The Bird Saviors (26 page)

    Ward wanders through the crowd for half an hour until finally buying a fruit drink, a pair of turquoise bird earrings, and a handful of
empanadas
wrapped in newspaper. He's shooing away the flies from his paper cup of fruit punch when he hears a familiar voice behind him say, You're here.

    He turns around and it's Ruby, her curly hair bound in a ponytail and a floppy straw hat on her head. He smiles and says, You want a taste?

    She looks at the meat pie and squints. Where'd you get those?

    Over there. Ward points through the crowd. She has a stack of them in a metal bucket. I don't know how hygienic it is, but the price is a bargain.

    Ruby takes a bite and smiles. That's pretty good.

    They make their way through the crowd, having to lean in close to hear each other.

    On the walk over I was half thinking that you weren't going to show, says Ruby.

    No, you weren't.

    I was too! Really. I didn't want to get my hopes up too much.

    Well, of course I was going to show. I mean, I wouldn't miss it for the world.

    Ruby stands on her tiptoes and kisses his cheek, a funny look on her face. Guess what today is.

    Saturday?

    My birthday.

    Close your eyes and hold out your hands, says Ward.

    When she does, he places the turquoise bird earrings, in a tiny ziplock baggie, in her hands. Now open them.

    A present? Ruby smiles and thanks him. How'd you know?

    My secret. Plus I have other presents for you at the car.

    She turns and heads into the crowd, calling out, That's even better.

    They wend their way back to the Buffalo Head parking lot and walk up to Ward's Subaru.

    What's a canoe doing on your roof ? she asks.

    Waiting to be used, he says. Waiting for you. I mean, it's yours.

    Atop the Subaru's roof rack is strapped a green canoe with the legend mad river in white letters on its side. Ruby reaches up to touch it. I can't accept that, she says. It's too much.

    I bought it used, he says. Besides, nothing is ever too much for a birthday. I have something else.

    Ward opens the car and comes out with a shoebox. In it are four tail feathers from a Red- Tailed Hawk— graceful, cinnamon- colored. Ruby says, Now, this I can accept. She holds one up to the sky. They're perfect.

    Plus we're having a picnic, he adds. I went all out. I got special olives and special cheese. The whole shebang.

    Special olives?

    Ward nods. And special cheese.

    Ruby grins and climbs in on the passenger side. She turns on the radio and starts searching for a station. She can't look at him. I guess I should thank you, she says.

    You don't need to. I see that smile on your face.

    It's too much. She fiddles with the radio, not looking at Ward. But thank you. I always wanted a canoe.

    You're welcome.

    They drive west out of Pueblo through the canyons and prairies that mark the end of the Great Plains, where the flatland meets the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the smaller peaks of the Sierra Mojada and the Green Horns. After the ghost town of Wetmore— all boarded- up buildings, tumbleweeds clumped against a shuttered general store, dust drifts upon sidewalks and against the foggy glass walls of dead service stations— they turn onto a country road that cuts a winding route through the forested hills and canyons. They cross two rocky creeks and a number of ranch gates, white- faced cattle in the fields, prairie dogs on the roadsides. Backwoods homes with satellite dishes and solar panels on their roofs. Aspens cover the hillsides, their leaves bright yellow and gold, shimmering in the wind. Ruby says she has never been to this lake before.

    Ward shakes his head. That's a shame. Then again, neither have I.

    But I have hiked west of here. In a couple months, when it gets really cold, I want to take you into the mountains to see the ghost trees. In storms the snowflakes coat the trees solid white, and as the snow falls it becomes like a curtain. Or a fog. Where you can only see a short way. So the trees become a solid wall of white. Like a forest of ghosts.

    Okay, then. You'll have to take me there.

    Look, a Red- Tail. Ruby points out her window toward a hawk beating its wings, a rodent clutched in its talons. It caught something.

    Ward pulls onto the shoulder and leaves the motor running, then leans over Ruby's side to get a line of sight low enough to see out the windshield. He smells her apricot shampoo and sees the veins pulsing in her neck.

    The buteo lands atop a telephone pole. Ward catches a brief look before it spreads wide its wings again and glides away, flying low before them and across the road, over an open field, and into the forest of ponderosa pine and white fir.

    A female, he says. That's a good- sized bird, and with Red- Tails, the females are bigger than the males.

    I like that, says Ruby. If women were bigger than men, that might solve some of our problems, right?

    Ward stops twice more on their way to point out birds. They see Black- Billed Magpies on fence posts, with foot- long tail feathers and white wings, and lustrous Mountain Bluebirds perched on barbed- wire fences.

    Evergreens surround White Baby Lake except where the aspen leaves have withered yellow and gold. A historical marker near the parking lot explains that the lake was named after Isabel, the first white child born in the area, in 1854. A band of bright color follows the creek that feeds the lake. Besides Ruby and Ward, the only other visitors are an older couple sitting in lawn chairs and fishing. Ward buys soft drinks from a small convenience store at a motel next to the lake. A plump woman rings up his purchase and tells him to watch the weather. The fire danger is high. He asks her if they've seen any ducks on the lake yet.

    Stragglers, she says. Not many but a few. She says the weather has been funny. The migrating birds arrive earlier every year. If you're lucky you might see some Pelicans. She points to the western edge. Over in the shallows.

    Enjoy yourselves, she adds. And make sure to wear the life jackets. The Fish and Game man comes by pretty often. He'll give you a ticket for no jacket faster than your head can spin.

    Ward and Ruby unstrap the canoe from his roof rack and carry it to the landing dock. Ruby stands uncertainly as Ward puts his binoculars and a knapsack with lunch beneath the thwarts. He tells her to get in and move toward the bow, then take a seat.

    Ruby situates herself in the bow of the canoe, on the forward thwart, and tells him she's ready, now what. Ward steps into the canoe and drags the stern off the sandy shoreline until the entire keel is in the water.

    Just sit still and hold on to the gunwales, don't stand up or anything silly like that. With a quick movement he steps into the canoe and takes a seat, causing the canoe to wobble for a moment. He grasps the wooden paddle and pushes off the bottom of the shallows.

Do you want me to paddle?

Not yet. You just sit still and don't rock the boat.

    Ward guides the canoe in smooth strokes across the lake, heading for a cove near the west shore, where the ducks and waterfowl cluster. The wind blows Ruby's hair in her face as he shows her how to paddle, explaining that she should keep her paddle to the port side of the canoe and he will take starboard.

    What do you mean, port?

    The left side.

    Why don't you say that?

    Because that's not seaworthy slang. On the water you say port and starboard, bow and stern.

    She frowns. This is a lake.

    Well. It's appropriate.

    Bruised clouds darken the sky until the pines and firs look like stencil cutouts. At first both are quiet, although Ward points out birds on the shoreline, Sandpipers and Egrets. Ruby concentrates on paddling. Finally she says, I'm getting wet. Every time I paddle, I splash water on myself.

    Ward laughs. Don't paddle, then. Just sit there and enjoy yourself.

    After a moment she answers, I don't know how to do that.

    Oh, come on. Enjoy yourself. It's not that hard.

    She shakes her head. My father tried to marry me off to a pawnshop owner. Now that isn't working out, he told me the other night he's going to find someone else. Someone worse, I imagine.

    Ward paddles, watching the dark clouds above. You deserve a man who loves you, he says softly. I think your father will see that in the long run.

    In the long run I'll be gone. She turns to look back at him, holding her paddle. I'm eighteen. She smiles. I. Am. Eighteen.

By the time they reach the west end of the lake the surface is rough with waves pushing them forward. Lightning flashes and a roll of thunder follows. Ward says they had better take shelter. He shoots the canoe onto the shore with a heavy crunching sound against the gravel.

    He hops into the water as Ruby says, We better not get hit by lightning. Lila can do without any shiftless father but she needs me bad.

    Hurry, then, says Ward. We're probably safest away from the water.

    Ruby climbs out and both of them drag the canoe onto the shore.

    They pull on jackets and walk the shoreline, collecting goose feathers in the flotsam and jetsam. It thunders but no rain falls.

    When he thinks perhaps they should return to the parking lot, Ward turns to find Ruby standing behind him, her face framed by the hood of her rain jacket, smiling, her curly hair bunched around her cheeks and forehead. A clap of thunder splits the air and a lightning flash illuminates the darkened trees as Ruby huddles closer. Ward puts his arms around her and holds her. He wants to kiss her but doesn't dare. Ruby puts her head on his shoulder and laughs for no reason.

    I think we should head back, he says. Let's at least get to the other side of the lake in case the storm gets worse. That way we'll be close to the car.

    They paddle across the lake, staying close to the shoreline to watch the birds. Tall pines sway and shudder in the gusting wind. The bluster of rain but no drops fall.

    The smell of smoke.

    Faint at first, like the ghost scent of a backyard barbecue. Ward notices but doesn't mention it. They're in a canoe. The water like a blanket, a wall. Canada Geese waddle on the shoreline, white- cheeked and black- backed, honking and shuffling, dozens swooping over the banks, wings cupping the wind, black webbed feet splayed at the last second. Ruby counts thirty- seven, thirty- eight. A pair of Audubon's Warblers flits in the whippy branches of willows. Steller's Jays in the fir trees that line the creek cascading down to feed the lake.

    Are those Mallards? asks Ruby. Over there? They must be Mallards.

    Ward says she's probably right. You see a duck, guess Mallard.

    Do you smell something? she asks.

    Ward nods. I think it's the forest. Burning.

    South of the lake, across the road, a plume of dark smoke rises into the sky. It drifts west to east, like belch from a volcano.

    We better go, says Ward. He turns the canoe toward the landing dock. Paddles harder. Feels the burn in his shoulders.

    I don't want to leave, says Ruby. What about our picnic? We've got sandwiches. She turns, swiveling on the thwart, smiling back at him. We've got special olives. And what about the special cheese?

    Gouda, he says. The best.

    Maybe it's nothing.

    We better go. Ward is watching the smoke thicken, closer to the road. A starburst of cinders floats in the sky break above the road, the shoulders now smoldering. Pine needles glow like July 4th sparklers. The wind shifts and smoke roils toward the lake. They can no longer see the opposite shore clearly. Stronger and sharper now, the smoke stings their eyes and throats.

    It's slow going, paddling against the waves, watching the fire touch the crowns of the ponderosa pines on the opposite side of the road, embers drifting in the wind, and soon both sides of the road are cloaked in smoke. They beach the canoe, dump the water out, collect their things— lunch and water, the camera, the notebooks. They lift the canoe onto their shoulders and portage it up the hill to the parking lot, coughing.

    By the time they have it lashed onto the roof rack, the wind is blowing cinders and floating embers onto the car and the asphalt of the parking lot. One lands on Ruby's neck. She swats it like a mosquito, and it leaves a red scorch mark. From the south, from the direction of the road out, the smoke pulses toward them like black, scratchy fog.

    Ward's hand trembles as he puts the keys in the ignition, turns to Ruby. So much for a peaceful picnic at the lake.

    We better scram, she says.

    At the intersection to the main road, the way home to Pueblo descends downhill into a cindery cloudbank. The sound of a helicopter chops overhead, its body invisible in the murk. Ward turns left and says, We'll take the long way.

    They slow to a stop in a queue of pickups fleeing the fire. A black dog stands upon a hay bale before them, barking at butterflies of ash that drift into the truck bed. The road switchbacks down the mountain, and the dog doesn't stop barking. Ruby holds a gauze mask over her face. The line of cars moves on and slows, moves and slows, until finally they are beyond the smoke drift.

    In the rearview, once they have passed out of the fire zone, a long black cloud stretches eastward, glimpsed through gaps in the serrated teeth of the mountains. On the road shoulder stands a herd of bighorn sheep, ewes and lambs, feeding in the grass, unsettled by the fire.