The Hummingbird (4 page)

Maybe I should recite to them the suicide statistics from this war? Or inform them that there had been an error, that the real Michael Birch was left behind in the sand somewhere, and would they please go find him and bring him back to me?

The men at the table were leaning forward, waiting. The one in the black suit was inspecting his shoes. I imagined that on the other side of the mirror, someone else was listening more closely now too.

It felt as if I’d been assigned a role: You are the wife of a returning soldier, now we want to watch you act like one. Their desire felt almost pornographic. I crossed my arms. “I’d like to see my husband now, please.”

Both men at the table let out a long breath.

“Because I’m a veteran as well,” the older man said. “Classic grunt of the Mekong Delta. U.S. Army, Vietnam, sixty-nine to seventy-two.”

“Me too,” the police officer added. “Desert Storm, Army National Guard, Kuwait-based engineering logistics support group, nineteen ninety-one.”

“Well, thank you both for your service.” I could not guess where the conversation was going. My mouth was a Sahara. “And?”

“We want to give your husband a break,” the policeman said. “Anyone who watches the news knows that the, um, the re-entry experience has been tough for this latest group of soldiers, all over the country.” He glanced at the others before continuing. “We have all agreed on this. We’re not going to charge him with anything today.”

“I’m not planning to sue either,” the older man added. “He doesn’t need me making his life any harder.”

“Though his insurance company will still be held responsible for the accident,” the policeman said. “Obviously, if he winds up back here for some reason, any reason, there are no third chances. We are going to impound his vehicle for ninety days, too, while he gets his anger under control. I assume he is receiving post-combat counseling?”

I felt that tug again, their curiosity pulling at me. But on the other end of the rope was Michael, who sat somewhere else in this building, in some other gray room. I wanted to protect his privacy, but I also hoped to keep him out of trouble. “He is.”

They glanced up to the man by the door. His mustache was thin and groomed. His face did not change expression, but they seemed to take his silence for consent.

“I wrote your husband a citation for following too closely. Hundred and sixty dollars and two points on his license,” the officer said, sliding papers across the desk. “What it really means is that he’ll be on the hook for both vehicles’ deductibles. I’ve attached an incident report for the insurers. Also a sheet on where to claim his truck later. Your husband was uninjured, but he may want to keep an eye on that shoulder. It took quite a bump.”

“Thank you.” I gathered the papers and folded them in half, as if that would help somehow, or reduce Michael’s shame. “Is that everything?”

“Let’s hope so,” the older man said. “Let’s hope this is the end of it.”

The officer stood. “We’ll take you to him now.”

I rose from the chair, my legs sticking to it a little. Finally I faced the man in the black suit. “What is your part in all of this? What do you do?”

He put one hand on the doorknob and met my stare. “Worry.”

Then he opened the door and strode away down the corridor.

COMPARED WITH EVERYONE ELSE
in the holding cell, Michael looked like a giant. The cop made me wait in the hall, but I could still see the others: Wiry kids dressed in black, muzzled old guys wearing multiple raincoats, and there was my husband, athletic and healthy. Except for two pierced and tattooed goths huddled in a corner, everyone else sat apart from the others. Michael stood when he saw me, and I could tell he was furious, just bristling with it.

I did not want to think of him as sexy in that moment, but I couldn’t help it. He looked like the strong, smart, passionate man I desired damn near every day. That was one more thing I had learned to suppress in this—what had the cop called it?—this re-entry experience.

“Sweetheart, are you all—”

“Please.” He raised his hands in the hallway as if I were holding him at gunpoint. “Not one word till we are out of this place.”

The officer led us to the front door. “You all take care now,” he said. I glanced back and he was still watching us. He even made a modest wave. It contained zero flirtation, I could tell, but instead conveyed concern. I waited till Michael had climbed into the car before returning the gesture.

“I was just coming back from lunch.” Michael began speaking before I was fully in the car. “There were no spots along Merchant’s Row, and I wanted a coffee. You know they have that nice open place, no hidden corners to make me anxious about crossfire. I went around twice. Nothing. But there was this one car, a classic American SUV, semi-tricked out.”

He sounded manic, thousands of miles from the steady man I’d met those years ago. I placed the keys on the dashboard. “OK.”

“It was sideways, taking up three spots. The guy had parallel parked in a place where you are supposed to park nose-in. And one of the places he was blocking was a handicap spot.”

“Not good,” I said.

“Times five, Deb. Not good. So I looked in, feeling suspicious, and he didn’t have one of those cards, you know, the wheelchair hanging from his mirror? So I put on my flashers, and stood by his rig, and waited.”

“I don’t like the sound of this, Michael.”

“I’m all peaceful at this point, Deb. Peace-ful. And out he comes, an older guy, big Burl Ives mustache, and he’s on his phone. ‘Excuse me,’ I say, but he just nods hello and keeps talking. ‘Hey, man,’ I say, but he brushes by. So I jump ahead and stand in front of his door. I’ve got a good six inches on the guy, so he finally catches on and asks his caller to hold on a second. ‘You’re in a handicapped spot,’ I tell him. First he looks me up and down, then he says, ‘I am?’ all innocent, like he didn’t know. ‘That’s terrible. I apologize. I’m just getting out of the way right now.’ ”

“Of course he knew.”

“That’s right, Deb. The sign is right there. But as I walk over to point it out, he drives off. Just zooms away.”

I held the wheel with both hands. “You couldn’t let him go.”

“Where is his conscience, right? What if I was a disabled person, and he had taken my spot? What if he had blocked one of my wounded buddies? So yes, I followed him, honking and all. Two hundred yards down the road he jammed through a yellow light, to ditch me, I guess, but two guys in a crosswalk had to jump back.”

I lowered my forehead to the steering wheel. “And then?”

“I’m sure they told you.”

“Not in any detail.”

“I waited till the light changed, and I caught up, and then I rammed him. The selfish shit.”

“Ouch.”

“Rear corner, so lots of parts will need replacing. I bet the frame’s bent too.”

The triumph in Michael’s voice implied that he felt no remorse. Justice had been done. But I checked him with one eye and it was all bravado, all bluff. He was strangely pale, his jaw drawn backward in fear. Not like I’d seen during his night terrors, when we still shared a bed. But a tremor of self-doubt, of wondering whether he had actually been in the wrong. The man had too strong a conscience not to reflect on his actions.

He stroked his short hair back with one hand. “Then for good measure, I rammed him again.”

I lifted my head to face him. “Michael, I—”

“Don’t start in on me, please. Don’t even start.”

“I wasn’t starting. I was only going to say—”

“Yes you were. You were starting. I could tell.” He reached back to pull on his seat belt, wincing as he raised his arm. “This has really pissed me off, Deb, and I have to think hard about what I did.”

“Maybe first we could—”

“My life is about fixing cars, not wrecking them. So there’s that on my conscience. Plus I am not a fan of being locked up with drunks and losers all afternoon. So I would really appreciate it if you would spare me the lecture and get me home so I can start figuring out how the hell I am going to get to work for the next three months.”

I held still, counting to four. “No lecture, Michael. All I wanted to say—”

“Start the car, please. Would you please just start the car?”

So I did. And drove us home in silence. And never said the sentence I had wanted to say and wanted him to hear: Michael, I still love you.

IF THE CULTURAL FOUNDATION
of Japan’s mission off the Oregon coast in 1942 was the premise that surprise is valorous, the military situation was an equally vital consideration. Thus far the Pacific war had been hugely one-sided.

Pearl Harbor occurred in December of 1941. In the months following, Japan defeated Western armies almost as though there were no resistance. Land forces readily captured the island of Guam in mid-December. By Christmas, Japan had won Hong Kong, ending Britain’s long rule. After a fierce two-day battle, Japan likewise forced U.S. troops to surrender on Wake Island.

When the Japanese stormed ashore in Luzon, General Douglas MacArthur had to retreat, pulling his troops down the Bataan Peninsula toward Manila. By New Year’s Day, Manila no longer flew the American flag. The Malay Peninsula fell next. Singapore surrendered soon also.

Although Japan’s tactics replicated the book published in 1925, the novel contained less brutality. For having supported the British, for example, some five thousand Chinese captured in Singapore were summarily executed.

The march of Japanese victories continued. The Battle of the Java Sea cost America three destroyers and two light cruisers. Japan gained technological advantage with new, long-range torpedoes. Capable of traveling more than five miles, their propulsion left no trail of bubbles to guide ships in evasive maneuvers.

Java fell soon after. Japan won victories in Corregidor, then three posts in Manila Bay known as Forts Hughes, Drum, and Frank, and ultimately all of the Philippine Islands. On April 9, the same date on which Robert E. Lee had surrendered to Ulysses Grant at Appomattox seventy-six years previously, the U.S. force at Bataan capitulated to its Japanese invaders.

Japan’s army had planned for twenty-five thousand prisoners of war at Bataan. Instead, there were seventy-six thousand. The forced march these soldiers endured, later aptly named the “Death March,” included assaults, starvation, and outright murders. By the time the captured men reached Camp O’Donnell for internment, between seven thousand and ten thousand had died.

Such atrocities inspired rage and retaliation, in time. But for much of 1942, the number and severity of defeats gave a pummeling to American morale. Japan was winning the war decisively.

The imperial high command next approved a surprise invasion of the island called Midway. Victory there could ensure the destruction of the remaining U.S. Pacific fleet. Japan would thereby establish the southern bulkhead of its empire. The northern end, meanwhile, would be the Aleutian Islands of Alaska. Battleships set sail for Midway on May 27, 1942. The Alaskan force launched the following day, with the I-25 submarine among the convoy.

However, the Admiralty had grown overconfident. This time the Americans were ready, thanks to 120 musicians from the sunken ship
California
. Reassigned as cryptanalysts, they had broken the Japanese military code. U.S. forces knew in advance that the Midway invasion was under way.

A flotilla sped out to meet the Japanese fleet. In an epic clash, four of Japan’s twelve aircraft carriers went to the bottom, taking with them many captains, a vice admiral, an admiral, and thousands of men. On June 6, U.S. Admiral Chester Nimitz declared, “Pearl Harbor has now been partially avenged.”

Midway marked a turning point in the war. Granted, years of hostilities remained ahead. Guadalcanal, Okinawa, and Iwo Jima would be purchased in blood. But Japan’s expansion had nearly reached its zenith.

Yet not all of the drama would occur in the South Pacific. In fact, the day after Nimitz’s report, the Japanese captured two American territories in Alaska’s Bering Sea. Historians dispute the reasons for Japan’s invasion of Attu and Kiska, tiny Alaskan islands offering scant resources. Perhaps they promised a firewall should Russia enter the Pacific war. They might provide an airbase for sorties against the United States.

Whatever the motive, the islands’ capture established a vast swath of ocean under Japanese control. From Kiska’s latitude of 51 degrees north, following roughly the longitude of 175 degrees east, the domain reached the Solomon Islands at 9 degrees south. That span, 4,100 miles, is greater than the distance from London to Zanzibar, and the domain stretched west all the way to China. Were this area land, Japan’s rule would have eclipsed the Roman Empire’s.

CHAPTER 4

I WOKE BEFORE IT WAS LIGHT.
The new normal. Michael was not in bed. That was normal now too. At night when I switched off the lights he would lie beside me, fully dressed, until I fell asleep. In the morning he was always gone.

Restlessness is contagious, of course; I never slept through the night anymore either. I’d climb out of bed and navigate by the light of various digital clocks—on the bedside table, the TV. I might find him snoring on the couch, still dressed. Or drinking coffee in the kitchen with papers spread all around, and I’d pull out a chair and sit by him with no one talking. I wanted so badly just to hold his hand. Or I’d see his truck was gone, Michael out driving who knows where, and he wouldn’t return home till after I’d left for work.

At least that option was nixed for ninety days. Pulling a quilt from the bed, I wrapped it around me and padded through the predawn house. I checked the kitchen first because the little light over the stove was on. There was a coffee mug on the counter, but a sip told me it was cold.

On the table I saw his drawings again.

Now more of the faces were familiar: the sunglasses guy, the one with a scribble next to him, the one with mouse ears, and others whose significance I could only guess. Maybe someday he would clue me in. Thirty-one mysteries.

That morning the pencil beside the papers was broken in the middle.

Was Michael broken in the middle? Was I? What about those people he kept drawing?

Maybe it was all of us. The cop. The Vietnam vet. The Professor. Maybe every single person on earth was broken in the middle.

A blanket on the living room couch showed where Michael had tried to sleep, or had watched TV in the hope of getting bored enough to doze off. Instead, the blanket was wound in a knot.

Finally I found him in the guest room, sleeping on his back on the rug. No blanket, no pillow, beside him a plastic bag filled with water that earlier in the night had probably held ice for his shoulder.

My sister Robin said when her babies were newborns, she could spend hours staring at them. That’s how I stood over Michael on that early morning in the gray light. He was large—sometimes I forgot—so much bigger than me. One arm was thrown out wide, but the hand on his stomach was thick and broad. His chest swelled and shrank like a bellows. Keep breathing, lover, just keep breathing.

The bend of his leg reminded me of a weekend trip up to Seattle, one rainy January years back, in a semi-fancy hotel room where we got a little wild. I wound up riding his thigh like a horse until the gallop took possession of me, and I came so hard he laughed afterward. The memory brought a wave of longing so strong my knees almost buckled.

Now his head had fallen to one side, and it appeared uncomfortable. I took a pillow from the guest bed and tucked it under his neck. It didn’t wake him. Spreading the quilt over both of us, I nestled under his arm. Michael shifted, and I worried that he might roll on his side, with his back to me. He started that way, but his hurt shoulder made him turn back, and I moved with him so that we wound up spooning.

As Michael’s arm circled my waist, his hand came up and cupped my breast, warm and still. No caress, he just held me, steady, and continued to sleep.

Dear God, what I felt to be touched by him. I lay there with eyes wide.

LATER, AFTER DAWN, I
heard my alarm from the other room. Michael had returned to sleeping on his back, so I was able to slip away. While a pot of coffee brewed, I checked email from work. Central Office wanted to know if I was returning to the Professor’s that day, and I replied yes. I was in for the duration if he was.

Before leaving for Lake Oswego, I checked on Michael. He was awake and putting down his cell phone. “Gary’s coming by to bring me in today. I’ll see at work about getting a ride back.”

“I’d be happy to pick you up on my way home.”

Wincing, he stretched his shoulder forward and back. “I’m the one who made this stupid mess. I should be the one to clean it up.”

EIGHT YEARS HAD PASSED
since I finished my social work degree, and somehow I had not returned to the Portland State University campus once. I’d expected to visit often, to attend lectures or audit conferences. But then I moved in with Michael, and work proved to be plenty educational.

Not to mention pouring all my time into patient care. I couldn’t see myself informing some dying man or woman, “Hey, I’d love to stay and help you with your anguish, but I have to go hear a lecture on anguish.”

Still, I pulled onto campus that morning feeling as though I had been missing something. Maybe I would try harder to follow department doings. Not long ago, those people had been my kin.

The parking lot I’d used was serving as a staging area for construction of a new building, so I had to hunt for a place to park. Then I hoofed it over to the library, a U-shaped building of glass with giant stone monoliths at either end. Everyone I passed on the sidewalk seemed incredibly young. Which probably meant that, to them, I looked incredibly old.

That early in the day, only a few people were working in the computer area. I sat at a terminal, and they did not even lift their heads. My old screen name and password were still valid—like access to the library, a little gift to local alumni.

When I searched nonfiction books in stock for the name Reed, the screen listed a biography of former U.S. House Speaker Thomas Reed, and a collector’s guide to fine china by Alan Reed. That was all. I did another query under Reed, B., and the sole item was a textbook on quantum mechanics by B. Cameron Reed.

“Pardon me,” I said to the young woman at the information desk.

She wore a Chinese-style military jacket, and below her ear she had a tattoo of a turtle. Such a tender place. I wondered how much the needle had hurt.

The young woman set aside a textbook she was reading; the cover said something about chemistry. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for books by Barclay Reed. The historian.”

“One second.” She slapped keys with the speed and punch of an airline attendant dealing with an overbooked flight. “I’m finding several Reeds. What did you say the first name was?”

“Barclay.”

She ran her thumb down the right-hand side of the screen. “Barclay, Barclay. Nope. Sorry. No books here by that guy.”

That was puzzling. “Why would the university library not have a former professor’s books?”

She shrugged. “No idea. Let’s try books in print.”

The young woman pounded away on her keyboard. “Here we go, there’s a bunch of them. Just none on our shelves, for some reason. Weird.”

“Are they about World War II?”

“Titles look that way. I can try interlibrary loan, if you want. He’d probably be on the shelves at Lewis and Clark. It takes two days.”

“No thanks.” I backed away. “I’ll figure something else out.”

CHERYL WAS STANDING in
the garden when I arrived that morning. I couldn’t help giggling. “Did he evict you?”

“The Professor is having stomach discomfort. He does not like to pass gas with a woman in the house. Aren’t these azaleas lovely?”

They really were, extravagant pink bushes along the house’s side yard. The rest of the garden was mathematical, as if it had been mapped on paper before anything was planted. “Do you think he did this landscaping?”

“Once upon a time, perhaps. But I’m afraid his gardening days are ended.”

“I suppose.” And then I heard his voice, booming inside the house. Cheryl had left the front door open a few inches. “The call of duty,” I said.

Cheryl gave my arm a squeeze. “Have an interesting day.”

“SHE HAD THE TEMERITY TO RETURN,”
he said, snapping the newspaper to keep it upright between us. “Bravo for Nurse Birch. I wager at the office they all say, ‘What a plucky gal she is.’ ”

I stood at the foot of his bed. “I have something to get off my chest.”

“Don’t we all?”

“I suppose. But my own conscience is enough for me to worry about. And I would appreciate the courtesy of face-to-face for one minute, please.”

Ever so slowly he lowered the top half of the newspaper. His hair remained in its upright shock, his eyes glinting with mischief. He must have had a good night’s sleep. “Proceed.”

“I was not completely truthful yesterday about something.”

“Let me guess. You’re not actually a nurse. I could have determined that by the degree of competence you demonstrated.”

This man was a skilled conversational swordsman, thrust and parry and hop out of range. Regardless, I fenced on. “I told you the truth when I said I didn’t strike your gong yesterday. But I did touch it.”

He dropped his arms, crumpling the newspaper in his lap. “Everyone touches it, Nurse Birch. That gong is irresistible.”

“Maybe so. Anyway maybe that touch was what you heard.”

“I didn’t hear anything. I simply wished to reveal to you how predictable and common you are. How unspecial.” He frowned at the newspaper. “I was being a . . . I believe your word is ‘tester.’ You failed.”

And he snapped the pages up between us again.

LATER IN THE DAY,
the Professor permitted me to bathe him.

By that time in their illness some people have lost modesty, the body a flagrant display of medical facts they no longer have the stamina to deny. But for most patients I’ve cared for, it’s important to maintain every modicum of dignity possible. The ego relinquishes its powers with a reluctance that I do not judge, but rather admire.

I remember Tanya, a woman with ovarian cancer who insisted that I refresh her bright red lipstick every two hours. Easy enough. I met Tanya’s need like clockwork. After she died, the first thing I did was apply a fresh layer.

There was Ted, a fireman with an inoperable stomach tumor. His wife made a poster of an old news photo that showed him carrying a limp boy from a building, the background all smoke and flames. The boy, Ted told me nearly every day, survived. The last time I saw that fireman, he was flattened with illness. But he still had the strength to hook a thumb at the poster and whisper one word to me: “Lived.”

I love that. I love the times that people celebrate themselves for as long as they can. All dead people are the same. No two living people are.

BARCLAY REED WAS TOO FRAIL
to lower himself into the tub, much less lift himself out. Assuming he would be of the modest kind, I managed to keep a dark blue hand towel draped over his privates the whole time. Likewise, I remained perfectly matter-of-fact while drying him off.

But after dressing the Professor, I did not take him directly back to bed. Instead I wheeled his chair around from the living room and sat him in it.

“Are we off to the rodeo, Nurse Birch?” he asked. “Giddyap.”

I draped a blanket over his shoulders, which of course made me think of covering Michael a few hours earlier. I hoped my husband’s day was going well. I had resolved not to check on him. He had made clear his wishes to reckon with yesterday’s mishap on his own. Still, I was allowed to worry.

I rolled the Professor to the sliding doors and pushed one back. It was a cloudy day, the lake as still as a painting. I wheeled him out on the dock, then locked the brakes.

“Such adventures you take me on, Nurse Birch. I feel intrepid.”

“Did you swim from here very often?”

He shook his head. “Swimming prunes the skin and makes a body clammy.”

Well. So much for my fantasy of taking a dip from that deck. Lake Oswego would remain unsullied by the unwashed likes of me.

The Professor continued: “I live here because of the light.”

“Off the water, you mean? I love that too.”

“That is not in the least what I mean. Please do not speak for me. Save that for when I am dead.”

I let the word hang there, not responding, letting him know that it did not frighten me, that I felt no awkwardness or hurry to fill the silence and thereby mute what he had said.

Sure enough, a moment later he spoke again. “The light I mean is the dawn. The eastward view is finest at the break of day. I have few regrets in this life. But had I known the extent to which the last phase would confine me, I would have installed a larger bedroom window to allow the early light.”

“If you like, Professor, I can come earlier in the day, and bring you out here for the sunrise as long as your energy lasts.”

“Nurse Birch, that idea . . .” Instead of finishing the sentence, he closed his eyes and breathed with it for a while. He opened his eyes again. “That may be the first genuinely intelligent suggestion you have made.”

“Thank you. I think.” And I let him see me smiling.

But he coughed into his fist. “At this juncture, I must content myself with memory. I have seen a great many sunrises here. They must suffice.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. Because the offer stands.”

He said nothing for a while. A motorboat trolled past, sleek and clean, making a small wake that slapped the dock but did not splash. The couple on board waved to us. I waited, not responding, hoping to see the Professor raise one hand. They had turned forward by the time he did, a tepid gesture but at least he had acknowledged them.