Prothonotary,” said Roger, peering through the binoculars.
“Eeenh,” she said. It was a sound she made, indicating uncertainty or polite disagreement. In the three hours they had been together on this bird-watching expedition, she had made that sound twice. Roger was uneasy. He handed her the binoculars.
“Pine warbler,” she said. Marsh birds were her specialty, but because of the nature of her art she would be uncomfortable with a misidentified warbler. She did not know that Roger was in love with her, that he had been smitten ever since the day she had left a Hamilton Beach electric blender at the dump. She did not know that he had spent hours studying her paintings at the gallery downtown, admiring the sunlight on the black water, the glistening lily pads, the birds visible only in glimpses, almost hidden in reeds and grasses. She did not know how very much he admired the spare, straightforward titles she gave her pictures—Nesting Coot, Common Gallinules, Pied-billed Grebe and Young. She did not know that he had been stalking her in a civilized way for weeks, working up from the startling “Have a nice day” at an accidental meeting at the Dumpster to this bird-watching expedition in a wildlife refuge on a barrier island off the coast. She did not know that simply reading Peterson's description of her birds, family Rallidae, “… rather hen-shaped marsh birds of secretive habits and mysterious voices,” made him weak and shaky.
So it had not been easy for Roger, standing in the litter of the dump on that summer day a week ago, a swarm of sulfur butterflies congregating on a puddle of drool from the Dumpster and a spent “easy glide” tampon applicator at his heel, it had not been easy for him to draw a breath and say, “Have you ever seen the marsh birds in Little Tired Slough out on Cathead Island? Because of my plant work I have a permit, and I could take you there.”
And yet how easy it had been for her to heft her bag of garbage up over the lip of the Dumpster and turn to him as the swarm of sulfur butterflies rose up and surrounded her in a winkling yellow column, how very easy it had been for her to lift her hands, palms up into the butterflies, smile, and say, “Might we see rails there?”
On the ferry to Cathead Island they had sat side by side between canvas bags and ice chests, listening to a lively, talkative woman describe with animated gestures a study she was conducting on the life cycle of the oyster. Roger couldn't stop watching her dry-looking, rather gray tongue, which wagged restlessly back and forth in her open mouth during pauses as if it were feeling around for the next phrase. Delia sat very still, her hands cupped in her lap. Every now and then, with a practiced sweep she would lift her binoculars to her eyes, follow a gliding bird for a minute, then lower the binoculars and curl her hands back in her lap. Nothing but pelicans and gulls. What have I done, Roger thought, and then she leaned over to him and whispered, “Like the tongue of a bored parrot.” Roger longed to hug her, but he could only close his eyes and nod emphatically.
Since that shining moment, however, he had misidentified a warbler, and in their three hours of walking along the little sandy trails through the marshes and scrub, they had seen nothing more exciting than a kingfisher, an osprey, an anhinga, and some herons. She kept poking things at the edge of the marsh and making minute examinations of bits of dung.
“Otter,” she said, delicately picking around in it with two sticks. Roger stood and looked out toward the gulf, thinking of the birds he would will to this marsh for her: the big pink and green waders—a pair of roseate spoonbills with blood-red drips on their shoulders, American flamingos, a flock of scarlet ibises blown north of their range by a hurricane. Then a scattering of little jewel-like birds—painted buntings, golden-crowned kinglets, blue grosbeaks. and vermilion flycatchers. She put down the two sticks and stood up.
“They've been eating fiddler crabs,” she said.
In the midafternoon they sat down to rest on a plank bridge at the marshy edge of a little pine woods. The trees had been turpentined in the 1920s, and they were stunted and brushy-topped, with old chevron-shaped scars making something like faces on their trunks. The hot sun brought out the droughty, sharp smells of a forest that has lived a hard life—oozing pine sap, baking lichens, and dry sand. From the woods they could hear the raucous laughter of pileated woodpeckers, and from the marsh the herons gave out their hoarse croaks. Roger watched her feet dangling over the black water of Little Tired Creek in their battered tan boots and remembered Peterson's picture of a coot's foot, in the corner of a page, elegantly enclosed in a circle, the ankle relaxed, the toes swagging gracefully. “Lobed foot of Coot,” the caption read.
Then she said, “Feet!” and she pointed. “There's a snowy egret; I have nightmares about those yellow feet,” she said urgently, handing Roger the binoculars. Sure enough, at the end of the bird's gleaming black legs were a pair of startling yellow feet.
“You have nightmares about the feet of snowy egrets?” said Roger, lowering the binoculars. In an access of love, he began unpacking food and spreading it out on the bridge. Hard-boiled eggs, bread, cheese, pickles, Penrose sausages, jalapeno peppers, apples, and an alligator pear. “What do the feet do in your dreams?” he asked. He started handing her bits of food, which she ate solemnly, still looking at the edge of the marsh.
“Usually they just stand there,” she said. “But sometimes one foot will pick up and begin to step. That's what makes it a nightmare instead of just a dream.” Then she recited, “ ‘When feeding, rushes about, shuffling feet to stir up food.’ That's what it says in Peterson's.” She looked at Roger with her steady and earnest gaze. “Just think about it, Roger.”
But for the rest of the afternoon all Roger could think about was how much he wanted to protect this peculiar and delicate woman from every harm, to keep her safe and well fed, and to rid her dreams forever of yellow, shuffling feet. The sun was dipping down below the tops of the trees as they headed back through the little woods to the ferry dock. She didn't talk, but now and then she would lift the binoculars to her eyes without breaking her stride and whisper the names of birds on an intake of breath: “Coot,” “Grebe,” “Sandpipers—Snowy, eeehn, no—” and she stopped. “Ha! immature little blue.” In the distance, across the last stretch of marsh, Roger could see the ferry dock. The water had turned from its midday aqua and indigo to a dark greasy gray. “I'll just take one last look,” she said, and she left the little sandy path and carefully stepped along a narrow trail through the marsh grass. She moved slowly, stopping and starting like a snake sneaking up on a rat. At the edge of a little inlet she squatted down and lifted the binoculars. her elbows propped on her knees. On the other side of the water, a little dark shape rustled in the grass and was gone.
Delia straightened up wearily, like an old fighter might stretch at the end of a great fight. She straightened her legs with her hands on her knees, then she straightened her back, then she straightened her shoulders. She turned and made her careful way out of the marsh. “Whoo!” she said, and she smiled. She stood in front of Roger and put one hand on his chest, fingers spread, and looked at him at arm's length. “A black rail,” she said. “Number 397.”
The ride back to the mainland was peaceful. The parrot-tongued woman was quiet, wearied by her day's study of the lives of oysters, and Delia had the beatific look of a satisfied birder. The boat captain set the autopilot and sat down in an aluminum chair with his book. The engine droned.
Delia turned to Roger. “I enjoy chickens,” she said.
But Roger was not surprised. She didn't smile, and he didn't expect her to. She was a serious woman, with her mind on birds.
“Not White Leghorns, though,” she said.
“No,” said Roger slowly. “Certainly not White Leghorns.” He squinted thoughtfully. “I would think Golden Sebrights.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically. “And Silver-laced Wyandottes.”
“Buff Orpingtons,” said Roger.
“Dominiques,” she said, beginning to smile.
“Punkin Holses,” said Roger, “Lakenvelders, and Salmon Favorolles.”
Then she laughed out loud and hugged him tight with both arms. She smelled like pine trees and lichens and hot sand. How odd, thought Roger, that after all, this is what it took—not a flock of scarlet ibises or golden-crowned kinglets, but just the names of chickens, hovering in the air like the sulfur butterflies at the dump.