Whirligig (7 page)

We left. Everyone else was busy getting their poles ready. Not me. I stood up at the front, looking for the bird. The captain would stop to let people fish, then start up again. I looked back. I couldn't see land. That felt good. I felt like a shearwater.

The sky was clear. The water was very calm. We went farther and farther. Then the captain called to me. He pointed. Following the boat was a flock of birds. Diving into the water. Fighting over fish. Stealing fish from each other. Very noisy. He said those were shearwaters.

I watched. I couldn't believe those were the birds I'd been dreaming of. They followed us a long way. I felt sad all the way back to land.

I got off the boat and walked down the pier. I came to that wooden marching band. I stopped and looked. There was a trumpet, trombone, clarinet, and drum. Birds don't live alone, I told myself. They live in flocks. Like people. People are always in a group. Like that little wooden band. And whenever there's a group, there's fighting. If the people in a group get along, maybe they make good music instead of arguing, like Willie Colón's band. But usually not. That's how life is. I stared at that marching band. Then I got in the car and drove home.

That was last year. In summer I got this job driving the street-sweeper. Two o'clock in the morning until ten. Very peaceful during the night. Then the sun comes up. The traffic starts, everyone's in a hurry, cars honk and go around me. All that will start in an hour. I'm ready for it. I always bring a tape player. I'll put on some music. Willie Colón's band.

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star

The sun had long set. To the west, over the Pacific, the sky was still faintly blue, clinging to the memory of day. Brent moved to a seat across the aisle so as to scan the darker eastern sky, waited through a long stretch of trees, then thought he spotted it: Deneb, in the constellation Cygnus, the swan. He squinted at his book, then out the bus window. Now that they were out of Los Angeles, the air was much clearer. He looked again and was amazed to make out the shape of a cross with Deneb at its head, just as in the book. He grinned in the darkness, unknown to those around him. He spoke the word
Deneb
in his mind and felt himself to be Adam, naming the new world around him.

He took his flashlight from his pack and read on. He'd bought the book in a store he'd passed in San Francisco, using the Visa card his parents had gotten him. He'd also bought six blades for his saw, more sandpaper, and a San Francisco map, and had used the card to get more cash. He'd planned on building the whirligig there, but after a day of freezing in the fog and a night in a cheap hotel, unable to sleep for all the shouting and footsteps, he'd climbed back onto the bus that morning, heading south to San Diego. This would put the whirligig closer to the corner of the country and would put him in a warmer climate. He'd brought nothing long-sleeved. He hadn't mentioned this oversight, or any others, when he'd called his parents from the bus station in Los Angeles—they were dubious enough about the trip as it was. Just as in the first call he'd made, they'd barraged him with questions, reminders, and cautions. He'd half listened, curiously fingering his blond hair. He'd forgotten to bring shampoo and had washed it with soap, leaving it stiff as cardboard.

Setting out by eye from Deneb, he found Vega, then Altair. He hadn't realized before that individual stars had names. The book called these three “the summer triangle.” He stared at Vega, the brightest, bluish white, and felt it stare back at him. They held the gaze like tango dancers, while the woman behind him snored obliviously. The trio of stars shone for him alone. By now he was accustomed to feeling separate from the other passengers. For them, the bus was an interlude; for him, it was home. No other existence outside of travel awaited him. It was all as familiar to him as if he'd been riding for years: the scent of the bathroom, the menu at meal stops, the inevitable drinker far to the rear, the old woman in the first row who asked the driver to confirm that she was on the right bus every ten miles. It was an anonymous community, just right for him. But unlike the others, when he stepped off the bus, he'd remain in a world of nameless strangers. He looked out. Except that he now knew Deneb. And Vega. And Altair.

It was ten when the bus stopped in San Diego. Joints creaking, Brent clumped down the steps. The passengers gathered their luggage beside the bus, then scattered, their community disbanded. He alone remained outside, leaning his pack against a wall and fishing through his pockets for the paper. A young woman from Holland who'd gotten off in Santa Barbara had told him about youth hostels and had let him copy an address from her book. After the night in the San Francisco flophouse he was ready for a change, though not ready to use his Visa to stay somewhere like the Sheraton, as his parents had begged him. The trip was his to take, not theirs. The hostel—cheap, friendly, filled with students—sounded more interesting.

“Excuse, please.”

Brent looked up. A short, mustached man with a suitcase stood before him. In one hand he held a tiny address book.

“I wonder, sir, if you can tell me where is this address in San Diego. My brother's house.”

Brent knew he would be of no help. But when the man held the address book toward him, pointing to the bottom line with a pen, he instinctively stepped forward, bent over the book, studied the microscopic writing—then caught a flash of movement and turned. Behind him, a scruffy teenager had a hand on his backpack. Brent stared at him, speechless. He saw the door he'd come through. Then he glanced back at the first man, realized they were a team, saw no one to appeal to except two drivers at the far end of the station, and yelled “Leave me alone!” loudly enough that both drivers turned. The thieves exchanged a long look. The hand reluctantly released his pack. Then the pair skulked wordlessly into the night.

It took three packages of potato chips before Brent's heart slowed to normal speed. He was inside the station, squeezed onto a bench, surrounded by fellow travelers and safe. It dawned on him why animals lived in herds. He scouted the room's perimeter for predators, decided against walking to the hostel, marched outside, and got a cab. Through its window he saw the summer triangle following him and felt watched over.

The cab parked. Brent hefted his pack from the trunk and stood on the sidewalk after the cab left. The night air was warm. A bird was singing somewhere. Beside him, he now saw, stood a palm tree. He sighted up its long trunk, touched it, and felt he'd entered a different country. The impression was deepened when he walked up the steps and past the porch, where two women were sitting in wicker rockers and conversing in a language he couldn't place. Brent passed them and presented himself at the desk.

“Passport or visa, please,” said the clerk. He was young, with a pungent English accent and a head heaped with black curls.

“Passport?” Brent was stunned. “I'm American.”

“We only take foreign travelers,” said the clerk. “The theory being, as I understand it, that this being your own country, you've already got yourself a place to stay.”

Brent sighed conspicuously, wondered what to do, glanced at a couple huddled over a map, and saw that the hostel was simply a large house and that he was standing in a corner of its living room.

“Of course, it being as late as it is, and unlikely that anyone else will show up, and we being unusually empty as it happens, you might just convince me you're Canadian.”

A smile flickered on the clerk's lips. Brent stared at him and slowly comprehended.

“What city was it you're from?” the man asked.

Brent racked his brain, then thought of the cyclist he'd met at the campground in Washington. “Prince George,” he answered.

“And what's Canada's capital?”

Brent rummaged madly through his mind, in vain.

“Ottawa, right you are,” supplied the clerk. “And what year did England wrest control of your fair country from France?”

Brent knew this fact was nowhere in his memory.

“Seventeen sixty-three, right again,” said the clerk. He handed Brent a pen and gestured grandly toward the register. “Welcome.”

He gave Brent a tour and showed him to the room he'd share with three other males. Floating up the stairway came the faint peeping of a concertina. Brent had glimpsed the player in the dining room, a bearded man, eyes closed, his fingers punching out the melody on their own. After coming out of the bathroom, Brent stood listening to the cheery, reedy sound. He envied the man his power to entertain himself and others. There seemed no end to his stock of tunes. He thought back to the cyclist, admirably self-contained as well, not simply with his dome tent and gas lamp, but with his Go game and his thick book on the subject. By comparison, his own life seemed unfurnished with skills and interests. He desired to become the man he was impersonating.

He woke to find himself alone in the room. He smelled bacon. Like gravity, the scent pulled him irresistibly downstairs. The hostel served a free continental breakfast. Those who'd bought their own groceries were cooking more substantial fare in the kitchen. Cautiously, he entered the fray, nonchalantly poured some coffee—a drink he'd tried only once—grabbed a pastry, and took a seat. A minute later a young man sat across from him and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Canada.” Brent kept his voice low. He sipped his coffee, fought back a grimace, and reached for the sugar bowl.

“What part?”

“British Columbia,” he mumbled, praying there were no Canadians present. He ate his sweet roll nervously. The lies were piling up: that he was a coffee drinker, a Canadian, and, most serious, that he was a mere tourist, not a convicted killer on a mission of repentance. Not only his every word, but his every bite and breath was counterfeit. Prison, where no pretense was needed, suddenly seemed the better choice.

His tablemate was German, a year older, traveling before starting college in the fall. Brent was amazed that he had no accent. After one year of French and three of Spanish, he could neither understand nor speak a sentence in either language. His companion mentioned that he'd just finished
Two Years Before the Mast
and would pass it on to him. Brent sensed from the boy's comments that he knew more about American history than Brent himself did. The boy was tall, with strawberry-blond hair. The two could be mistaken for each other at a distance. Brent studied him in secret admiration, thinking that he might easily have been born into his body instead, might speak his three languages and know all that he knew. When the German asked if he wanted to see the sights downtown with him, Brent at once abandoned his plan to start the next whirligig. A half-hour later they were boarding a city bus.

The Pacific in the distance, the red tile roofs, the palm trees and countless Mexican restaurants all made Brent feel gloriously distant from Chicago. Mexico was only twenty miles away according to the German boy. He introduced himself as Emil. They got off the bus at Balboa Park, headed for the San Diego Zoo, and spent the rest of the morning strolling through mesas, rain forests, and aviaries. Emil would be studying biology at his university and provided a constant commentary on bird plumages and migration, European snakes, the evolution of the elephant. Fantasizing he was beholding his own double, Brent watched raptly when Emil made sketches and jotted notes.

“I'm sorry if I'm talking too much,” he said to Brent. “Both my parents are teachers.”

“No problem.”

“They would like me to become one as well. ‘A teacher lives forever through his students.' These are my father's favorite words.”

Brent suddenly thought back to Miss Gill, the mediator in Chicago, and her saying that the effects of an act traveled far beyond one's knowledge. He knew she'd meant harmful acts, like his. He saw now that the same could be said of good deeds, such as a teacher's years of inspiring. Everything we did—good, bad, and indifferent—sent a wave rolling out of sight. He wondered what his own accounting, generations later, would look like.

They ate lunch, watched a marimba duo and a sword swallower in Balboa Park, sampled the museums of photography and model railroading, then spent two hours in the natural history museum. Brent had never known anyone his age who went to museums voluntarily. He was strictly Emil's sidekick. Afterward, however, while exploring downtown, he asserted himself and abruptly entered a music store they were passing. He could still hear the concertina's merry burbling in his head. Ten minutes later he walked out with a harmonica and an instruction book. He'd try his hand at making his own music.

Dinner at the hostel was a boisterous affair, conducted in several languages. He and Emil had bought some frozen enchiladas, which they heated in the kitchen's overburdened microwave. It seemed strange to Brent to see men carefully mincing garlic and sautéing vegetables. He was a stranger to the stove. Nor did the dinner conversation at this table resemble anything heard in his house. Mixed in with descriptions of Sea World and the beach were long discussions of world affairs, sometimes in raised voices. Brent was surprised at how much the other guests both knew and cared. Politics had never come up at home. Brent listened unobtrusively as diners and topics came and went. Finally, he slipped out himself.