Bird After Bird (32 page)

“You know, Janice, how to scare a bird?”

“How?”

“Some people go after birds with a shotgun, thinking the noise will scare them. It does, sometimes. Works well on pests like house sparrows or pigeons.”

“Mmm hmm…you going somewhere with this, or is this another of your citizen science lessons?”

“If you’re watching a wild bird, you don’t want to scare it away,” I said, ignoring her remark. “Songbirds are special. They’re not bothered by sounds—they’re used to singing over the volume of freeways, of shipyards, or airports. They sing and sing and sing.” I stopped in place, and looked my friend in the eye.

“The best way to scare a songbird is to make a sudden movement. Just come charging at them full blast. They’ll fly away, for sure. They might never come back.”

She grinned, and patted me on the arm. “Okay. I get it. So I shouldn’t book you front row seats for the taping of the talent show? That wouldn’t be an appropriate going-away present?”

“Oh, J. As much as I would love to swoop back into that man’s life, tell him how wrong I was, how sorry I am…I can’t. I’ve got to take it slow. I’ve got to let him come to me.”

Chapter Sixty-two

Laurie

The day of the taping, I’d slept about three hours in the previous 48. My guts were such a mess, Louisa had taken to spending nights on my couch. I don’t know what I’d have done without my big sister. She fended off phone calls from Mom and Jo—each of them suddenly a lot nicer now that I was in the news. She was housesitting for me, keeping an eye on Hap. She scheduled media interviews with every reporter who called or emailed from St. Louis to Cincinnati. She helped me pack. She made sure I ate.

“I could slip you some Nyquil, and you’d never know the difference,” she threatened, passing me a Dr. Pepper on the night before our flight.

“Sister roofies brother,” I said. “Awesomesauce.” I gave her the double thumbs up, and she gave me the bird.

“Is Lynette up for handling Willie alone for the weekend?” she asked.

“Yeah. Billy’s not missing his ticket to fame. He wanted to bring Lynette and the baby along, but the doctor said it was too soon. He’s supposed to stay home for a few more weeks, just to be safe.”

“At least he got to come home, though,” Louisa said, opening my suitcase to shove an extra shirt inside. She zipped it back shut.“I think that’ll do it. If you run out of clothes I guess you’ll have to buy an ‘I <3 NY’ tee.”

I hugged her. “You know, if you wanted me to buy you a souvenir, you could’ve just asked.”

She grabbed my shoulders, sinking her fingers in hard and shaking me, making a goofy mock face like the Hulk. “Just go and have a good time! God knows I’m shocked you’re singing your way into the history books—I thought for sure you’d make a name for yourself as an artist…but, no, little brother. I don’t need any souvenirs. I’m just happy to see you go.”

I remembered my special cargo. “Hold on, hold on, one more thing to pack.” I ran back to my room and brought out the bag of paper cranes.

“What is it?”

“Oh…just a bag of wishes,” I said.

She hugged me, and patted my face. “Here’s hoping they each come true.”

I thought about that bag, now, on the plane. I’d written “Wren,” then my phone number inside each crane. It might have been stupid—I might get a zillion prank calls and have to change my number, but it felt right to me. I just knew if she saw the cranes she’d
know
. Maybe she’d unfold them, and maybe she’d recognize the number and call me. It’d been weeks, months since we’d spoken. What if she’d deleted my number?

Maybe another guy would have just punched her digits into the phone and rung her up, but I wasn’t personally convinced those guys existed outside of movies and romance novels. You know, the Bruce Willis type who takes a bullet to the bicep without flinching, keeps on walking toward a shooter, only to disarm him and then sweep his woman up, carrying her off into the sunset? Well, I’d served with a lot of tough guys. I’d survived insurgent attacks and had both the mental and physical scars to prove it. For Pete’s sake, I’m not sure I could trust someone so unflinching that he could look heartbreak in the eye and forge on forward without a second thought.

No, the birds it was. It was superstitious and it was stupid, maybe, but if I knew Wren, she was a Central Park girl. I’d looked it up, and it was a big place. 840 acres, about the size of a typical farm in Dubois County. The only difference was, it wasn’t a wide open space. It was filled with trees and rocks and people and landscaping and water features…if I meant to leave her a thousand cranes, I’d be footing it all day and all night, maybe.

Billy was popping beers in the seat next to me. “Worried about Willie and Lynette,” he said, more than once. Being away from home was hard on him now that he had a little boy. I patted his leg. “You’re a good dad—and Lynette’s parents are there. She’s not on her own. Louisa’s going to stop by and check on her, too.”

“Your sister’s sweet, you know that?”

I laughed. “One of them is.”

“Hey, Jo came past the garage looking for you the other day. She’s sweet, too. She wished us luck.”

I scoffed. “I’m sure she did, Billy.”

“So, what’s the schedule like again?”

Louisa had drilled it into my mind, otherwise I wouldn’t have known, myself.

“We land, check into the hotel, tape our segment, and then we have the night and the next day off to explore. We might have some camera crews with us, but otherwise we’re free to do what we want, and we’ve got a budget we can blow. Should be fun. Sunday night the vote goes live on TV and if we win, we have to play one more song, then it’s a whole new circus. We’ll fly out on Sunday night, either way, so we shouldn’t have to miss too much work.”

“I don’t care if we lose,” Billy said. “I mean, it would be awesome to win, but either way, we’ll get more gigs now. I’ve already been called by some music festivals about our schedule for next summer. Imagine that.
Next
summer. Normally I can barely get anyone to schedule us two months in advance.” It was Billy’s turn to pat me on the leg. “I really appreciate you giving us this opportunity. Either way, it’s cool. And, hey—are you sure you want to do that new song?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Win or lose, we shouldn’t go out doing a cover song. It needs to be an original.”

“Even though it’s kind of…personal?”

“Especially so,” I said.

“I know what it means to you, man,” Billy whispered. “And don’t worry—you’re not going to blow it.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant the song or the gesture.

Chapter Sixty-three

Wren

Central Park is a big place, and it turned out my favorite spot was a pretty good walk from my apartment.

That suited me. I needed the fresh air and the exercise.

As I curled up beneath a tree with my coffee, my journal, and my fave gel pen, I knew I was going to miss this place. “Opportunity Cost,” I said, kicking up my knees to have something to write against. I pressed the journal open wide, cracking the spine. The book lover in me hated any damage to a book, but what good is a journal that sits empty?

I held the pen in my teeth and watched the New Yorkers race by, gathering my thoughts. Finally, I was ready.

Dear Dad, Prince of the Partridge, Purveyor of Practicalities, King of Birdseye and Sayer of Sooth,

It’s about time I wrote to you. I know you’re gone and there’s no chance you’ll ever read this, but since you did me dirty and wrote from the grave, I figure you owe me one.

You were right. First time for everything, you’d say, but I’m serious. You were right about me, about Martin, about my love life in general, and I’ve finally realized you were right about my career, too.

Maybe you never came out and said that I was doing the wrong thing—not directly, anyway—but you were right about the decisions I was making. I was following what was “good on paper.”

“Good on paper” sucks in real life.

Now I’ve gone and done some real hole digging, and my only comfort is the knowledge that it could have been worse. I could have stayed in Chicago, wasted my life at Parker & Bash, and probably ended up married to this slick package of a guy named Troy who you’d have despised. The money and the 2.3 charming children would have been good, but any life I would have built in that situation would never have stacked up to the marriage I witnessed in my childhood, or the Two Birditos that we became.

The truth is, I got everything in Chicago that I set out for—or damn close. I used to think that school and work were the things that made you proud of me. Or maybe how much I looked like Mom. I didn’t get it. So many do set stock in those things, and I guess I just assumed you did, too.

I think I get it now. You were proud of me for being myself. For going after my own goals. For being unafraid in a business world that chews up women and spits them out. What parent wouldn’t be proud of that?

But you wrote me that letter. I was off-track and you knew it.

When I jumped ship for NYC I thought I was setting myself free, but like one of those gulls we helped rescue from fishing wire on the banks of Patoka, the more I struggled to free myself of my past, the more ensnared I became.

When I think about how much encouragement you gave me to follow my dreams, I really wish you were here now to see what comes next.

I’m scrapping it all, Dad. Letting it go.

I’m done with this trajectory. I’ve been too chicken to examine the past five years, but I know I’ve made the wrong choices. Some instinct is calling me to move on, to circle back and retrace my landings, and I’m not going to fight it anymore, Dad.

Remember how I used to ask about your career, and all you could have done with your talent? How were you sure you should be a teacher, when other jobs in the city were just an interview away? It didn’t make sense to me, but I’m starting to get it.

You’d laugh and tell me that Mom was worth it—that your life might not be as “bright lights, big city” as mine, but you loved what you built with her and you’d made the right choice. You told me it didn’t matter where you lived or where you worked, but it was obvious that you were meant to be a teacher. When you finally accepted it, your life came together. Mom, teaching, me, Birdseye. It all clicked.

I think you knew deep down you were meant to be a teacher. Not just your math students, either. You taught me so much. You’re still teaching me.

I read our bird book again last night. I don’t know how you did it, Dad. You found a way to show up at the right place at the right time and catch a Wren before she fell too far.

Miss you so much. Thank you for being my strength and thank you for never shoving your wisdom down my throat. I am so grateful you were my father.

See you someday, Big Birdito.

Yours forever,

Princess Birdzilla Von Muffinstuff, Keeper of Dreams, and Lover of our fine feathered friends

Chapter Sixty-four

Wren