The Bird Saviors (29 page)

    Why does Lila hate me so? he answers. I love that child. You should never have taken her from me.

    She doesn't hate you, Papa. She loves you. Only I had to take her for her own good.

    You left her. You left her to me and she's mine now. And now you try to take her back I won't let you I won't—

    I had to. Lie back. You're getting yourself worked up for—

    Lord God closes his eyes and leans over, coughing again, struggling for breath. Sprays of blood droplets speckle his pillow. Ruby bunches a corner of the sheet and holds it to his mouth, patting his back. The room is cold and through the window she sees the gold autumn sunlight fading to dusk on the prairie. The phone rings in the living room. She holds his head to keep him from falling forward, the heat from his face like something unnatural, otherworldly. When he can speak again he tells her that yesterday he tried to help a sick boy in a crowd of migrants.

    What happened to them? Where did they go? asks Ruby.

    He didn't make it, says Lord God. He died in the living room. They carried him away.

    Oh, Papa. You shouldn't have done that. I think you caught his sickness.

    A man has to help his brother, says Lord God. A man has to do the right thing.

    I know, says Ruby. You're right. Only you should have been more careful.

    It doesn't matter, says Lord God, his eyes closed. The lids are bluish and have deep circles of shadow beneath. My knee is killing me. Nothing matters.

    Ruby finds an old humidifier in the closet, fills it with water, plugs it in, and turns it on. The steady whirring sound makes her feel better, as if something is being done. It convinces her there's hope. She sits on the wooden chair beside his bed until he falls asleep, until her tailbone aches and the small of her back burns.

    She goes to the kitchen and fills the teakettle with water, the flow from the kitchen sink barely a trickle. She notices there are no gallon jugs beneath the table. Staring out the window at the faint glow above the Sierra Mojada, she watches a single Grief Bird perched on the woodshed roof, near the witch- on- broomstick weather vane. She corrects herself and renames the grief bird Raven, or
Corvus corax.

    The weight of a threatened world presses down upon her with its ugly might. She calls her mother and talks to her. Juliet wants to come but they agree she should stay in town and care for Lila, that both of them should stay away. After hanging up Ruby sits stunned, bereft in this prairie quarantine. She has no answers to all these problems. Her mind feels blank. She puts the teakettle on the stove and falls asleep in the kitchen, her head on the table. She wakes to see steam shooting out the spout, a screaming whistle.

    Lord God fades and moans, his eyelids a deep purple color, his eyes sunken as if he has aged years in the few days since Ruby saw him last, a withering too fast for sense. She tries to fluff his pillows but he whispers that she should leave them be. Ruby has never seen him look so spent and drained. She comes to stand over him and feel his forehead. The sour smell of urine is strong in the air. I think you had an accident, she says.

    I've got no strength, he says. I can't even make it to the bathroom now. He's crying. I'm just an old goon now, peeing on myself and waiting to die. I'm not good for anything. Listen. I want you to shoot me.

Oh, hush, says Ruby. Nobody's shooting anybody.

    You have to do it, says Lord God. He coughs blood again and struggles to breathe.

    Ruby asks him what happened to the water jugs.

    I gave them to the migrants. They were thirsty.

    But you don't have any water yourself. There's barely a trickle left from the well.

    Lord God makes a noncommittal motion with his bloodshot eyes. He starts to raise his hand and lets it drop. What does it matter anyway? Soon I don't think I'm going to need anything to drink.

    Don't say that. You're going to get better. You're just under the weather.

    We're all under the weather, says Lord God. Some more than others.

S t a n d i n g  a t  t h e  s t r e a k e d and dusty windows of his pawnshop, watching the traffic rumble and roll down Northern Avenue, Hiram Page is in a blue funk, experiencing a crisis of belief. The iron bars that protect the shop windows from vandals and thieves cast shadows across Hiram's white hair and dignified face, as if he's staring out the windows of his own Folsom Prison.

    He's always believed in his inherent superiority. Always thought he was top dog. Not the kind of seer or genius whose quotes he memorizes to trump whatever scant knowledge his customers might presume to attain, but savvy enough.

    His intellectual competition includes the strays who wander through a pawnshop on any given day. That's not a high bar to clear. Consider the sad sacks, burnouts, disgruntleds, lowlifes, snaggletooths, and food- stamp misfits among whom he mingles. Bottom feeders. Most of them are lucky to button their shirts in order. If they can pay their power bill it's an accomplishment of note.

    But of late a pack rat of worry has crept into his brain and made a nest.

    For one thing he has come to suspect it may be time for the Wagon. He rejects the idea that alcoholism is a disease. Dylan Thomas had it right: An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do. Of course Thomas was a famous drunk who died in a tavern, falling off his bar stool dead. A happy man you might say.

    Hiram is not an indiscriminate, wayward sort of tippler. He likes his bourbon. It makes him feel good. It loosens up the bolts that keep him in place. When it wears off, the bolts are still there, still as tight as ever. He thinks the fools who attend AA meetings and make a public spectacle of themselves are losers and deadbeats. Any man with a strong sense of discipline knows when to stop, when he's had enough.

    Lately Hiram does have his suspicions. Could be his time to call a dry spell is nigh. He worries that some of his decisions may perhaps have been made with a clouded mind. This kidnapping caper with Cousin Jack is not an action of which he should be proud. He takes another drink from his silver flask of Maker's Mark and savors the warm mist in his mouth. Still. If all had gone well the plan would have been a stroke of genius.

    He rinses the smell with mouthwash and spits into the sink, telling himself that it's time to turn over a new leaf. Tomorrow will be different. The cobwebs are thick. At times his mind is cloudy. He forgets things.

    What he does remember is that he instructed Cousin Jack Brown to waylay the child of that preacher's daughter. Which may or may not have been a wise move. But after repeated and unreturned calls to that hillbilly's cell phone he has come to the conclusion that said cousin is slightly more unreliable and incompetent than he imagined. He hasn't made his monthly payment and he refused to do what Hiram asked? A simple favor that any nitwit could accomplish? Who does he think he is? A nobody who can defy Hiram without retribution?

    At the end of the business day Hiram asks Gracie Benavidez, his store manager, for a ride to the east side of town.

    I have an unfortunate errand, he says. A client is several months behind on his payments. I believe I have to take custody of a vehicle under loan.

    Gracie is too soft for this job. A motherly Hispanic woman in her forties, she gets a look of tender sadness on her face as she stares at her boss.

    You're going to repo it?

    I'm afraid so, Gracie. I'm afraid so.

    I don't have to do anything, do I?

    Hiram closes his eyes and shakes his head. He's a little unsteady on his feet, and perhaps he shouldn't be bothering with this errand at the moment, but he has a busy day planned tomorrow. His second wife, Honey, has a doctor's appointment. It ap pears the nubile young woman is with child again. And Hiram insists on doing the right thing and attending the doctor's visits, sitting beside her in the waiting room, holding her hand if need be.

    In his deep Gregory Peck voice he says, If you can see fit to drop me off at the home of said vehicle, I'll be on my way and you on yours.

    Well, okay, says Gracie. She gets her purse and heads for the front door. But I feel sorry for him, you know? No one wants his car to be taken away. What do you do without a car? You're like a nobody. Like less than nobody.

    A man has to pay his bills, says Hiram. That's one of those unfortunate facts of life. If not, they come and take away what you have.

    Still, says Gracie, I don't like it.

    It's not the end of the world. He comes up with the payments, he gets the truck back.

    Gracie says nothing on the drive to Jack Brown's house. Sitting in the passenger seat, Hiram feels emasculated and out of sorts. He's not used to the right side of a vehicle, to not being in control. The odd position, plus the bourbon fuzz on his brain and tongue, takes him back in time.

    He remembers riding the bus to school, so many years ago, sitting next to a red- haired girl named Gail. He floats off on the currents of that memory, how they had a caterpillar exhibit in their sixth grade classroom, a gallon jar full of leaves and green caterpillars, how he liked to stand next to the comely teacher as she explained the life cycle of a moth— the pupae, the larvae, the cocoon, the big unfolding.

    What was Gail's last name? McCarthy? Gail McCarthy? Yes, that's it. Red hair like soft copper. Hair the same color and luster as that of the preacher's daughter. Who doesn't want a thing to do with him. Whom he wanted to marry and keep in his bed and home. Who thinks he's disgusting no doubt and makes fun of him to her friends. Can you believe that old fart? That's what she says. What a lech he is. I wouldn't touch him with a ten- foot pole. That's what Ruby Cole says to her friend. Ruby Cole, who reminds him of Gail McCarthy. Who deserves to be taken down a notch. Who is unworthy.

    Where do I turn? asks Gracie.

    Hiram blinks out of his reverie as the car idles at a traffic light before the concrete pillars of I- 25. Out his window a shantytown with cardboard- box people scuttling among the pigeon flutter and whine of tires on asphalt. Grimy hard- luck lost souls stare and hold makeshift signs asking for food or work.

    Mr. Page? I know it's not my business but I can't help saying something. You shouldn't be doing this. It's not right.

    Hiram turns away from the overpass denizens and their reenactment of Christ's birth night in Bethlehem. He looks in the visor mirror and smooths his white hair beside his ears.

    It's not a matter of right and wrong, he says. The boy has failed to make his monthly payments. He's three months in arrears now. Three months.

    Yes, well. I understand that, says Gracie. But this is America. A man needs his car. Needs wheels to get around.

    He could have paid me on time. I don't like doing this either.

    In this country, without wheels you're not even a man. And you're about to take them away.

    Hiram says nothing to that, watching the world go by from this odd spot on the passenger side. East of I- 25 Pueblo takes on a dilapidated and dusty look. Tumbleweeds cluster against weathered storefronts. Spanish signs advertise Coca- Cola and bread. Beneath the billboard proclaiming
Se compra casas feas
, Hiram directs Gracie to pull over.

    The white pickup sits in front of Jack Brown's shotgun shack just asking to be reclaimed. A German shepherd gets to its feet and heads toward them, barking, chain rattling as it scrapes on the wooden porch steps.

    Don't do it, Mr. Page. Gracie shakes her head. It's going to come back to haunt you. I'm warning you. It's bad mojo.

    Don't you worry, Gracie. Hiram steps out of the car and takes the keys from his pocket. Things like this happen every day.

    She frowns and says good- bye, her expression pained and flinching. A shrug as she rolls up her window. Hiram stands on the road shoulder, waiting for her car to move so he can cross the street. He watches his distorted reflection in her window glass, a stretched- out image of a white- haired man alone in a bad neighborhood.

    Maybe she's right. Maybe he should just let this one go. But if he did that, no one would respect him, right? He needs to make an example with Cousin Jack. You don't miss payments and leave your vehicle parked in the drive without a guard. A dog on a short chain isn't good enough.

    The cold November air cuts through Hiram's linen shirt. A white coral reef of clouds casts a pall of chill. At a break in the traffic flow Hiram hurries across the street, reaching into his pocket for the keys. Jack Brown's cur barks and scrabbles at the end of his chain, cutting side to side like a snagged sailfish. The curtains are drawn. Hiram unlocks the truck door, slides into the driver's seat, and has the engine running in a heartbeat, expecting Cousin Jack to come running out in his underwear, waving a gun most likely, shouting all their business to the low- life neighbors in hope of a sympathetic mob.

    It isn't until Hiram has pulled onto the road that he allows himself to glance back. The front door is closed, the dog still barks. At the stop sign a block later, he checks the rearview and sees no movement behind him.

    Still his heart pounds and he guns the truck through a series of yellow lights, feeling short of breath and light- headed, feeling as if he's stealing the coffin for his own funeral.

I s r a e l  J a m e s  s i t s  n a k e d  in the back of the buffalo head's office. He watches out the windows through a gap in the Venetian blinds, pensive and guilt- ridden. Down inside where it matters, he knows his soul is corrupt. He even suspects that one day, perhaps in the not- too- distant future, he will burn in the everlasting fires and torments of hell. But seeing how he's not exactly a saint to begin with, the underworld might be full of
compadres.