Summer of the Spotted Owl

by Melanie Jackson

  From his position on the porch, Napoleon raised one eyelid halfway, examined us scornfully and went to sleep again.

  “That’s not very Napoleonic of you,” I scolded him. “You should have battled our bald intruder.”

  “If you’re upset about that, then brace yourself,” Talbot advised.

  “Huh?” I wheeled.

  A large, crookedly lettered piece of cardboard was masking-taped to the bottom porch step:

  BEGONE, YOU CRAZY WITCH. AND MAKE SURE YOU PUT YOUR CATS ON YOUR BROOMSTICK WHEN YOU FLY AWAY.

  A crude drawing of a witch with flowing gray hair accompanied the words.

  “So Bald Guy is an anonymous note-leaver,” I said in disgust.

  Angrily I grabbed the cardboard and stuffed it into a lilac bush, out of sight. Next garbage day I’d rip it up and cram the pieces into the Urstads’ recycling bag.

  “Uh,” said Talbot mildly. “You don’t think you should show that to Rowena?”

  Talbot was the irritatingly conscientious type. Unlike me, he rarely acted on impulse.

  “Certainly not,” I replied, though I had a feeling he was right. Irritatingly conscientious types usually are. “This ‘witch’ insult would be very upsetting for her.”

  Jack frowned at Napoleon, who was rubbing himself against Jack’s ankles and purring. With all the fur that was coming off, Jack’s running shoes looked like they were made of mohair.

  Jack, Madge, Talbot and I crunched on tart green plums as we examined Madge’s mural-in-progress. It was a field with big red flowers and a sun that stretched yellow rays into every corner.

  “It’s nice,” commented Jack. “Cheerful.”

  “It’s missing something,” said Madge.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Jack.

  They regarded each other in fond silence. Well, I wasn’t having any of that.

  “I know what the mural’s missing,” I said. “A portrait of you two going mmm-wwaahh!” This was my cunningly clever imitation of a lip-smacking sound.

  I was then sent from the room. It was okay, though, because Talbot exited with me. In the family room we switched on the Urstads’ plasma tv to watch the MegaMusic channel, specifically the show we loved to hate, Tomorrow’s Cool Talent.

  Now I should explain. Tomorrow’s Cool Talent, filmed each week in Toronto, featured kids who were pretty good — most of the time — at singing or dancing or juggling or bird-imitating or whatever their skill was. What bothered Talbot and me was that the kids were all from the Toronto area. Like, hello? There are talented kids from other parts of the country too.

  A talented guitarist, pianist and singer in Vancouver, for example.

  Since Talbot, Pantelli and I didn’t live anywhere near Toronto, and therefore had no chance of being invited on Tomorrow’s Cool Talent, we satisfied ourselves every week by hooting at and insulting the entire show. Including the corny jokes and skits between performances.

  “How embarrassing to be on a program like that,” I scoffed as pies sailed across the screen to splat! the host in the face.

  Talbot grimaced. “Yeah, and that last guitar player was so off-key his own mother probably stuffed cotton in her ears.”

  The host, Darwood King, then pretended to step by mistake into a huge pink-icing cake that he couldn’t possibly have missed seeing. The gag was so stupid, Talbot and I started to smile in spite of ourselves.

  “Not funny,” I said.

  “Not funny,” Talbot agreed.

  At the commercials, Talbot pulled some folded-up notes from his pocket. He was working on an electric guitar version of “Sweet Sue,” with lots of heavy banging and twanging notes. Extra volume, in other words. I loved it.

  But visiting North Vancouver had made me realize that I also loved the quiet of the forest—and of the spotted owl. Even as I snapped my fingers to Talbot’s playing, I couldn’t get my mind off the spotted owl. Thank goodness Councillor Cordes had agreed to soac’s idea for a bylaw to protect the spotted owl and other wildlife!

  Twang, twang. Talbot strummed out his rockin’ “Sweet Sue.” I grinned at him, but in my mind the image of handsome spotted owl had been replaced by that of round, pink Councillor Cordes.

  Round, pink and falsely friendly Councillor Cordes.

  Why did that fakeness bother me so much?

  From off-camera, tomatoes and heads of lettuce were pelting the Tomorrow’s Cool Talent host. “That’ll teach me to order a salad to go,” he wisecracked.

  Talbot and I looked at each other sternly. “No laughing,” we said in unison.

  Covered in tomato rinds and lettuce leaves, Darwood King then introduced a singer from—Toronto. We could have predicted that.

  Talbot and I waited outside for Jack. He was giving Talbot a ride back to the city, but first had to spend a few lovey-dovey moments with Madge on the porch. To avoid being around them, and the possibility of anything rubbing off, we strolled over to Rowena’s.

  “Having a friend with a conscience is like having a friend with warts,” I informed Talbot. “The condition tends to be catching. Because of you, I’m starting to think I should tell Rowena about the witch sign. It’s so much easier to ignore things.”

  I dragged it out of the lilac bush where I’d stashed it. We both stared at the sign without speaking. What can you say about hate mail? Which the sign undoubtedly was.

  “Bald Guy needs a few art lessons,” I managed at last. “Rowena’s pleasingly plump, not skinny.”

  “And she has flowing hair, lots of it, not merely three strands,” said Talbot.

  Talbot had never met Rowena. I looked at him, briefly wondering if he had psychic powers. Then I saw that he’d spotted Rowena through the living room window. I raised my hand to wave at her.

  But Rowena, gray hair flying, was busy heaving open a huge brassbound trunk. When the lid was back, she glanced guiltily over her shoulder. Then, apparently satisfied no one was watching, she plunged her hands deep in the trunk. Her gray locks tumbled in front of her like a screen, hiding what she was doing.

  “Huh! A lady with a secret,” commented Talbot. “People are entitled to secrets, Dinah.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said grudgingly.

  After a while, however, my curiosity got the better of me. I retrieved the witch sign and thumped on Rowena’s door. My plan: to peer over her shoulder for a better look at the mysterious trunk.

  But Rowena opened and shut the door with clam-like rapidness. She stepped outside so fast I had no chance for a peek. In fact, Rowena didn’t even set down the grocery bag she’d evidently been about to unpack.

  When we showed her the sign, Rowena burst into delighted laughter. “The sign’s a compliment, Dinah! Don’t you see?”

  “Um …”

  “Many of history’s so-called witches were actually intelligent women with imagination and abilities far beyond whatever schooling, if any, they’d received.”

  A gleaming purple rutabaga toppled from the bag. Catching the rutabaga, Rowena waved it at me. “Why, I’m proud to be called a witch! I’ll tell anyone that.”

  “Rowena …” I tried to put this delicately. “What with the complaints about you being, um, weird, maybe it’s better if you don’t share your opinions with anyone. For a while, anyway.”

  Rowena laughed. Removing a round of goat’s cheese from her knapsack, she peeled off the wrap. Phew! The cheese stank up the yard. “Smells tasty, doesn’t it?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Ummmm …”

  “Anyhow,” and she broke off a piece, “I have no intention of being driven from my home. Even though realtors keep coming by with offers! And those offers do keep coming! Yesterday, one realtor brought with him a woman and a poodle seeking a home. So adorable the poodle was …”

  Rowena offered me a piece of the smelly goat’s cheese. When I grimaced, she popped it into her mouth. “But of course, selling is out of the question. There are so many lovely memories in this place!”

  “So many weeds too,” I point
ed out, tact not being my strong point. “Rowena, we have to tell the police about Bald Guy and this sign.”

  Rowena swallowed the cheese all at once and stared at me. “I can’t, Dinah. The last thing I need is the police — or anyone, for that matter—snooping around here! Please put that right out of your thoughts. Forget the sign. There’ve been others, and I’ve ignored them.”

  I was rather startled by her mood change. Also, she was gesturing wildly with the chunk of goat’s cheese, and I noticed that some neighbors across the street were gaping. “Could we go inside and discuss this?” I suggested.

  “No!” Rowena stomped in her house and slammed the door.

  And I remembered how guiltily Rowena had glanced round before digging into her brassbound trunk. What was she afraid of? What was she hiding in there?

  Chapter Five

  Up, Up and Away With Itchy

  “Bombs away!” I yelled at Madge, who was ahead of me on the chairlift to the peak of Grouse Mountain. Her back stiffened. She murmured something, no doubt withering, to Jack beside her.

  Rowena was my seatmate, her flowered purse, with its broken straps fastened by safety pins, in her lap. She didn’t mention getting angry at me the other day — phew! Not that I’m thin-skinned— quite the opposite — but it would have been a tad awkward at close quarters.

  I’d suggested to Rowena that we let our other fellow picnicker, Pantelli, ride on a seat by himself, as he was prone to motion sickness. “He even barfs out bus windows,” I informed Rowena as we sailed over Douglas firs.

  Madge heard me and twisted round. “Do you mind, Dinah? This expedition is supposed to be a pleasant break for Rowena, not a horror fest.”

  “I’m enhancing her whole Grouse experience,” I shot back.

  “Sorry my sister is so weird,” I apologized to Rowena, who laughed.

  Rowena liked to laugh — when she wasn’t being a) secretive, or b) stressed-out by her bad reputation. This morning she’d made the front page of the Bugle: MAD ABOUT CATS! blazed the headline, under a photo of a surprised Rowena holding two of the kitties left by Itchy. Her phone had been ringing nonstop with complaints.

  Which was why Madge had the idea of inviting Rowena along on our trip up Grouse. Rowena could join us in our picnic, unbothered by complainers.

  We’d decided to have our picnic at the very top of Grouse, a whopping four thousand, one hundred feet high. From the base of the mountain, you took a tram almost all the way up, to a level with lots of trails, an oblong lake and a restaurant.

  Then you could, as we did, hop a chairlift up to the summit. I stretched out my feet to see if they could touch the tops of the trees. Of course, given my unsatisfactory height, they couldn’t.

  Between the dark branches, Steller’s jays flashed like sapphires. Eagles wheeled high above; I craned my neck and watched them till I got dizzy.

  “I understand that people object to my cats,” Rowena was saying. She tipped her head to one side. Long gray strands blew around the metal bars holding the chair. “I mean, the cats are getting numerous. It’s the phone caller who bothers me, with that fake, high-pitched voice.”

  “I bet it’s Bald Guy,” I said, then added, in my best broken-record manner, “You should contact the police.”

  Rowena’s kindly hazel eyes bulged. She sure didn’t like it when I brought up the topic of the police. In her dismay she sat up straight all of a sudden — “Owww,” she exclaimed. One of her flowing hair strands had got caught in the metal bars.

  By the time she’d wrenched it loose, she appeared calm again. “No police, no nobody,” Rowena said. “I attract enough attention as it is. Besides, it’d be no good. I tried punching star-six-nine, where you’re supposed to be able to find out who just called, and I got an automated voice saying the number was untraceable.”

  “Probably a pay phone,” I said knowledgeably. I’d read all about prank calls in the latest issue of our Block Watch newsletter. I was a big believer in the Block Watch concept and often dropped by our community police office to offer suggestions.

  From the chair ahead, Jack turned to wave at us. “Dinah’s not being gross, is she?”

  “I’m sleuthing,” I called back. “Why don’t you take a hike?”

  “I intend to — with you, small fry. It’ll be great exercise.”

  Jack has this annoying attitude about the outdoors. He wants to make use of it.

  Unamused, I twisted round to block Jack from my view. I waved at Pantelli, who was studying the fir trees with the same avid expression my sister wore when reading fashion magazines. On seeing me, Pantelli acted out a barf over the side of his chair. Now that was humor. We both laughed heartily.

  Then, in the chair behind Pantelli, I glimpsed a carrot-top head. One being scratched vigorously by long, pale fingers.

  Itchy?!

  Of course there are other carrot-topped, itchy-scalped people in the world besides Itchy, I told myself.

  Nevertheless, I strained to see round Pantelli. Too late. Whoever it was had lifted a glossy brochure on Grouse Mountain to shield his or her face.

  I was pretty sure the person behind the brochure couldn’t be taking in too much of the information. The brochure was upside down.

  Before I could say anything, the chairlift lurched and we dipped groundward.

  Jack was waiting to help Rowena out of the chair. With his other arm he caught me as I flipped off sideways. I’d been too busy staring at the brochure-holding person to worry about my balance.

  “Very uncoordinated, even for you,” Jack commented in disapproval. “When will you learn to look where you’re going, young Di?” He tipped me upright and deposited me in a standing position.

  “You don’t understand. Itchy’s riding beh—”

  I realized I was pointing at an empty chair that was wobbling wildly. Its occupant had sprung out before the chair could glide into place.

  Nearby, a running-shoed foot was disappearing into some huckleberry bushes …

  I tucked back yet another sandwich triangle of banana, peanut butter and honey. We’d all eaten a lot: It was the fresh mountain air, Rowena told us. Even Madge had gone beyond her usual single sandwich triangle of cucumber and “lite” cream cheese to down— gasp — a brownie.

  Jack lay down and tipped his cap over his face in preparation for a snooze. Feeling a good-sized belch coming on, I almost let it erupt with maximum volume. Then I remembered I wanted Jack to sleep. Awake, he’d forbid me to go hunting for Itchy. “You’re here to enjoy nature, not pursue inept pilots in need of calamine lotion,” he’d told me earlier. So irritating!

  I made a series of eyebrow waggles at Pantelli to signify that we should get up and tiptoe away.

  Pantelli waggled his eyebrows back at me — and continued to inspect the bark of a Douglas fir through the magnifying glass he carried everywhere.

  No doubt about it. The boy was thick and getting thicker.

  “I’d love to see photos of your son,” Madge was saying to Rowena.

  Oh no, I thought. Not photos. Photo-showing was grown-ups at their dullest.

  Rowena drew an alarmingly large packet of photos from her old flowered purse. “Sean is such a sensitive boy,” she confided, displaying photos of an unsmiling young man with a bird’s nest of brown hair and matching wild beard. “So serious. He longs to write novels about the meaning of life, but his job doesn’t allow him time to.” Rowena heaved a sigh. “People like Sean shouldn’t have to work, I feel.”

  From beneath Jack’s cap came the beginnings of a snort. Madge elbowed him, however, and the snort turned into a phony cough.

  Rowena didn’t notice. She was too busy gazing at Sean.

  She produced another photo. “Here’s one taken of Sean a few weeks ago, with the title page of his novel-in-progress.” The photo showed her sullen, hairy son holding up a single sheet of paper. We could just make out the words on it: The Storms of Life.

  “Where’s the rest of the novel?” I asked. Not th
at I’d ever want to read it. The title The Storms of Life didn’t exactly suggest a laugh fest.

  “He’d only got as far as the title page when this photo was taken,” Rowena explained. “The poor boy suffered an attack of writer’s block immediately afterward. You see what I mean about Sean being sensitive,” she added tenderly.

  “Sean might have to borrow a lawn mower to give himself a haircut,” Pantelli observed as he and I strolled past tourists snapping pictures of the view. “Boy, and my mom thinks I need a haircut!”

  We stopped to examine the tourists closely. This was all part of my strategy for finding Itchy. No one would go unscrutinized.

  I was pretty sure Itchy hadn’t fled down the chairlift, because I’d been able to keep watch on it from our picnic spot. In particular, I studied men wearing caps and sun hats. Itchy was just wily enough to conceal his carrot-top from me.

  The tourists noticed us staring at them.

  “Um,” I said, realizing that they were all much older and chubbier than Itchy, “we thought we might point out some landmarks to you.” I waved a hand authoritatively. “That green, Silly-Putty-like splotch to the right is Stanley Park. That silver golf ball, Science World. That upside-down bowl, gm Place.”

  One man lowered his camera to regard me icily. “As it happens, young woman, we’re with the bc Tourism Board. We’re quite well acquainted with the city, thank you very much.”

  Uh-oh. Never make assumptions about people.

  We sidled up to other mountaintop visitors and inspected them. No Itchy.

  “Ah, a lone yew tree,” Pantelli exclaimed. He trotted happily toward it.

  From behind the tree, I heard bzz, bzz … “Careful, Pantelli,” I called. “Bees.”

  Granted, Pantelli was one of those irritating Nature Boy types. He never got bitten or stung.

  I did, and often. I plopped down on a tree stump to examine a spider bite on my knee. I’d scratched it ferociously a few days before, and a scab had formed.

  Well, I supposed I could amuse myself by picking the scab off. Creative people are never idle, right?