell you about that.” He took a knife out and began shredding the tips of the murre’s wings. “That would have been a lot.”

  She tried to imagine it. Up to her knees in waves and greasy dying birds.

  “I’m cutting off the ends of the primaries,” he went on, as though resigned to her questions. “To tag it. So I won’t count this bird again the next time I’m here.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “One winter, seventeen thousand oiled murres washed up in Placentia Bay. Soaking wet. You wouldn’t believe the weight on them when they’re like that.”

  “An oil spill?”

  “In that case, yes.” He shrugged. “But sometimes all it takes is discharged bilge water. Routine maintenance.”

  His offering this information relaxed her, and she stopped trying to keep up with him. She walked slowly, watching the terns wheeling in the sky. Every once in a while he came across a bird and she nearly caught up with him, but he seemed determined to stay ahead of her. Then, at one point, he waited and held out a baseball he’d found. He rotated it in his hand and she saw the splat of black oil it had pic
ked up from the sea.

  “Better than an oiled bird,” she suggested, but he just put it in his jacket pocket and walked on.

  At the end of the beach a series of rock outcrops extended from the black peat embankment into the sea. Darren stepped up onto the lowest ledge, inspecting the top, then turned and gave her his first smile of the day. He said, “Once, in winter, I climbed up there and found myself face to face with an oiled oldsquaw. Drenched.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Killed it,” he said.

  She was surprised. His look and tone had been almost fatherly.

  Mercy killing, she decided. Well, I’m not going to ask him how.

  He said, “Broke its neck.”

  She watched him make a vague, almost rude gesture with his hand and wrist. It reminded her of someone yanking at a difficult doorknob or knifing someone in the belly. She would have thought it easier to step on the bird’s head and crush the tiny skull, but she didn’t say so.

  He was still standing on the rock ledge, facing the sea. A tuft of hair was caught between his orange cap and ear, sticking out comically. She imagined him getting oil all over his hands — or gloves — as he snapped the neck of the oldsquaw. Yet there was something admirable about his actions. Watching him, she sensed an opening, as though a window had been lifted, and she found herself looking in to see that essential part of him, something steady, good-natured, yet uncertain, that he’d been born with.

  But now he was watching her too, the way he had on Cape Broyle: sideways, without moving his head. Like a man hurrying across a busy road with only his eyes turned to the traffic rushing towards him. The window had closed. He was taking the measure of her now. She glanced down and saw a rubber boot beside a comb.

  “Let’s head this way,” he told her, walking backwards a few steps before turning in the direction of the tern colony. His pace was slower now and she was able to keep up with him. But when they got there, there wasn’t anything to see. Every tern was in flight above their heads, producing, it seemed to Heather, cries of both excitement and dread.