Sparrow Migrations (30 page)

For the first time in his life, Christopher Goldman missed a scheduled class, as he drove to Ithaca-Tompkins, without luggage, and bought seat 14B on the 1:05 p.m. flight to Philadelphia, with continuing service to Seattle.

As Christopher flew west, his cell phone and other electronic devices dutifully turned off, his voice mail recorded an unnamed caller.

“Dr. Goldman, this is Dr. Felk’s assistant at the museum, returning your call from a few days ago. I’m sorry to tell you Dr. Felk isn’t able to write the letter you requested. He fell last week and broke his hip. I relayed your message, and he asked that you call him at New York-Presbyterian.

“I’m sorry to leave bad news in a voice mail, but I don’t want to risk waiting to reach you directly. Please call him as soon as you can.”

THIRTY-THREE

L
adies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. On behalf of the crew, I’d like to be the first to welcome you to Seattle, where the local time is 3:40 p.m.” Christopher reset his watch as they taxied down the runway.

“Portable electronic devices may now be turned on. We know you have a choice in air travel, and we thank you for choosing United. Flight attendants, cross-check for arrival.”

His phone showed one new message, but it wasn’t from Deborah’s number, and she was the only person he wanted to talk to now. He’d listen later. Now he needed to find a taxi.

Matt and Helen’s garage was closed, and the entire street looked deserted. Most of the neighbors were probably still at work. Compared to Ithaca, the weather felt balmy, and he shrugged off his winter jacket.

The doorbell echoed inside. No answer. Matt had said the showings were stacked tightly. Could they still be out looking? He rang again. Would they have taken Gracie with them on the house-hunting expedition?

He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see into the sidelights surrounding the front door. A baby’s bouncy seat sat on the dark wood floor, next to the staircase. His stomach tightened, and he reached for the doorbell again. A moving shadow caught his eye. Christopher looked up. The door opened. There stood his sister-in-law, shock on her face.

“Christopher.”

“Hello, Helen.” His hand was still on the doorbell.

“Don’t. She’s sleeping.”

“OK.” His hand fell to his side. Helen looked shrunken compared to the last time he’d seen her. Despite the warm day, she was shrouded in a turtleneck and a University of Washington sweatshirt, a red afghan pulled over her shoulders.

“Can I come in?”

She hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Of course.” She backed away from the door, allowing him to step through.

In the silence of the house, they faced each other, mutually wary, then spoke simultaneously.

“What are you doing here, Christopher?”

“Deborah’s still out looking at houses?”

“Looking at houses?” Helen looked cautious.

“We spoke this morning, Helen. She told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That she was going to look at houses. That it was Matt’s idea. That it ‘couldn’t hurt.
’ 
” His stomach clenched again. “It does, Helen. It hurts.”

“Good. It’s past your turn to know what that feels like.” She crossed her arms.

“What are you talking about?”

“For the last year you’ve made your ideals more important than Deborah. Than your family. ‘She tricked you, she deceived you.’ She had to ask you to meet your own daughter, for God’s sake. Do you know how much that hurt her?”

“My marriage is none of your business, Helen.” But he was taken aback at how much she knew.

“
‘My’ marriage. Still thinking singular.” She snorted, which triggered a coughing fit. She sat on the staircase. “If there’s any marriage left, Christopher, it’s in shreds. Deborah had a job interview here, did you know that?”

Her words were blows. “An interview?”

“At the University of Washington. For their annual fund. She’s eminently qualified. They’d be crazy not to make her an offer. And she’d be crazy not to take it, if you ask me.”

Silence fell in the hall again, until a cry broke it. Gracie, upstairs.

“She’s up from her nap,” Helen said, standing again.

He dodged in front of her easily. “I’ll get her.”

“Deborah left me to babysit.”

“I’m her father, Helen.” He was halfway up the staircase. “I’ll take care of her.” At the top he looked back, raining the words down on her, forcing her to believe him. Swearing it to himself. “I’ll take care of her.”

Still in the upstairs bedroom a half-hour later, Christopher heard the front door close, and then voices. Helen’s excited one. Matt’s deeper one. Last, Deborah’s. Gracie looked drowsy again. He laid her gently in the crib—another piece of the baby kit Helen had all ready and waiting—and then stepped out, quietly closing the door.

From the top of the stairs he faced down the trio, Matt with his arm around Helen, who gripped Deborah’s arm. She turned to her sister and with one hand, gently freed herself. “Christopher and I need to talk, Helen. May we use the kitchen, please?”

Helen started to answer, but tears began to fall. Matt nodded at Deborah. “We’ll be upstairs, then.” He led Helen up the stairs, steering her past Christopher silently.

When their door closed, he descended, each footfall taking him through the past year, rewinding it before Grace’s birth, before the hike and warning from Dr. Felk, before his move, before Deborah’s pregnancy test, to the crash. The “Miracle on the Hudson,” the media had called it. If the pilot could salvage that situation, convert disaster to miracle, there must be hope for them, too. He stood next to Deborah.

“She’s asleep. I gave her a bottle when she woke up, and she’s just drifted off again.”

Deborah nodded. “Let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.”

She led the way to the kitchen and removed leftover Chinese containers in the refrigerator.

“Mariah’s the lo mein lover here. There’s plenty left.”

Christopher looked into the white box. He hadn’t eaten since his eggs at home in Ithaca, but he wasn’t hungry. He folded the cardboard flaps again and pushed it away.

“Helen said you had an interview out here.”

She met his eyes as she chewed, then nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

She answered with another question. “Why should I have thought you’d want to know?”

He grimaced as his words at the Ivory Tower echoed.

“Well?”

“I was wrong.” The words tumbled out. He saw Deborah’s lips quiver. He groped for more words, better words, words that would unravel the cocoon Helen was spinning here, with the bouncy seat and the crib and who knew what other baby trappings. “I was too angry to say so. Too proud. Scared. Dumb. I’m sorry. Don’t take a job here. Please. Please say it’s not too late for us.” He spoke Dr. Felk’s words from the woods with anguish.

Her lips quivered once more, and she asked again. “Why should I?”

“Because I still love you. And Gracie. This morning, when you didn’t bring her, I realized how much.” He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out the faded ultrasound photo. “I’ve kept this here since the day you gave it to me.”

“But you were right. I could have passed on the Huntington’s gene.” Deborah’s voice trembled. “I risked her life. If she got like Helen it—it would have been my fault.”

She still felt guilty, too
. He shook his head fiercely. “No. It wouldn’t be your fault. It would be life.”

“It would. I got lucky, but I was selfish. I can’t stand that I was.” She gripped her elbows and shivered.

“You were brave, too. Going through the pregnancy alone.” Christopher stepped close to her and rubbed her arms, understanding that the cold she felt was emanating from within.

“And there’s something else.” Momentarily, she looked down and then straight into his eyes. “I did something else unforgivable. I risked denying her a father by deceiving you.” She was crying. “I’m sorry, Christopher.”

Waves of relief, cleansing, baptismal waves, swelled from his gut as he held her against him. They were both crying now.

“It’s not unforgivable. You’re not unforgivable. I have. It’s done. It’s over. And we’re going to take care of her. No matter what happens. She’s our daughter. Even if she had Huntington’s. Or gets—I don’t know—food allergies. Or she’s nearsighted.” He tapped his glasses. “Or has autism. Who knows. Whatever. We’ll handle it together. Two parents. One family. Right?”

He stepped back, looking into her teary eyes, waiting for her concurrence.

“One family,” Deborah repeated, and they kissed in the strange kitchen, awed at the abundant beauty of second chances.

THIRTY-FOUR

July 2010

T
hrough the car window, Robby watched the hive of activity on the sidewalk as his dad pulled up to the curb in front of Mews Hall. Parents and kids shouted to each other as they unloaded cars. Sweaty people in red Cornell shirts threaded their way through the throngs of kids there to move in for bird camp. Robby recognized one.

“Hey! There’s Professor Goldman!” In an instant, Robby was out of his seat and out the door, sprinting toward a sandy-haired man wearing glasses and one of the red shirts. “Professor Goldman!”

Christopher turned.

“Robby! You made it. Welcome to bird camp.” He put out his hand.

Robby grasped back, reminding himself to look at the man’s face.

“I barely recognize you. You’ve gotten a lot taller.”

“He’s grown four inches this year,” said his mom, walking up behind him with his dad.

Robby shrugged. “When do we see the birds?”

“Not till tomorrow. Let’s see if we can find you one of these luggage carts,” Christopher said, casting about for one unclaimed. He explained, “The Ornithology Lab’s actually separate from main campus, about a ten-minute drive. Starting tomorrow, there’ll be shuttles going over every day.”

Robby’s face drooped. “I wanted to go today.”

“You’ll have plenty of time with birds, Robby. I promise. Today we just want to get you settled, meet your roommate.”

Trepidation rushed through Robby. His heart beat faster. “Is he here?” He knew his roommate’s name was James, thirteen years old, too, from Pittsburgh. That was all.

“We’ll find out upstairs.”

The elevator was too small for the cart and the four of them. “Why don’t you and Robby take the cart and go first. We’ll get the next one,” Linda said to Sam.

“Thank you for contacting us about Dr. Felk,” Linda said after the stainless steel doors closed.

“Of course. How did Robby take it?” Dr. Felk had never left the hospital after the February fall that broke his hip. Pneumonia followed, potentially a flare-up of a low-grade respiratory infection that had abided for some time, Christopher was told.

“He didn’t say much. Of course, he never says much, especially about feelings. But I have to imagine he felt a loss. Dr. Felk was the first adult who accepted him just for who he is.”

Christopher nodded, wondering if Robby’s parents knew about Benjamin Felk.

“Dr. Felk requested a memorial service here on campus. At Sapsucker Woods, the sanctuary around the Lab of Ornithology. We’ve scheduled it for the end of next week.” Christopher paused. “I think he would have liked Robby to be there, if that’s OK with you. I was able to tell him about Robby’s camp acceptance before he died in March, and he was so pleased.”

Linda hesitated only a moment. “You’d be there, too?”

“Yes. And my wife, Deborah. She helped execute the terms of Dr. Felk’s will. He’s endowed a chair here.” The endowment had been one of Deborah’s last projects before she took a job at the Ithaca Interfaith Alliance. She could work from home and be with Gracie, or from Seattle and be with Helen. Brett’s daughter Amanda helped with babysitting. It had been a good change for all of them.

“All right, then,” Linda said, pressing the button for the elevator. “I think Robby should be there.”

Upstairs, Robby opened the door to room 224. A fan whirred loudly. A skinny boy wearing a baseball cap was sitting at a laptop at the desk in front of the window. He turned.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Robby managed back.

“You’re Robby, right?”

Robby nodded.

“I’m James.”

Robby nodded again. His dad reached over the luggage cart to shake James’s hand. “I’m Robby’s dad.”

“Nice to meet you,” James said.

On the desk next to his laptop, Robby saw a pair of earbuds, like all the other kids at school wore. He looked at the floor.

Professor Goldman and his mom walked in. James helped them unload his stuff, and his parents took the cart to bring up another load. Robby opened his laptop bag, placing his computer, brown notebook, and Sibley’s guide on the other desk.

“Oh. That reminds me.” Professor Goldman said. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out Robby’s thumb drive, the one he’d given him at the Lansing conference so long ago. “I think this belongs to you.”

Robby accepted it silently, his head down.

“I’ve made some notes in some of the files,” Professor Goldman continued. Robby’s head flew up.

“I think you’re on to some interesting ideas. That database you set up comparing the bird strike crashes over the last ten years was especially intriguing.”

Robby smiled.

“Bird strike plane crashes?” James asked.

Robby nodded.

“Cool.”

Robby felt his smile grow wider.

“The file organization is sloppy, though. I renamed the files I worked with, adding my initials and the dates. That’s standard scientific file naming protocol,” Professor Goldman said. “Got it?”

“Got it.” Robby nodded.

“I’ve got to get back downstairs. I’ll see you guys later, OK?”

“OK,” James said. Robby nodded, turning the thumb drive over and over. He could feel James looking at him.

“Can I see the database?” James asked. “My laptop’s all ready to go.”

“Sure,” Robby said, sitting down in James’s chair, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

Robby shifted in the folding chair, the last in the front row set up on the observation deck. Professor Goldman’s jacket was on the next one. A pink polka-dot baby bag staked a claim to the next chair, and a purse on the one next to that. Since the deck was crowded with people in black and the day was too hot for his new, hooded Cornell sweatshirt, Robby felt grateful for the three-chair buffer.

He gazed at the pond and the sanctuary before him. He tried not to look at the table covered with the plain white cloth and the urn precisely centered on it. At least there wasn’t a coffin, like at his great-grandfather’s, the only other funeral he’d attended in his life. As he bounced his knees up and down, he spotted a reedy strand of grass growing between the planks of the deck. As he twirled it first clockwise, then counterclockwise, clockwise then counterclockwise, his knees steadied.

“How’s it going, Robby?” Professor Goldman slid along the empty seats to the one beside his. “We’ll start in a few minutes.”

Robby nodded.

“You’re sure about doing your part?”

Robby nodded again, vigorously.

“OK, then. I’ll introduce you like we practiced.”

“Dada!” Even at a memorial service, Gracie’s nine-month-old voice drew smiles. Behind the chairs, she squirmed in the arms of Professor Goldman’s wife.

“Dada!”

Professor Goldman waved at his daughter.

“Dada!”

Robby looked back. Gracie’s voice was getting louder, her squirms more insistent.

“I’d better go see to her.” He squeezed Robby’s shoulder. “This would have meant a lot to Dr. Felk, Robby.”

Robby looked at the urn again. It was hard to imagine a body fitting inside. What was being dead like, anyway? People said heaven was in the sky. So Dr. Felk was closer to the birds. That meant it had to be good. Still. He twirled the weed, wishing he could talk to him again.

Professor Goldman was standing back at the podium positioned next to the white-covered table. “If you’ll all take your seats, please, we’ll begin.”

Robby listened to speaker after speaker. A Cornell chaplain. Fellow alumni, former students, colleagues. The chaplain again. An old woman who said she was his sister and cried as she talked about some new chair that she said Dr. Felk was endowing. Robby didn’t understand why a new chair would make her cry. He felt Professor Goldman stand up next to him and return to the podium.

“We’ve heard a lot today about Dr. Felk’s lifelong vocation as a teacher and mentor. I experienced that more than twenty years ago. I’d like to introduce you now to the young man who had the privilege of being his final pupil. Robby Palmer. Robby?”

Robby slid off his chair and walked to the podium. He twirled the grass between his fingers until he could force himself to look out over the crowd. He saw James, sitting in the back. Next to him was Sophie, that red-haired girl from Ohio who always wore owl T-shirts. Today she had on a dress, though. She looked nice.

Besides James and Sophie, everyone else there was an adult. Robby didn’t see any of them. He saw Dr. Felk. He saw the man he remembered from the museum’s basement, the man who shared his books and birds. The man who believed him at the Lansing conference. He lifted his audio recorder from the podium shelf and poised his finger over “Play.”

“Canada goose.
Branta Canadensis
.” His voice enunciated each syllable of the bird’s common and Latin names. Then came the recording, a flock of noisy, reverberating honks that Robby imagined were heard over Manhattan eighteen months earlier.

“Trumpeter swan.
Cygnus buccinator
.” Like the geese, another member of the Anserinae family that Dr. Felk had quizzed him on in the museum archives. More honking.

“Swamp sparrow
. Melospiza Georgiana
.” The familiar high-pitched trill of one of the Sapsucker Woods locals.

On it went, Robby’s narration alternating with the birdcalls. The waterfowl that had first engaged him. The birds of New England, the territory of Dr. Felk’s life’s work. The birds of the Great Lakes that Robby was just beginning to explore.

In the midday heat, the resident population of Sapsucker Woods remained mute throughout Robby’s tribute. Later, the chaplain would tell Robby it felt more sacred than any prayer she could recall.

“Piping plover.
Charadrius melodus.”
The sequence of clear, paired peeps, unheard in the wild to everyone there but Robby.

“Bicknell’s thrush.
Catharus bicknelli
.” The short, low notes followed by the longer, higher song of Dr. Felk’s favorite.

The mourners remained reverently silent as the last echo of the Bicknell’s thrush faded into the pond and the woods and the thick, humid air. Above their bowed heads, a silent, streaking jet painted a gauzy white stripe across an almost perfect, blue summer sky.