Music of Ghosts

by Sallie Bissell

  “He said anytime!” Lily cried. As the bird squawked again new tears began rolling down her cheeks. “Please call him, Meyli. We can’t let the owl die!”

  Mary looked at the child. At that moment, pre-Oklahoma Lily was back. She stood there a sweet, loving little girl, weeping over an injured bird. Mary wondered—would calling Nick Stratton bring that little girl back to stay? And if Lily came back, might Jonathan return as well? She had no idea, but she figured it was worth a try. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll go call him.”

  She tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, thinking that Nick Stratton had probably never dreamed some kid would take him at his word. Nonetheless, she punched in the number, for Lily as much as the bird. The phone rang once, twice, then a surprisingly alert male voice said, “Yes?”

  Mary cleared her throat. “Uh, Nick?”

  “This is Nick Stratton.”

  “Nick, this is Mary Crow. From the sports park opening?”

  An awkward pause, then Stratton spoke. “Mary, right. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, but we’ve got an injured owl. My daughter got your Dr. Lovebird card today and insisted that I call.”

  “An owl?” Stratton sounded relieved, as if he’d expected much direr news.

  “We accidentally hit it while driving home,” said Mary. “We put him in a box. Now he’s panting and batting his wings. I think he might be bleeding, too.”

  “Bleeding from where?”

  “I’m not sure … there’s a clump of dried blood in the box.”

  “That’s probably a pellet,” said Stratton. “Owls vomit undigested parts of their last mouse.”

  “Oh,” said Mary, unaware that owls had that ability. “He still seems like a pretty sick bird.”

  There was another long pause, then Stratton spoke. “Okay,” he said. “Bring it on over. God knows everybody else has tromped through here today.”

  “Where should I come?”

  “At the end of Cashiers Branch Road, on Burr Mountain,” said Stratton. “Keep the bird in that box and leave it alone. Don’t shine lights on it or play the radio while you’re driving up here. When you get to the totem pole, make a sharp left and follow the tire tracks.”

  “Thank you,” Mary said, watching the hope flickering on Lily’s face as she lingered in the doorway, listening to their conversation. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

  She dressed in the dark, and she didn’t bother to wake Jonathan; she knew he was already awake. He was a woodsman—he always slept lightly, attuned to any odd noise. He’d probably been awake since Lily first came into the room, and had just lain there, feigning sleep. She thought about telling him where they were going, but she decided not to bother. He would think them mad to drive a maimed owl halfway across the county in the middle of the night.

  Mary followed Stratton’s instructions, keeping the bird as quiet as she could. Lily followed her downstairs, insisting on going along.

  “I can help,” she told Mary. “I can hold him while you drive.”

  Mary’s first reaction was to tell her to go back to bed. But her old, sweet Lily was still there, her eyes huge with concern over the owl.

  “Okay,” said Mary. “But we have to do exactly what Dr. Lovebird said. No talking, no lights, no radio.”

  They got in the car. For forty-five minutes they drove through the night, Lily making an occasional comment in a whisper. Mary shook her head at the incongruity of it all—a lone car speeding along mountain roads in the dead of night, its occupants as silent as if they sat in church.

  Finally, they climbed up a gravel road that ended at a totem pole of leering faces. She turned left as Stratton had directed, churning up a rutted road that ended near a small cabin. A dim light burned on the porch, faintly illuminating a tall figure who paced from one end of the porch to the other. They got out of the car, Mary carrying the owl, Lily following. “Nick?” she called as they drew closer to the cabin. “Is that you?”

  He stopped his circuit of the porch. “Is that friend to tribe and county Mary Crow?”

  She laughed, flattered that he’d remembered John Oocuma’s words. “It’s me.”

  “Good,” he said, his tone odd. “I was beginning to think I’d just dreamed you, along with everything else.”

  “I’m so sorry to get you up in the middle of the night,” said Mary. “But this owl’s in bad shape.”

  “No problem—I was awake.” Stratton came down the porch steps and lifted the box from Mary’s arms. “Let’s go see what you’ve got.”

  He led them into the cabin. It was neat and cheery, built of new pine logs orange with varnish. A green flag hung over the fireplace while an array of stringed instruments hung on the wall beside the hearth. Musician, thought Mary, wondering what else Nick Stratton’s talents included.

  “Come on in the kitchen,” he said.

  He carried the owl into a small kitchen stuffed with everything from bread bowls to birdcages. For the first time, Mary got a look at Stratton, up close. He was even taller than she’d thought, with sun-streaked hair that grew into brown sideburns and dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were greenish-blue and bloodshot; the scar that bisected his upper lip was tightly drawn as the ends of his mouth curved down in either irritation or disapproval. Despite his polite welcome, there was an edginess about Stratton that made her wonder if they’d interrupted something far more pleasurable than just a night’s sleep. She decided that he must have a wife or a lover upstairs, now fuming because he’d left a warm bed to look after some bird.

  “Where did you guys hit this owl?” he asked as he put the box on a long trestle table.

  “Near our house,” said Lily. “My daddy hit it. He wanted to kill it, but we wouldn’t let him.”

  He frowned, disapproving. “Your daddy drive a pickup with a gun rack in the back?”

  “Her father’s Cherokee,” Mary explained, not wanting Stratton to think she lived with some rifle-toting redneck. “They regard dispatching an injured animal as releasing its spirit.”

  “Adonuhdo.” He used the Cherokee term.

  “Adonuhdo.” Mary nodded, surprised at Stratton’s knowledge of Tsalagi.

  He raised one eyebrow. “You disagree with the concept of adonuhdo?”

  “I think certain things are worth fighting for,” said Mary.

  “But your husband didn’t … ”

  “Lily’s father didn’t,” she explained.

  “Ah.” Stratton’s puzzled gaze lingered on her a moment, then he turned his attention to the box. “Well, then. Let’s take a look at your bird.”

  He buttoned his shirtsleeves and looked at Mary. “Are you squeamish? Faint at the sight of blood?”

  “Not especially,” she replied.

  “Then you can give me a hand with this. My regular staff is currently unavailable.” His tone was bitter, as if his staff had quit and walked out in a huff, en masse.

  “What do I do?” asked Mary.

  “First, put those gloves on.” He nodded to a long pair of leather gloves, hanging by the sink. “Injured birds still have eight sharp talons. I learned that years ago, when a big Golden Eagle decided to filet my upper lip.”

  So that’s where the scar came from, Mary thought as she walked over and pulled on the gloves. Thick deerskin, they came up to her elbows and had the well-worn feel of silk.

  “Can I do something?” asked Lily.

  “Stand over by the light switch,” said Stratton. “When I tell you, dim the lights.”

  Mary frowned. “We’re going to do this in the dark?”

  “It’s only dark to us. To the owl, it’s daylight.” Stratton spread an old quilt on the table and spoke in a whisper. “I need you to hold the bird while I examine it. We need to move very slowly, very calmly, and whisper when we speak.”


  Mary crossed the kitchen to stand beside him. Lily stood at her post, one hand on the light switch as Stratton began.

  “I’ll get the bird out, and put it on its back. You just cradle it between your hands. Allow it to move, but not thrash.” He looked at Mary. “We’ll have to stand a lot closer together.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. God knows nobody else wanted to stand close to her.

  He turned to Lily. “Okay, kiddo, dim the lights.”

  Lily darkened the room. Stratton opened the box and lifted the injured bird out. Its white feathers looked luminescent, a quivering froth in the darkness.

  “Tyto alba,” he whispered. “Barn owl.”

  He laid the bird down on its back. It flapped broad wings, made a couple of swipes at Stratton with his beak, then Stratton began to hum—a weird, mesmerizing kind of tune. Amazingly, the owl relaxed into the procedure.

  “Just hold the bird gently and try to keep it still,” he told Mary. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Mary did as he asked. When she corralled the bird, Stratton stepped close and put his bare fingers between her gloved hands. He smelled of leather and oranges, and something else she could not name. She watched as he palpated the owl’s neck; felt the line of feathers down the animal’s chest. Using his fingers like calipers, he measured the width of the bird’s breast. She noticed that his hands were strong and his long fingers went through their practiced motions precisely, as if he were playing one of those violins.

  “I’m not feeling any internal deal-breakers,” he whispered. “Let’s check the wings.”

  He shifted slightly toward her and spread the owl’s left wing. The bird struggled, the feathers under its beak quivering.

  “Is he getting too hot?” whispered Mary.

  “Just scared. She’s stressed.”

  “He’s a she?” Mary wondered how Stratton had determined the gender of the owl—to her it seemed all feathers and huge eyes.

  “Probably. They’re larger than the males. She likely has fledglings that just left the nest.” He looked at Mary. “You live on a farm?”

  She nodded.

  “Then she’s probably one of your tenants. Pays her rent by killing your mice.”

  Stratton continued examining the owl. Mary watched, fascinated as he felt the tiny bones and ligaments that made up the structure of flight.

  “This bird flew in front of your car from the passenger’s side, didn’t she?”

  Mary nodded, remembering how Jonathan had veered to the right.

  “Well, you missed most of her. I only feel a slackness in the ligament that attaches the right wing to the shoulder.”

  “Can you fix it?” Mary asked.

  “Unfortunately, not. Broken bones we can fix; ligaments we have to leave to Mother Nature.” Stratton lifted the bird from Mary’s grasp and put her in a tall cage that stood next to his refrigerator. Immediately, she climbed on a perch and rousted her feathers.

  Stratton turned to Lily. “Lights, please.”

  Lily turned the light switch, craning her neck to see the owl. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  “But you won’t kill her, will you?” Lily asked, her voice quivering.

  “No,” said Stratton. “Adonuhdo I leave to you Cherokees.”

  They stood there for a moment, watching the owl. She returned their stare with dark, glassy eyes, then she turned her back to them and faced the wall, as if offended by all the attention.

  “What do we do now?” asked Mary.

  “I’ll keep her here, feed her mice, let her mend. If she starts flying again, we’ll release her. If she can’t fly anymore, we’ll make her an ambassador bird, either here or somewhere else.”

  “So that’s it?”

  Stratton nodded. “That’s it. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Well.” Mary peeled off the long buckskin gloves. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing. As a federally licensed rehabilitator, I don’t charge for this.”

  “Can I at least make a donation?” Mary took her purse from Lily. “I know we got you up in the middle of the night, after a very long day.”

  “If you’d like to help out the Pisgah Raptor Rescue Center, that would be great. But it’s really not necessary.”

  “No, I want to.” Mary wrote a check for a hundred dollars and handed it to Stratton. “With many, many thanks.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Will you call us about the owl?” asked Lily.

  “Sure,” said Stratton. “What’s your number?”

  “Here.” Mary dug a business card out of her purse. “You can reach me at my office.”

  Stratton’s expression brightened as he took her card. “Are you kidding me? You’re an attorney? I thought you worked for the mayor.”

  “No,” said Mary. “I’m a lawyer. You need a will or a deed filed, give me a call. I’ll give you the barn owl discount.”

  Abruptly, Stratton started laugh. “This is too good. A lawyer shows up with a barn owl. Don’t tell me you defend people on murder raps?”

  “I’ve defended capital charges before,” Mary replied, wondering why Stratton found this so amusing.

  “Then I’ll put your card on my refrigerator,” he said, still laughing at some private joke as he put her card on the door of the freezer. “You just never know when you might need a good lawyer.”

  Eight

  Three hundred miles to the east, former governor Jackson Carlisle Wilson stood staring out at a hard rain that pelted the windows of the state police airplane hangar. The water dripped in rivulets down the glass, smearing the runway lights into streaks of electric blue.

  “Are you okay, Governor?” asked a perky young blonde in a North Carolina Highway Patrol uniform.

  He turned toward the girl. She looked a lot like Lisa—blue eyes, freckled face, a wide smile. Sweet Patootie, he and Marian had called their late-in-life daughter, singing her that old Fats Domino tune.

  “Would you like to sit down?” The girl took his elbow. “Can I bring you some coffee, or a Coke?”

  “I’d rather stay on my feet.” That much he knew; that much he remembered from his high school football days. If you keep moving, you’ve got a chance, Coach Peebles had told them. Once you’re down, it’s all over.

  “Well, if you need anything, just let me know.” Squeezing his arm, she whispered, “We’re all so sorry about your daughter, sir. If there’s anything we can do to help … ”

  He nodded his thanks. Her words rang strange in a terminology new to him. He’d had people express sorrow over a bill that foundered in the legislature, or that his first wife had died much too early from cancer. But sorry about his daughter? His Tootie? The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. He turned away from the woman and strode over to a huge map of North Carolina that covered one wall. Keep moving, he reminded himself. Keep moving and you’ve got a chance.

  He was staring at the map, thinking how the blue highway lines resembled the veins on the back of his hands when his wife emerged from the bathroom.

  “Carlisle?”

  He turned, looked at her. For a horrible moment, he couldn’t think of her name. Was it Tootie? Marian? No, those were the women he loved. This woman was something else. She began walking toward him, preceded by the scent of coconut suntan lotion. He struggled hard, desperate for her name, then finally, blessedly, it came to him. Pauline.

  She came over and put her arm around his waist. “Honey, are you all okay? You look awfully pale.”

  “I’m okay.” Christ, how did she think you were supposed to look when some hayseed sheriff called to tell you that your daughter was the victim of a homicide?

  She looked up at him, her nose slightly sunburned, a tiny dot of re
d lipstick on her front tooth. “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No.”

  “How about a drink? They can get you something from the airport bar.”

  “No.”

  “Then why don’t you take one of my pills.” She started digging in her purse. “It’ll help you relax … ”

  “Because I don’t want to relax!” He jerked away from her, hating her touch, hating her smell, hating her for everything she was not. Not his Marian. Not his Lisa. Not anybody, really, except a marginally acceptable fuck. “I want to find out what the hell is going on!”

  “I understand, sweetheart,” she said, talking to him as if he were a two-year-old. “I’ll be right over here if you need me.” Smiling at the young blonde officer behind the flight desk, she retreated to the other side of the waiting room, her sandals hitting the floor in a strident tattoo.

  He turned back to the map, staring at the county lines, the cities, the little airplane symbols that indicated where a state chopper could land. Thirty years ago, this state had been his—a fiefdom that stretched from the Atlantic Ocean to the Appalachian Trail, with loyal lieutenants from Manteo to Murphy. He’d been the first governor since Zeb Vance to do anything more than wave at the western counties on his way to Raleigh.

  “You’re wasting precious time, going over there,” his old mentor, Judd Thompson warned. “Everybody knows the state ends at Charlotte.”

  But he knew if he carried the western mountains along with his native eastern shore, then the fancy fat middle—the Charlotte bankers and the Raleigh pricks—could go fuck themselves.

  So he’d gone and stumped at their Baptist churches, feasted on their fried chicken, winced as he sipped their moonshine. And on election day, the folks of Watauga and Buncombe and Pisgah counties pulled him through.

  “Little Pisgah,” he whispered, tracing the outline of the county with a liver-spotted finger. Of all of them, he’d liked Pisgah best. Half of the residents were fair-skinned Scots, the other half dark-eyed Cherokees. Most were poor, only a few well educated, but they weren’t stupid. When they promised him their vote, they delivered it. In 1972, Pisgah County put him in Raleigh.