The Hummingbird (31 page)
Authors: Stephen P. Kiernan
“Good morning.” He greeted me with a thousand-watt smile. “Is there any way I may be of help to you today?”
“Nice wings.”
“Thank you.” He leaned forward. “Our children’s program begins in five minutes. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, but not right now. I’m not sure how to say this. But I was told a story about a Japanese bomber pilot . . .”
“Ichiro Soga, yes.”
“You know about him?”
“Naturally. He was proclaimed a citizen of this town.”
“So he is real?”
“Real?” The enormous man flashed his stunning smile again. “You’ll find everything right over there.”
Like a game-show host revealing to a contestant what she’s won, the man raised a hand toward the long wall on his left, where there hung a large glass display case.
I saw the sword first, of course. It drew me across the room. The handle was more ornate than I’d expected, while the scabbard was polished but plain. Considering that the weapon was now nearly five hundred years old, it appeared to be in excellent condition.
But that glass case held more. The resolution granting honorary citizenship, signed and framed. Plastic models of the I-25 submarine and Soga’s pontoon airplane. A photo of a square-faced Japanese man in a bomber jacket and fleece-lined cap.
Beneath the glass case, a large green folder leaned against the wall. When I opened it and saw it was full of news clips, I brought the folder to the nearest work table. My hands trembling, I opened it wide, and read.
Everything from
The Sword
bore out: names, dates, those nasty letters to the editor, countless stories with Piper Abbott’s byline. I felt euphoric, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
As I read, I realized: Barclay Reed had sacrificed his reputation to save the career of a young scholar. This man for whom pride mattered so much had chosen to suffer indignity on another person’s behalf.
The folder revealed a few things Professor Reed had not known. Three years after Soga’s death, the state legislature named his redwood an “Oregon Heritage Tree.” Letters denouncing that decision showed that for some people, peace would never come.
To me, it mattered more that the Professor’s story was true. It was all true.
When I’d read enough—it took perhaps two hours—I put the folder back by the display. With my phone I took a photo of the sword. I was no longer tired. In fact I felt exhilarated, full of energy for the drive home and whatever lay ahead.
I knew that the following morning I would receive my next assignment: a new patient, my next experience in learning from mortality how to love the one and only life that we are given. Last thing before leaving the office, I would stroke the back of the hummingbird again, to remind me that every patient brings unexpected gifts. And if Barclay Reed’s stubborn wisdom led to the healing of my husband, then he might have given me the greatest hummingbird of my life.
I also knew that on some future day, Michael would present me with the old blue plate, as repaired as it could be, and I would respond with genuine delight. I would feign surprise, however, because he had taught me the power of the loving lie.
I stepped outside into a bath of sunshine so bright it left me blinking. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed the enormous man eating lunch at a picnic table, his white shirt wrinkled where the wings had been attached. I waved. “Hi.”
“Oh hello,” he said, giving me a beatific grin. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”
“Yes, thanks.” I said it out of politeness, but as I heard myself, the answer weighed more than that. I had found some things, oh yes. Between the black binder and the photo of the sword, between the Professor and Ichiro Soga, I could prove to Michael possibly the most necessary truth of our violent time: It is possible for a warrior to become a man of peace.
The sun kept up wonderfully, a dazzling energy to my left as I drove to Salem and north. It set as I approached the outskirts of Portland, August evening coming on gently, and I marveled at the possible span a single day could contain: from the Professor’s deathbed and a stolen swim to dusky arrival at my driveway.
Michael was sitting on the back stoop, Shouri snuggled in his lap. He stood, still holding the dog. He wore a desert camo shirt, but it was sleeveless and I admired his powerful arms. This was a beautiful man.
By the time I’d organized my things, Michael was standing by my door. As I climbed out, he stepped back. He held the dog like a shield.
“What is it?” I said. “Did something happen?”
“I thought you were gone.” He shifted his hands under Shouri. “I thought you’d left me.”
“Oh Michael,” I said, “only for the day.”
“I called Central Office, your sister. No one knew where you were.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because, Deb.” He squinted as though the sun was still up and he was staring at it. “You’re the one who always calls me.”
“Put the dog down for a second.” I said.
He lowered Shouri to the ground, then squared off as if to start a wrestling match. I took both of his hands. “You know you could have killed us both.”
“That was why I swam back. I couldn’t have you on my conscience too.” He let go, jamming his hands into his pockets, retreating two more steps. “And then I thought you’d left me for swimming out like that.”
“Look,” I said. “Do you know why hospice works, Michael? It’s simple. The patients let us help. Even though we have no idea what they are going through, even if they are suffering incredibly, they accept our good intentions. They trust in how desperately we want to help. So they
allow
it.”
I closed the gap between us again, not letting him get away. “What if you did that, Michael? Would it be so terrible if you accepted how deeply I love you, and how much I want to help? What if you just allowed it?”
Michael stared at the ground. I had put everything before him. There was nothing for me to do but wait.
After a while, I can’t say how long, he began bending forward, hands still stuffed in his pockets but his chest inclining, ever so gradually, inch by inch, until his forehead came to rest on my chest. The dog nuzzled between our legs but it was Michael I felt, the full, strong, damaged weight of him. I wrapped both arms around his head.
In less than a whisper, he breathed it against my breast: “I surrender.”
The story of Ichiro Soga is based on actual events.
In September 1942, reconnaissance pilot Nabuo Fujita flew two missions over the Oregon coast, dropping four incendiary bombs. In 1962, on the first of many visits, Fujita gave his family’s ancient sword to the town.
Three parts of Barclay Reed’s manuscript are fictional: First, the character of Soga is invented because there was an insufficient record to re-create Fujita’s personality. Second, other characters—Donny Baker and his family, Piper Abbott—are composites of several people. Third, the bomb that killed the Bible study group almost certainly was not one of Fujita’s. More likely, it resulted from a separate Japanese campaign that attached incendiaries to small balloons and floated them in the jet stream over to the United States.
Virtually all the rest of Barclay’s book is historically accurate: military details from the 1940s, the text of the full-page ad opposing Fujita’s first visit, the monument where the bombing victims died (Fujita’s tree towering beside it to this day), and the certificate of honorary citizenship. There truly was a 1925 novel that foretold the attack on Pearl Harbor. Names and statements are real too: U.S. military officers and politicians, the mayors of Brookings, the 1962 Azalea Queen, the bombing victims, the girls who visited Japan, even the woman who made a cake shaped like a submarine.
The Brookings
Pilot
newspaper truly exists, and every letter to the editor was written by the actual person identified. Regrettably, all of the letters are quoted verbatim.
In 2010, I read an essay by Barry Lopez in
The Georgia Review
that mentioned a Japanese pilot planting a tree where Americans had died in World War II—in Oregon. I thought,
What?
An online search brought me exactly one newspaper article, about the pilot’s death, written in 1997 by a young
New York Times
reporter, Nicholas Kristof. That obituary was the seedling from which this novel grew.
First, though, I needed to learn. Foremost, I am indebted to my colleagues and teachers in the hospice movement: Sharon Keegan; Angel Means; Zail Berry, MD; Don Schumacher; and my dear friend Dianne Gray. My thanks to the exemplary Ira Byock, MD, for introducing me to the Four Questions (and ninety-nine other important ideas), and to many clinicians, ethicists, health policy experts, volunteers, and above all people from all walks of life who shared the stories of their loved ones’ end-of-life experiences.
My agent, the mighty Ellen Levine, believed in this novel when it was only one-third written. Jennifer Brehl, my editor at Morrow, improved the story from the very start—suggesting a way to weave Soga’s story through the rest of the narrative and reducing many flaws along the way. It is an incredible gift to have these two smart women guiding and supporting my work. Thanks also to Tavia Kowalchuk and Andy Dodds, for their effort and creativity in helping my words find readers.
I want to salute former U.S. Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance Captain Russ Ayer, who taught me about the veteran’s life and showed me how to shoot a big gun. Bonnie Ayer generously shared her experience as the wife of a returning combat veteran. Former Vermont National Guard Staff Sergeant Jim Gosselin was kind enough to tell his war and homecoming stories as well. Carolyn Edwards, PhD, former director of mental health services for the Vermont National Guard, gave me a sobering education on the psychological condition of returning soldiers and airmen.
For additional information on guns, I relied on the expertise of Justin Cronin, who can make choosing a holster an act of autobiography. Eyes and ears, Dr. J. David Halsey, MD, deepened my understanding of aviation, from the g-forces at the bottom of a dive to where the cup holders are located in a Cessna 182. His flight simulator may be the coolest thing I have ever seen on a computer.
For World War II history, I read many books, none more helpful than
The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936–1945
by John Toland—as rich a portrayal of the Pacific theater as you can find. To learn more about the Iraq War, the best of many books I read was
The Good Soldiers
by David Finkel. Steven Ericson of Dartmouth College instructed me on samurai culture and directed me to additional sources. Details about Fujita’s bombing runs came from
Bombs over Brookings
by William McCash, plus
Silent Siege: Japanese Attacks Against North America in World War II
and
Panic! at Fort Stevens: Japanese Navy Shells Fort Stevens, Oregon in World War-II,
both by Bert Webber. In addition, the staff and documents at the Chetco Community Public Library could not have been more helpful. If you’re ever in Brookings, Oregon, stop in and see the sword.
I entrusted a few people with early drafts and benefited enormously from their feedback: Josie Leavitt; Susan Huling; Nancy and Andrew Milliken; Josh Hanagarne; Candy Page; Mike Dee; Geoff Gevalt; and above all my brother in fiction and biking, Chris Bohjalian. My actual brother, Mike Kiernan, MD, did wonders to improve the medical accuracy and provided the story of an inflamed appendix pointing at a kidney tumor. Most of all, I’m grateful to the person who convinced me to abandon a stalled project in order to write this one, then gave the incalculably valuable gift of listening to the entire first draft read aloud—the incomparable Kate Seaver.
Finally, a tip of the hat to my buddy Doug Rich, who made it possible for me to swim in Lake Oswego.
Stephen P. Kiernan has published nearly four million words over several decades as a journalist, winning more than forty awards, including the George Polk Award and the Scripps Howard Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment. Author of the novel
The Curiosity,
Kiernan has also written two nonfiction books,
Last Rights
and
Authentic Patriotism.
He lives in Vermont with his two sons.
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Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photographs: coast © by nickrotondo/Getty Images; plane © by Muskoka Stock Photos/Shutterstock
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE HUMMINGBIRD.
Copyright © 2015 by Stephen P. Kiernan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-236954-3
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062369567
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