The Hummingbird

by Stephen P. Kiernan

  “Same here.” Michael was still smiling.

  “So.” The last thing I wanted to do was change the mood. If we were going to have a moment of connection, that doorway was as good a place as any. But I glanced inside, and the guards were standing beside their desk, watching us. One rested his hand on a nightstick. I waved at the building, the fountain, the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “You know . . .” he began, rubbing a thumb against the palm of his other hand. “You know the other day, when I went to Joel’s?”

  “Sure. You said he and Gene had an argument.”

  “Times two. But before they got into it, Joel had one of his rants.”

  “I’m familiar with them.”

  “Yeah, he feels terrible about that.”

  I put a hand on Michael’s leg, and he did not withdraw. “Not to worry.”

  “The whole noncombatant thing gets him revved. But this recent one, the new rant, it’s a big part of why I’m here.”

  Guard inside be damned, I was not going to rush this moment for one second. “What was it about?”

  “Treatment of returning soldiers throughout history. Did you know one-­third of the Union dead in the Civil War were buried before the bodies had been identified? Or that black soldiers in the South, coming home from World War I, were beaten for wearing uniforms in public? And now there are tens of thousands of guys like me just waiting, you know, standing in line for help? We trusted our country, we fought for it, and now it is blowing us off. It happens in every war, is the point. Soldiers are mistreated when they come home. Joel said everyone complains about ­people spitting on Vietnam vets, but who knows? Maybe that was more honest.”

  I kept my hand on his thigh, in no hurry to lose contact. “I thought we had your benefits all set, sweetheart. Have you been waiting for something?”

  “Not me. Gene. You should see how he walks because of that prosthetic leg. Hunchback of Notre Dame. Frankenstein.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Times fifty.” Michael began wringing his hands. “When he took me to Joel’s, it’s his right leg he hurt, OK? So not only does he have to drive with his left foot, but also he has to lay his hurt leg across the passenger seat. Basically, Deb, Gene has to drive with his stump in my lap.”

  “Ouch.”

  “All because they can’t get him one damn screw. It’s a strange one, I admit, but really? This guy served three deployments, and they can’t get him a simple screw?”

  “It sounds ridiculous. But the woman who called from the office here sounded responsive. She said they were working on it.”

  “Come on, Deb. That’s total bullshit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know how long Gene has been gimping around that way, can’t walk without pain, can’t even stand at the stove and make dinner, while they fritter and dither and don’t do a goddam thing?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Seven months.” He was barking now, poking a rigid finger into his palm. “This guy sacrificed his leg, and they’ve stalled him for seven months.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “He came home before I did, right? Didn’t finish the tour because of his wounds, obviously. He had surgery, recovery, PT, all decent enough. Then the leg they gave him came with a faulty part. He’s been waiting on this screw since December ninth. And here we are mid-­July.” He poked that same finger in my direction. “Deb, it is unjust.”

  “Well, honey.” I sat back, hands to myself. “It’s not like they have a bin full of spare screws in some back room here—­”

  “Of course not. But I keep all sorts of strange things in my shop’s inventory, stuff I may never need, because it costs almost nothing and it’s worth having handy for emergencies. Do you have any idea how undignified it is for this guy, this goddam hero, to have to put his stump in my lap?”

  I don’t know why I couldn’t just agree with my husband. Something about needing to defend our society, about explaining that we were imperfect but had good intentions. Maybe, too, I felt a tinge of guilt over my little fantasy at the lumberyard. Maybe I was compensating by being overly rational.

  I sat back on my haunches. “I’m not saying that making Gene wait is OK, Michael. Just that maybe you should be reasonable. Now that you’re in their file, I can’t imagine it would take much longer.”

  “Reasonable?” Michael pounded his thigh, right where my hand had been. “He has been reasonable, Deb. And calm. And patient. And where’s it gotten him? To a place where it is somehow acceptable for them to jerk off all day, while he hobbles around like fucking Quasimodo.”

  Michael ran his hands up and down his legs, calming himself. A breeze strummed the fountain, sending light spray harmlessly across the plaza.

  “Look, Deb,” he continued, his voice low. “I didn’t need you here. I could have made this little fuss just fine on my own. I had them call because I trusted you. I thought you were on my side.”

  Right then, I understood what Barclay Reed had meant. Iraqi insurgents were not the only adversaries Michael needed a truce with. It was me, too.

  Here I had thought all along that we were at peace—­or at least coexisting in some temporary place, in which he had his difficulties and I was helping him back to sanity. When actually, I’d been preventing peace the whole time: overeager after the Dr. Doremus sessions, pushing too hard about the face drawings, coming on too strong as a voice of reason right then.

  Once upon a time, loving Michael had been the simplest thing, as natural as breathing. But now here I was, doing it in the worst possible way.

  And there in my thinking, like some bizarre role model, was Ichiro Soga. He had made the decision to empathize with his adversary. He had more than earned forgiveness, but still never asked Donny Baker to give up his stubborn views. Instead, he managed to bend toward his adversary. Whether Soga’s story was real or a fabrication did not really matter. The idea that it might be true was good enough.

  The hell with being reasonable. The hell with respecting a governmental process. I would choose Soga’s path. I would bend.

  I stood up, and held out a hand.

  “What?” Michael scowled. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Come on. We’re going to go get some answers.”

  He stared at me a long while, considering. I just kept my hand out there, as steady as . . . well, as a tree planted beside a monument.

  At last my husband stood, brushed off the seat of his pants, and took my hand. I loved it, his large strong paw, warm from his afternoon of sitting in that doorway in the sun. That may sound like high school romance, like silly infatuation, but for one crucial fact: It was our most intimate touch since the day Michael came home.

  And we walked inside that building holding hands. Together.

  TWELVE ADDITIONAL YEARS ELAPSED before Ichiro Soga flew to Oregon for the third time.

  By 1985, U.S. relations with Japan had normalized, propelled by commerce, and in particular the soaring demand for consumer products. Millions of Americans drove Japanese cars, listened to music on Sony Walkmans, and squandered vast fortunes of time playing video games made in Japan. Brookings itself had a sushi restaurant, on Pacific Avenue near the wharf.

  Forty-­three years had elapsed since Soga’s two missions over Mount Emily. Brookings had grown prosperous, new houses sprouting on the ridges with breathtaking views, the formerly gritty harbor now boasting hotels and restaurants.

  Xenophobia dies slowly, however. When news of the impending visit spread, letters to the Pilot criticized not only Soga, but those who welcomed him.

  The Japanese guest stayed only briefly. He had a specific purpose. Now seventy-­three, he had sold the hardware store in Tsuchiura and retired. Although he continued to wear the pressed suit and black shoes, his glasses were thicker than ever, his walk
noticeably slower.

  At a breakfast in a hotel conference room with the chamber of commerce, in English sufficiently broken that the reporter for the Pilot paraphrased rather than quoting directly, Soga revealed his intention: With a portion of the proceeds from his store, he wished to establish an exchange program.

  He had come to Brookings to invite four high school students, to be selected by the community for their intelligence, deportment, and interest in mathematics, to travel to Tokyo for the famed Tsubaka Science Exposition later that year.

  There would be scientific exhibits from around the globe, Soga explained, a true world’s fair. The students would have opportunities for meetings, meals, and cultural enrichment. Above all, he said, the trip would foster greater warmth and understanding between the ­peoples of two great nations.

  At that point in Soga’s remarks, one chamber member pushed back from his table and left the room. Now sixty-­one years old, Donny Baker III was notoriously impatient, dismissed small talk, and would tell anyone who asked that he would rather be hunting or flying his plane. Not known for social niceties, he let the conference room door slam behind him.

  His departure apparently represented a minority view. According to the next day’s Pilot, when Soga finished his speech, the rest of the chamber members “roared their approval.”

  The following autumn, the school board held a news conference to announce the four young ladies selected for the trip: Lisa Phelps, Sara Cortell, Robyn Soiseth, and—­interestingly, inexplicably—­the angel-­voiced cherub now a twelfth grader, Heather Baker.

  One can only imagine the discussions that ensued in the Baker household following the announcement. There is no public record, no letter to the school board or the Pilot. But the names had been declared publicly, with media present. For Heather’s family to decline her selection would insult the board, Soga, and the other girls. So she packed her bags.

  Donny did not join his wife in driving Heather six hours up the coast highway and inland to the airport in Portland. The girls flew to Japan accompanied by several chaperones, including one local grandmother who had traveled extensively in the Orient in the 1950s.

  Soga was waiting at the Tokyo airport to greet the entourage. In a first-­person account she wrote afterward for the Pilot, Heather Baker described the former bomber pilot’s welcome as “tearful.”

  He had arranged host families for each of the girls. They enjoyed a week of sightseeing and courtesy tours, as well as full days at the science expo. The visitors received bouquets and necklaces. They visited a temple and the Imperial Gardens. They saw a performance of dancers in traditional kimonos.

  At the final dinner the four girls gave Soga gifts made of redwood and myrtlewood—­bowls, salad tongs, and a clock—­all products of Brookings. Again he cried, one hand over his brow to conceal his embarrassment. The fearsome warrior had become a weepy old man.

  When Heather landed in Portland, she was greeted by her mother alone.

  CHAPTER 15

  WITH CERTAIN PATIENTS the fading comes almost as a surprise, weeks of minuscule changes, then arriving all at once, and that was my experience with Barclay Reed. In the days immediately after his daughter appeared, he seemed to vanish into himself. The hollows under his cheekbones deepened. His eyes seemed larger.

  But when I offered the Professor anything to eat, he would turn away from the plate, tugging at that tuft of white hair at the top of his forehead as if that small nervous gesture could sustain him somehow. As his appetite declined, the cancer devoured him.

  I was carrying another untouched meal from his room to the kitchen, while D sat at the table eating yogurt with fruit on top. Blueberries and peaches, lush midsummer peaches, and they looked lovely. Seated facing away so she could enjoy the view, she was using the stoneware bowl the Professor had asked me to put away. The one with the hummingbird on the bottom.

  “That is a lovely bowl,” I said.

  “It will suffice,” she answered, taking another spoonful.

  “Did you make it?”

  “God no.” She tossed her head as though a fly had tried to land on her nose. “My doormat of a mother made it.”

  “Your mother.” I went to the sink, rinsing off Barclay Reed’s plate. “What became of her?”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Decades ago. But I wouldn’t expect old Barclay to volunteer that information, given that he murdered her.”

  I shut off the water. “What did you say?”

  “Ask him. He’ll tell you without apology. Look—­” She pointed her spoon at the wall of photographs. I remembered that when I first came to the house, I noticed several frames had been removed. “There’s your evidence.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “He’s savvy enough to get away with it, evidently. But the grieving widower in public could not bear to see her face in private. Guilt will do that.”

  I scanned the remaining pictures. This time I saw the little Asian girl with her hands on her hips, and recognized her. “I see he left your photo up.”

  “Against my specific request.” D bent over her bowl and took a big bite.

  ONE OF THE FUNDAMENTAL IDEAS of hospice is that the patient is not the only person who needs care. The family does too. So may neighbors, co-­workers, even the nurse and volunteers if a case requires heroic effort. I know of an inpatient hospice facility that keeps a room unoccupied for forty-­eight hours after the patient has died. Family members can come to grieve and celebrate as they remove grandchildren’s art on the walls or flowers from the windowsill. Staff can visit too, remembering the patient and honoring the privilege of providing that person with care. Only then is the room considered ready for the next human life to fill the place with decorations, gather loved ones, and walk the final road.

  By that thinking, D was my patient now, too. And she was suffering, whether she would admit it or not. This absurd murder accusation was a troubling symptom. My job was to favor neither her nor the Professor, but to care properly for them both. I stood at the sink watching her eat, wondering what would be a good point of entry.

  “What line of work are you in, D?”

  She remained angled toward the lake. “I am an academic.”

  “Like your father.”

  “In no way whatsoever,” she scoffed. “He is a discredited scholar of a discredited discipline, his whole field now recognized as an exercise in subjectivity, sexism, and nationalism.”

  Her attitude might be different from Barclay Reed’s, but her aggressive manner of speaking was similar enough that I smiled. “What is your field?”

  “Gender studies. My focus is the link between patriarchy and violence.” At last she half-­turned in her seat, though still not far enough to face me. “And what are you, some kind of glorified candy-­striper?”

  I let the insult stand without a reply. That felt better than defending myself, stronger. It was as though a little chemical reaction hung in the air between us, the electrons of her aggression attempting to interact with the neutrality of my decision not to engage.

  “Excuse me a moment, please,” I said.

  And I went to check on her father.

  HE LAY IN THE BED LIKE A LUMPY RUG, visibly flattened by fatigue. But he was awake, and I leaned in over him. “How are you doing today, Professor?”

  He gazed directly at me, his eyes the dark brown of tree bark. It felt like the first time our eyes had actually met. “Has she come to watch me die?”

  “More likely she has business with you that she needs to finish.”

  “Our business, such as it was, ended years ago.”

  “Well, you and I have business to discuss, anyway.”

  He shrugged. “Do your worst.”

  This was not the manner of a killer, no defensiveness or parano
ia. D’s claim was ridiculous. Besides, we had a more immediate issue. “In your initial patient workup, and repeatedly since then, why have you said you had no surviving family members?”

  With what seemed like great effort, Barclay Reed thumbed the button that lifted the upper half of his hospital bed. “You may feel misled, Nurse Birch, but the situation is not as it seems.”

  “Maybe so, but there are implications for your care.”

  “Can it wait, please? I am bone tired.”

  “Yes. But we’ll need to discuss it later.”

  “Agreed.” He set the bed controller aside. “The woman is strategic, I’ll grant her that. I sent word of my illness in March. She deliberately waited till I was too tired to match wits with her.”

  I checked the water level in his bedside cup. There was no visible difference from two hours earlier. I set it on the rolling table, which I swung over his lap. “Maybe we can figure out a way for you to give D what she needs without sacrificing too much of yourself.”

  “Maybe piglets will flap their little wings and lift off the ground.”

  “Just in case they do, let’s try to get some breakfast in you. It may boost your energy. I’d like you stronger right now, if possible.”

  He sighed. “I hereby temporarily submit to your culinary dictatorship.”

  “I’ll alert the media.” I countered, starting for the door. But he took in a breath as if to speak, and I turned. “You need something first, Professor?”

  “Blast it all.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  He tugged at his tuft of hair. “I have come to a realization that I am reluctant to admit.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Barclay Reed focused away across the room and spoke in a low voice. “I am glad that you are here.”

  D WAS NOT THE WORST OFFSPRING I had encountered. Adult children can be astonishingly selfish when a parent is nearing the end.

  I have seen families demand that clinical teams do more to prolong their loved one’s life when the poor patient is so battered by interventions, anything more would be cruelty. I wait for the right moment, then suggest that sometimes the most loving thing we can do is to stop trying to cure what cannot be cured.