Part 1
It would seem unimaginable to find a specimen as awkward or endearing as a Chuck-will’s-widow roosting anywhere along the wet and rocky shores of our coastal community. Yet there he was, mouth agape, cold and nearing death. The bird lie in shock, unable or unwilling to resist the prodding of his bewildered founder. Taking shelter in a trailer hauled from warmer, more distant climes, she huddled tight against a single wooden beam running lengthwise along the cold aluminum floor.
Having made the discovery while unloading his cargo, the unsuspecting driver of the rig hauling the fore-mentioned trailer, had an instinctual feeling that this wayward hitchhiker was, to say the least, uniquely out of place. And with what struck him in a flash of divine inspiration, he mustered the fortitude to place a call to the only wildlife rehabilitation facility with an available phone number in our wind swept enclave.
Of course, the Center for Mammal Rehabilitation was not equipped to handle our avian friend. Nevertheless, during a moment of awkward apology, the kind lady on the receiving end of the call chanced upon a sticky note anchored to the frame of a very busy looking cork-board hanging on the wall beside her desk. The sticky note, with cursive writing scrawled in faded pencil, read, ‘Bird Lady,’ and followed up, directly below this auspicious title, with an equally faded local phone number.
Now our friend, the driver, who had in the last few minutes taken an accidental crash-course in biology, taxonomy and animal care, was not prepared to call anymore experts in the field and promptly drove the patient, in a nice little box, straight over to the listed address and handed the bird to a somewhat surprised volunteer.
Having completed what he felt was more than his responsibility concerning the damn thing, the driver left without delay, presumably to attach another trailer to his bobtail tractor and head back across this great wide country, far from the rocky shores and giant trees of our graying city.
Turning her attention to the contents of the newly delivered package, the volunteer peered gently inside the box. She looked the bird directly in its wide, open eye and collapsed flat on the floor of the visitor center.
David shook himself out of a dream. His head had fallen into his notebook as he waited between classes. The table near the windows of the science department offered a quiet, out of the way space and David was not the first student to take advantage of its solitude. The last thing he remembered he was studying for an upcoming test. He must have fallen asleep.
“Hey Dave, I’ve been looking all over for you!”
It was the voice of his friend and study partner, Matthew Johnson. Matthew, like David, was a second year university student, beginning his first specialized courses in the study of wildlife management and conservation. He spoke excitedly, holding his books to his chest; their weight causing him to breathe heavily as he hurried down the hall toward his classmate.
“I talked to the professor, there’s room for one more.”
“That’s great,” David replied halfheartedly. He was slow to pull himself back into consciousness. He tried to make his voice sound more enthused. “For the internship?”
“Yes, for the internship,” quipped Matthew, “You just need to sign up. So c’mon, before someone else...”
“Ok. Ok,” said David, cutting off his energetic counterpart. He gathered his pencil and notebook and stuffed them in his backpack, the color slowly returning to his face.
“Were you sleeping?,” asked Matthew, “...here?!”
“I guess so,” replied David, pushing in his chair.
“I had the strangest dream.”
The pair made their way up the stairs and toward their professor’s office. Dr. Tillerman stood behind his desk, casting a long shadow toward the doorway as they approached. He was anticipating their arrival.
“Please come in,” said the professor as his eyes met with his student's.
Dr. Tillerman’s voice was deep and calm like undisturbed water. It contrasted heavily with Matthew's gleeful immaturity.
“I told you I’d find him,” Matthew exclaimed enthusiastically. “He was sleeping at the table downstairs!”
David shot a sideways glance in Matthew’s direction. His unrestrained friend had a habit of saying too much. It was a trait that never sat right with David. He quickly spoke up, hoping to drown out Matthew’s oversharing before he damaged any more of David’s reputation,
“Matthew told me there was room for another intern. I’m here to sign up.”
“Good," replied the professor, "I have papers here for you to sign.”
David had the utmost respect for all of his instructors. But he sensed a darkness behind Dr. Tillerman’s eyes. He had noticed it once before. And he was sensing it now as the professor handed him the forms he was to sign.
Dr. Tillerman was a tenured professor. He had published numerous articles and a series of texts on the ecology of native shorebirds. He taught ornithology to the undergraduate students pursuing a degree in the animal sciences and he was among the most decorated biologists in the university. Certainly, the professor was someone the boys should trust.
David signed the form and pushed it back across the professors desk.
“Both of you need to call this number by Friday.”
The professor handed the boys a number to a small rehabilitation facility for injured birds.
“I can arrange for the two of you to meet the director together if you’d like.”
Brady’s phone woke her that morning. The Center for Mammal Rehabilitation was on the other end.
“Yes? … This is Brady… Oh? … fainted? … Is she ok? … Yes, of course, I’ll be right there.”
Brady Posh was the local expert in all things feathered. The ‘Bird Lady,’ as she was affectionately known, was the only permitted wild bird rehabilitation specialist in the county. Brady ran a small operation out of an aging camper in a sprawling RV park nestled beside the harbor. Here in the Oceanside Trailer Resort, she diligently fed and cared for a variety of species, and for a variety of reasons.
Her more recent patients, however, suffered almost exclusively from acute malnutrition. And more often than not, it was too late to help them.
Over time, rehabilitation takes a toll on the psyche, and Brady’s was no exception. Generations of gulls and ravens, grebes and godwits owed their lineage to Brady’s expertise. Yet countless lives were taken by her hand. After years of service, Brady had become increasingly aware of her own roll in this unnatural selection of biological winners and losers.
For good or ill, Brady’s influence surrounded her. It stood guard on the lampposts and buoys as she made her way into town. It nested in the grasses of the neighboring fields and chased the waves on the isolated stretch of sand and rock she called home. But the cries of the dead still haunted her. Alone in the night with the howling wind, an inescapable torment called out from the sea and drove her, more than once, to drink away its incessant noise.
On the news of a unique specimen in need of her services, however, Brady diligently pulled herself together.
She pulled on her rubber boots and fixed the legs of her pants over their floppy tops. Brady put out her cigarette in the ashtray near her trailer door and stepped out into the wet and salty air.
"What are you looking at?"
A rehabbed gull with an injured wing strayed along the boundaries of Brady’s lot. An otherwise healthy specimen, the patient remained, unfortunately, ineligible for release.
Brady couldn’t bring herself to put him down. So Gus, as she playfully called him, was granted a new, more pampered lifestyle. While allowed to stray as far he dared, Gus rarely ventured much further than the next meal, delivered with some regularity out of Brady’s trailer door.
“Gahhk,” cried Gus.
Brady smiled and threw a thawed white fish she had scavenged from the back of her freezer the night before. Gus happily threw the fish down his throat whole.
Locked in a struggle for survival at the Oceanside Trailer Resort, the pair depended heavily on each other for companionship in this dreary, hopeful, lonesome, beautiful landscape.
“Look after the place, Gus. I’ll be back soon.”
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