The Book of Dead Birds

by Gayle Brandeis

  “Ava. Ava Sing Lo.”

  “Well, isn’t that a pretty name, now?” Frieda says. “Sounds Oriental.”

  “Hmmm.” I spear a cherry tomato.

  “So, what brings you into these parts, Miss Ava Sing Lo?” asks Ray.

  “The birds. I’m helping out at the hospital.”

  “Oh, isn’t it a shame?” Frieda’s face washes over with sadness. “It just about breaks my heart. Not so good for business, either. Just this morning, in fact, we carried about eight or so dead pelicans, and one tern, to the dumpster. They were just lying there on the parking lot by the beach.”

  “You should call the hospital about them,” I tell her. “We’re doing statistics, and we have an incinerator.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you doing your job, honey,” says Frieda, “but we were about to open for breakfast and we sure didn’t want to turn the stomachs of our customers. It’s hard enough getting people to come here as it is, off the beaten track and all.”

  I force down the lettuce and strips of processed cheese I held in my mouth. These people had been carrying dead birds a few hours ago; who knew how well they washed their hands? My appetite quickly withers.

  “And the smell—that’s enough to turn them away,” adds Ray.

  I push my salad bowl toward a glass sugar container.

  “It’s worse even than the algae tides, and those can stink up the place like you don’t want to know,” says Frieda. “Which do you think is worse, Ray? The green tides or the red?”

  “Nothing stinks like these birds.” He pinches his nose. “But you get used to it, you know, just like you can get used to pretty much anything.” He leans his elbow on the counter; an anchor is tattooed on the inside of his forearm. POPEYE, I think, even though Ray’s arms are not nearly as big as the cartoon character’s, and both his eyes seem serviceable.

  “I think the green tides are worse than the red.” Frieda scrunches up her face. “The green are algae, the red are little dinosaur germs.”

  “Dinoflagellates,” Ray corrects.

  “They turn the whole sea red, or green, depending on the tide. Sometimes it gets so bad, all the oxygen gets sucked out of the water. People come and load all the fish on big trucks so they won’t suffocate.”

  “Where do they bring them?” I ask.

  “Don’t rightly know—some big pond somewhere? They bring them back when the tide dies down. There’s always plenty of fish here.”

  “Looks like there might not be too many after this die-off,” I say. “There’s more dead fish than birds, I think.”

  “Is that so? That’s a shame, truly. I guess I’ve heard that if the water keeps getting saltier, the fish might not survive too much longer anyway.”

  “This is some kind of place.” Ray tugs at his beard. “It’s amazing anything can survive out here at all.”

  “But we do, babe, don’t we?” Frieda pinches his stomach.

  “That we do.” He smiles at her. “Barely,” he adds, looking at me. I suddenly feel guilty and dig into my pocket for enough money to cover the tab.

  “So where do you hail from, sweetheart?” Frieda asks as Ray wanders back to the kitchen. “I’ll bet it’s someplace exotic—you look a little like some of the girls we have on the wall here. Are you from Hawaii?”

  “San Diego, actually.” I put some crumpled bills on the counter.

  “Where you staying?” Frieda ignores the money. I feel self-conscious about it and lay my palm over the dollars, so just small edges poke out, like my hand is on a bed of lettuce.

  “I’m sharing a tent with one of the rescue workers,” I tell her. “I haven’t been sleeping much, though. My roommate has bad dreams. Screaming dreams.”

  “That’s no surprise,” says Frieda. “It’s a real nightmare out there.”

  “I hope I’ll be able to stay awake.” I try to stifle a yawn.

  “Honey,” Frieda says. “If you need a place to stay, we got a trailer you could use.”

  I cock an eyebrow.

  “I have an old double-wide here in Bombay that’s just sitting there empty. I haven’t lived there in years, myself. My sister stayed in it for a while, but she moved to Arizona a couple of months ago. You’ll like the place—it has a view and everything. Just needs a little airing out.”

  I bite my lip, which tastes disturbingly of turkey juice, and take another sip of water. “I don’t know…”

  “It’s paid for already, so it’s not like we really need a rental income or anything,” says Frieda, “so long as you eat here every so often and don’t trash the place. Utilities are up to you, too, of course.”

  “Of course.” I nod, mulling it over. “It’s very generous of you to offer—I suppose I could at least take a look at it.”

  “It’s nothing.” Frieda winks as she slides the bills out from under my hand. “You done with that rabbit food?”

  I nod again.

  “Well, then. Let’s skedaddle!” Frieda hits the counter with her palm. “Ray, I’m taking Miss Ava Sing Lo here out to see the double-wide!” she calls as she ducks under the counter door.

  “Hurry back, sweet cakes,” Ray says with a deadpan voice, as Frieda grabs me excitedly by the elbow and leads me to the door.

  “I’d already forgotten how hot it is out here.” I squint as we blast out into the sunlight. In the heat, I feel like Miss Tomato myself, encased in a huge, sweaty orb of fake fur. “You have a good air conditioner in there.”

  “Refrigerated air,” nods Frieda. “We make sure to put that on all of our signs.” She leads me to her car, a white Nova, at least twenty years old.

  “I haven’t really been around Bombay Beach yet,” I tell her as she pulls her seat belt across her lap. “All I’ve seen so far is your restaurant.”

  “There isn’t a whole lot to it.” The car chugs through the salty lot.

  I adjust the vent on the dash, but all it does is pour out hot air.

  “It takes a while for the AC to kick in,” says Frieda.

  Sweat trickles down my face as I look out the window. A few people are, unimaginably, fishing at a small inlet. As the car turns the corner, I see huge piles of dirt, at least ten feet tall, heaped up along the length of the shore. KEEP OFF SIDES OF DIKE USE STEPS say signs every few feet. Obviously people haven’t been paying much attention. The dikes are crumbling in places, loose dirt scattered everywhere.

  “Why are these here?”

  “The water just keeps rising,” Frieda says. “This town is actually below the water level right now—if you look on the other side of that dike, the water would be up to your navel, at least. It’s all the runoff from the farms and everything—it keeps making the sea grow taller.”

  “Are people worried the town is going to get flooded?”

  “Well, the dike’s been holding up pretty good,” says Frieda, “but lots do get washed out sometimes. If you look around later, you’ll see there’s a whole trailer park half underwater, all rusted out on the other side of the dike—kind of creepy. A hardware store’s underwater, too, and a bait shop. Pigeons live there now. Did you know we have pigeons around here—just like a real city!”

  I haven’t seen any pigeons come into the hospital so far; I wonder if they’ve been affected at all by the die-off.

  “See how all these trailers have platforms built on top of them?” Frieda asks.

  Some trailers do indeed have small porches hoisted up over the roofs, some covered with Astroturf and plastic lawn furniture.

  “Those places used to be primo property—you used to be able to see the water right out your window—but after the water went up and they put up the dikes, all you can see anymore is a load of dirt unless you put up a platform.”

  “You said your place has a view. How’d you manage that?”

  Frieda just grins.

  We drive a few more blocks, past empty lots covered with abandoned salt-encrusted boats and trailers. There are a few small cinder block houses, b
ut most of the homes are trailers, most of them pretty rusty, their gravel yards full of dune buggies and shabby golf carts and old car parts. There are few lawns, fewer flowers, although there is quite a bit of cactus, and many chain-link fences have an assortment of flat, sandy-looking stones propped up against them. We drive by a hot-pink trailer with white iron scrollwork and a green gravel lot full of lawn ornaments, which I instinctively know is Emily’s. Sure enough, Miss Tomato, out of her costume, although still in fishnets and red high heels beneath her white shorts and striped tube top, comes out onto the front steps and waves her cigarette at us. Frieda honks and waves back. Emily does a little tap dance, wiggles her hips, sticks out her tongue, and disappears back inside her house. Frieda laughs and shakes her head.

  Could I actually live here? I wonder this even more as Frieda turns another corner and eases the car into a driveway. I crane my head to see out the windshield. Frieda’s double-wide doesn’t have a platform erected over it. The whole trailer itself has been somehow hoisted up onto a platform, eight feet or so up in the air.

  “Pretty nifty, huh?” Frieda says as we get out of the car.

  “How did you do that?” I tilt my head back to take it all in.

  “Boat hoist,” Frieda says. “A friend of ours works at the marina. Another friend works at the railroad—he got us the tracks for the substructure, here…”

  The frame of the platform does indeed appear to be built of railroad tracks.

  “And the railroad ties for the planking.”

  “These boards?” I look up at the slightly greasy-looking wood.

  “They’re the best,” Frieda says. “They’re soaked in pitch, so they’re weatherproof. Won’t rot or nothing, ever. Some black stuff oozes out of them sometimes, so just wear shoes when you go outside.”

  “Wow.” I walk around under the platform, around the cast-iron sewer pipe and copper water pipes and gray electrical conduit that reach from the platform into the ground. “Are you sure this place is safe?”

  “The safest,” Frieda says. “We went through that big quake a few years ago in there. Could barely feel it sway.”

  I walk back out from under it and look up. “What’s that?” I point to a large metal tray that hangs off the edge of the platform.

  Frieda unlocks a small metal box attached to one of the railroad tracks and pushes a button inside. The tray lowers down on pulleys until it is knee level in front of me.

  “It’s for groceries, luggage, what have you,” says Frieda. “It could probably even lift you up there, but don’t overdo it—I’m not sure how sound the motor is right now. The ladder is probably the best bet for you, yourself, but feel free to use the lift for your stuff. I’ll give you the key.”

  “Can I take a look inside?” I can’t tell if I’m fascinated or scared by the place. I can’t quite imagine living inside of it.

  “Of course.” Frieda starts up the ladder. I follow her. A drop of sweat peels down Frieda’s back, drops out the tail of her Hawaiian shirt, and hits me squarely on the nose. I want to wipe it off but feel too unsteady on the ladder to take my hand away. I turn my head and rub my face, as best I can, on my shoulder.

  “It does need some airing out, like I said,” Frieda says as she climbs up onto the platform and fumbles with the keys. I pull myself up behind Frieda. There isn’t much room on the platform—about two feet sticking out from the trailer on all sides—and no railing. I feel a wave of vertigo. I move beside Frieda and steady myself against a window.

  Frieda opens the door. “Phew,” she says. “It smells like an old thermos in here.”

  It does smell a bit like old milk in the trailer, mixed with dirty socks and rusted, liquefying, lettuce. Not as bad as dead bird, but close. I hold my breath. It is hot inside, too, stiflingly so. Frieda sets to opening up windows and turning on fans.

  “All the utilities should still be on,” she says.

  I go to the small kitchen sink and lift up the faucet lever. Water spurts a bit, hot, but soon it starts to flow and cool off. I run my wrists under the stream, wipe them across my forehead. The kitchen has dark wood cabinets, a microwave that was probably among the first on the market, and green, orange, and tan flowered wallpaper. I walk around the rest of the texturized shag carpet in the trailer. There’s not too much furniture. A small breakfast nook right outside of the kitchen, an olive-green couch in the living room, a couple of end tables next to it, one boasting a faceted amber glass lamp with a nubby beige shade.

  It wouldn’t be so bad to live here; it would be nice to get away from Abby’s shouts, away from Darryl tossing and turning in the next tent. I peer into the bedroom. An afghan stretches over a bare full-size mattress; the bed stand next to it holds a clock radio and a lamp like the one in the living room. A low dresser sits across the room. And, lo and behold, an air conditioner is mounted in the window. I run over and turn the knob. Cold air blasts against my face.

  “I’ll take it!” I yell to Frieda, who is in the bathroom. The toilet flushes, water runs, and Frieda walks into the room, smiling.

  “Well, then. Welcome home, sweetheart!” She grabs my hands in her wet ones.

  1968, CHEJU-DO

  The ferry ride to Cheju-do was choppy, the clouds overhead threatening to burst open. Sun snored against Hye-yang’s arm, but Hye-yang barely slept through the night crossing. As the first morning light crept into the sky, Hye-yang watched the island grow bigger and bigger on the horizon, rocky and dark, until it threatened to engulf the whole ocean. She shivered as the air filled with a light gray mist.

  Sun’s family came to greet her at the dock. They swallowed her up like some great organism, a human amoeba. Sun’s head poked up over the crowd as she was being swept away.

  “Are you coming with us?” she yelled to Hye-yang.

  Hye-yang shook her head and waved her friend on. At the bus station, she had wired her family to tell them she was coming home for a visit. Even though her mother had told her to never come back, Hye-yang didn’t believe she meant it—especially since she was contributing money to the family; more than she ever could have made as a diver.

  After she stood in the drizzle for two hours, a dock worker just ending his shift offered to give her a ride. Drenched and grateful, Hye-yang climbed into his car. They drove in silence for the first few minutes. Then, on a precarious road that overlooked the ocean, the man suddenly stopped the car with a jerk and unzipped his pants. He pushed Hye-yang’s head toward his lap, but she screamed and tried to get out of the car. He clamped her mouth with one hand and grabbed her left hand with the other. Crushing her knuckles, the man forced her to move her hand up and down over his semierect penis until he spurted all over the dashboard. With his pants wide open, he started the car again, one of his hands still tight over Hye-yang’s mouth. She looked out the window as a gull swooped toward the water, then disappeared under its dark husk.

  The scent of the man’s semen hung in the car like a sour rain. Hye-yang thought she might throw up. She tried to bite his hand, but she couldn’t move her mouth freely enough. When they were half a mile from her family home, the man leaned over Hye-yang, popped open the door, and shoved her out. She tumbled on the ground a few times before she landed on her side. The car showered her with dirt and pebbles as it peeled away.

  Hye-yang sat, stunned. Her right leg and hip were badly scraped from the fall. In a daze, she brushed herself off, wiping her left hand repeatedly against her coarse skirt. She spit onto the ground several times before she stood up, but couldn’t get the acrid taste of the man’s hand off her lips.

  Hye-yang limped down the dusty road. She ran her hand along the rough edge of the long, low volcanic rock wall until the skin started to scrape off her palm, but she couldn’t get the memory of the man’s body off her palm.

  In the distance, she could see a cluster of new houses, their corrugated tin roofs glinting through the light rain like an optical illusion. The houses were painted candy colors—tangerine orange, sea blue—
so bright, they hurt her teeth. She was surprised by how glad she was to finally see the muted stone and straw of her family’s house.

  All three poles were up at the front gate, one crossed over the other two. No one was home. Hye-yang squeezed awkwardly between two of the poles. Her hip and hand throbbed. The front door was locked, which surprised her—there had never been a lock on the door before. With a great deal of discomfort, she pulled herself through an open window and collapsed onto the stone floor.

  The house looked much the same as it did when she left, except for a small transistor radio on a windowsill and a black rotary telephone that rested on the ground beside her. Hye-yang picked up the receiver and let it hum into her ear. She could barely remember her mother’s voice. Her mother and grandmother must have bought these small concessions to technology with the money she sent home. She set the phone back on its cradle and curled her body around it.

  Several hours later, Hye-yang woke up sore and hungry. It was dark, but her mother and grandmother were still not back. She washed her hands several times in a bucket of water and lit a fire, then tore into a bowl of rice that was crusting by the stove. When she found no other food in the house, Hye-yang remembered the jar of kimchi that her mother always kept buried by the back door. She dug the crock up in the dark, her hands aching, dirt working deep into her scrapes. The vinegary cabbage was still crunchy, so Hye-yang knew it hadn’t been fermenting long. It tasted good—spicy and familiar—even though it burned her raw hand. For the next two days, it was all she had to eat.

  Hye-yang limped down to the beach a couple of times each day to search the choppy water for a glimpse of her mother’s bobbing head, her grandmother’s white diving clothes. Nothing moved but the waves and the occasional swooping bird. Walking back home, Hye-yang once caught a glimpse of what looked like a familiar face in one of the new tangerine-colored houses. As soon as she walked closer, the face disappeared. When she knocked on the door, no one answered.

  Hye-yang wrote down the number on her mother’s phone before she met Sun at the ferry docks. Sun looked well fed, happy. She offered Hye-yang a handful of warm chestnuts. Hye-yang held out her torn palm.