Читать книгу The Birdman's Daughter - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 11

When one thinks of a bird, one fancies a soft,

swift, aimless, joyous thing, full of nervous energy

and arrowy motions—a song with wings.

—T. W. Higginson, The Life of Birds

Karen didn’t know if her father woke up in a rotten mood, or if her own anxiety over Casey made her impatient with him, but for whatever reason, getting Martin up and dressed was a battle. He rejected the first two shirts she chose for him before grudgingly relenting to the third, then refused to allow her to wheel him to the breakfast table, insisting on going to his study instead.

Anger burned like acid in her throat as she watched him switch on the computer, his gaze fixed on the screen as he waited for it to boot up. He apparently hadn’t noticed how upset she was, or if he had, he didn’t care enough to ask what was wrong. A person didn’t need the power of speech to show someone he cared.

“You don’t care about anyone but yourself, do you?” she snapped. “Yourself and birds you can add to your list.”

He looked up and blinked, confusion in his eyes.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” She moved closer and bent over to look him in the eye. “You would rather sit in front of that computer all day, playing with your charts and numbers, than have a conversation with your own daughter.”

He frowned, then tapped something out on the keyboard. She looked at the screen.

Can’t talk.

“You can type, though. We can communicate that way. And you could listen, if you wanted to.”

Still frowning, he typed again.

What do you want to talk about?

“We could talk about anything. The topic doesn’t matter. We could talk about…” She looked around the room, searching for some likely topic, then decided on the one that had been utmost in her mind all morning. “We could talk about your grandsons.”

Casey and Matthew.

“I’m glad to see you still remember their names.”

How are they?

“Matthew is fine. Helping Tom with the business. He’s planning on going to college part-time next semester.”

What about Casey?

“Casey…” She looked away, unnerved by the knot of tears clogging her throat. “Casey…” She tried again, but could only shake her head.

What?

She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Tom called this morning. Casey’s…disappeared. I mean, we don’t know where he is right now.”

Martin’s right eyebrow rose and he leaned toward her, his expression demanding to know more.

“I don’t know.” She held out her hands, a gesture of helplessness. Exactly how she felt. “Tom says he didn’t come home last night. He’s not with his friends….”

Her father stabbed at the keyboard again.

He’s run away?

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s so unlike him.” Casey wasn’t one of those moody, belligerent teenagers who made life so difficult for some of her friends. He was always easygoing, uncomplaining—happy, even.

He’s upset because you’re here.

“No, he isn’t. He was fine when I talked to him yesterday morning.” Why did he automatically assume this was her fault? “He’s probably staying with a friend and forgot to mention it to Tom.” She refused to believe Casey had deliberately run away—or worse, that someone had harmed him.

Police?

“Tom says he notified them. I’m sure they’ll locate him soon.” She hugged her arms across her chest. “Are you ready for breakfast?”

Coffee.

“I could use some coffee, too.” She went around to the back of his wheelchair and started to roll him toward the kitchen, but he put his right hand out to stop her.

I’ll eat here.

She frowned at him, but he matched the expression and shook his head, then turned his attention once more to the computer screen.

She turned toward the kitchen to make coffee. So much for thinking he might want to stay with her, to keep her company in her distress, or to share his own concern over his grandson. Her father dealt with this trouble as he had with every crisis in his life, by retreating to his charts and birdcalls, to the logic and order of tables and numbers.

And Karen had nowhere to retreat, nothing that offered escape from worry and frustration.

Martin had once spent the better part of two days sitting in a blind on the edge of a Scottish lake, waiting for the arrival of a pair of rare King Eider ducks which had reportedly been recently spotted in the area. His patience had been rewarded near dusk on the second day. The sight of the stocky black-and-white male and his dark brown mate gliding over the shrubby willows at the edge of the lake to land on the wet pewter surface had erased the aching from his cramped limbs and made the long wait of little consequence.

He had not been born with that kind of patience, but he had learned it as a necessary skill for success as a serious birder. And he had found the same stoicism practical in everyday life.

He knew his daughter thought him cold and callous. He didn’t have the energy to explain to her that he saw no point in becoming overly emotional and fretting. Wringing his hands or storming about wouldn’t help her locate her boy.

He was sorry to hear Casey was missing. Though he hadn’t seen the boy in a few years, he remembered his youngest grandson as a thoughtful, intelligent boy who’d shown an interest in birds and the ability to sit still for long periods of time, contemplating the world around him. Martin thought he had the potential to be a big lister, if he applied himself.

He moved the mouse to click on the desktop icon to open his e-mail account. The stroke had temporarily incapacitated him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stay abreast of news in the birding world. Besides, focusing on birds was calming. There was order and logic in the neatly aligned spreadsheets of birds he had seen and birds he had yet to see, deep satisfaction in the number of sightings on each continent, in each country, and within each genus. Reading through these familiar lists would be a welcome distraction from worries about one boy who was currently unaccounted for.

But first, the e-mail.

ABA recognizes Cackling Goose.

His interest sharpened when he spotted this header, and he clicked on the message. He’d been waiting for this one after hearing rumors for the past six months. Birds that were previously considered subspecies were sometimes awarded full species status, thus adding to the total of species in existence. His hand shook as he scrolled through the press release a birding acquaintance had pasted into the e-mail. The Canada Goose, Branta canadensis, had been split into large and small species, the smaller birds now being designated B. Hutchinsii, Cackling Goose.

Quickly, he shrank the e-mail file and opened his spreadsheet for North American birds. Triumph surged through him as he verified that he had seen both versions of geese at various times and locations. This allowed him to add the new bird to his life list.

He leaned toward the keyboard, straining to control his movements, to type in the new name beneath the original species. Working one-handed was laborious; several times he had to erase what he’d written and start over.

By the time he sat back and studied the new entry, sweat beaded his forehead and he was breathing heavily. His gaze dropped to the new total at the bottom of the spread sheet. Seven thousand, nine hundred and fifty.

He might reach eight thousand yet, even if his health forced him to give up traveling. New species were added every year. In the last year he’d added almost a dozen to his count. Long-dead big listers continued to add to their records through this process. Still, accumulating sightings this way was not the same as seeing new birds for himself.

He scrolled through the list, each name bringing to mind a successful hunt. He’d sighted the King Eider on a miserable cold day when the fog had settled around their party of both serious and casual birders like a shroud. The others in the group retired to a pub to banish the chill with pints of beer and glasses of malt whisky. But he’d insisted on staying outside, willing the bird to come to him.

It had arrived like an apparition out of the mist, the ink black body sharp against the gray fog, the orange shield above its bill brilliant against the bright blue crest. Martin held his breath, immobile, transfixed by this glimpse of the divine. Was it so far-fetched to think that a creature with wings was one step lower than the angels?

The King Eider was the fourth new species he’d added to his list that day. Number 3,047. In those days, he’d seen four thousand birds as a lofty goal to attain. Only later, when he’d passed four thousand and was closing in on five thousand, did he begin to think of reaching for more. Of trying to do what almost no one before him had done.

When he’d joined the others in the pub, they had groaned at the news of the sighting, and cursed his luck even as they bought him drinks. No one questioned that he had actually seen the bird. Though worldwide, the birding community was a small one, where honesty and integrity counted for everything. Martin’s reputation was unassailable. Others often said no one worked harder or was more dedicated than Martin Engel.

The respect of his colleagues was almost as important to him as the numbers on his list. When he was a child, he had sometimes felt invisible in the midst of his older and younger siblings. Their names were routinely in the local paper as winners of athletic competitions and academic honors. Trophies and award certificates lined shelves in the family room. Only Martin had no plaque or statue with his name on it. The family photo album was devoid of Martin’s accomplishments, for there were none. His parents, busy with their other talented children, had left Martin to himself. Sitting in the bleachers at the innumerable football, baseball and soccer practices of his siblings, he had discovered birds, and what grew to be an avocation, an obsession—a calling.

He glanced at the framed awards that filled one wall of his office. His parents were no longer alive to see these honors. He seldom saw his siblings, and even his children took little notice of his accomplishments most days. It didn’t matter as long as his fellow birders applauded him, and as long as he himself could look at this tangible evidence of all he’d achieved and feel satisfaction filling him, warm and penetrating as the African sun.

When he was gone, the records he’d set would live on. His grandsons could find his name in books and on Web sites, and they’d know that he’d been more than an odd little man who traveled a great deal and didn’t have much to say. They’d see that he’d made his mark on the world, and maybe they would find a way to make their mark as well.