The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (34 page)

If Tropical Depression Five
had a
little
more pep
—
its winds just a mile or two per hour faster
—
Flight 1142 from JFK to L.F. Wade International Airport would have been canceled, thus saving a very expensive, well-made Brazilian piece of machinery from be
ing smashed into roughly twenty-seven thousand pieces
.

It wasn’t the lightning bolt
that
slammed the nose cone, and then ran along the aluminum skin of the fuselage,
that
brought the plane down. The bolt burned out running lights and blackened the fresh blue paint on the right engine before exiting through the tail. The lightning damage was mostly cosmetic, what with all the wonderful safety features on the pricey airplane.

Peter Singe, AKA Lightning Man, fe
e
l
ing
the power on the other side of the double-paned safety glass, longed for the dreadful, wondrous energy. Lightning Man heard the crash of brutal voltage, ten times the temperature of the sun, and waited for the explosion to take him, like it had so many times in the past. All that rage and energy so impossibly close, yet Singe was denied like a shunned lover; he was a single sperm trapped in a protective condom, so close yet so far.

Bagg eyed his friend’s queer expression of near ecstasy, wishing like hell they could pull this thing over so he could get out.
H
is video screen had gone from enthusiastic sneak-previews of upcoming movies to ominous snow, like the tip-off
in a horror movie
that something
was
about to happen.

Apparently a result of the lightning strike, little yellow oxygen cups now hung swaying from the cabin roof on shimmering webs of tubing
. T
he plane bounded through the turbulent sky as they began the merciful final approach. The clouds outside, which had devoured the plane thirty minutes
earlier, were thick and dark
and streaked the windows with constant rain. The clouds lit the faces of the frightened passengers with st
robe-like lightning flashes, and
there was little talking, not even from the captain or stewardess. The flight crew was busy with this little mess.

“Thirteen.
”
Singe
spoke
in a spent voice, rolling h
is head toward Bagg, and turned
his wrist to show off the blackened face of his watch. He smiled at Bagg with a tired, satisfied expression. It hadn’t been like the other body slamming encounters, and he’d nearly missed noticing the lightning’s
soft
caress. But it was enough. Singe turned back to the jostling window to watch the flashes of light.

*
*
*

The thirty passengers were quiet, perhaps hypnotized by the swaying oxygen masks
that
nobody
was
put
ting
on. Bagg and Singe sat in row eighteen, seats C and D, just behind the right wing and engine. Another solid thump, followed by the vaguely familiar mechanical hum of the landing gear being dropped in place, gave Bagg some mild comfort. Okay, Bagg thought, the tires are down, so nothing
major
was broken by the lightning. This
was
going to be okay, and
now
the deceleration
ha
d
a calming effect, despite h
is
suspicion
that
they would break through the clouds any moment to discover they were a mere five feet over the ocean and headed directly into the side of a
building
.

When the plane suddenly accelerated, dipping the passengers back into their soft seats, Bagg assumed the captain had decided to make another pass. Or maybe he’d
rejected
the ridiculous idea of landing in all this rain and wind. But the acceleration was followed by a weightless drop, as if the plane had stalled and was falling straight down, going for a belly
flop into the sea rather than some mundane three-point touchdown on the smooth concrete runway.

The flickering cabin lights went dark, as did the snow on the video sc
reens. Both engines made
a gasping noise, reminding Bagg of the feeling when you stuck your head out the window of a speeding car.

“Goodbye, Lennon
.
”
Bagg cringed as
Singe
took his hand in the dark, as if on a first date in a movie theat
e
r showing some apocalyptic thriller. Instead of popcorn, Bagg smelled hot wires, the taste of pennies on his tongue. He watched the curious motion of the oxygen cups, dancing at the end of the long narrow tubes, like yellow butterflies playing in the night.

“Butterflies.
”
Bagg
shut his eyes, deciding the image was a good one to have when performing a belly
flop in an airliner from a mile or so in the sky.

Morgan had once caught a butterfly in a net he’d bought for her in a toy store
. It
had been
for collecting insects
and
had come
with a small plastic container where you could study your finds. She
’
d been
thrilled with her catch, put grass and leaves in the bottom
,
and added a little bottle cap of water.

“Her name is Tinker Bell,
”
she told her father, placing the container on her bedroom window sill. “She’s going to have a dozen babies and I’ll teach them tricks.
”

But the next morning, Bagg
had been
awakened when Morgan climbed into his bed, snuggling close to him. It
had been
a regular event if she woke before him in the small apartment, and Bagg
was
about to drift back off to sleep for twenty more minutes. But the little body pressed to his back
was
m
aking little lurching movements
and
he
hear
d
the stifled sobs.

“What’s the ma
tter,
honey
?
”
Bagg rolled
over to
face his daughter, b
ut she had her chin pressed to her chest, hands cupped by her face, and she
hadn’t answered
through her tears.

“Morgan, what
’s
wrong?
”

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy.
”
She
was
slowly shaking her head side to side.

“Didn’t mean to what?
”
he
asked, brushing the hair back off her forehead.

Morgan unclasped her hands to show the dead butterfly.

“I let Tinke
r Bell die.
”

“Butterflies,
”
Bagg repeated, as the plane continued to fall, the churning, white-capped sea racing up to meet them.

“Hey, Mack.
”
A
brown pelican
tried
to
get
Bagg
’s attention
. “You ain’t looking so good.
”

They were bobbing in the churning water, rain falling in fine drops
,
swept across the surface by swirling winds. Bagg’s head and chest rested on a blue seat cushion he’d apparently come across out here, wherever that happened to be.

“Who are you?
”
Bagg
squinted
against the salty blowing mist.

“I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past.
”

“No he ain’t!
”
came a voice from behind. If Bagg knew one bird from another, he’d have recognized this as an American Woodcock, also known as a timberdoodle. “He’s just a dopey pelican.
”

“Who you callin’ dopey, Woodc
ock?
”
The pelican craned
its neck to see over Bagg. “What kinda name is Woodcock, anyway? Sounds like a porn star.
"

“Hey, coulda been worse,
”
said the flycatcher who’d
drifted
up next to the pelican. “He coulda picked the name Swallow!
”

“Ha, ha, ha! Swallow!
”
T
he pelican laughed along with the flycatcher.

“Why you draggin’ me into this?
”
asked the little brown bank swallow, who was floating somewhere near Bagg’s bare feet, picking at the swirling white foam.

“Yeah, hey, sorry there
,
Swallow.
”
T
he flycatcher
looked embarrassed
. “No offense.
”

“So whaddya gonna do now, M
ack?
”
The pelican turned
his attention back to the human who was clinging to an airplane seat cushion, miles from where it and the rest of the airplane should have landed on solid ground. “What’s your big plan?
”

*
*
*

Bagg knew he must be dead, stuck in some sort of purgatory reserved for people with unresolved issues. Clearly being lost at sea represented the search for Morgan. The raging storm was his ex-wife? The birds
were
angels?

Bagg ignored the bird
-angel thing’s question
and resumed his journey to Bermuda by kicking his feet.

“Hey, Mack, you go that way and you ain’t hitting dry land for
about eight hundred miles.
You like lobster, Mack? Man I could really go for some lobster. When you get to Maine, you pick me up one, how
’
bout it?
”

Bagg made a u-turn on the crest of an enormous wave, and the pelican rose up on the swell beside him, stretching and fl
apping its wings and began
shouting.
“Wahoo!
Wahoo!
”

The sea
settled back down for a moment
and Bagg got his feet going again. He felt like he was looking through a submarine periscope in an old movie, where the captain
was
trying to keep from breaking the surface and the lens
kept
getting splashed by the choppy surface.

“That’s better, Mack.
”
T
he pelican
stroked to keep up
. “Jeez, if you humans had to migrate to survive, us birds would be ruling things by now.
”

“Ain’t that the truth,
”
added the flycatcher.

“Hey, Mack,
one more thing before you go.
”
The pelican had to raise his voice as an especially strong gust of wind drove a wall of heavy rain across the gathering of birds and lone survivor.
“There’s a little human girl been looking all over the place for you.
”

Bagg kept kicking his feet.

The rain was amazing. The gigantic drops sounded like hailstones on metal surfaces and made huge splashes in puddles. The wind swirled in great arcs from different directions, wreaking havoc on small trees.

Morgan stood on the Tucker’s Town main dock, but there were no signs of any huge celebration, other than a big flapping banner still attached to a light pole at one end.

The banner said “Welcome
,
”
but Morgan felt anything but.

The water surrounding the marina was filled with birds, which Morgan understood was because of the storm. Birds knew when to seek shelter
and
when to come out of the storm. It was an irony not lost on the little girl who stood on the very last wood plank of the dock, toes
hanging
ten inside her soaked sneakers. She held her backpack in her arms, trying to shelter it from the rain. But she knew her pictures must be getting drenched.

When it was an hour past the time the boats were to depart for the sanctuary
on the
VIP tour, Morgan abandoned her vigil. Shivering from the chilly rain, she turned and headed back to a large, dark wood gazebo
that
offered cover from the driving deluge.

The sky was getting darker overhead, even though it was just past two o’clock.

Morgan sat on the damp bench
that
circled the inside of the gazebo, cradling her backpack, craving her warm spot back on her beach. There
was
a long, snake-like hiss from up in the rafters, barely audible over the steady rain.

Squinting into the shadows, Morgan picked out the big eyes that were peering down at her over the edge of a nest.

“Hello,
”
Morgan said, “I’m just looking for my dad.
”

There was no response, so Morgan let it go. She was in his home, and all the birds were pretty upset by the storm.

“Wh
at kind of bird is that?
”
A
voice
came
from the far side of the gazebo, startling Morgan badly enough she lurched to catch her falling backpack.

“A Barred
Owl.
”

“I thought it was a snake at first.
”

“Yeah, they hiss whe
n they’re upset.
They’re all
freaked out from
the storm.
”

“You know a lot about birds?
”
Morgan was confused at how she’d missed
the man
sitting there when she first came in out of the rain.

“My
father’s a bird.
He died when I was a little kid, and I’ve been trying to find him.
”

“No luck so far?
”
The
man
made no move to come closer. It was just Morgan, the man across the damp gazebo, and an owl keeping an eye on everything from above.

“Everyone thinks I’m crazy.
”

“Because you’re looking for your father? I don’t think that’s so crazy. I
lost my dad, too.
”

“Mom and my teacher think I need a psychiatrist
.
”
S
aying the words out loud made
Morgan
feel very alone. “The kids call me names.
”

“I’m sorry.
”

“I know who you are.
”
Morgan looked
at the man sideways, her cheek resting on her wet backpack. “You’re Mr. Dupont.
You came here for the ceremony.
”

“That’s right. What’s your name?
”

“Morgan Freeman. Like the actor. I came here to see if you could help me.
”

“Help you find your dad?
”

“Yeah, well,
I figured if
there was anyone who could help
..
.
”
B
ut
Morgan
couldn’t finish, her voice caught in her throat and her next breath was a monumental struggle. The t
ears welled up and spilled over
and she clenched her eyes as tightly as she could. Everyone was right. She was crazy. She was a stupid, creepy girl who didn’t have any friends and never would. All the kids were right to hate her, and so was her mother.

“Are birds your favorite animals?
”

Morgan couldn’t answer at first, just a small, strangled cough came out
; she
sounded a lot like the owl in the rafters.
“I wante
d to have a bear when I grew up.
”
Morgan wiped
her nose on her wet sleeve. “My dad said he’d consider it, but only if it were a really special trained bear.
”

“Trained to do what?
”

“To dance,
”
Morgan had her voice back
a little
. “What else would you train a bear to do?
”

“Li
ke a circus bear.
”

“Yes, right.
”
Morgan shook her head. “One like in my dad
’s story.
”

“
A story about a circus bear? I could really use a good story about now. Would you mind sharing it?
”

“I’m not as good as my
dad at telling it.
”

“I like stories even if the
y aren’t told all that well.
”
Dupont
got up and came
forward to sit and face Morgan
, across the gazebo’s wide opening. “Tell me.
”

“Okay, well, there once was a circus
.
And there was a bear named Sadie, who wanted to be a dove and to fly away from the mean owner who sometimes hit her with a whip. Sadie was friends with a magician’s assistant, who was practicing and trying very hard to be a real magician.
”

Morgan paused, remembering her father’s soft voice in her dark room. She remembered the comfort in that voice, how every word was meant just for her, secrets kept just between them. A part of her felt like it was wrong to share their story with this stranger, but another part of her was telling
her it was okay and somehow
very important.

S
he’d written the story down
once
, word for word as s
he remembered her father tell
it, but the sheet of paper had disappeared from the top drawer of her bedside table. She knew her mom had stolen it, probably tearing it into little
pieces
, but she was afrai
d to ask.

“The magician’s assistant was really, really nice and had even made Sadie a pink tutu to wear when she was dancing.
”

“They were friends,
”
Dupont said.

“Ye
s, they were very good friends.
So, one night, when the magician and the mean trainer were off in town, Sadie went to the magician’s assistant and asked for a favor.
”

“To be turned into a dove?
”

“Yes, that’s right. But after saying the magic words, Sadie just disappeared under the big sheet and there was no dove.
”

“It didn’t work? What happened to Sadie?
”

“Well, after a minute, two little antenna poked out from under the edge of the sheet,
”
Morgan said. “And then two bright orange wings appeared.
”

“Sadie was turned into a butterfly?
”
Dupont asked the little girl.

“Yes, a beautiful butterfly
that
was free to dance in the fields of flowers for
ever and ever.
”

“That’s a happy story,
”
Dupont told the girl.

“I miss my dad so much.
”

“Since you trusted me with such a lovely story, can I trust you with something that’s very important
to me?
”

“Okay.
”

“Do you have any paper in your backpack?
”
he asked, and Morgan rummaged for a dry sheet from the middle of the stack and handed it to him. It was an older drawing of a
cahow
peeking out from a burrow Morgan had made in math class.

Dupont pulled an expensive Montblanc pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, tiny gold-leafed birds sketched into the deep black metal skin, and began writing on the back of the picture.

“I’m not sure how much this will really mean to you right now,
”
Dupont
finished
his note with the great flourish of a fancy signature and then
handed
the
paper
back to Morgan. “But maybe someday.
”

Morgan read the words and indeed they seemed like a riddle to the little girl. But she loved the man’s signature, which she saw included the tiny spread wings of a bird
over the letter “i,
”
where a dot should have been. It seemed like something a kid would do, and Morgan made a mental note to try and work such a thing into her own signature, especially by the time school came back in session. If she ever went back to school.

“Keep it safe, okay?
”

“I promise.
”
Morgan rolled
the document carefully an
d stowed
it in the large compartment of her backpack.

“The rain’s getting harder,
”
Dupont said, and the two sat
listening to
the constant beat of the downpour,
the
wind whipping damp sheets of mist across the inside of the gazebo.

The
y
sat for a while, not talking, both looking off to
the
northeast sky, up toward where the lightning was playing tag among the clouds.