Summer of the Spotted Owl

by Melanie Jackson

  I shoved past him, accidentally knocking the clipboard against his forehead. I still wanted to question Councillor Cordes about Itchy.

  But at that moment Jack, on the lookout for me, passed close by Councillor Cordes and waved. The effect on the councillor was immediate — he started scratching furiously.

  Napoleon, I thought. Jack was covered in Napoleon’s fur. No wonder Itchy was so itchy around Rowena’s place. Rock Cordes Senior and Junior were allergic to cats!

  Hoisting his pant legs, Councillor Cordes raked his fingernails up and down his ankles. “Is there no escaping these danged felines? Not even in a fish hatchery?”

  The petite assistant bent down alongside him. “Oh dear … should I fetch your calamine lotion from the car?”

  “Just— let — me — scratch!” Councillor Cordes snapped.

  Feeling sorry for the assistant— she’d just been trying to help!— I piped up, “Maybe I could distract you from your itchiness. I have a few questions about your son Itch — er, about your son. He’s been …”

  My voice faded. Past the councillor, just outside the hatchery entrance, a dome gleamed in the sunshine. I blinked. That was no dome. It was a bald head — Bald Guy!

  Chapter Eight

  Grimm Developments in the Forest

  “Whoa,” I exclaimed and zoomed outside. I was determined to confront Bald Guy.

  “Dinah,” called Jack.

  “Ida,” called Beanpole.

  “Not a high-speed chase,” groaned Bald Guy. “Gee, I can’t even go for a quiet stroll undisturbed.” Swiveling, he sprinted into the Capilano rain forest. I thought of those crudely drawn signs of Rowena as a witch. In my outrage, I shoved aside all sense of caution. “You don’t deserve a quiet stroll!” I shouted and ran after Bald Guy.

  At first I chased him without any feelings of nervousness. There were hikers on the trail, and families tucking into picnic baskets at tables. Joggers saluted me, thinking I was one of them, enjoying robust exercise in the hearty out-of- doors. (As if.) Past firs, round sparkling bends of the river, the dome of Bald Guy’s head flashed here and there in the sunlight, guiding me on.

  But after a while the trail by the river started splitting into narrower trails leading to more obscure parts of the forest. Bald Guy leaped onto one; I gamely followed. Only when I stopped for a moment to lean against a stump and catch my breath did I realize how still everything was. The ancient forest had surrounded me. There were no joggers or families in sight.

  I gulped. I was reminded of the deep dark forest in the Grimm fairy tale Brother and Sister. The one where the boy drinks from a flowing brook and promptly gets turned into a deer. And that was on a good day for him in the fairy-tale forest.

  At my feet, lacy ferns were waving in the breeze. Waving, Good-bye, Dinah, good-bye!

  I shuddered. Madge and Jack were right about me: I was overly imaginative. The silence grew so intense it started to ring in my ears. Where, exactly, did this path go? I craned to see its twists and turns.

  There, just before the path disappeared around a fat fir, stood Bald Guy.

  “Aaaggghhh!” I bellowed, startled. I wasn’t one to express surprise quietly.

  My voice echoed through the trees. Bald Guy gave a pleased smile, as if I’d just successfully completed a difficult audition.

  He began strolling toward me. His voice carried through the trees and across the waving ferns. “It occurred to my feeble little brain how stupid I was to flee from you just because you happened to spot me visiting the hatchery. After all, no one else observed me.”

  The same thought had already occurred to me. I’d actually followed a stranger into a deserted area of forest. A weird stranger too— one who left spiteful signs on people’s lawns and made horrid anonymous phone calls.

  He was rounding the last turn toward me. “I really think it’s time we had a chat,” he was saying. “A secret chat, mind. One that you don’t tell your friends about.” He smiled and reached for me.

  In times of panic, I thought of Dad. Now what do I do? I demanded.

  And the memory of him lifting me, tiny me, to the telescope came back. Urging me, Look up, up…

  “Look up, up,” I blurted.

  Startled, Bald Guy obliged. I whipped round and zoomed away.

  I also yelled at the top of my lungs. At the middle and bottom of them too. “H-E-E-EL-L-LP!” There was a tremendous flapping above me: birds exiting their nests and escaping.

  Huffing and puffing, I reached the main path. I had to pause for breath or collapse. Gasping in huge hunks of air, I glanced behind me. Bald Guy was panting too, and hesitating on the other side of a fallen, mossy log.

  A middle-aged couple strolled by. “What deafening cries for help those were,” the woman commented, adjusting her binoculars strap. She smiled at me. “Totally unrealistic, of course.”

  Huh?

  I was so short of breath that only a hoarse moan toppled from my mouth.

  “Movies,” the man with her nodded. “They’re always filming movies around here. Hollywood North, they call it. I mean, you could tell those cries were amplified.”

  They proceeded along the trail.

  “Hnngh,” I croaked after them.

  I glanced back again. No Bald Guy. Unhelpful or not, the couple had scared him away.

  I staggered the rest of the way back to the hatchery. My legs were so rubbery I probably would have pitched headfirst onto the pavement — except that a pair of kindly hands caught me.

  “You poor little thing!” exclaimed Councillor Cordes’s petite assistant. Her doll-like face furrowed with concern. “Why, something’s scared you!”

  I pointed a shaky finger at the forest. “B-bald,” I managed to get out.

  “What, you saw a bald eagle?”

  I giggled in spite of myself. “A bald guy,” I informed her. “He was chasing me.”

  “Good gracious!” She foraged in her purse. “Here,” she said, producing a package of cupcakes. “I always carry treats around for when my Norman gets upset. You just have these, dearie, and you’ll feel better. I’m Zoë Klapper, by the way.”

  Boy, did I envy Norman. My mother carried carrots in her purse for treats. Not the same at all.

  While demolishing the cupcakes, I introduced myself to Zoë. “Bald Guy is in league with Councillor Cordes’s son in playing pranks on my neighbor,” I explained. “Not ha-ha pranks. Spiteful ones that bring Rowena bad publicity. Er, sorry — I realize Councillor Cordes is your boss,” I added, licking icing off my fingers.

  Zoë dimpled. “Don’t worry about offending me, Dinah. In fact, I look forward to the day when I don’t have to work for Councillor Cordes. I plan on quitting very soon. I’ve had enough of being barked at by the good councillor. He can be very trying. Not what you’d call easy to work for!”

  Then her face settled into a frown. Though, since her rouged cheeks made her face look so doll-like, it was a cheerful frown. “As for Rock Junior — well, he’s a very spoiled boy. Doted on since birth. My goodness, if I’d raised my Norman that way, there’d be no controlling him! Do you know, Councillor Cordes has just got Rock Junior reinstated as an instructor at High Spirits Hang Gliding? And this was after he crashed one of the hang gliders! Naturally High Spirits wanted to oblige an important person like the councillor. But, if you ask me, it was far more than young Rock deserved.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I’m kind of glad he got his job back, since he loves hang gliding so much. What I can’t figure out is why he stole my turtle. See, I was in the yard he crashed into.”

  “Gracious!” Zoë cooed. “You poor thing — how frightening that must’ve been, to see that young oaf descending on the garden like a vulture!”

  “Actually, he was too busy scratching to be vulture-like.”

  “I will tell Councillor Cordes about this and make sure you get a new turtle,” Zoë announced with determination. Her penciled-in eyebrows rose. “I take it you had one of those nice, tiny turtles as a pe
t. Not a snapping one,. She shuddered.

  I giggled. “We’re talking inflatable, Zoë.” But I wanted to switch topics. “Do you have any idea why Rock Junior is playing pranks on Rowena?”

  Zoë pursed her lips. “Rock Junior has always been a difficult child, as I understand. I’ll speak to the councillor about the pranks, as well. He’ll get them stopped, don’t you worry! In the meantime, I’d better get going on the work Councillor Cordes has given me. If I don’t, the councillor says he’ll toss me off Lions Gate Bridge!”

  Zoë tinkled out a laugh. I didn’t see what was so funny. Councillor Cordes sounded like a horrid boss.

  I accepted another cupcake from Zoë, whose purse seemed to brim with them. It occurred to me that her son Norman must be a very fat little boy. Mouth full, I waved at Jack, who was just emerging from the forest.

  He returned my wave with a scowl. Probably not very pleased about my disappearing. By chasing after Bald Guy, I’d committed a major uh-oh.

  At that moment, Pantelli strolled up to us. Every few seconds he stopped to examine leaves, ferns and bark through his broken magnifying glass.

  “Pantelli Audia, Zoë Klapper,” I said. When Pantelli examined Zoë through his magnifying glass, I grabbed the glass from him. The boy was getting embarrassing.

  “Can I give you youngsters a lift home?” Zoë inquired. She gestured at a pink, compact convertible with plush black-velvet seats. “Councillor Cordes will be annoyed at me for leaving, but I must go pick up Norman. His day camp is almost out.”

  I thought of relaxing into those plush seats. Of avoiding the long, steep climb out of the canyon.

  But Jack was almost upon us, and his scowl was canyon-deep.

  “Thanks, anyway,” I told Zoë. “I think I’m in for some grueling exercise.”

  “Why did you tell me you were interested in the hatchery?” Jack asked once Zoë Klapper had zipped off in her pink convertible. “Why not admit you wanted to sleuth, my deceptive young songbird? I would’ve still brought you to see the hatchery, on the slim chance you’d pick up some scientific knowledge,” Jack finished, in the disappointed tone that was so much worse than yelling.

  He noticed Pantelli grinning, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

  “You start up the trail ahead of us,” Jack ordered Pantelli.

  “C’mon, this is a spectator sport!”

  “Scram.”

  Pantelli scrammed.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled unhappily. “At the time it seemed amusing to pretend that I was interested in salmon. Then, once I got to the hatchery, I did find them interesting.”

  “Amusing to deceive a friend?” he said. “What about chasing after a stranger into the deserted part of the forest? Was I supposed to find that amusing?”

  “I’m sorry …”

  What did this moment remind me of? I knew only too well.

  Dad, after one of his drinking binges, apologizing to Mother, Madge and me. I thought it’d be amusing to stay at the bar with the guys a bit longer. I’m sorry…

  I wanted to be like Dad at his best, not worst.

  Chapter Nine

  The Disappearing –

  But Always Resourceful –Talbot

  I couldn’t stand to have Jack mad at me. He was the one who stayed patient when others got mad. If I’d alienated the world’s last patient person, maybe I really was as impossible as people said.

  I had to restore myself to Jack’s good graces. I had to.

  Let’s see. I could behave well.

  Okay, on to plan B.

  I would, I decided dramatically, throw myself at Jack’s feet and beg for forgiveness.

  “You can’t,” Madge said when I told her my plan. “Think what it means to throw yourself at someone’s feet. You’d smash against the floor. Probably break an elbow.”

  I worked out a better system. On next seeing Jack, I’d hurl myself on the nearest sofa. I practiced doing this. It was quite fun. Napoleon, visiting from Rowena’s, stared curiously through the patio doors at me.

  The phone rang. “Hi, Jack,” Madge said from the dining room, where she was whitewashing out a smiling robin.

  I ran in, but she shook her head at me and wouldn’t pass the phone. “You shouldn’t have self-doubts,” Madge was saying. “You’re destined for greatness, Jack. I think you’re wonderful.” Her voice turned lovey-dovey.

  Yech. I slumped back into the family room, opened the patio doors and picked up Napoleon. “I just need Jack to drop by for a second,” I confided to the cat. “Preferably in a room equipped with cushions.”

  I knew why Jack was feeling self-doubt. The news people, the tv ones especially, had built him up into this environmental superhero who could work miracles. A few spotted owl rallies, and the North Vancouver District Council had completely given way!

  In interviews Jack appeared reluctant, ducking his sandy head and speaking seriously about all the dangers to the spotted owl that still remained.

  “So cute!” exclaimed the heavily hair-sprayed anchorwoman, Mary Lou Burke.

  Bylaw Enforcementread the red lettering on the side of the van parked in front of Rowena’s.

  “Enforcement of what?” I asked the man who climbed out. He wore an official-looking badge on his shirt. He also wore a scowl.

  “You live here?” he barked. He peered at his clipboard. “You a member of the Pickles family?”

  “No,” I admitted. “However, I’m acting as p.i. on Mrs. Pickles’s behalf. You know, private invest —”

  “I don’t have time to waste,” the man tsked and scowled harder.

  “As a comeback, that’s not very witty,” I commented.

  But the bylaw-enforcement man was already stalking toward Rowena’s front door. “Git!” he bellowed.

  Of course Napoleon, being vain and emperor-like, didn’t git on command. He arched his back. When Rowena opened the door, the enforcement man had to leap over Napoleon.

  I would’ve hung around to find out what happened, except that I was heading off to meet Talbot and Pantelli at the Capilano Suspension Bridge, just down the road.

  Seventy years old, the wood-and-wire footbridge sways across the canyon’s 450-foot span. As you walk down to the bridge, you pass colorful totem poles carved in the shape of animals in First Nations legends, including my favorite, the raven.

  “Enforcement?” repeated Talbot as we stood on the bridge. Talbot put a hand on each rail. Planting his feet slightly apart on the planks, he rocked the bridge. The dark trees on either side appeared to be doing the hula.

  By the ticket office, a tour guide had been instructing visitors not to rock the bridge. And, normally, Talbot obeyed rules. If Madge had been there, she would have noted with annoying femininity that Talbot must enjoy entertaining me or he wouldn’t be going against his nature.

  “Bombs away!” Pantelli yelled. He barfed over the railing and down 230 feet to the canyon floor. For someone with motion sickness, a visit to a suspension bridge probably wasn’t the most sensible idea. But sensible would have been going against Pantelli’s nature.

  A sleeve of mist curled up from the river, tickling my skin. Chilling me too. I’d ignored Madge’s advice about bringing a sweater.

  “You almost have to be a navigator in this,” Talbot remarked after briefly being hidden by the mist.

  “Yeah,” I agreed — and was reminded of what the blonde instructor had said about Itchy. That he was an expert navigator.

  But if so, I asked myself yet again, how could Itchy have landed short of Rowena’s yard?

  I remembered his stammered excuse: Listen: I try to stay out of trouble. It’s not my fault.

  For the first time I focused on the words try to stay out. I gaped at Talbot. “Holy Toledo. I think Itchy deliberately avoided crashing into Rowena’s yard. If he were an expert navigator, he’d be able to change his mind about where he landed, even at the last minute. Which means — he changed his mind about being part of the prank against Rowena!”

&
nbsp; Then I shook my head. “Itchy is one conflicted guy. I sure wish I could talk to him again.”

  Pantelli stuck his face through the shreds of mist. “I sure wish I could get off this bridge,” he croaked.

  “I’ll go with you,” I said at once. Poor Pantelli! He was so pale from throwing up that it was hard to tell where his complexion ended and the mist began.

  I turned to let Talbot know we were in retreat mode. However, the mist had settled over this portion of the bridge like a sleeping caterpillar. “Talbot?” I called.

  No answer. But he’d find his way back to us. When you’re our age, your movements are pretty predictable. Sooner or later you head for the nearest food outlet.

  In the Loggers’ Grill, overlooking the bridge, Pantelli immediately regained both his color and his appetite. He and I ordered three salmon burgers plus fries. By the time we polished off our own, we were starting to worry about Talbot.

  “He might’ve headed off on a trail and got lost,” Pantelli suggested.

  “Not unless he was wearing headphones and listening to blues music,” I said, layering Talbot’s fries with ketchup.

  “Which he wasn’t,” I added, mouth full, as Pantelli and I helped ourselves to Talbot’s food. “Talbot is one of those responsible, direction-conscious types with loads of Boy Scout badges.”

  I gulped down a fry and suddenly didn’t want to eat any more. I was thinking of how Bald Guy had almost grabbed me in the still part of the forest. How I ran and ran and finally found Zoë Klapper, with her sweet smile and sweeter cupcakes. The whole thing had been like a fairy tale — almost as Grimm as one, for sure.

  I stood up abruptly. “We have to find Talbot,” I announced.

  I marched outside to the ticket booth. Squishing past tourists, I leaned down to where the ticket seller’s hands were briskly dispensing change under the glass.

  She groaned. “Not you again.”

  “I’ll need a helicopter and search team,” I said. No point in beating around the bush, I always say.

  “What for?” the ticket seller demanded.