The Birdman's Daughter

After he hung up, she cradled the receiver to her chest, fighting tears. Casey might be sixteen years old, but he would always be her baby; the sweet, contrary boy, the child she worried about the most.

Tom was right—Casey did confide in her more. If she’d been home, he might have talked to her about whatever was bothering him. And if she’d been there, she could have run interference between him and his father. Though Tom denied it, she was still convinced he’d said something to upset their youngest son. Casey was sensitive, and Tom had a way of saying hurtful things without even meaning to.

Every part of her wanted to get on a plane and fly straight to Denver. Surely she, his mother, would be able to find him when others had failed.

But the sensible part of her knew that wasn’t true. And if she went back to Denver, who would look after her father? She couldn’t count on Del for anything, and her mother was too self-centered and argumentative to last for long. Within half an hour, Mom and Dad would be fighting, and only sheer luck would keep her dad from having another stroke.

They could all use a little luck now. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for Casey’s protection. Please let him be all right. Please let us find him soon.

She was still sitting on the side of the bed, eyes closed, when she heard the bell ringing. She’d given it to her father yesterday, so he could summon her without resorting to banging on the furniture. The ringing meant he was awake, and impatient for something. She sighed, stood and reached for her robe. Somehow, she’d get through this day. Whether she did it without snapping someone’s head off or raiding the liquor cabinet remained to be seen.

Casey woke with a start when the bus pulled into the station in Texarkana, Texas. The sign identifying the stop glowed dull red in the hazy gray dawn. Casey squinted at it, rubbing his eyes. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head, then realized the seat beside him was empty. Skinny Denton must have slipped past him and gone into the station to use the men’s room or something.

He retrieved his backpack from the overhead bin and went in search of breakfast. He’d buy enough to share with Denton, and maybe some snacks for later on down the road.

He hit the men’s room first, and washed his face and combed his hair. He stroked a finger over the faint moustache showing over his upper lip, and ran his palm along his jaw, hoping to feel some sign of whiskers there.

He hadn’t packed a toothbrush, so he swished his mouth out with water, then headed for the station cafeteria. He looked for Denton, but didn’t see him. Maybe he was already back on the bus.

In the cafeteria, he filled his tray with two breakfast sandwiches, two muffins and two cartons of milk. At the cash register, he added two cellophane sleeves of peanuts, for later.

“That’ll be $12.67,” the woman at the cash register said.

He reached in the outside pocket of the backpack for his wallet, shoving his hand all around inside when he didn’t feel it right away. “Must have put my wallet inside the pack last night,” he mumbled, and slung the pack off his shoulder to search the main compartment.

A good minute of searching proved fruitless. Feeling sick to his stomach, Casey looked at the woman. “I think somebody stole my wallet.”

She frowned at him, and looked pointedly at the food on his tray. “You gotta pay for this,” she said.

He looked down at the food, too sick and angry to eat it now, anyway. “I’m sorry. I can’t.” He shoved the tray away from him and fled the diner, running all the way back to the bus.

As he’d expected, Denton wasn’t there. He looked around at the other passengers, half hoping to see Denton in another seat. But there was no sign of the con. “Anybody seen the guy who was sitting here? Real skinny dude, plaid shirt?”

A few people looked at him. Even fewer shook their heads, then went back to reading or napping or whatever they’d been doing.

“Bastard stole my wallet!” Casey said, louder now. Denton had probably taken the wallet and slipped out while Casey slept. “Somebody must have seen him.”

No one looked at him now. Casey punched the back of the seat, hard. His hand stung almost as much as his eyes. He blinked back tears of frustration and sagged into his seat as the bus lurched forward. Chin on his chest, he stared out the window. He’d been such an idiot! He should have kept his wallet with him, and kept his mouth shut about having any money. He never should have talked to Denton in the first place.

Maybe Matt was right. Maybe he was a big loser.

A young woman had flown with Martin on the air ambulance that had transported him to Texas from Brazil. She was a nurse, he supposed, and her name was Karen, too. Her name was printed on a badge she wore on her crisp blue uniform, a uniform the color of a jay’s wing.

He’d been strapped into a stretcher before they brought him onto the little plane. He’d fought against the restraints, hated being confined. He wanted to sit up, but he couldn’t find the words to tell this Karen. When he’d tried to raise himself, he could only flounder weakly.

She’d rushed to calm him, her voice soothing, her eyes full of such tenderness he’d started to weep. She’d patted his hand and brushed the hair back from his face until he fell into a drugged sleep.

His Karen did not look at him that way. Her eyes held suspicion. Caution.

It seemed to him his daughter had been born holding back. She’d been almost two weeks late in arriving into the world. The doctors had been discussing inducing labor when Sara’s contractions finally began in earnest.

Later, after she’d been cleaned up and swathed in a diaper and gown and knit hat and booties, a nurse had thrust her into his arms. He’d looked at her, terrified. She seemed so impossibly small and fragile. She’d opened her eyes and stared up at him with a grave expression, as if even then she didn’t trust him to look after her.

Sara had taken over after that—feeding and fussing and diapering, shooing him out of the way.

He’d done what his own father had done, what most of the other fathers he knew did back then. He’d stayed out of the way. He’d gone to work and turned his paychecks over to Sara.

He’d come home from business trips and in his absence the two children (Delwood had been born by this time) and his wife had formed a cozy family unit in which he was the outsider.

He remembered once volunteering to dress Karen, then about three, while Sara fussed over Del. Within five minutes, his daughter was in tears and he looked on, dismayed, with no idea what to do.

“Not that dress. She hates that dress.” Sara rushed into the room, Del tucked under one arm, and snatched the offending garment from Martin’s hand. “And she can’t wear those shoes. They’re too small. Go on.” She shooed him from the room. “I’ll take care of this. Wait for us outside.”

The outdoors became his retreat. Those were early days, when he still thought of birding as a hobby. He knew he was good at it. Already his list numbered over a thousand birds. But as he spent more and more time searching for difficult-to-find species, and as he began to gain recognition from fellow birders, the idea of being one of the elite big listers became more and more alluring.

Here was his talent. His niche. The one place where he wasn’t dismissed as incompetent or unnecessary. He wasn’t blind to the knowledge that the records and rewards had come at a price. He was aware of how dearly he’d paid whenever his daughter looked at him and he saw the doubt in her eyes.

But it was easier to go out again and search for a rare species of bird than to overcome those doubts after all these years. Easier and, for him at least, the outcome was more certain.

Casey smoothed back his hair, straightened his shoulders, then pushed open the door of the lunchroom at the Houston bus station. A few customers waited in line at the cash register, but the lunch counter was empty save for the burly man who stood behind it.

“Excuse me, sir?” Casey remembered to speak up and look the man in the eye. Dad always said people trusted you more if you looked them in the eye.

“Yeah?” The man didn’t look very happy to see Casey but then, he was probably one of those people who weren’t happy in general.

“I was wondering if I could wash dishes or sweep up or something, in exchange for a meal.” Casey thought the approach was right—not too cocky, but not too downtrodden, either.

The man’s expression didn’t change. “If you want a meal, you’ll have to pay for it.”

“That’s how it usually works, isn’t it? Only thing is, my money was stolen.” He took a few steps closer, gaze still steady on the man behind the counter. “I had my wallet in my backpack and this ex-con who was sitting next to me on the bus lifted it while I was sleeping.”

The man shook his head. “You should have known better than to put your wallet somewheres where he could get his hands on it.”

“Yeah, I should have. Guess I learned my lesson about that one.” He shrugged. “So here I am, one dumb kid, not quite as dumb as when I started out on this trip.”

The man seemed to think that was funny. He chuckled. “Where you headed?”

“To Tipton.” He took a chance and slid onto a stool in front of the man. “I’m going down to help my mom look after my grandpa. He had a stroke.”

“That’s too bad. How old a man is he?”

He calculated in his head. “He’s seventy. But he’s never been sick before, so this took everybody by surprise.”

“Where you from?”

“Denver. It’s a long bus ride from here, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah.” The man looked at him for a long moment. Casey waited, hardly daring to breathe. Finally, the man nodded. “I reckon I could fix you a burger. While I’m cooking it, you can sweep the floor.”