Migratory Animals

by Mary Helen Specht

  DEDICATION

  For T

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Alyce

  Flannery

  Santiago

  Molly

  Flannery

  Alyce

  Harry

  Molly

  Santiago

  Flannery

  Molly

  Alyce

  Flannery

  Santiago

  Flannery

  Alyce

  Molly

  Flannery

  Santiago

  Flannery

  Santiago

  Alyce

  Molly

  Harry

  Alyce

  Flannery

  Santiago

  Flannery

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the author

  About the book

  Read on

  Acknowledgments

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  What Flannery first noticed when she arrived in Nigeria were the towering palm trees. It was like walking off the airplane into a land of giants. The next morning, Flannery, barefoot, crossed her new front yard and stood beneath one of the sturdy palms, her shoulder blades pressing into the grooved trunk. She tilted her chin to look up at the canopy when, suddenly, the tree shook its head at her. A flock of birds swept from the branches, crackling the leaves.

  Flannery was on the lam. Ever since her mother’s death when she was in college, she’d let graduate school and then various research grants in climate science take her farther and farther from Texas: Wisconsin, Juneau, the Klondike, West Africa. Sometimes she imagined herself as a spider spinning an enormous web, swinging from one corner of the globe to the other, and like the spider, Flannery didn’t know exactly what she wanted—until she caught it.

  She met Kunle at an outdoor canteen near the Nigerian university where she had been posted on what was supposed to be a brief data-collecting trip. Sitting at an adjacent table with a soda and a worn textbook, he leaned over to her and said, “You should try the palm wine.” Kunle wore slacks and a blue button-down oxford, both ironed within an inch of their lives. Trim and preppy, he looked like one of those idealized husbands in films, the kind of man who kissed a beautiful wife before leaving for the office, the kind usually too straitlaced to be Flannery’s type.

  Flannery first thought to ignore him, remembering the U.S. security officer at the consulate who told her to avoid the mainland. “You mean mainland Lagos?” she asked, referring to the crowded coastal metropolis of flyovers and shantytowns. “No, the mainland,” he said, sweeping his arm in a grandiose gesture across the map hanging on his wall, indicating the center of the country where she would be living and working, indicating all of Nigeria, except, of course, the two tiny islands where the consulate offices were located.

  But Flannery was not built to be frightened of new things, certainly not this handsome man in glasses sitting next to her at a crowded canteen. So she ordered a cup of the palm wine and changed her life.

  Flan knew she was in love when, during a dinner at her house a few weeks later, Kunle recited a poem he’d jotted down on a scrap of newspaper that ended with the line, “For winter must not steal a kiss.” And then he kissed her, and as he did, he trembled. When she decided to stay in Nigeria and work full-time at the research outpost in Adamanta, Kunle made goat stew to celebrate and gave her a copy of The Palm-Wine Drinkard tied with a bow, saying that if she was going to be a white Yoruban, then she should understand her new history. He said, half joking, “This story will tie you to me forever.”

  In the novel, the protagonist’s only and entire job is to drink palm wine, tapped from the budding red fruit of the towering West African palms. When his tapper dies falling from a tree, the drunk makes a perilous journey to Dead Town in the hopes of finding and bringing him back. Flannery was fascinated by a world where drinking palm wine could be a job and where the dead lived in a village down the road.

  Reading the novel for the third time, she noticed a line of sweat trickle beneath her shirt, over the vines of star jasmine coiling along her ribs, a tattooed tribute to her late mother’s garden. Flannery’s own dead were far away, across the world in a place she visited once a year, just long enough to kiss her friends and family on the cheek. On her next trip to the States, Flannery had a palm-wine tree tattooed alongside the star jasmine on her back. At that moment, it seemed easy to ink a claim to such a thing, such a place. It seemed easy to choose a new home.

  Five years passed, and without warning, recession hit in 2008 and funding for climate science began to dry up. The research post in Adamanta exhausted its grant money, and Flan’s boss was shuttering the operation, going back home to the UK. In order to apply for her own funding stream to keep the post open, Flannery needed lab equipment she couldn’t get in Nigeria. She needed to return to Texas for a while—there was no other way, she and Kunle agreed. Flannery’s stomach churned at the thought of being in the States for so long, the emotional tar pit of a needy sister, old friends and lovers, a grief-stricken and defeated father. Everything that she’d traded for this sparkling new man, this new life.

  On the night before her flight, Kunle took her in search of fresh palm wine. They held hands, walking through the overgrown outskirts of the university campus, wide trails winding through frangipani and hibiscus, the gritty dry-season air cutting through Flannery’s mouth and throat. A woman in a bright green wrapper passed them carrying a computer monitor on her head.

  “You oyinbos always carry luck,” Kunle said, stopping suddenly, nodding up to where a palm-wine tapper perched dexterously atop one of his trees, wearing baggy brown pants and a sweaty tank top, bare feet gripping the trunk. Tappers spent entire afternoons and evenings climbing palm trees—using nothing more than their feet and a thick strip of woven bark to hoist themselves up—tapping into the flowers at the top of the palms and tying plastic jugs underneath to catch the liquid sap.

  She and Kunle waited at the bottom of the tree, and when the tapper touched down, Kunle gave him some naira in exchange for the fresh palm wine. They drank from little plastic cups with tin lids to keep the flies out. Flannery imagined she and Kunle were bound in the pages of The Palm-Wine Drinkard and that sitting and drinking was the only job they had in the world.

  She was reminded of an American teacher she’d met who had taught Thomas Hardy novels in a Nigerian high school in the 1960s and had been surprised to learn that his students had no idea what it meant to kiss. As she sat on a wooden bench drinking palm wine, morose over her own departure the next morning, she asked, “Is kissing un-African?”

  Kunle shrugged. “Is not knowing un-American?” He told her that during his undergraduate days he’d dated a girl from an isolated, rural village and that “she’d nearly screamed when I tried to kiss her. ‘Why would you eat my teeth?!’”

  Before he could finish the story, Flannery reached her hand behind his head, touching her lips to his. It was dusk, and a shadow of bats flew over them in search of insects.

  “I can’t stand this,” he whispered into her ear.

  She nuzzled him in agreement.

  He squared himself in front of her. “Let’s get married.”

  She raised her plastic cup high in the air.

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  She swallowed the rest of the palm wine. They planned to get married one day, had talked about it, but she always put him off because a wedding would inevitably involve her family and friends from the other side. Kunle was of this place. Of her life in this place. Kunle was untainted by the loss and heartbreak Flannery’s
family dragged behind it like a lizard’s tail. But maybe, she thought now, watching the dimple in his cheek hollow into a smile, this long trip to the States was an opportunity to say good-bye to her old life for good.

  “Okay. Visit me in Texas and meet my family.” They touched hands, allowing themselves to forget for a moment that travel visas for Nigerians were not quite so simple to obtain. “We’ll have one wedding there and then come home and have a wedding here. We’ll do it right.”

  To save money, Flannery usually took a shared car from the bus station in Adamanta to the capital, Abuja, where she then caught a flight to Texas via London. But this time, her friend Mrs. Tonukari insisted on driving her.

  Mrs. T was an older Welsh woman who had come to Adamanta with her Nigerian husband in the heady days after independence in 1960. Most of her fellow “Niger Wives” from that time had moved back to their own countries over the years, sometimes with and sometimes without the husband in tow. But not Mrs. T.

  Mrs. T shrugged when Flannery and Kunle sat in the backseat, pressing their bodies together like desperate teenagers. The woman had never said explicitly that she didn’t approve of Kunle. Instead, she liked to whisper to Flannery over tea about how Nigerian men were incapable of monogamy. Or how nobody in this godforsaken country was incorruptible in the long run.

  The car jolted up and down over incessant potholes, Flannery with one palm on Kunle’s blue-jeaned thigh, one around the ropy tendons of his neck. They passed women and children selling groundnuts and toothbrushes, a roadside shack with a sign that read MAKE WE TALK INTERVENTION SITE, and the occasional palm tree surveying rolling hills of dirt.

  At the airport, Kunle unloaded bags from the jerry-rigged trunk of the ancient Peugeot, and Mrs. Tonukari, wearing a button-up housedress that matched her short old-lady hair, one tooth missing, hands mangled by arthritis, turned to Flannery and said, “It’s hard to come back, you know.”

  Kunle looked at Flannery hard, knowingly, from where he stood on the curb, her rucksack slung over his shoulder. Then, he winked. “I’ll be right behind you.” This was his first time at a real airport.

  Once, when Flannery and Kunle lay sex-sweaty on their thin mattress, he’d asked if, before flying on an airplane, she sent insurance policies from a machine in the airport. Flannery had stared at him, not sure how to react.

  “No way, José. That’s bad luck. And machines like that don’t exist,” she’d said, kicking the mosquito net with her foot.

  Squinting as the flames from a candle played across his face, Kunle told her he’d read about them somewhere.

  “You’ll be on a plane one day,” she said, “and you can see for yourself.”

  A year after this exchange, Flannery came across the story of an automated insurance machine in a memoir by the Nigerian writer Wole Soyinka. In the ’60s, when he was a young man returning to Nigeria after studying at Leeds, Soyinka wrote about a machine in the London airport where, for a fee, the thing would spit out an insurance policy you could read and sign right there and then drop into a special mail slot.

  Flannery ran into the bedroom and showed the passage to Kunle as though she were the one who’d discovered it: “Look. He says he went crazy, sending them to dozens of people. Guys he owed chop to. Family. Anyone he could think of. Other passengers began freaking out, wondering if he knew something about the flight that they didn’t.”

  At the time, she’d stared at Kunle’s serious face, with its three symmetrical scars running down the left side, noticing for the first time how he looked a little like the photograph of the young Soyinka on the book’s flap jacket: cheekbones like machetes; bony shoulders perched over a girlish waist; liquid body like a dancer.

  A harried woman behind the British Airways counter at Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport looked at Flannery like she was an imbecile when she asked for directions to the automated life insurance machine. The woman handed Flannery a boarding pass.

  Sitting at her gate, Flannery closed her eyes, readying herself to face her sister, who would be waiting when she arrived in Austin. She thought: The only thing that will keep me from coming back to this place is if the plane goes down.

  ALYCE

  The ruddy birds arrived inside that slit of morning just before daybreak. It was nearly summer solstice, so the sun came early—before Alyce, who sat holding the image of a looped rope in her mind, felt ready for it.

  Alyce was awake because she never slept. These days, every cell in her body was a spring threatening to burst and fly apart like the cuckoo clock in old cartoons. Some nights, like tonight, she fantasized about a noose swinging from the thick rafter that split the ceiling of the cabin. Or she imagined filling her pockets with rocks and walking into the deepest part of the creek. Or pills. Or a fall from the cliff. Or car exhaust. But she wasn’t entirely serious. Alyce was a mother. She told herself this: I am a mother. I am a mother.

  The animals at Roadrunner Ranch didn’t sleep, either, going about their insomniac lives on the other side of the cracked casement window. Skunks and rabbits scampered along the fence line. Armadillos dug up worms around the porch. A raccoon knocked one of the bird feeders catawampus.

  Listening to the armadillo shuttle forward in the grass outside, Alyce sat cross-legged at the workbench in her studio—really the cabin’s sitting room—the back of her pale hand scribbled with notes for a wedding shawl: 2 skeins chen. xtra thin, pck of hks, eyelsh lace. Written diagonally up the inside of her forearm were the mathematical calculations to determine how much cloth, the size of the reed, and how many threads would go in each dent. The wooden table’s long indentations were navigated by rows of various bead combinations from her cache, which she kept in the drawers of an old library catalog. But Alyce was not really working. Alyce hadn’t really worked in months.

  This summer was not the first time she’d been paralyzed by the dark tar pooling inside her brain, but this was the worst it had ever been. Worse than when she had her jaw wired shut at thirteen. Worse than when she spent three months in bed after her eldest son was born.

  Baskets heaped with balls of colored silk and wool yarn covered a small table behind her horizontal floor loom, and she dipped her hands into the whites and yellows, closing her eyes, feeling for the softest. Alyce hand-dyed her yarn—in bowls and buckets set up on the porch—because she was obsessed with color: the gullible green of new spring leaves, the piss yellow of old bathtubs. None of her yarn was uniform, but made of subtle gradations: apricot to tangerine to burnt orange. Two weeks before, she’d dyed several skeins using the dried indigo her best friend, Flannery, always brought back from West Africa, and which Alyce first had to ferment to create a deep blue.

  Staring out the window just before dawn, as the hidden sun turned the horizon navy, Alyce began to see farther than the patch of manicured lawn out into the field of oak and cedar, eyes half adjusting to the unfolding scene, brain still trapped in the flotsam of sticky daydream, so at first, she wasn’t surprised the ground was blanketed by orange half-moons, gentle swells, bright splashes of belly: robins migrating for the breeding season.

  There were hundreds, maybe thousands of robins, and they perched on the trees and the fence and on every inch of native grass, transforming the acreage outside into undulating waves of color. Their bellies were the persimmon of the itchy 1970s sofa in her house growing up, the color of dried blood.

  Some of the robins were attracted to the deer corn, and so the thickest concentration of birds was along the jagged line toward the house where Alyce and her dark-eyed sons had laid out the kernels. Alyce knew Texas was on the central migratory flyway; birds returned from wintering in warmer climes, hugging the Mexican coastline, and then flocked into the central United States and Canada where they nested and bred. She also knew the flock of robins was supposed to be beautiful, was supposed to catch her breath with astonishment. Alyce felt nothing.

  But her boys would love it. Alyce closed the door to the studio behind her and slipped into her
sons’ room, waking them in their bunk beds with hands on their shoulders and the word, “Come.”

  They went through the kitchen and out the side door, then circled to the front of the house, rounding the porch on tiptoes. The birds ignored them. Her sons, Jake and Ian, crouched in front of her in matching blue-and-white-striped monogrammed pajamas, gifts from Harry’s parents; Ian cast an occasional glimpse at his older brother, Jake, to confirm his feeling of wonder. That what he was seeing was real.

  Living on this ranch was part of Alyce’s most recent arts fellowship, and for the boys, everything was new and wonderful. “The leader’s named Roger,” whispered Jake definitively, pointing to a bird settled on a branch of the only tree actually inside the fenced yard. Ian nodded in agreement.

  “Sic semper tyrannis!” Alyce said. The boys ignored her.

  Jake was wiry and pale like Alyce, but Ian would be different. He was square and squat, even for a three-year-old, and would grow to have the body of a wrestler, she thought. Alyce hoped that whatever else happened in the years ahead, they would remember this moment and think of her less harshly.

  Standing in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, shivering, a hand self-consciously placed on each of her sons’ shoulders, Alyce took a deep, full breath in the way her ex-therapist had taught her, but it caught in her throat on the way out as she watched Harry emerge from the other side of the house. He wore a brown canvas jacket, carved walking stick in one hand, tongues sticking out of his unlaced hiking boots. When Alyce looked at her husband, she couldn’t make herself feel anger or grief or tenderness or trust.

  “Early birds,” Harry whispered, standing above his family on the ledge of the porch. She wondered why he said it that way. There was no “up early” or “up late” for Alyce, just a ceaseless groan of semiconsciousness.

  “You, too,” she said, noticing the stink of her own underarms, the greasy sheen of her unwashed hair as she pulled a hand through its tangles.

  “I wanted to hike before the heat. And then I saw . . . this,” he said, gesturing at the robins. “Look at them.” She could see it in his face, the way the muscles tensed: her husband had been just as hoodwinked as her sons, perceiving something spectral about the robins’ movements en masse, about the ways they formed complex patterns, designs the birds themselves could not have understood on more than an intuitive level.