The Confusion of Laurel Graham

by Adrienne Kisner

  “Yeah!” he said brightly. “You were there for the black-backed oriole! Reports came in of an indigo bunting and a black-throated blue warbler this morning.”

  “Shut up,” I said, looking up from the forms. “An indigo bunting? Where?”

  “Outside of the Sheetz. The one by the high school? Like a half an hour ago.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Way!” He grinned. “I’m outta here at noon, and me and the guys are going to try to get some shots in. You gonna try? Fauna deadline coming up.”

  “You know I am,” I said. “But first I am after something. Could you find me these?” I slid the forms through the opening in the window. “I know it takes days to photocopy or whatever. But last week Greg let me look at them here. I promise to stay where you can see me and not run away with them.”

  He laughed. “I trust you. I know allllll these files would go for the big bucks on eBay.” He ripped off the top copies for me and took the green ones. I had him searching for 964392c, 877566a, and 736450b, since the other report suggested it. None of those were on the database online, so of course I couldn’t order them online. But I had the day off and I just wasn’t in the mood to dodge hipster lumberjacks, as would be the likely outcome of staying at home.

  He typed at the computer for a few minutes and then disappeared behind the other door. He emerged with three file folders.

  “Here you go. They look just as dull as all the rest of them,” he said.

  “Thanks.” A Post-it note fluttered down to the floor from one of them as I pulled them through the window. “Here,” I said. “I don’t want to lose it if it’s important.”

  Brett looked at it and frowned. “Thanks,” he said to me. He then left his little office and walked off down the hall.

  I got my tablet out and got to work. I figured I could just read most of it at home. I clicked on page after page in file 964392c. “Construction Viability: A Snapshot” was really long. Files 877566a and 736450b, both reports about potential school sites in Martinsville and Richburg, were fortunately much shorter.

  I double-checked to make sure I got all of the pages and slipped my tablet back in my bag. I settled into the orange puke chair to start reading one of the shorter files. Just then, Brett rounded the hallway corner with none other than Deputy Mayor Michael Ross.

  Brett stayed a few steps behind the deputy mayor. He shrugged at me. “Sorry,” he mouthed from behind Michael Ross’s back.

  “Pardon me,” he asked. “Our staff member here alerted me to the fact that you wanted copies of this report?” he said.

  “Oh, well, not exactly. They weren’t in the online database, so I know there’s some reason they can’t be copied? The, uh, staff member last week told me that.” As much as Greg annoyed me, it seemed like a bad Birdscout move to get him in trouble with his internship. “But there was one report I could get last week and it referenced these three in the footnote. So I came to read them here.”

  “I see. Well, these aren’t for the general public, I’m afraid. There was a note that indicated that on them.”

  Maybe that had been the Post-it that fluttered away. But that had only been on one of the reports. I wondered which one.

  “Aren’t all of these files for public review?” I said. “They have to do with the new school. You said at your last press conference that they’d be made readily available for, um, constituents.” Had he said that? Whatever he’d mentioned behind his little podium sounded like that at least.

  “You’re a voter?” he said.

  “Well. No. Not yet. I’m only seventeen. But I will be,” I said. Was there an age limit on files? That didn’t seem to make sense either because Greg and Brett were my age and they were in charge of the records once a week for three hours.

  “Why do you want to see them? They are really dull. They aren’t written for anyone. It’s full of technical jargon and things for architects and planners.”

  “I want to know about the new school, that’s all. I’m, um, passionate about education.”

  Brett slowly backed away from this conversation until he got safely behind his glass partition. I didn’t blame him. Up close, Deputy Mayor Michael Ross came off a little like a turkey vulture.

  “I just don’t think you’d be interested in them. That’s all,” he said curtly. He took the two folders from the table. He stuck out his hand for the one I was holding.

  “Is it against the law for me to look at this?” I said.

  “It’s not meant for the inexperienced eye.”

  “That isn’t what I asked. Am I allowed to see this if it’s a public record?”

  “Young lady, I will need you to give that back to me. Right now.” Deputy Mayor Michael Ross loomed over me, his shadow blocking out the light from the outside.

  I pushed my lips together. Something told me I was allowed to look at these all that I wanted, but it wasn’t worth it to me to argue with the guy.

  “Fine,” I said. I handed him my folder.

  He looked at me. No. What would a turkey vulture do? He leered at me. I didn’t like this guy. I vowed right then and there that one of my first acts as an eighteen-year-old would be to vote against him. I might even try to be one of those people who go door-to-door.

  “Did you have time to read any of this?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered honestly. Since I’d been taking pictures of all the pages, sir. “Your staff member got you right away.”

  “Good,” he said. He leered once more at the folders in his hand and then turned and walked briskly back down the hall from which he came. His shoes clicked with a neat crispness across the wooden floor, which would have been a pleasant sound if it hadn’t been made by a turkey vulture asswipe.

  After he’d turned into an office at the end of the hall, I went back over to the counter.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” Brett said, getting out of his chair and coming over to me. “There was a note on the folder.” He held it up to me.

  “Please contact DP MR immediately if anyone requests this form,” it read.

  “Could I have that?” I said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He was kind of mean,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Brett. “Okay. Here. I’m sorry you didn’t get to read the reports. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I have, like, one thing to do here and I don’t want to fuck it up.”

  “No worries. I understand.” I took the Post-it note from him and attached it carefully to the inside of my tablet cover. Poor Brett was a few eggs short of a full nest and didn’t seem to realize that this could be proof of some kind of school-planning conspiracy. Or maybe he just wasn’t suspicious enough as a person and I was actually the ridiculous one for wanting a random Post-it note in the first place.

  As I was talking to Brett, I noticed a black orb attached to the ceiling by the door. That could mean a security camera. That could mean someone, somewhere, would know that I’d made a copy of this form. While I still didn’t think that was illegal, sticking around to find out what Deputy Mayor Michael Ross thought about it seemed unwise.

  “Maybe I’ll get my mom to try another day,” I said to Brett. “She’s of legal voting age.”

  Brett nodded at me. “Go try for the indigo bunting. ’Cause who really needs an excuse for a Sheetz Shmuffin anyway?”

  “Truth,” I said.

  Brett waved goodbye. No one tried to stop me from walking out the door. I left city hall, mounted my bike, and rode away as fast as my legs allowed. I wished Sophie were with me. She’d have more insight into this present weirdness than I did. Painters were naturally more suspicious of people’s motives, I’ve found.

  FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY

  JUNE 7

  There were no birds at Sheetz yesterday or today, save the tasty, tasty unfertilized or already dead ones in the sandwiches. I felt disloyal to Gran getting any, so I opted for hash browns. Sometimes deep-fried potato-like foods get the job done.

  I’d spen
t last night and most of the morning trying to wade through the dense files I’d photographed at city hall. I texted Sophie some pictures of the more boring pages, thinking she could do an artistic interpretation of bureaucracy. Most of it turned out to be the geographical survey of our area that assessed whether Sarig Pond and Jenkins Wood would make a good school site. A familiar ache settled behind my eyes seeing Gran’s address listed on an appendix labeled “Property to Acquire.” Basically none of the land was good for much other than birds. The land was low and the area around the pond formed a natural kind of basin. City planners long ago thought it would be most usable for public recreation space, or maybe a reservoir if they flooded the space around it from the creek. The city abandoned the reservoir idea because a coal family’s estate sat too close. The Jenkins family (owners of the estate) bought the land instead, and donated it with the suggestion (not a mandate the report pointed out) that it become a park. The rich people were happy their big house was safe, the city was happy it had land, the birds were ecstatic they had a migratory habitat.

  I live texted most of this to Risa, who either didn’t see it or ignored it. Richard and Louise were off on a bird vacation somewhere cold, because that is what they did in the summer. I decided I’d go tell Gran.

  Wait. Shit. Gran.

  I looked at the clock. 10:45 a.m. Thank the doves, I hadn’t missed Mom’s meeting at Gran’s house.

  I tucked my precious fancy suet from Jerry into my backpack, hopped on my bike, and spun over as fast as I could go. Sure enough, Mom’s car was in the driveway. Two cars sat parked against the gravel lining Gran’s yard. I debated whether filling the feeder first would look more legit. I opted to carry the suet in with me, making it look like I came with a definite purpose totally unrelated to spying on Mom.

  I creaked the door open as quietly as possible. It didn’t matter, since Mom was standing in the middle of the empty living room with Mr. Hughes, the Realtor I’d met weeks ago in this same spot, and the podium-pushing lady from the press conference with Deputy Asshole Michael Ross.

  “Laurel?” my mom said, guilt sliding around in her mouth like dry crumbs. “What are you doing here?”

  I held up my bag. “Downy woodpeckers,” I said. “I just haven’t seen many this year. Bird count is coming up; maybe that’s significant. But they like this stuff. I came to fill the feeder.”

  “Ah. Go right ahead,” Mom said.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked. I glanced at Mr. Hughes, who busied himself with his phone. Podium Lady smiled at me.

  Mom sighed. “You might as well know, Laurel. The house sold. The city closes on it at the end of the month.”

  “Mom, no!” I said, dropping my bag. Thank god the seal held because it is a bitch to clean up suet. Jerry refuses to buy the solid blocks for reasons no one comprehended.

  “Honey. We’ve talked about this a half a dozen times. It has to be this way. Grandma needs long-term care. That costs money. She won’t be able to come back to this house, which also costs money to maintain. The city offered well over market value.”

  “Because they want to build new schools here! They want the combined district houses on this basically unusable land for … I don’t know … reasons. Shunksville government people are going to destroy our nature reserve. Gran would never want that. Never, never.” I stomped my foot like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum.

  “Why do you say that?” Podium Lady said.

  “The last press conference said Shunksville planned to move forward with its bid for the new school. I saw the reports you talked about at city hall. It’s a bad idea, developing this area, and I think someone is trying to cover that fact up. This house was one of the last standing in your way. Maybe the last.”

  I didn’t tend to cry out of sadness. Nor out of fear or pain. Frustration, though, served as my kryptonite. I could feel the tears coming.

  Podium Lady, for her part, seemed impressed that some rando teenager freaking out in her grandmother’s former living room knew all of this political intrigue.

  “Sweetheart,” Mom said. I let her wrap her arms around me. “I love your grandmother more than I could ever say. I know how important this home is. I grew up here. It holds the last real memories of my dad, who I know died before you were born, but he would have loved you. And I also realize how important Sarig Pond and Jenkins Wood are to you, to Grandma, to the town. But the only way I can take care of us is to sell this house. I’m so sorry. Feed the birds, honey. Okay? I have to talk to them.” Mom looked over at Mr. Hughes and Podium Lady.

  There was no point in arguing. The worst, worst thing was that I understood. The utter correctness of Mom’s argument loomed the most frustrating thing of all. I filled the feeder with suet mixed with grief. A hungry squirrel eyed my work from an electrical wire overhead.

  “Don’t even think about it, motherfucker,” I growled at it.

  The bastard didn’t even have the decency to look scared.

  FIELD JOURNAL ENTRY

  JUNE 11

  NOTABLE LOCATION: SARIG POND LIFE LIST ENTRY 3,286: INDIGO BUNTING

  “Let me get this straight,” said Richard, “there are reports?”

  “Reports with proof they want to destroy this place and that it’s a bad idea?” said Louise.

  It was their first day back from the birding trip on which they’d logged seventeen new artic species to their life lists. Gran should have been on that trip.

  “Yes,” I said. I was hitting them with a lot of information. I looked over at Risa, who stood with her arms folded at the edge of the birders. “The mayor and his people talked about it at a press conference. I looked for the plans. They tried to keep me from said plans. But I took pictures, which I will email to you when I get home. Basically they want the school here. I don’t know why because all of the papers seem to agree it’s a bad idea.”

  Richard frowned at Louise, who frowned at Owen, who frowned at the knitting ladies, who frowned at Karen, who frowned at her mom, who frowned at Risa, and it would have been a complicated continuous Möbius frown strip, only Risa avoided my gaze and it ended with her.

  “Wow. Okay, then. Still, this gives us enough to protest,” Louise said.

  “What do you mean?” said Risa.

  “The nature reserve is needed. Building here is a bad idea. We can protest the use of the pond and woods as a merged district campus on what we know—what we have concrete evidence to support,” said Louise.

  “How do we do that?” asked Karen’s mom.

  “Let me think on it,” said Louise, smirking at Richard. “It’s been a long while since we’ve made trouble.”

  “Too long,” agreed Richard.

  “And, um, there is another problem,” I said.

  “Oh?” said Louise.

  “Yeah, Mom … Mom finally sold Gran’s house. To the city. After June 30, they can do what they want with it. Which probably means tearing it down.” I looked at my shoes and the faded boards under them. I hadn’t really spoken to Mom since the time at the house. We’d visited Gran and talked to her and eaten near each other. But then she went out with the hipster lumberjack and I’d immersed myself in local government red tape. Talking wouldn’t undo the sale of Gran’s home or the reasons why it was necessary, so we avoided bringing it up.

  “Understandable. The only one who wanted to buy over there was the city. And I know Aurora’s care can’t be cheap. I’m sorry, Laurel,” said Louise.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “What does make trouble mean?” Karen said. “I’m not allowed to do that.”

  Richard and Louise chuckled with Karen’s mom and started to explain social protest movements.

  I wandered off down the boardwalk to stave off the returning frustration. I noticed two of Greg’s Birdie Bros walked by off path next to me. I thought about yelling at them, but then two sharp chirps sounded overhead, followed by the familiar strange coo I’d come to know. Gran’s mystery bird fluttered overhead. I caught a glim
pse of the movement of its wings. I lifted my camera and clicked as fast as I could, just as it took flight.

  “Of course. Missed it,” I said out loud to myself. But I hadn’t, not really. It was still in the tree.

  “I have my binoculars,” said an equally elusive voice behind me.

  I turned and looked at Risa. She was carrying a tripod and her camera, with binos strung around her neck.

  “Here,” she said, untangling them from her body.

  “Thanks.” The summer sun conspired with azure blue as I adjusted the thumbscrews and independent focus. “I see him! Kind of! He is tufted. I think. Damn it,” I said. “He moved again. This is ridiculous.”

  Just then, a sweeter song erupted just a few branches away. I swung the binoculars around toward the sound.

  “Whoa,” I breathed. “Risa, look!” I gestured her close to me. I handed her the binos and pointed to the thin, bouncing limb just a few feet away.

  “The indigo bunting,” she said. “Here.” She shoved the binos into my hands again. She deftly unfurled her tripod in one silent, fluid motion. She screwed her camera into the base.

  I stared at the exquisite little creature staring back at us from his tree. He tweeted until a female glided to his side.

  “Oh my god, there are two of them.” The male, of course, stood vibrant lapis in sunlight, indigo in the shade. His chest, a golden brown fading into white, puffed up in song. The female, with less need to show off, contrasted with her wheat and copper feathers. Together they hopped up and down on the branches in a kind of dance.

  “Shit,” Risa said next to me. “Shit, shit, fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck,” she said.

  “You okay over there?” I said.

  “My damn camera is two seconds from dead. I forgot to charge the battery. I of course left the other one in the camera bag I didn’t think I’d need.”

  “Go get it,” I said. “The buntings might still be here. They don’t seem in a hurry.”

  Risa bit her lip.

  “I mean, why not?” I said.