No Birds Sing Here

by Daniel V. Meier Jr.

  Beckman handed the letter back to Honey who laughed, hooting like a boat horn.

  “You know, at first I could have killed him, but then I saw he was right. The show couldn’t last. He did the right thing. And now I’ve got you.” She smiled. “A much more agreeable arrangement.”

  Yes, it was an agreeable arrangement even as he thought about it, an inevitable arrangement. All those giant, unrelenting forces that had hounded him from every shadow, forces that he realized now were always unescapable, had at last focused on him in this time and place. Beckman felt a profound sense of gratitude that he had, for some inexplicable reason, been spared the final knowledge. It had come very close, and he had been in its dark, terrible presence. But “Thank God,” he muttered, he had not seen it.

  “What?” Honey said. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, it was nothing, Honey. Really. Nothing.”

  “Good,” Honey said with finality. “Now don’t worry. You can start writing again or you can even open up that parapsychology clinic you’ve talked about.”

  “I mentioned that?”

  “Yes, you did . . . I’m sure you did.”

  “Ha, I don’t remember it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter, darling. The future is yours. You can do anything you want.” She smiled. “With certain restrictions, of course.”

  “Of course,” Beckman answered, returning the smile.

  Honey turned down Riverside Drive and headed for the bridge. Beckman hunched down in the seat, resting his knees against the antique dash. He understood better what happens in the mind of a hooded falcon.

  “Let’s run over to West Memphis, dear. There are a few antique shops there where I’ve always been lucky. Would you mind?”

  Beckman shrugged and, for the first time in his life, thought it would be a good idea to start smoking. He decided, in fact, that at the first stop he would buy his first pack of cigarettes, possibly even make a ceremony out of it.

  Honey had merged into the bridge traffic, westbound, still ticking along in the slow traffic lane. The air, still hot and dense, smelled of water and crushed green leaves.

  “I’ve always detested Arkansas. You know, as an idea but . . . ”

  “Wait! Wait!” Beckman shouted. “Look!” He pointed to the stalled traffic on the eastbound side of the bridge.

  Traffic had stopped in all lanes, some rested at angles where they had apparently skidded across the lanes. Most people were standing out of their cars or standing on bumpers, on tops of hoods and trunks; all watching the gaunt solitary figure dressed in black at the bridge railing. The figure looked toward the sky.

  “Stop!” Beckman shouted.

  Honey tapped the brakes in more of a reflex action, then jerked her foot away. “Not on the bridge, Beckman. It’s dangerous and besides, I think it’s illegal.”

  “Well, do something: Go across the river then, and turn around on the other side,” Beckman shouted.

  Honey moved over to the left lane, heedless of other cars frantically braking or making wild, evasive turns. Honey turned at the first cut-through and drove up to the end of the traffic line.

  “My God, Beckman. I didn’t know you had such a morbid fascination with things like this.”

  Beckman jumped out of the car and ran through the waiting lanes of cars, most with engines running to keep their air conditioners going, and pushed aside the thickening crowd with surprising audacity, ignoring the shouts and curses from behind, until his chest collided with the outstretched arm of a policeman.

  “Sir, I know that person. I’m a friend of hers,” Beckman half-screamed at the policeman.

  The policeman scrutinized him with mixed disbelief. Beckman had decided instantly to break past the policeman and take his chances, but the policeman took him by the arm and led him toward a group of other policemen, gathered next to an official-looking car. All looked toward the figure at the bridge rail. Beckman’s policeman said something serious to him, but he could not hear because of the crowd shouting.

  “They’re mad because they think you’re some kind of privileged character. Afraid somebody’s getting ahead of ’em. Ain’t that something?”

  The policeman looked back at the crowd. “Get back, goddammit, or I’ll run you all in!” he shouted. “Sir, this man says he knows the jumper.”

  The man in charge pushed back his gold-encrusted hat, smiled, and said, “Well, get him out there. We got to do something before this crowd gets any bigger. And listen,” the high-ranking policeman spoke like a demanding father to Beckman’s policeman. “Let the boys know to keep any of those goddamn bloodthirsty news people away, you hear? Once this thing gets on the news, every goddamn preacher and everybody in both states who can walk or crawl will be here.”

  Beckman’s policeman released his grip. Beckman, not waiting for further discussion, ran as hard as he could to Malany. He was nearly out of breath when he reached her, and for a long while stood beside her, breathing hard, trying to speak.

  “Beckman,” she said, “I was hoping I would see you again.”

  “You could have answered more of my calls. God, Malany, my cries.”

  “You wouldn’t have recognized me, Beckman. I’m a different person now.” She hesitated, glanced at the river. “Not better, not anything really. Just different.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared, Malany. We could have still gone to California together. We could have made something of ourselves there.”

  Malany shook her head. “No. I know who I am now. There’s no need, and it would be useless to try.”

  “They sent me up here to stop you, Malany.”

  She laughed. “Isn’t that funny? I have no intention of doing anything. I never had. We were only driving over the bridge, coming back from a therapeutic outing, talking about what happened. Then I saw this view of the river, the wonderful Mississippi, and the city in the background, and it was the most beautiful thing . . . ” Her voice cracked, her eyes moistened. “I had to. I felt like I had to keep looking at it. So we stopped, just to look. That’s all. And then, the next thing I realized, there was the crowd behind me. People were shouting things. Then the police came, and that’s the way it’s been. You’re the only one who’s dared to come this close.”

  “They all think you’re going to jump, Malany.”

  “Yes, I know. To tell you the truth, the thought never really crossed my mind. But now, looking back at them, it doesn’t seem like a bad idea, does it?”

  Beckman leaned over the rail and looked down at the turbulent, muddy water. “It would hurt when you hit. I wouldn’t like that, plus not to mention the suffocation and then, that final step.”

  “That’s true, and you know, yesterday I would have jumped and not given a second thought about it. But today, in just twenty-four hours, I’ve finally realized who I am. He knew all along.”

  She nodded back toward the prominent black Lincoln Continental stopped in the first row of cars.

  “It’s kinda sad, you know, but he has always known me better than I knew myself.” She looked down at the swirling water and was silent for a few moments. “But that’s over now.”

  “You mean you’re not going back to him?”

  “Oh, no. I’m going back to him. I have to.”

  “Malany, what happened with John Darling?”

  She laughed quietly and looked at the sky. “Let’s see. I can’t remember what we talked about because what we said meant nothing. We talked about nothing. He was a great cook and loved meat dishes particularly. So, I ate meat. We ate and ate and then smoked and snorted and drank until we were delirious, but never irretrievably. That’s what made it so difficult. He pretended to read my stuff and shout about its greatness, said he would get me a good publisher, and then we would screw and screw and screw. All of a sudden, I was what I was before, and I had the terrible feeling that my little poetess trip was only a joke.” Again, she nodded toward the Lincoln. “I realize now that Darling spotted it, but lied so that he could g
et me into bed. Honey laughed at it, Hoss sensed it. Only you, Beckman, believed, like some little naive child. I’ll always treasure you for it. I won’t forget you.” She hesitated and then said, “Tell me, Beckman, have you ever been in love?”

  Beckman looked out at the churning brown water of the Mississippi. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.” He then reached over and took her hand. “Please, Malany. Let’s leave now. Let’s continue on. Let’s hit California like a storm.”

  She smiled. “No, Beckman. It isn’t possible. I’ve come as far as I can go.” She withdrew her hand slowly.

  “Just tell me why, Malany, why are you going back to him—to that life of self-centered materialism he’s offering you.”

  Malany smiled slightly and shrugged. “What else does a wounded animal do, but crawl back to where it felt safe? Take care of yourself, kid, and stick with Honey as long as you can. You’re safe with her, at least for a while.”

  Beckman watched as she walked back toward the crowd and the long, black Continental, and watched as the large, dark-clad man sitting in the rear opened the door.

  Beckman turned and looked once again at the river. Something big was floating in the water, something long and black, made shiny from the water washing over it. It moved steadily with the current, unaffected by the brown eddies around the bridge. As it moved farther away, Beckman saw that it was a large truck tire, but he couldn’t truly be sure.

  This was the river of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, the very aorta of America, and he looked at the city where so much happened every day and every night without causing a significant ripple in the water.

  He walked back to the relieved group of police officers who slapped him on the back and said that he did a good job and that he would be recommended by them for a citizen’s award. Beckman thanked them and walked back to Honey’s car.

  They rode back to Honey’s house with Beckman listening sporadically to Honey’s tattletale chatter, in the manner of Edith Wharton, and her phony praise of his courage and self-sacrifice. She promised rewards, she said, that he couldn’t begin to imagine. But all Beckman could think of was the word, Quiet.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A retired Aviation Safety Inspector for the FAA, Daniel V. Meier, Jr. has always had a passion for writing. During his college years, he studied history at the University of North Carolina, Wilmington (UNCW), American Literature at the University of Maryland Graduate School, an in 1980 was published by Leisure Books under the pen name of Vince Daniels.

  He also worked for the Washington Business Journal as a journalist and has been a contributing writer/editor for several aviation magazines. His historical action/adventure, The Dung Beetles of Liberia was released in September 2019.

  Dan and his wife live in Owings, Maryland, about twenty miles south of Annapolis and when he’s not writing, they spend their summers sailing on the Chesapeake Bay.

  OTHER BOOKS BY DANIEL V. MEIER, JR.

  Based on the remarkable true account of a young American who landed in Liberia in 1961.

  NOTHING COULD HAVE PREPARED HIM FOR THE EVENTS HE WAS ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE. Ken Verrier quickly realizes the moment he arrives in Liberia that he is in a place where he understand very little of what is considered normal, where the dignity of life has little meaning, and where he can trust no one.

  It’s 1961 and young Ken Verrier is experiencing the turbulence of Ishmael and the guilt of his brother’s death. His sudden decision to drop out of college and deal with his demons shocks his family, his friends, and especially his girlfriend, soon to have been his fiancee. His destination: Liberia—the richest country in Africa both in monetary wealth and natural resources.

  Author Daniel Meier describes Ken Verrier’s many escapades, spanning from horrifying to whimsical, with engaging and fast-moving narrative that ultimately describe a society upon which the wealthy are feeding and in which the poor are being buried.

  It’s a novel that will stay with you long after the last word has been read.

  RELEASING IN AUGUST 2021

  A gripping account of survival in America’s earliest settlement, Jamestown, Virginia.

  Virginia, 1622. Powhatan warriors prepare war paint from the sacred juice of the bloodroot plant, but Nehiegh, the English son-in-law of Chief Ochawintan has sworn never to kill again. He must leave before the massacre.

  England 1609. Matthew did not trust his friend, Richard’s stories of Paradise in the Jamestown settlement, but nothing could have equipped him for the violence and privation that awaited him in this savage land.

  Once ashore in the fledging settlement, Matthew experiences the unimaginable beauty of this pristine land and learns the meaning of hope, but it all turns into a nightmare as gold mania infests the community and Indians become an increasing threat. The nightmare only gets worse as the harsh winter brings on “the starting time” and all the grizzly horrors of a desperate and dying community that come with it.

  Driven to the depths of despair by the guilt of his sins against Richard and his lust for that man’s wife, Matthew seeks death.

  In that moment of crisis, when he chooses death over a life of depravity, he unexpectedly finds new life among his sworn enemy, the Powhatan Indians.

  What will this new life mean for Matthew, and will he survive?