Darren Effect

by Libby Creelman

  He put on his leather gloves and dropped the tailgate. The box had fallen over onto its side and the untouched slice of bread had slid out. Both box and bread were covered in guano. The bittern was silently opening and closing its long bill. The slender legs were of an unearthly green colour that reminded Darren of Martians, and he felt briefly boyish.

  Slowly the bird stretched its bill up towards the roof of the truck, revealing black streaks on a pale throat and belly. Two bulging eyes peered around the base of the bill and regarded Darren coolly. There was a drop of blood on one of the wings. Darren reached for the bird, knowing it would be as light as a leaf.

  He carried the bittern out onto the marsh grass where it collapsed around itself like a small broken umbrella, then he backed away from it several metres and waited. Eventually the bird picked itself up and began taking slow, stealthy steps away from Darren until it stopped and pointed its neck skywards, its reed-like body now parallel with the grasses surrounding it.

  When Darren was back at the truck he turned and searched for the bittern. The camouflage was a success. He brought the binoculars to his eyes, but knew he would never find the bird again. He looked down at his feet, up at the sky, then searched one last time with his naked eye. No luck. While he was reassured that tens of thousands of years of natural selection had an unequivocal purpose, he also felt a peculiar loss. He almost took a step back out onto the marsh, but that would have been counterproductive.

  That night Darren was working at the kitchen table on his laptop, reviewing data from several years of oiled bird surveys. Predictable patterns were emerging. When he heard the crying, he panicked slightly, assuming it was the baby. She was sleeping in her own room now and in a crib — a huge rig for such a creature — and if she were feeling lost and abandoned, it would be no surprise to him.

  But when Darren opened the door to the baby’s room he was met by silence. She was asleep, little pockets of air passing rhythmically in and out of her body in the manner of any living creature at rest. His concern took a new course.

  He found Heather sitting upright in the bed, looking bewildered, self-conscious, just-awoken.

  “Is she okay?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “Asleep.” His voice felt gravelly.

  “Are you all right, Darren? You look tired.” She raised herself to a kneeling position and gave him a look that was a little sheepish, a little sly. She opened her arms to him.

  She was such a small thing, he thought, holding her, so much smaller than you would expect.

  They stayed like that for a while, and he thought some embarrassing thoughts about being together forever and being perfect for each other. The more he thought them, the more he wanted to voice them. He closed his eyes, loving every place on his body that came in contact with hers. He felt like he was flying.

  Many thanks to my editor, Bethany Gibson, for her invaluable insight and advice; to my agent, Anne McDermid, for her kindness and enthusiasm; to members of the Burning Rock Collective for their affirmation and encouragement — particularly Claire Wilkshire, who read earlier versions of this novel and was instrumental in its progress; and to Patty Wells for her astute comments and suggestions. I am also grateful to Paul Linegar, Bruce Mactavish and Pierre Ryan for generously sharing with me their knowledge of avian life, and to the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council and The Canada Council for the Arts for their support.

  The story of Suse Hayes told here was inspired by events described by Gerald L. Pocius in his book A Place to Belong.