Sparrow Migrations (23 page)

“Right.”

“Well, when Robby got so into them, after you went to that conference, I convinced myself it might make him start communicating more.” She looked down at the sand, then up at Sam. “With us.”

“Oh, Linda.” Sam shook his head. He felt the familiar hollow gaping inside him, the hollow where the right words should be, if there were any words that could compensate for what Linda craved. “Jeez.”

“But all he does is download those calls and make his playlists. Then he disappears into his headphones again. He’s as isolated as ever.”

She sighed. They walked silently for a moment.

“He seemed to connect with the ranger,” Sam ventured.

“True.” Linda’s voice brightened. “I thought we were headed for a meltdown for sure yesterday, after she told him he couldn’t do that patrol thing. But he kept it together.”

“He’s really into these birds, and she is, too.” Ahead, Robby and Ruth’s figures were no longer moving. Sam and Linda were gaining on the rest of the group. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

Ahead, the group had stopped twenty yards shy of a roped-off section of beach. The camera club members went into action, whipping out their tripods, mounting cameras, uncapping lenses. Robby lifted his binoculars to his eyes and stared out, too.
What does he see
, Sam wondered.

“Here we are. Home sweet plover home,” Ruth said, raising her scope and training it down the beach. “If you’ll all look for the exclosure—it looks just like a mesh box—that’s down near that little spit, back from the shoreline—oh dear. Oh, no.”

“What? What?” The group aimed their binoculars and scopes where Ruth had. Sam saw Ruth lower hers as the rest swept the beach. Briefly her head bowed before she spoke again, in a steady, resigned voice.

“I’m sorry, folks. If you look under the exclosure, you’ll see a smashed egg. It’s more speckled than the rocks around it. And I don’t see any adult plovers around. It appears that this is a deserted nest.”

“What happened?” the man in the photographer’s vest asked.

“I wish I could tell you. Probably a predator got it—either the eggs, the parents, or both.”

“But isn’t the exclosure supposed to protect them?” a woman asked.

Ruth shrugged. “It doesn’t always work. The parent plovers have to go in and out to feed. If something happens to one while it’s out, the other abandons the nest.”

“Why?” It was Linda’s voice.

“That’s just the way it is. Incubation is shared. Depending on the timing, the one who survives might find another mate and start a new nest.”

“Really? Right away?” Linda asked.

Ruth nodded. “Plovers aren’t sentimental. They find another mate and get on with it.”

“There’s Mother Nature for you,” commented the man with the vest.

Plovers aren’t sentimental
, Sam thought, the hollow inside him yawning again. Like someone else he knew, he thought, glancing over at Robby.

But Robby wasn’t there.

Sam’s pulse quickened. Instinctively he spun to the lake. The calm dark-blue surface rippled placidly, stretching uninterrupted to the horizon. Sam felt an instant of relief, followed by another stab of alarm. Where could—

“Hey! Ruth!” It was Robby’s voice. Sam looked up. His son was twenty yards down the beach, standing right next to the rope, waving.

“Ruth! Two more eggs!”

“Robby!” Linda shook her head. “You’re supposed to stay back!”

But Ruth was striding across the sand. “Show me!”

The man with the photographer vest hesitated, then pulled up his tripod and followed her. Sam looked at Linda and shrugged. They jogged to the rope, where Robby was pointing.

“There, by that fallen log, about five feet from the smashed one. The log kind of shadows them right now, but I think—”

“I see them. You’re right. Two eggs. You’ve got sharp eyes, Robby,” Ruth said. “I’ve got to radio this in right now.”

“Who do you call?” Robby asked.

“Dispatch, to send a patrol out. We need to start monitoring immediately, to determine if the parents are still around and tending the nest. If they’re not, we’ll collect those eggs and try to raise them in captivity.”

“Will you keep them together?” Robby asked, his eyes pinned on Ruth’s face.

“Definitely,” Ruth said, reaching for her radio on her hip, taking in the group that had followed. “Back down the beach, now, all of you,” she commanded. “We don’t want to scare the parents, if they are still around.”

Robby backed away, keeping his eyes on the exclosure.

Linda herded him away from the group. “Robby, you knew the rules. What made you go so close?”

“Ruth said the parents abandoned the nest.”

“Yes, but—”

“And she only saw one smashed egg. There’s supposed to be four.” He was still walking backward.

“OK, but Robby—”

“So I had to find out about the others. I was worried about them.”

“You were
worried
about them?” Linda stared at Robby.

“Yeah.” Robby nodded.

“He was worried,” Linda whispered, grabbing Sam’s arm. “He was
worrie
d
!”

“I stayed behind the rope,” Robby said. “That was the rule. ‘Observe the roped-off breeding areas.
’ 
”

Sam smiled to himself. That was the rule. Word for word.

“I had to find out,” Robby repeated, looking up at Sam.

“It’s OK, Robby.” Squeezing Linda’s hand, Sam looked over his shoulder. Ruth was tucking away her radio now, jogging toward them, her long braids swinging off her shoulders. Seeing her, too, Robby stopped.

“Monitors are on their way,” she reported. “They’ll look around for the fourth egg, too, but my guess is a predator got it.” She turned to Robby. “Robby, I’m so glad you were here. Spotting those eggs gives us another chance. Great work.” She held her hand up for a high five.

Sam watched as Robby, without a moment’s hesitation, slapped hands with Ruth. And his unsentimental son smiled.

The plover patrol summoned, they continued hiking down the beach. At the next stop they watched two parent plovers tend a full brood of four chicks running around the beach. Following the photographer’s cue, Robby lay on his stomach, chin propped on the sand, to get a better view.

“These four hatched day before yesterday,” Ruth said.

“Really?” Linda said, surprised. “And they’re already running around?”

Ruth nodded. “Plovers only stay in the nest their first hour or so.”

“You’re kidding,” Linda said. “They don’t sound very nurturing.”

“You’re looking at it through human eyes. It’s different in the wild,” Ruth said. “Now the goal is independence. These guys have to be ready for a thousand-mile flight in six to eight weeks.”

Sam felt Robby at his elbow.

“Your turn to look, Dad!”

“What?”

“The plovers. Feeding and playing together.” He lifted the strap over his head. “Take a look.”

“Yeah?” Sam raised the binoculars to his eyes. “Show me where.”

“Middle of the beach. Beyond those stones where their nest was. See it? Do you see them?”

Sam scanned the sand slowly. “No.”

“Get down like this.” Robby splayed himself on the sand again. Sam hesitated, then awkwardly crouched next to Robby.

“Let’s take just a few more minutes. We’ve got one more nest to see yet,” Ruth announced.

Sam panned the beach again more quickly. Frustration swelled as he recalled another journey, undertaken another day, hundreds of miles from this beach, but destined to be just as isolating. The autism evaluation team had pushed their written assessment of Robby across the conference table at him and Linda. Bold black check marks appeared next to each of the diagnostic criteria. Sam remembered the first one best:

Qualitative impairment in social interaction . . . a lack of spontaneous seeking to share enjoyment or interests . . .

Now here was Robby, spontaneously sharing his interest in these birds. And Sam couldn’t find the damn things.

“Aim one eye on the water and one on the beach.” It was Ruth’s voice. “They’re closer to the shoreline than you’d think.”

Sam adjusted his gaze. Still nothing. Then he heard it, the sequence of mid-range peeps he remembered from Robby’s computer. He swung the binoculars that way.

“There, Dad, right there!” Robby knocked his elbow, tilting the binoculars. And then Sam saw them: four tiny, dirty-white birds on stick legs.

“I see them! I see them, Robby. And I can hear them, too.”

“Seeing an endangered species in their native habitat is a rare privilege,” Ruth told the group. “Especially with their young.”

“Isn’t it cool, Dad? Mom, do you want to see? Let her look.”

“Sure.” Linda crouched down next to him, beaming.

Sam handed the binoculars over, feeling the hollow inside fill with an unfamiliar blend of flavors. Gratification. Contentment. Wonder.

“Here, take these,” offered the man with the photo vest. “I’ve got an extra set.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. Alongside their son he and Linda watched, basking in the rare privilege of the moment.

TWENTY-FOUR

L
et’s just stop here for a second, Christopher.”

Turning, Christopher saw Arthur Felk heading toward a bench a few steps off the trail. Though he was a good twenty paces behind, Christopher could hear him panting. He frowned. They had been out for less than half an hour on the easiest path through the Sapsucker Woods sanctuary, and Felk was already winded. How could the ornithologist have thought he could handle the rocky peaks and elevations of northern Vermont?

Dr. Felk had called a few weeks ago to change their plans for the Bicknell’s thrush hunt. He planned to set up an endowment, he said, and wanted to take both Christopher and Deborah out to dinner to talk it over. He’d arrive after lunch, and in the afternoon, they could explore the sanctuary instead.

“You know Deborah’s in the law school advancement office. Not the Lab’s,” he reminded Felk.

“I know, Christopher,” Felk said. “Just invite her, OK?”

Reluctantly he left a message for Deborah, but she hadn’t called back. Now he wondered if they’d make it to dinner themselves. He joined Felk on the bench and held out his water bottle.

The older man nodded gratefully, taking a long drink. Sweat beaded along his brow, Christopher noticed as he tipped his head back. Even with Felk having more than two decades on Christopher, the flat, shady trail shouldn’t have caused that kind of exertion.

“Dr. Felk, are you OK?”

“Fine, fine. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”

Christopher waited a minute, then two, then three. Gradually Felk’s panting slowed to normal breathing. He turned his head and met Christopher’s eyes, accepting his scrutiny. He seemed about to speak when a high-pitched trill pierced the quiet.

Felk turned his face upward and cupped his ear. The trill sounded again, a repeating staccato. “Tell me.”

“Swamp sparrow,” replied Christopher.

“No doubt,” the older man replied, smiling in satisfaction. “You always had one of my best ears.”

“So don’t I deserve to hear the truth?”

Felk turned to look at him again. He tried to smile, but it wobbled at the corners. “Not much to tell. What you see is what you get. I’m getting old, Christopher. And slowing down.”

“You’re not sick?”

“Not acutely. Oh, I’ve got arthritis and high blood pressure. Had a bad cough last winter that took months to kick. Nothing that taking twenty years off wouldn’t cure.”

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be seventy-five this year.”

“Is that why you’re up here now to set up an endowment?” Christopher asked.

“One reason. I wanted to see you, of course.”

“I would have come to New York, you know.”

“I know. But I wanted to see Deborah, too. She’ll meet us for dinner?”

“I hope so. I left her a message. But I haven’t heard back.”

“You left her a message?” Felk’s face turned quizzical. “You couldn’t just mention it over breakfast?”

“I’m afraid not. Deborah and I aren’t living together now,” Christopher said. With the words he felt relief wash over him. Though their separation was old grist for Cornell’s gossip mill, he hadn’t confided in anyone since he requested use of the vacant apartment from Peter. Four months on, keeping up his professional façade as the unruffled, collected scientist while living alone in the apartment was far more draining than he’d expected.

“Christopher. I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”

Felk had never married anything but his work, yet Christopher found himself telling the older man everything, interrupted only by the swamp sparrow. Their years of infertility struggles. Deborah’s plea after the crash. His agreement to try one last round. Helen’s diagnosis. Deborah’s deceit. His departure.

Even the ultrasound picture, which had remained in his wallet since Deborah dropped it on the restaurant table.

When he was finished, Felk drew in a deep breath. He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking off in the distance. Once more the swamp sparrow’s repeating trill resounded through Sapsucker Woods. Felk’s face relaxed and he smiled.

“What are you thinking?” Christopher asked.

Felk turned back. He regarded Christopher for another long moment, then spoke.

“Have you had a chance to review that thumb drive from Robby Palmer?”

Christopher’s mind spun at the change of subject. “The boy from the conference in Michigan?”

Felk nodded.

Christopher hesitated. “Briefly, yes. But I couldn’t make heads or tails of the files. And like I told you before, if he’s going to apply to bird camp next year, it would be a conflict of interest for me to review it.”

Felk nodded, looking unconcerned about ethics. “Would you like to guess what my endowment is going to fund?”

“I assume ornithology research, naturally.”

Felk shook his head.

“Then I’m at a loss.” Christopher felt forlorn, too. Didn’t Felk have anything to say about his story?

“The Benjamin J. Felk Chair in Autism Advocacy will be jointly established and awarded between the law school and the medical school.”

Christopher contemplated his words. “So that’s why you wanted to talk to Deborah.”

“Yes.”

“You’re doing this for your brother.”

Felk smiled again slightly, looking up into the trees. “Most people will think that. But I’m really doing it for me. Call it atonement.”

“Atonement? For what happened to your brother in the institution? You were his—his savior.” The religious word felt awkward on his tongue.

“No, I was too late. Oh, his life was happier after we moved him. But it wasn’t appreciably better. Intervention, therapy has to come early to be effective. But it’s not too late for Robby. Or the millions of kids like him.”

Felk looked straight at him. “Don’t let it become too late for you and Deborah and your child, either, Christopher.”

Deborah stretched and yawned. She had fought off her two o’clock drowsiness, but it was coming back more powerfully now as a three thirty coma. She could duck out early; Phillip was away at a conference. Angela buzzed her line.

“I’m just on my way out, Angela.”

“Sorry. There’s someone here to see you.”

She groaned softly. “Who is it?”

“His name’s Arthur Felk. He says he’s an alumnus, and he wants to set up an endowment.”

Arthur Felk? Christopher’s mentor, the grandfatherly ornithologist from New York?

“He’s here in person?” Deborah frowned to herself. Who drove for four hours without making an appointment first?

“Standing right in front of me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He doesn’t look so good, Deborah.”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll be right out.”

“OK. Sir, can I get you something? Water, or perhaps iced tea?”

“Water, please, young lady.” Deborah heard Felk’s voice faintly before Angela hung up.

Hastily she tidied the papers on her desk, closed her e-mail window, and removed her purse from the spare chair. Good enough.

Angela telegraphed her worry as she passed the reception desk. Deborah sat down quickly, before Dr. Felk could try to get up. His face was chalky, yet he was sweating. The water bottle Angela provided was already almost empty.

“Dr. Felk? Are you all right?”

He smiled and dodged her question. “Deborah. It’s been a long time.”

She nodded. “I’m delighted to see you. But I’m worried. You look exhausted.”

“I could say the same thing about you.” He watched her intently as he drained the last of the water.

Deborah’s cheeks grew hot. She placed her palm over her swollen stomach. “That’s pretty common when you’re pregnant.”

“As it is in your seventies. I’m fine. I may have overdone it a bit with Christopher on the trails just now, but another half hour in this air conditioning and another bottle of water and I’ll be as good as, well, sixty, anyway.” He smiled at his joke.

“You saw Christopher?” Deborah sat up straighter.

“Just came from a hike with him at the sanctuary. Beautiful place. And that new building. Amazing what’s happened around here since my day.” He swallowed the last of the water. “He told me he wasn’t able to reach you about dinner, so I thought I’d just stop by here.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Deborah said, her cheeks flushing again. “I—”

“Perhaps we could go to your office,” Felk suggested. Color was returning to his own cheeks, and he was no longer sweating. On their way down the hall she got another bottle of water.

“So Angela mentioned that you’re interested in setting up an endowment,” she said, closing her door. “I can get you started, but the Lab has its own development staff that will need to get involved. We’re honored that you—” Deborah was warming to her boilerplate donor spiel when Felk laid his hand on hers.

The unexpected gesture froze her words midsentence. Looking into the older man’s kind blue eyes, she repeated herself, trying to resume the rhythm. “We’re honored that you would include Cornell in your estate plans. As you know, of course, Cornell is a world-class—”

“Deborah. May I talk, please?”

“By all means.” She looked at her hand, still covered by his wrinkled one. “First rule of fundraising. The donor always gets to do the talking.”

He smiled, patting her hand before lifting his. “I do want to set up an endowment. But it won’t have anything to do with the Lab.”

“It won’t?”

“I’m interested in endowing a chair that will be jointly overseen by both law and medicine. So you and your office will indeed be involved. But that’s not really why I stopped by.”

“Law and medicine?” Donor whims were nothing new, but for someone who had spent a career in such a specialized field as ornithology, a deviation was unusual. “May I ask why?”

“You may. After I tell you why I did stop by.”

She flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.”

“Well, we’ll be even then. Because this is really none of my business, either. But, Deborah, it upsets me to hear about your situation with Christopher.”

She stiffened. “I don’t have a situation with Christopher anymore. He chose to move out. Out of the house. Out of my life. Our lives,” she added.

“That’s unfortunate. I wish he hadn’t.”

“I think you’re talking to the wrong person, Dr. Felk.”

“Oh, I told Christopher, too. Absolutely.”

“And what did he say?” Deborah laid her hands on her belly.
Relax. Breathe.

“He’s still angry. About what he considers your deceit.”

“I see.” Deborah swallowed hard.

“I didn’t come to talk about how you got here, Deborah.” Felk leaned forward and laid his hand on hers again. “You did what you did to protect someone you loved. Someone vulnerable. I understand that. It’s a powerful motivator.”

Gratefully, Deborah nodded.

He sat back and clasped his own hands. “But I do want to talk about where you go from here. I know what it’s like to grow up without a parent, though it was my mother I lost.”

“I’m sorry,” Deborah said softly.

He nodded. “Decades ago now, but I still remember how I felt. How lonely. Scared. Angry. I don’t want your child to feel that way.”

“Again, I think you’re talking to the wrong person, Dr. Felk. I can’t make Christopher forgive and forget. And I apparently can’t convince him that the reward of parenthood is worth the risk of the unknown.”

“But now that’s still abstract. The baby will be real. He showed me the picture, Deborah.”

“He did?”

“Keeps it in his wallet.”

Deborah leaned back, digesting that.

“Have you ever heard that you learn what you need to learn when you need to learn it?” His blue eyes were locked on hers.

Deborah shook her head.

“I forget who said it, but it’s true. When the baby’s born, that’s when Christopher will realize he’s a father. I know it.” Dr. Felk’s face was somehow both fierce and plaintive as he implored her. “What I’m asking you to do is just keep the door open. Don’t shut him out. Please, don’t shut him out.”

Brett heard a car door slam as she carried the garbage bag to the garage. Amanda stepped out of Abby’s car, her hair still wet from the pool. Probably headed to work next. She had her first part-time job this summer, working at the Dairy Queen a couple blocks away. Brett’s news would yank her another step into adulthood. Guilt surged as she slung the bag into the garbage can. It was supposed to be the other way around—the baby bird leaving the nest.

“Have fun at the pool?” Brett walked back across the yard to the picnic table.

“Sure.” Amanda shrugged indifferently, heading for the door.

“Come and sit with me for a minute, OK?” Brett patted the picnic bench. Her hand kept time with her thumping heart.

“I’ve got to get ready for work. I start at five.” Amanda’s hand was on the doorknob.

“This won’t take long. Promise.”

Amanda heaved a sigh, trudged to the picnic table, and sat, dropping her duffel bag between her feet. “Well?”

Brett swallowed. Her rehearsed words had fled. “I have some news.”

“Yeah?”

She wasn’t going to make it easy. Brett took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “You know things have been kind of uncomfortable around here lately.”

Amanda snorted. “The understatement of the year.”