The Bird Saviors (11 page)

    Lord God glares at the small group assembled before him as if they are both to blame for Joseph Smith's murder and sympathetic to the greater cause. He holds his anger like the very plates of gold at his chest and looks from one individual to the next, striding back and forth on his prosthetic leg, his hoary beard great and disgusting, his coarse breath loud and almost painful to hear. He thunders on, stretching out the moment long enough for all to be made uncomfortable, looking into each of their faces as if he knows some dirt on every one of them and will use it if he must.

    I have spilt the blood of Muslims and a time will come when all the faithful, all true Christians and Saints, will have to do the same. We are blessed in this the land of Eden and we must defend it with our blood and with our muscle and sinew. We must take unto each of us many wives and propagate so that we as a people do not die out. We are the true sons and daughters of Israel. The bloodline of the chosen people. The Lord would curse us for our failure if we are so weak as to fail and fall.

    Ruby tunes out his words. She sees through the tales of suffering, the noble banishment in the Great American Desert and the construction of the New Jerusalem, and beneath the table she smells a ripe bucket of hooey.

    What kind of church is this? No stained glass. No stone statuettes of the beatific Virgin bearing their sorrows in her bosom. This is more like a drop- off station for Goodwill Industries junk. In one corner stands a half- dozen rolls of pink Johns- Manville fiberglass wall insulation and a jumble of paint cans. The altar is a cardboard refrigerator box covered with a stained tablecloth.

    Ruby endures it, holding sleeping Lila to her chest, feeling the sweet rhythm of her breathing, the limpness of her little arms like the softest blessing touch of an angel. She sits still as the Virgin Mary and stares at the metal ripples in the corrugated walls and listens to the voice in her head. It's not of a Christian or Saintly cast, this she knows, but you can only take so much Jesus and Brother Joseph Smith propaganda before you wanted to trip the Son of God down the stairs and poke the prophet in the eye with a pitchfork. She listens to the voice in her head and she plots.

    She vows to crush Lord God and free herself of his yoke. To lie in wait like the whipped dog she is, obedient and twitchy, waiting till the master sleeps, till she can catch him upside the head with an ax handle or perhaps the blade itself and lay him low. She will do this if she can.

    In her heart she knows she can't.

    Juliet squeezes her tight and without a word urges her to persevere, to lie in wait, to have patience. She comes to Sunday service only for Ruby's sake and suffers the scowls and opprobrium of all who know she no longer chooses to live under the same roof as Brother Cole or sleep in his sanctioned bed.

    At sermon's end she leaves as the lumpy congregation filters into the parking lot to mingle with pleasantries or exchange new omens of the apocalypse many believe is knocking at the door and about to come true. Ruby follows Juliet to her car, carrying Lila, who has awakened and is now beginning to squirm and fuss. Ruby wants to get in the passenger- side door but knows Lord God is watching from the front steps of the ridiculous tin- can temple and will come limping if she so much as reaches for the handle.

    Ruby leans down to take a kiss on the cheek and holds out Lila for the same, smiling as Juliet says, Now, listen, baby girl. You be good for your mama. She needs you.

The middle of night and Lord God awakens, his heart beating so hard his neck veins pop against the pillow. The pulse- touch sounds like tiny cymbals ringing. The only other noise is the whistle and seep of wind against the windows. He lies in bed, his one good eye open wide in the inky darkness, its pupil swollen wide as a giant squid's in the depths of the sea. He hears a thump on the roof. As if something has landed on it. An owl? An angel? A creaking of the timbers and asphalt shingles, the footfalls of a body walking upon the roof.

    Lord God lifts his head and strains to follow the sound. The creaking approaches nearer and nearer still until it comes to a stop above his head. Lord God thinks to rise from bed and rush outside, to catch a glimpse of the beast, the thing, whatever it is. But the air is cold and the sheets and blankets a warm cocoon. It would take time to attach his leg and by then perhaps whatever it is would have fled. The room smells of dust and dirty socks. It's nothing. Things that go bump in the night. Only the house settling.

    His eye stings from being stretched wide so long, and then he has a vision. The ceiling and the walls vanish and it is as if he is naked to the heavens. No stars or moon or clouds. Only a yawning vastness sucking him up like a vacuum into the very eye of God. It feels as if he is hurtling, stomach in his mouth, wind in his face.

    He rises above the earth and is looking down on it from above. It is neither day nor night but a sooty twilight. The land is afire. The mountains to the west flare and sizzle, the forests like towers of pine flame. In town to the east flames curve and gutter out the windows of courthouse, hospital, home. A voice calm and low begins to speak in his ear.

    Wed Ruby to the righteous man, says the voice. Your days in this world are numbered and will end soon. Marry your daughter to a man who will protect her in the trouble to come. You cannot save her, but you can help another to watch out for her after you are gone. Your time is ending, but hers is just beginning. You must protect her. You must.

    The voice goes silent. The vision fades like campfire embers. Lord God comes to in his own bed, the same smells in the room, his heart beating wildly, no more sound of weight upon the roof. He lies there in the silence until the grayness of dawn breaks the spell.

He wakes late and Ruby has already fed Lila. She stares at him curiously, with tenderness and reserve. She does not know what vision he has seen. She should not know. She would not believe him. It is his knowledge. His knowing will make a difference.

    This is not the first time Lord God has heard voices and seen visions. In the past he's glimpsed prophecies of a world to come, like pages from the Book of Revelations. Glowing white horses galloping across the prairie behind the house. A horned owl with eyes like polished rubies in the aspen near the woodshed. Stars that formed circles in the heavens and spun like a Ferris wheel. Herds of glowing antelope that stretched to the foothills of the Sierra Mojada.

    Once he saw a naked woman with the head of a donkey. She came toward him through the cactus fields, weaving her way through the yucca and the cholla. Her skin was cinnamon- colored, like Lila's, her hair black as onyx. She seemed to float above the parched prairie grass and tumbleweeds. She faced the house and Lord God knew it was he whom she was seeking, though he held back, edging his face to the window only just far enough to look out, afraid she would see him and snag his soul.

    She passed behind a juniper and when she emerged on the other side he clearly saw temptress nakedness— nipples large and stiff as pumpkin stems, tangle of pubis dark and V- shaped, hips wide, and belly round. But as she moved out of the shadow of the juniper he saw that her head was not human but sported a long snout and tall ears. He'd heard of the Donkey Woman before and reckoned her to be a servant of the devil. He slammed his door and crouched behind it, his heart beating so fiercely it made him weak. After some time he stood up and peered out the window to find the vision gone.

    Mostly he keeps to himself these gifts from the Lord and temptations from the devil. His soul is a conduit, a link between the world of the ordinary and the spiritual, the unearthly. He fears Ruby shares his talent and curse and will not tell him. He recognizes the look in her eyes. The wrinkle of her brows. The sense of her knowing more than she will say.

. . .

Another night Lord God wakes to the house burning and his throat and nose constrict with the acrid smell, the cinders stabbing his eye. Flames lick and gutter up the ghost curtains in his bedroom as he hurries to attach his leg and pull on his pants, his hands trembling. A gush of heat envelops his neck and back as he lurches forward. The room is dark with smoke.

    His prosthesis is not attached well and wobbles as he puts weight on it. He cannot move fast enough to save his family. The roof will collapse and trap them in the flames. He coughs from the fumes and his throat burns. He trips on a plastic dinosaur in the hallway. He bellows for his daughter, fallen and helpless, seeing the meaninglessness of his life rush upon him.

    Ruby appears at his side and crouches down.

    What's the matter, Papa?

    Hurry, he says. Throw on some clothes and get Lila. Come quick.

    Come where?

    The house is afire! We have no time to waste!

    Fire?

    Can't you smell it?

    Ruby stands up and blinks, rubbing her eyes. She wears a white nightgown. Lord God looks down the hall, expecting to see flames funneling out her bedroom door.

    I don't smell anything, she says.

    She helps him to his feet and they make their way down the dark hallway to her room, where she turns on the overhead light. All seems normal and in place. Lila squirms in her crib and raises her head to look at them, her black hair a curly cloud around her head and face.

    Mama? she asks.

    I'm right here, pumpkin. Go back to sleep.

    She frowns and drops her head back on the pillow, her diapered butt in the air.

A t  t h e  p o s t o f f i c e , holding Lila in her arms, Ruby kills time, waiting for her turn to be called, listening to a college girl in front of her blab blab blab on a cell phone, all about how she borrowed her roommate's credit card to buy a new dress and the bitch had the nerve to say she was going to call the police if she didn't get the money pronto. Ruby bounces Lila and tries to keep her entertained, staring at help- wanted ads on the bulletin board. One ad reads, P
erson needed to count birds. Ornithological
knowledge useful but not required. Will train. Enthusiasm a must.
Generous pay. Flexible hours.

    She calls the number. A man with a soft voice answers, tells her how much he can pay. The work sounds good to Ruby. She says she likes birds and that she's an accurate counter.

    I count them on my own, anyway, she adds. There's not as many as there used to be.

    That's why we count. To see how many there are now. Compare that to past populations, project the future viability of species in peril.

    Ruby says she counted eighteen Navajos by the train trestle near her house. Six Grief Birds off Highway 96. A trio of Nodding Owls on the prairie west of her house. I mark the days by counting birds, she says.

    Grief Birds? he asks. Navajos? Nodding Owls? There's a long pause at the other end of the line. I've never heard of these before.

    Those are my names for them, says Ruby. I make up special names for all the birds I see. I know the real names, actually. Most of them.

    Can you give me an example?

    I saw a pair of Audubon's Warblers in the aspens near our house. I call them Yellow Flitchets.

    Why?

    They flitter and twitch in the branches of the trees. Flitchets, see? Ravens I call Grief Birds, because they always seem to be in mourning, dressed in black feathers.

    What do you call crows?

    Crows.

    What are Navajos?

    Vesper Sparrows. I call them Navajos because the pattern on their wings reminds me of a Navajo rug. Like, Sparrow Hawks? Why do they call them Kestrels, anyway? That doesn't mean anything to me.

    It's just a name, says the man. It's a word we use so we know what we're talking about when we say Kestrel.

    What about T
urdus migratorius?

    The American Robin, yes.

    It sounds ugly.

    Well, yes. I suppose it does.

    I like Robins. Why would anyone who likes birds call them a turd?

    You know Latin genus and species names for all these birds you name?

    Not all. Some.

    What's a White- Crowned Sparrow?

    A Snowcap.

    What about the Latin name?

    I don't know. What is it?

    
Zonotrichia leucophrys.

    I like Snowcap better.

    So do I. But we need a common language. Scientists share their findings. We can't make up our own names for things. Unless we discover a new species.

    I know that.

    Then we wouldn't know what we were talking about when we described a thing.

    I said I know. I'm not stupid.

    I didn't say you were.

    Anyway, you should hire me. You won't find anyone else who can count birds like me.

    I never meant to imply you were stupid. I don't know you. I don't think someone is stupid when I don't know them.

    Okay. I didn't mean anything by it. Maybe we can meet later today? I could get a ride into town.

    You don't have a car?

    No, I don't. I'm still in high school. Or I was, until recently.

    Ruby waits for his reply, long in coming.

    Finally the man says, I'm sorry. I need someone who can get around on their own, to meet me out of town. My test area is west of here, mostly.

    I can do that.

    No, well, I mean. I need someone with his or her own transportation. I'm sorry.