The Bird Saviors (32 page)
    It's the truth. You keep an eye on your child. She's young and she doesn't deserve any strange men around her.
    He's not a stranger. He's a savior.
    A savior? Ha, says Lord God. That's even worse.
    In the kitchen, Ward is trying to feed Lila pasta shells. She has stopped crying but is having none of it, twisting her head when he tries to put the pasta in her mouth.
    How's the little monster? asks Ruby.
    Fussy. Ward leans back and shrugs. She's not thrilled with pasta, I guess.
    Lila smiles and scrunches up her face, sticks out her tongue and sputters. She looks at Ward and then at Ruby, holds a spoon in her small hand and dangles it over the edge of her high- chair platform, then lets it drop.
    The wind gusts and whistles at the kitchen window, the yard outside blustered and unkempt, a Raven perched on the woodshed weather vane, its shaggy neck feathers ruffled.
How's he feeling?
    Awful. Ruby picks up the spoon Lila dropped and sits beside her in the creaky wooden chair. She gives Lila the spoon and puts a pasta shell in her mouth. Lila takes the shell and waves the spoon in the air, chewing with her mouth open.
    You think he's getting better or worse?
    He's talking about the bears again.
    The bears?
    They come down from the mountains during droughts. When there's no food up where they live.
    And?
    They come down to feed.
    On what?
    On little girls who don't eat their pasta.
    By afternoon the wind eases to gusts and sudden squalls. The vista beyond the woodshed and their property opens to the juniper plateau. A layer of dust coats the yuccas and cholla, as if the land itself is an old thing left to gather dust in an abandoned home. Ward watches a murder of Crows flap and squawk past the yard, diving and swooping at the wide wings of a Red- Tailed Hawk. The hawk glides and beats its wings, fades into the tan sky.
    Ward takes these sightings as a good sign, as a sign of hope. Ruby has told him about her conversation with Lord God. Now the blades of hope and faith turn in Ward's head like a windmill. Too often
faith
is the word preachers use to ask for money. When he questioned the idea of a benevolent God who would let so many suffer and let his daughter die in pain, he was told the Lord works in mysterious ways. That he had to have faith. That he had to let go of his earthly hopes and dreams and put his soul in the hands of the Lord, who would reward him with everlasting life.
faith
is the word preachers use to ask for money. When he questioned the idea of a benevolent God who would let so many suffer and let his daughter die in pain, he was told the Lord works in mysterious ways. That he had to have faith. That he had to let go of his earthly hopes and dreams and put his soul in the hands of the Lord, who would reward him with everlasting life.
    Ward can never lose the suspicion that the reward of blind faith is blindness.
    Hope is a smaller, more reliable thing. You don't have to bank on the idea of a supreme being to hope for a better day, for Lila not to come down with the fever, for Ruby to keep a shelter over her head, for rain to come in the summer, as it has in the past. Faith is a shield, an excuse, an alibi.
    Hope is something you can carry in your pocket. Something you can give to others. Something you can act on.
J a c k  B r o w n  h e a r s his German shepherd barking in the unkempt yard of the bungalow for which he has not paid rent for three months now. After a moment he looks out to see a policeman dismounting from a chestnut horse. Monster lunges at the end of his chain, spooking the mare, who backsteps a few feet until the cop ties the reins to the chain- link fence.
    Brown stares, standing frozen in his underwear, then takes to cussing and pulling on his pants. Before he can decide what to do firstâ bolt out the back door or step outside to quiet Monsterâ the cop is on the porch and knocking, sharp and loud, like an FBI agent. Brown shouts, Just a minute, rushes to his bedroom for a T- shirt, dons it, and opens the door, hair spiky and unwashed, eyes crusty.
Are you William Henry Brown?
Well, yes. I suppose so.
Israel James smiles and says, Remember me?
Well, yes. I suppose so.
Israel James smiles and says, Remember me?
A t  e v e n i n g  L o r d  G o d ' s  throat closes up. His breath rattles in raspy pops and gurgles. Ruby ministers to him with soup, wet washcloths, and apple juice. He shoos her away.
    Bring me that man you have in our home. I want a word with him.
    Ruby stares at her father. Don't say anything ugly to him. He's a good man and he doesn't deserve any hatefulness.
    Bring me that man. He's under my roof and by God I'll say what I want, to him or anybody else.
    His name's Ward.
    Lord God leans forward and looses a wet cough into a ball of tissue. When he can breathe again he says, Okay, then. I want to meet this Ward. He falls back on his pillows and composes his craggy face. Let's have a look- see.
    Ruby finds Ward in the living room, showing Lila a stack of flash cards. He bought her the deck the last time he was in Denver. Images of birds.
    This is a Hooded Oriole, pretty yellow- and- black feathers. And this is a Painted Bunting, he says, holding up the card. It's a beautiful, showy bird, but a shy thing. You have to get close to it to see all these colors. Or look through binoculars. That's what most people do. Isn't that a pretty bird?
Lila points at the card and says, Kitty.
    Ruby watches them and waits. That's her favorite word. Everything is
kitty.
kitty.
    Ward nods. I like the sound of that. It could be a motto.
Every
thing is kitty.
Every
thing is kitty.
    Lila grins and bites the edge of the bird card. Ward tries to pull it away from her gently, saying, Don't eat the card, Pinky. It's not good for you.
    Papa wants a word with you, says Ruby. I'll take her.
    Ward looks up. How's he doing?
    I don't know. He's having trouble breathing.
    Okay. Anything I should be careful not to say?
    Ruby lifts Lila and nuzzles her cheek. Avoid the Jesus jokes?
    Ward nods. No problem.
    Otherwise, be honest. He'll see right through anything that sounds false or fake.
    I'm not good at lying anyway.
    Don't be scared, says Ruby. He won't bite.
Ward carries a candle in a ceramic Mexican candleholder for light. The flame casts an amber light down the hallway. The power is out again. Here in the boonies, power outages are becoming frequent. As he enters Lord God's room, with its smell of mentholatum and sickness, it seems as if he's going back in timeâ bowing before a biblical father, holding a candle, heading into darkness. He can hear Lord God breathing before he sees him. When he nears, the old man's face is craggy and harsh. Ward doesn't shake his hand but introduces himself and says he wishes they could have met in better circumstances. Times will be better, he adds. You'll pull through this.
    Lord God gives a slight, almost invisible shrug. He breathes through his mouth, but his eyes are bright and liquid in the candlelight. We'll all be gone at some point. I'm just closer than most, I guess.
    It seems you're under the weather.
    Is that what you call it?
    Well.
    I'm on my deathbed and you call that under the weather?
    Ward asks if he can get him anything. Are you thirsty?
    Lord God closes his eyes. Ruby takes good care of me. That's what she's here for. What about you? What are you here for?
    Well, I guess I'm here to take care of Ruby. Do what I can. I help with Lila.
    You guess.
    Well, yes. It's an expression.
    Lord God shakes his head. If you're spending time with my daughter you better be more than guessing.
    Yes, sir. I see your point.
    And what about Lila? You help with her? You're old enough to have a wife and daughter of your own. Why don't you?
    I did. I had a wife and child.
    You did.
    They passed away two years ago. From the fever.
    Lord God waits. Ward puts his hands in his back pockets and leans against the wall. So I don't have anyone anymore. Ruby started working for me, and she needs somebody.
    That she does, says Lord God. Are you that somebody? Are you a good man?
    I try to be.
    You don't try. You either are or you're not.
    It doesn't seem that easy to me. But I'll care for Ruby and Lila. I'll do my best to keep them safe from harm.
    You believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God?
    No, sir. I don't.
    Well, then. What do you believe?
    I don't know.
    You mean you believe in nothing? Is that it?
    I don't think it's an either/or. Not a choice of one or the other.
    It's the choice of Christ or Satan.
    I don't think so. I don't believe in Christ or Satan. I think those are legends or ideas, ways we try to understand the mystery of the world.
    Ideas, ha. Lord God makes a motion with his chin, gray- stubbled, a wattle of throat skin beneath. You think ideas are going to take care of those girls?
    No, sir. I think actions are. My actions, best I can.
    You can be damned to the fires of hell for your actions.
    I think hell is an idea. A human idea to serve as a warning for bad behavior.
    Is that what you think? For a moment Lord God wears an ugly smile. The sinners roasting in hell are full of ideas, I betcha. He begins to laugh and soon he's leaning over the side of the bed, coughing jaggedly, spitting blood.
    Ward reaches to hold his body upright and Lord God pushes him away. He wheezes and gasps and leans back on the pillows. I don't need your help. I got a daughter, a good daughter, takes care of me. Now you say you want to take care of her. And you believe in no God, no nothin'. Makes me think she be taking care of you before long.
    I have a career, says Ward. I make a living. I'll make sure Ruby and Lila won't want for the important things in life.
    A career? Lord God grimaces. Counting birds. You call that a career.
    I'm an expert at it. I make sense of things. They pay me for it.
    Who does?
    I work for an institute.
    Lord God pushes back his blankets and squirms, shivering in pain. I guess that's good for now. We'll see, though. Things going to get worse.
    Maybe so, says Ward. I hope not.
    What you hope won't make a hill of beans. A few years from now there won't be institutes enough to pay all the fools in the world.
    I'm not a fool, Mr. Cole.
    That's what you say. Lord God closes his eyes, a thin trickle of blood below one nostril, in the tangle of his beard.
    Ward says he'd better go get Ruby.
    That's right. What do I know? You best be leaving this dying fool. Lord God's voice is hoarse and clotted with mucus, barely a wet whisper. But before you go, let me warn you about something. Ruby tell you about that Page fella who's got an eye for her? She might have said I tried to get her to marry him.
Yes, sir. She did.
    Well, I wised up. Watch out for him. I think he got his sights set on Ruby, fixed on the notion and hungry for her. I was a fool listening to other fools to have anything to do with that man. But I did and once I saw the light I broke it off. He took it personal. He finds out I'm gone he might come calling.
    I'll keep an eye out, sir. My word. And I'll take care of both Ruby and Lila.
    You better. Lord God sinks back into his pillows, the skein of blood trailing down his upper lip. Now, go on. Watch out for my girl. You don't, I'll come back from the dead. Make you believe hell's a lot more than an idea. That's for damn sure.
    Lord God takes to coughing again, hunched over, body tensed and wracked with pain. Ruby is in the hallway when Ward goes for her. You go watch Lila, she whispers. I'll stay with him now. She squeezes Ward's hand and steps into her father's room, shuts the door.
    Ward forgot to grab his candleholder. The hallway is pitch black. He moves forward, feeling the walls, until he turns the corner and sees the lantern light in the kitchen, hears the light voice of Lila saying, Kitty kitty kitty.
T h e  f i r s t  t h i n g  Hiram Page notices when arriving at work is a patrol car in the parking lot, his dimwit nephew with his legs spread wide and hands on the hood, being cuffed by a Pueblo County sheriff's deputy. A chestnut horse stands off to the side, with a cop in the saddle. It clomps its hooves nervously when Hiram pulls in and kills the engine. He gets out and holds the door open for his dachshund, Weenie, helping the short- legged dog down from the pickup cab. He stares at the arrest in progress, asks what this is all about.
    Officer Israel James grins. I believe this young buck has run afoul of the law. Me, I'm just here for moral support. To make sure all is on the up- and- up.
    Uncle Hiram, you'll get this straightened out, won't you?
    Hiram removes his sunglasses and doesn't say a word. It's early and he won't open for another hour. It's a pleasant morning, too peaceful for hubbub and mayhem: The sky is a sinless blue and the air has the cold taste of winter on its way.
    I take it my employee here is being charged with a crime?
    The patrolman is a short, thick- necked deputy whose uniform is too tight around his belly, wearing a regulation cowboy hat and black belt complete with sidearm and can of mace. You take it right, he says, leading Ezra by an elbow to the rear passenger- side door. You might say this boy's in some deep shit, but I suppose that's jumping the gun.
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