The Wild Birds Read online

  A Genuine Rare Bird Book

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302

  Los Angeles, CA 90013

  rarebirdbooks.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Emily Strelow

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic. For more information, address:

  A Rare Bird Book | Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  453 South Spring Street, Suite 302,

  Los Angeles, CA 90013.

  Set in Minion

  epub isbn: 9781947856516

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Names: Strelow, Emily, author.

  Title: The Wild birds / Emily Strelow.

  Description: First Hardcover Edition | A Genuine Rare Bird Book | New York, NY; Los Angeles, CA: Rare Bird Books, 2018.

  Identifiers: ISBN 9781945572753

  Subjects: LCSH Families—Northwest, Pacific—Fiction. | Northwest, Pacific—Fiction. | Family—Fiction. | Coming of age—Fiction. | BISAC FICTION / General

  Classification: LCC PS3619.T74558 W55 2018 | DDC 813.6—dc23

  For Andrew, Lewis, and Zephyr,

  my stars and my map.

  The trees and the muscled mountains are the world—but not the world apart from man—the world and man—the one inseparable unit man and his environment. Why they should ever have been understood as being separate I do not know.

  —John Steinbeck (from his notebook

  while writing East of Eden)

  I like to define biology as the history of the earth and all its life—past, present, and future.

  —Rachel Carson, Humane Biology Projects

  Trees, trees, beautiful trees.

  —Brown Creeper (Certhia americana)

  Contents

  Concatenation

  Devil’s Teeth

  Unbaking the Cake

  Strawberries and Beer

  Russian Blue

  Wild Ginger

  Waking

  All About Taking

  The People Collector

  Naked Antiques

  Blood Moon

  Siren Song

  Season’s Quake

  The Followed Path

  Jump

  Breeding Season

  Heavenly Brass

  Monsters

  Sheep vs. Goat

  Rooster Riots

  Cryptobiotic

  Fruiting Bodies

  Road Women

  Acknowledgements:

  Concatenation

  Burning Woods, Oregon, 1994

  The Northern Harrier flew higher than usual above the fence line, catching an updraft off the hillside and letting the warm air loft her into the sky. Below, in the Willamette Valley, an orchard-bordered grassland gave way to the foothills of a small mixed conifer forest. From the great height where the tawny bird hung as though paused, a thin patchwork of forest extended below in a jagged line westward toward the ocean—the slimmest of remnant green corridors for the songbirds, insects, or hard-pressed large mammals to travel from the valley all the way to the Pacific. The bird let her senses take in the immensity, as it is not just humans who find pleasure in regarding the expanse of water at the edge of land. Beating hearts are mapped by this longing for the infinite. She let the wind carry her as high as it could and then slowly glided back toward the earth. Her ears picked up the rustle of life below, and she was hungry.

  At the back of their filbert orchard, Alice and her teenage daughter, Lily, played a game to pass the time as they crouched in the messy, expansive garden pulling weeds. The game was called Mary-for-Jesus and the rules were simple: swap out the name of a male protagonist for a female in a notorious work of literature and imagine how the plot would change. Mary-for-Jesus. Humila-for-Humbert-Humbert. These moments discussing books, reimagining the canon, marked increasingly rare peace between the two.

  “Okay. How about Nineteen Eighty-Four?” Alice started.

  “Let’s see…Winston. Winston.” Lily stabbed her trowel deep into the earth to get at a dandelion taproot. “Winnie.”

  “Nice!” Alice threw a handful of rush weed onto the pile. “And how do you think Winnie would rewrite history?”

  “Less party line, more panty line?” Lily inspected the dirt under her nails, the dark brown loam filling in the gaps where her black nail polish had chipped off.

  “That’s the spirit,” Alice said. “One point for you. Maybe not a Camille Paglia–approved answer, but I’ll take it.”

  “Whatever, feminazi.” Lily ducked a flung dirt clod and cut some arugula with scissors, starting a pile to take into the house later. She turned to her mother. “How about Lord of the Flies? If those boys’ mothers had anything to say about it, that conch shell would totally be intact at the end of the book.”

  “Exactly,” Alice laughed. “Rogerina-for-Roger.” One point for Alice—not that anyone was really keeping score. “And if London’s protagonist in To Build a Fire were female, she could probably will that fire into existence with her mind, then convince the fire it was its own idea to start in the first place.”

  Lily paused, trying to recall the name of the character. “No-name-dude-for-no-name-lady,” she offered. Another point for Lily. She turned the scissors on a slug and snipped it in half without remorse, leaving the carcass in the garden as if to warn off others, then gathered the rocket and stuffed the spicy greens into her overalls pocket. Alice threw a handful of weeds in the general direction of the wheelbarrow and said, “How about…”

  “How about we are done with this game?” In the way teenagers are like wolves, Lily cut her off, turning suddenly impatient. “I have to go meet people. Plus, I’m ahead.” She smiled a canine grin she liked to call the “grim reaper.”

  Alice blew a fluff of dandelion seeds in her direction.

  “Mom. We’re just going to have to pull more weeds if you do that.”

  “How else would I get to spend time with my beautiful and gracious daughter anymore?”

  The barely warm rays of spring sunshine bore down on the soggy valley, lifting steam off every green surface as Lily and Alice gathered up armloads of the uprooted weeds and piled them into an ancient, rusted wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow could have been any color once, but no one who might remember was still alive to name it. Some thirty feet away, on the property line of their hazelnut orchard where the razed and tilled land gave way to a stand of smallish Douglas fir, one of their barn cats leapt from behind the corner of the old, peeling blue storage shed, chasing a mouse. There was a splash of blood from the pursued rodent on Fickle Cat’s front paw and the flayed mouse tumbled over itself in the dirt and grass ahead of the predator. Just before going in for the deathblow, Fickle made her singular mewl—a honk like a groggy drunk—then bolted off into the long grass, abandoning her prey. Busy watching the cat and mouse, mother and daughter failed to see the harrier flying low on the left, just grazing the sedge with the tips of her wings. The striking raptor looked disheveled and half plucked in her worn winter plumage. She rose and circled the ground a few feet above the mouse before dropping with precision. Alice set down her trowel and drew closer, compelled, her long, strawberry blonde braid sliding over her back and off her shoulder as she crouched.

  “Lil,” she whispered. “Come look.”

  The harrier consumed the finally, truly dead mouse, taking strips from the flesh with her long, hooked beak. As they approached within twenty feet of the bird, something strange bec
ame apparent. Where there should have been golden, knowing raptor eyeballs were two empty, healed-over sockets.

  “She’s blind,” Alice whispered. “Hunting blind. Unbelievable.”

  At the sound of Alice’s whisper, the bird held her head at attention and rustled her large wings, the smallest of small intestines dangling from her beak, then returned to her meal and let the two watch her briefly before swallowing the rest whole and flying off, her crop bulging. She skimmed the grass and disappeared behind the pressboard skeletons of future tract housing on the adjacent acreage, stealthy as a serpent’s retreat.

  After dumping the weeds in the compost, Alice and Lily walked the quarter mile back to the house through their hazelnut groves. Alice was alive with speculation. She thought that maybe the harrier was able to hunt blind because she had facial disks like owls that allowed her to hear her prey more easily than other raptors. She thought that maybe Fickle Cat, never a particularly adept huntress, had been inadvertently helping the harrier survive by providing prewounded prey. She thought that maybe—and for this she raised her eyebrows and turned to look into her daughter’s eyes—they had on their hands some sort of divine creature. The manic intensity in her mother’s voice made Lily brace for a fall. She knew this phase well.

  The word “divine” was secularly defined in their house but used often. Wine was divine, film was divine, books and music were divine. These moments received the heavenly, swirling crescendo of her mother’s contagious enthusiasm. Lily’s outfit from her first day of high school of ripped jeans and an old Pendleton wool shirt, or her black nail polish and matching lipstick and attitude—not so divine, according to Alice. Lily’s sass about her mother’s opinion on such matters, also less than divine. This decrescendo could be steep. For Alice, divinity was really a matter of opinion, and people should understand that on her farm, in her world, her opinion was the only one that counted. The orchestra of whim and wonderment was not to be conducted by anyone other than herself.

  At the suggestion of a divine creature, Lily simply nodded with a clenched jaw and said, “Divinity is really in the eye of the beholder. Isn’t that what you always say?”

  Alice smiled and put her arm around her much smaller daughter as they walked back toward the house. Something caught Alice’s eye and she stopped to check out a small oval-shaped black sore on the trunk of one of the hazelnut trees, her mood shifting further out of orbit.

  “Goddamn it. Damn fucking dammit.” She turned to her daughter with her finger still on the sore. “This fungus is going to kill my trees and then me, I swear.”

  “Yes, you do swear. That will be a dollar twenty-five since noon,” Lily said. “Leave it. Come inside and eat something.” The turn in her mother’s voice released a familiar turn in Lily’s stomach. The pitch up in tone indicated she would soon be swinging wildly down from her happy place, and the mere thought of it made Lily’s shoulders tense up.

  “Dammit all.” Alice sighed as they approached the old two-story white house, listing on its foundation a little more every year. She waved her daughter into the house without really looking at her. “I just want to put out some oranges for the tanagers, then I’ll be right in.”

  “Bird nerd your heart out,” Lily said, letting the screen door slam behind her.

  Alice picked up the oranges she’d set on the deck railing and sliced them with a deer-dressing knife she produced from her pocket, the blade flicking open with dangerous grace. She pulled the flat of the blade across her arm, the risk of the blade pushing into her skin a familiar, comforting thrill. She then halved the oranges and speared them on prominent nails sticking out from the side of the deck. The stabbing of fruit flesh released some of the pressure building in her brain.

  “I saw the first western tanager of the season yesterday,” Alice offered to no one in particular, as though idle chitchat could stave off the inevitable storm churning in her neurons. She punctured another orange half hard, then glanced around, as if the brightly colored migratory birds were waiting in the trees to rush the oranges.

  “You feed the birds, Mom, but forget to feed yourself. It’s messed up!” Lily yelled through the screened-in kitchen window.

  “Whaaat? Can’t hear you!” Alice lied, splitting the last orange.

  Fickle Cat slunk up from underneath the deck through a broken, rotting slat and rubbed herself on the doorframe, still hungry. Because barn cats are regularly taken by coyotes in the night, Alice decided they should always name the creatures _______ Cat, as if the “Cat” suffix were some sort of acknowledgement that these animals were one paw in this world, one paw in the next. She let her daughter name them all, and in Lily’s fifteen years of life they had gone through Moo Cat, White Cat, Fatface Cat, Stinky Cat, Chicken Cat, Zombie Cat, and now finally Fickle Cat and Concatenation Cat (named after the kitten found its way to their door during one of Lily’s PSAT study sessions). Though, Alice always let Lily choose the name, the attached “Cat” was not up for debate. “A cat is a cat is a cat,” Alice’s mother used to say when a barn cat went missing.

  It used to be that no one in the family was allowed to name them. Animals were not bound for the kingdom of heaven, so why should they be christened with names? But after Alice’s parents died in quick succession, leaving a young Alice and even younger Lily alone on the farm to fend for themselves, the changing names acted as a sort of abacus ticking off Lily’s awkward progress toward adulthood—from Moo to Fickle and everything in between.

  In the kitchen, Lily made sure her mother couldn’t see her, took four dollars’ worth of quarters from a jar on the shelf, and pocketed the change to buy cigarettes later. The small thievery always elicited a thrill, a shudder, in Lily’s core.

  Lily cut up their early spring harvest, the arugula she’d collected from the garden, and wilted it in a pan with leftover roasted potatoes in some fresh sage and butter, then cracked a duck egg over the top, adding a little hard cheese at the end. The plate was steaming on the table when Alice came in.

  “Eat,” Lily ordered. Both girls were a little surprised to hear the forceful intonation in the way Lily said this. In some moments she could sound just like Alice, but with a force majeure.

  “Yes, ma’am, your highness.” Alice took a seat. “But come eat with me.”

  “Already did. The food’s salted and peppered, but there’s more if you want it. I’m going out. You owe me a dollar twenty-five, no, dollar fifty. Don’t forget.” Lily glanced toward the large glass jar full of quarters on the wall among the preserved beets and beans with a sign reading I SWEAR I didn’t mean it. The price was one quarter per transgression. More than once Lily had imagined lugging a red wagon full of jarred quarters into the financial aid office at the university. At that point she might have enough for, maybe, a half semester of classes. Or if life continued on status quo, she could just keep smoking cigs for a year or two.

  “Stay.” Alice bordered on pleading.

  “Can’t,” Lily said, dabbing her black lipstick on a napkin and checking her reflection in the hallway mirror.

  “Please?”

  “Don’t, Mom.” Lily looked annoyed. “I. Have. Plans.”

  Alice sat in front of the plate and whispered an almost inaudible “fine” after her daughter had already left the house.

  The still-young Alice, at thirty-one, looked like a child in some ways and acted like one in several others. Her long, strawberry blonde braid and thin frame led people to regularly mistake the duo for sisters, or cousins. Lily was even lighter in coloring than her mother, her pigment-poor skin almost that of an apparition. Her curly, fine hair bordered on white, her veins a visible blue underneath the surface of thin, pale skin. It bothered Lily that anyone on the street had a window to her inner workings, that map of blue pumping blood intended to be understood only by doctors and deities. But her natural patina paired with her requisite black lipstick left Lily resembling the walking
dead, and that’s just the way she liked it. She respected all things zombie.

  Alice sat alone thinking about the fungus that had killed off half her hazelnut crop last year, leaving them almost destitute, facing off with the food prepared by her increasingly surly teenage daughter. She sat and tried to forget about the black spots on her trees, the rotting floorboards and sagging foundation of her house, her daughter’s growing disdain, and the dark pit inside her that felt like it was trying to turn her inside out. She got up and poured herself a large mason jar of cheap wine, then, finally, once the wine hit her blood, she ate.

  That evening, Lily woke in the middle of the night to the sound of glass breaking against metal and her mother’s howl trailing off into the quiet night. The drawn out, “Fuuuuuck yoooooooou, asshooooooole,” echoed faintly on the hills by far away neighbor hounds. From the second-story window, Lily recognized Alice’s on-and-off boyfriend Randy’s old Ford truck hauling up the dirt driveway with one taillight newly busted out. His part-wolf mutt Party Dog turned quick circles in the bed of the pickup before settling in a corner just as the one red light disappeared behind a bend of alders. Down on the front porch, Lily saw her mother sitting on the steps with her head in her hands, her reddish mane a tangled mess, glass shards littering the driveway, catching light like a flattened disco ball in the moonlight. Lily decided not to go downstairs. She was familiar with this scene and there was really nothing she could do. Instead, she lay in bed with the spotlight moon fixed on her face, listening to her mother’s soft sobs drift up. She didn’t even close the drapes to block the light. If she concentrated hard enough, maybe her flesh would actually turn to stone.

  “That’ll be fifty cents,” she whispered. “But who’s counting.”

  ◆

  In the morning, Lily walked into the kitchen to find her mother vacuuming a hole in the wall with one hand, a large jar of white wine in the other. Alice wore a diaphanous nightgown that, with the strong morning light pouring in behind her, left little to the imagination. Alice was thin but strong, her muscles taut from a lifetime of harvests and other manual labor, her limbs and core perhaps a little too lean from malnutrition, resulting more from absentmindedness than vanity. Tufts of fine hair glowed from between her legs, under her arms, and tapered to fuzz on her long legs. Her eyes were rimmed in pink as she vacuumed the wall, her irises an urgent seafoam color they turned only when she’d been swimming in chlorine or crying.