19

Interspecific Calls

Successful feeding of young birds is key in the rearing of healthy populations.

—G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest

In 1987, the summer that Frankie O’Neill was fifteen years old, Cherry 7Up landed on store shelves and caused an uproar with purists. The Witches of Eastwick was a blockbuster hit at the Hood River Drive-In. The Whitney Houston song “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” topped the billboard charts, and Pac-Mania was the most popular arcade game in the US. Frankie was vaguely aware of these cultural milestones through other kids at the lake. They shared snippets of news and celebrity gossip as they came and went from the store and sunbathed on the beach. But that summer, she was mostly uncomfortably aware of the fact that her mother was forming a separate life.

That summer was the first Judith didn’t spend the entire season at the lake with the rest of the family. She was studying for her real estate license and began spending periods of time in town. Frankie felt her absence like a wound. Couldn’t she study at the cottage? she asked. Judith told her there were too many distractions, which hurt Frankie’s feelings. Was she a distraction?

The rest of them carried on with the season—Frankie, Patrick, Jack, and Genevieve. Ray had died the previous year and Patrick helped his grandmother more now in his mother’s absence, but that was the only material change. Frankie missed Judith so much, and yet the days she was there, she was less and less present. Judith seemed distant, disappearing into her notebooks and going to bed early instead of playing cards with the rest of them. Frankie remembered trying to cajole Judith into joining them one night.

“I’m not feeling so lucky,” her mother had said.

Everyone laughed like Judith meant it as a joke, but Frankie felt stung. The next day Judith left for town early, and Frankie felt heartsore that she hadn’t said goodbye. Her grandmother noticed her moping and whipped up a Dutch baby for breakfast. She sprinkled it with powdered sugar and dropped a kiss on Frankie’s head as she sat down to eat.

“Don’t be too hard on your mother,” Genevieve said. “She does her best. Judith has just had . . .” Her voice trailed off. “Some disappointments,” she finished and wouldn’t say more.

Frankie understood that Judith had had a hard childhood, though she didn’t say much about it. She was the oldest girl in a big family that didn’t have much money. Her mother died when she was little, and the woman her father married after that was unkind. Frankie had absorbed this general understanding over the years without the specifics.

Once she complained about the cold at the cottage, and Judith mentioned how she used to sit around the gas stove for warmth with her little brothers.

“We’d do that whenever the electricity got shut off,” she said.

Who shut it off and why? Frankie asked. And she was puzzled when Judith said her folks didn’t pay the bill sometimes. Why not? Frankie wanted to know. Judith looked like a stranger for a moment and told Frankie she was too young to understand and never talked about it again.

Now Frankie recalled that had been Grammy Genevieve’s last summer at the lake. She died on a snowy, sunny day the following February. From her spot at the kitchen table, Frankie glanced at Grammy’s overflowing spice rack, the weathered cast-iron pans, the bread mold with the cornucopia pattern for her signature sponge cake. The beloved Wedgewood stove Grandpa Ray and Hank had lugged up the trail in 1947 to delight Genevieve crouched in the center of the kitchen like a dormant creature. Frankie looked at the coffee cake and scones Anne had sent home with her. She and Grammy would have gotten on like a house on fire.

She turned back to her notes and Dr. Wood-Smith’s editorial letter. She’d finally returned to the revision of her manuscript after days of procrastination. She knew Dr. Wood-Smith’s suggestions would be harder to work through than Dr. Andreas’s. One of the only women with tenure in the avian biology program, she was kind, if a bit reserved, and demanded the best of her students. Frankie had read through Wood-Smith’s letter several times and understood the broad suggestions of her review. But scanning the manuscript, she found detailed notes far beyond those in the editorial letter. On every page it seemed there was a question or suggestion for further inquiry. With growing alarm, she flipped through the manuscript and found the pattern continued throughout. Frankie felt dismayed at the scope of changes Wood-Smith had outlined. But then, on the very last page, she found a handwritten note from the professor.

Dear Ms. O’Neill,

If you’ve reached this page in your revision process, you’ve no doubt noticed the depth and range of my comments exceeded the changes I outlined in the editorial letter. I apologize if this is confusing. I believe that the minor changes I suggested in the letter are sufficient for submission of your thesis and completion of your master’s program. The editorial letter is part of the formal record that Dr. Grant has from me as a committee member. These further suggestions are meant for you personally to consider how you might deepen your own independent inquiry when you continue with your doctoral studies elsewhere. You are a bright and talented researcher with interesting and unique ideas. The strongest inquiries come from the questions we just can’t seem to shake. It is my hope you will pursue your own questions as you continue to develop as a scientist. I wish you great success. Please consider me available to assist in any way.

Regards,

Jacqueline Wood-Smith

Frankie flipped back through the manuscript.

“It seems as if your earlier draft contained more regarding parent-brood communication and audio detail,” Wood-Smith had written on one page. “A great idea for continued study. See also pages 25, 37, and 48,” on another. Then, “Consider how the concept of vocal variations could be used to further investigate territorial boundaries.” The comments went on like that throughout. Dr. Wood-Smith noticed that she had removed much of her own original research from the manuscript, though she probably didn’t know why.

“The editorial letter is part of the formal record that Dr. Grant has from me as a committee member,” she read again. And, “You are a bright and talented researcher with interesting and unique ideas.”

Dr. Grant had not found her ideas unique or interesting. He called them a distraction to her thesis. And when she’d objected—in a rare show of standing up for herself—he got angry.

“O’Neill, I’ve been the head of this department since you were in diapers,” he’d said, glaring. “I think I know what’s best. Just get it done.”

He was cool toward her after that, and then everything fell apart at the spring symposium.

That day Dr. Steven Lench had given the keynote about his discovery that certain species, including crows, exercised theory of mind similar to humans. Being able to imagine what another animal was thinking, they could predict the behavior of prey and use this knowledge to hunt more successfully. His work had won him significant recognition in animal behavioral studies and an award from the tristate consortium of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho universities. Davis had dismissed him with derision.

“He’s a storyteller—all anecdotes. That’s not science.”

But Frankie had listened, rapt, as Lench recounted corvids’ use of planning to access food. He told about groups of crows chasing ground squirrels into traffic to make a meal of them. Crows who learned that if they rang the doorbell of a particular house, the occupant would come out and feed them. Crows worked in pairs to steal food from dogs—one pulling the unfortunate canine’s tail and the other swooping down for kibble. Crows in teams stole fish from the very claws of other birds and swiped cups of coffee, sandwiches, apples, and even cigarettes. One enterprising crow stole a pie from a pair of Idaho campers and returned the pan the next day, dropping it on their tent.

“People deride crows as pests, carrion lovers, and trash birds,” Lench said. “And yet, a family of crows will consume up to forty thousand caterpillars and crop pests in one nesting season, which is a clear boon to farmers. This intelligent, invigorated Species of Least Concern has so much to teach us about bird behavior, human behavior, and the spaces where our worlds intersect.”

At the reception, Frankie tried to work up the courage to introduce herself. She bought a beer and downed half of it quickly. The group of people around Lench thinned and Dr. Marzluff approached and shook his hand. He waved her over and introduced her to Lench as a student of Davis Grant’s.

“She also gave me a hand with some data collection last summer,” he said.

Marzluff excused himself to talk to someone and left her standing there with Dr. Lench. She tried to think of something to say, and Dr. Lench looked her up and down.

“Wonderful to meet one of Davis’s prodigies,” he said, leaning close enough that she could smell whiskey on his breath. “How’s his little owl project going? Nature is publishing his latest, hmm?”

Frankie knew that Grant’s “little owl project,” which had received enormous funding for years, was the envy of other researchers. But she also knew that recent studies were failing to produce the results he’d hoped.

“Oh, actually, Nature rejected the last paper,” she said without thinking, and immediately regretted it as she saw a satisfied smile bloom on Dr. Lench’s face.

“But, I mean, we’re reworking it, for, for reconsideration,” Frankie stammered. “There was just a question about the data set by the, by the third reviewer who—”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Dr. Lench interrupted. “Sounds like a minor hiccup to me. Easily ironed out.”

Dr. Lench appraised her tall figure, sipping his drink.

“And what are you working on? Any special projects?”

“Well, my dissertation is on owl pair bonding. But like Dr. Marzluff said, I’m interested in corvids too. Last summer when I helped Dr. Marzluff—”

She was excited to talk about her idea, which was coming into clear focus. It burned in her throat, this secret magical question she’d stumbled upon, this inquiry into the corvid world. But then Dr. Grant was at her shoulder.

“Hello, Steven,” he said. “Wonderful talk. I enjoyed your stories. I see you’ve met Miss O’Neill.”

He clapped a hand on Frankie’s shoulder, and it felt possessive.

“Indeed. She was telling me about your faulty data set. Too bad about the Nature rejection,” Dr. Lench said, frowning with false sympathy.

The air grew taut, and Frankie wished she was somewhere else.

“Just a minor problem that the review committee asked us to clarify,” Dr. Grant replied frostily.

“Yes, yes, you keep at it. Persistence pays off.”

Dr. Lench turned to leave and waved his drink at Frankie.

“Keep in touch about your little crow project, my dear,” he said. “WSU might be interested.”

Frankie had been waiting for the right moment to tell Dr. Grant about her crow theory. And this was not that moment. But in the silence that ballooned after Dr. Lench sauntered away, it came tumbling out.

“It’s nothing really. It’s just something I noticed when I was helping Dr. Marzluff with the caveman recognition study. Some of the audio data we captured in the arboretum—”

“You’re developing a project with Marzluff?” he interrupted.

Her scalp prickled with heat.

“Nnn-oo,” she stammered. “You asked me to help him last summer, remember? Ben and I worked on the facial recognition project when you—”

“Yeah, I remember. I owed him a favor. I didn’t expect you or Ben to actually be interested in Marzluff’s ridiculous corvids.”

Her face grow hot.

“Davis, you’re not listening. When we were recording the audio data—”

“It’s a violation of your contract, O’Neill,” he said, talking over her. “It’s illegal for you to use my lab to pursue competing research. Not to mention a betrayal of my trust. And after all I’ve done for you.”

He walked away and left her standing there. She felt everyone staring, and that was the beginning of the end.

Frankie had seen Dr. Grant lose his temper before and hoped he might cool down like he sometimes did. Later that week when she went to work, her key card wouldn’t let her into the lab. She took it to the department secretary, apologetic.

“Sorry, Angela. This one is bad. Could you give me a new key card?”

Angela replied primly that she’d need to talk to Dr. Grant about that. Frankie turned, red-faced, and walked to his office. Dr. Grant was chatting with a trio of new graduate students. She leaned on the door jamb and waited for a break in the conversation. The students laughed at something Dr. Grant said, and he looked up at Frankie with a false smile.

“Sorry to interrupt, Davis. Angela said I needed to talk to you about my key card?”

“Oh yes, Ms. O’Neill. Ms. O’Neill worked in my lab previously,” he told the graduate students.

Frankie stared at him, and the world tipped.

“Since you’ve moved on to other things, you won’t be needing access to the lab any longer. So no need for a key card. But always here to help if you have questions. Good luck to you, Ms. O’Neill,” he said.

And overnight her friend and mentor Davis became Dr. Grant. Frankie, his protégé, became Ms. O’Neill, his former student. That was the unraveling of everything: her job at the lab, her place on the owl study. Even her thesis committee, which Dr. Grant had handpicked. When she emailed them that summer about her defense, they’d directed her back to Dr. Grant. He continued to avoid her and did not return her emails. She was required to finish her thesis to receive her master’s but had no idea how to move forward. The deadline passed for her May defense date. She’d sold back her books to cover groceries and rent and spent the summer trying to figure out what to do. She filled the long days walking—through the arboretum, around Lake Union, and south to Seward Park on Lake Washington.

She leaned back in her chair and looked out at the pump house through the window. If she was being honest, she’d also spent the summer drinking. Just once in a while, she’d said then, and after a particularly bad day. But there were many bad days. She hadn’t told anyone about any of it. Who would she tell? Somehow, she’d spent seven years at UW without making any lasting friendships. Her friends from home were busy with work and babies. Patrick had his hands full working for the judge. It had been years since she’d confided anything to Judith. Dad would have helped her sort it all out, she thought.

Frankie glanced down at Dr. Wood-Smith’s note and sighed. The way to her once-promising career felt fatally blocked. She thought of the empty Bushmills bottle. Her mind began manufacturing a reason to run down to Mill Three and stop in at the little store. It didn’t have to be a big deal. Just a six-pack. Just some beer. Frankie pushed herself away from the table and left the house to get away from the voice in her head.

As she climbed the hill a crow called, and another answered. The day was warming, and the sun felt hot between her shoulder blades. She stepped into the bird blind and looked down at the lake through her binoculars. The mist was breaking up over the water and moving into the trees like a dream retreating from wakefulness. A varied thrush trilled over the burble of a robin. They flashed across the meadow, similar medium-sized birds but so different in their songs. Using a Sharpie, she added them to the list she’d begun her first day back at the cabin. The list was long and growing longer—nearly fifty species in less than two weeks. It was anchoring to catalog the birds here. A round of robins. A hermitage of thrushes. A charm of goldfinches.

A group of crows passed overhead—a cabal, a congress, a murder. Something about the way they flew pleased her, their wingtips spread like fingers, their squared-off tails. She couldn’t say why. She marveled that people dismissed crows out of hand. It was almost as if the health of their numbers, especially in urban areas, made people uncomfortable. But humans were the ones who’d drawn crows into cities over the past two decades. They came for the open trash pits of the dumps and the parks and leafy streets with fewer predators.

She decided to check Grammy Genevieve’s secret chanterelle spot. It was early for the earthy golden mushrooms to sprout, but it had been so rainy, they could be out. Anne might know how to cook them. Oh, how she missed her little grandmother just then.

“Don’t be too hard on your mother. She’s had some disappointments.”

Flashes of memory then. Judith rocking her to sleep in the rocking chair. Judith sitting with her on the dock for the Fourth of July. Judith pulling a blanket close around their shoulders the night of a big storm. When had her mother become so distant? Why was she different with Patrick?

Frankie climbed through the woods and let her mind go blank. By the time she’d reached the top of the hill, the sun had moved high in the sky. She breathed in the scent of sun-warmed pine needles, the green smell of rain, and late summer yarrow and aster. She listened to the drilling of a woodpecker and the drowsy drone of nuthatches high above. She put her palm on the rough bark of a fir and a quiet settled in her as she pondered the conversation of the wind, the woods, and its creatures.

A terrible crack ricocheted through the woods behind her. Crows exploded out of a large hemlock clamoring with alarm. A man stood under the tree with a rifle still pointed high. She recognized him from the day of the storm when he’d slunk off into the woods.

“Hey!” she yelled, striding forward without stopping to think.

He turned and lowered his gun, then sauntered toward her. When he was close enough, she could see there was something slightly off in his gaze. His hair was a lank dirty blond, and his skinny wrists poked out of his too-small jacket. His chin was covered in red stubble.

She wanted to back away, but her protectiveness for the woods overrode her aversion and she held her ground. The man, taking note of her height, slowed his pace.

“Mornin’,” he said, holding the gun across his body. His knees poked through holes in his pants and his tennis shoes were soggy with mud. “Didn’t expect to see nobody else.”

Something in his smile made her shudder, and Frankie struggled to control her voice.

“How did you get up here?” she asked.

The man scoffed and spat.

“What’s it to you?” he asked.

“Well, you’re on private property. And I saw you up here before, didn’t I?” Frankie said.

He stared and didn’t respond.

“Where’d you come from?”

“Over there,” he said, waving vaguely behind him.

Frankie crossed her arms.

“Well, that way,” she said, pointing over his shoulder, “belongs to the Yakama Nation. And behind me Beauty Bay Resort. So I guess you must have come from Yakama land.”

“Guess so,” he said flatly.

“Well, we don’t allow hunting on our land,” she said. “So, you need to leave.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The Yakama Nation had hunting rights on Beauty Bay property. But Frankie doubted this man was a member of the Yakama Nation.

“Who said I’m huntin’?” the man asked. He hitched the gun up over his shoulder. “Just target practice. You know.”

“Target practice,” Frankie repeated.

He jutted his chin.

“Yeah—jays, crows. Whatever. Don’t matter.”

Frankie flushed with anger.

“Actually, it does matter. There’s an international treaty protecting most North American bird species. It’s a felony to shoot them.”

He grimaced and spat. Frankie willed herself not to flinch.

“That so?”

“Yes, that’s so. And we don’t allow shooting in these woods. At all,” she said firmly. “If you follow that stream behind you uphill, you’ll find your way back to the Yakama land. The agency office should have a map for you too.”

“What do I need a map for?” he asked.

“So you don’t get lost again,” Frankie said.

He narrowed his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“Sure,” he said. “You have a nice day.”

Frankie waited until he was out of sight and strode over to the hemlock. She found the bodies of four crows at the foot of the tree. The shot had mutilated their small torsos. From their size she guessed they were mature adults. The blue-black feathers were beautiful even in death.

Sick with fury, she turned and hurried down the trail. While it was true what she said about international law protecting bird species, it was also true that the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife issued permits to hunt crows and other birds. She thought about what Dr. Tandy had said about another humble bird, the passenger pigeon. So robust in numbers that they blocked out the sun when they flew across the plains of the Midwest. And hunted to extinction by 1914—an entire species a casualty of human amusement. But she knew that guy didn’t have a permit from the state or the Yakama Nation. She’d have to call the sheriff and the agency office, which meant a boat ride to town.

In the boat, she pulled on her dad’s old jacket and turned up the collar against the breeze. She drove down the lake as fast as she could and reached the marina in late afternoon. The hot, dry air of the post office lobby struck her in the face when she opened the door. Donna rose and turned down the radio when she saw Frankie.

“Hello there, Frankie O’Neill,” she said. “You sure are a popular gal.”

She pulled out a large pile of mail and pushed it across the counter.

“If you don’t mind, there are a few things for the neighbors too. You’ll save Jerry a trip up if you can carry them for me.”

“Sure, Donna. No problem.”

Frankie changed some dollars for the pay phone and dialed the sheriff’s office first.

Miranda, the dispatcher, had worked at the sheriff’s office for as long as Frankie could remember and seemed ageless. She asked for the man’s physical description, the location, their conversation, and the number of dead birds.

“And you saw him discharge his firearm?” Miranda asked.

“Well, I heard it and when I turned around, he was standing over a dead bird and holding his gun. Is that good enough?”

“Yes, that’ll do. I’ll let Sheriff know,” she said. “You be careful up there, Miss O’Neill. People can be unpredictable. You should call the Nation too.”

Frankie thanked her and called the Yakama Nation agency office. A woman answered and told her to wait. Frankie heard her set down the receiver and walk away. She waited, listening to the sound of children playing, the slam of a door, the bark of a dog. After a few long minutes, someone picked up the receiver.

“Councilman Miller,” the voice said.

“Hi, um, this is Frankie O’Neill. We have a place— My family . . . we’re the caretakers up at Beauty Bay,” she stammered.

She told him about the hunter and that she’d seen him before.

“He was on our side of the boundary, but I imagine he came from your side because it’s all boat access from the west.”

“He was a white guy?” Councilman Miller asked.

She flushed.

“I mean—I think so,” she stammered.

“Skinny guy? With a red beard?”

“Yes,” Frankie said.

Councilman Miller exhaled.

“Yeah, I know who that is,” he said. “Anything else?”

She recognized the name then.

“Um, are you related to Jim Miller?” she asked. “He was a friend of my grandfather’s, Ray O’Neill. They used to fish together?”

There was a pause, then the man said, “Yes, James Miller was my father. He died three years ago. Anything else?”

Frankie felt stung and embarrassed.

“No, nothing else. I just thought you all would want to know. Anyway—thanks,” she stammered. “I’ll call if I, if anything else comes up.”

She hung up and leaned against the glass wall of the booth. What was she expecting? Did she want to be thanked for letting the Nation know someone was trespassing on Beauty Bay land, which had once belonged to the Yakama people? And that business about her grandfather. “Indian Jim” is what her grandfather had called his fishing buddy. She wouldn’t have said that to Councilman Miller. It seemed impolite, so why hadn’t she ever said so to her grandfather?

Her mind was roiling with feeling, and she felt dizzy. She closed her eyes and saw Dr. Grant storming away from her at the symposium. Then the man in the woods spitting on the ground, and the bodies of the dead crows. Judith looking at her watch, impatient to get away from the courthouse.

Frankie pushed open the phone booth door and moved toward the store. The shadow of a bird fell across her path, and a pair of crows flapped across the park. One barrel-rolled over the top of the other, yawping playfully. You couldn’t miss that it was play.

Frankie halted and looked at the little store and its cheerful red and white sign. “C’mon in! We’re open!” it read. Then she returned to the boat, cast off, and headed north. She wanted to get back to the woods and the birds and the cottage. After her conversations with Miranda and Councilman Miller she felt an urgency to be there. She thought of the meadow, the bird blind, and the majestic Lightning Tree high on the hill. She thought about Charlie Crow and his parents, their brief and wonderful visit to her, and so many other birds in the forest around the house. And in that moment, the place trumped everything else—her loneliness, her grief, even the idea that relief might come in a bottle. Nothing mattered so much as getting back, as quickly as possible, to her territory, that sanctuary, her home ground.