The Bear in a Muddy Tutu (35 page)

Bagg was upset his forward motion had been so rudely interrupted
;
his entire body had slip
ped into autopilot for the
last couple of
hour
s
, just kicking and kicking. The nearly drowned
former
newspaper reporter swore at the object in his path, tried to kick his way around it, but then a voice from above caught
his attention. Was it God? Was it
another
wise-cracking
pelican?

Just as Bagg resumed his kicking, all five
volunteer firemen
jumped in to save him
and promptly swamped his seat cushion. Bagg sank toward the bottom of the dredged cove in a slow-motion free fall. Underwater, there
was no wind or stinging rain a
nd Bagg was relaxed by the sudden quiet, willing to embrace the womb-like calm. His eyes were open to enjoy the beauty of the moment, the dancing bubbles in this fuzzy green and blue world.

Bagg tried to shrug away the hand
that
had attached itself to his right elbow. He knew the hand wanted him to go back up there, where life was crude and spiteful and windy as hell
. It was hopeless up there
and thi
s
place
seemed
perfect
for him. He’d swim with the fish, maybe find a friend among the mermaids and sea turtles. This was a better place. Sure, you might have to avoid the occasional shark, but life on the surface was chock full of much worse things than circling predators with lots of teeth. Bagg wouldn’t mind dropping a wrung or two on the food chain in exchange for the serenity
that
had enveloped him.

“Let me go!
”
Bagg tried to shout, but he hadn’t even begun to master the art of talking underwater. His divine harmony was cut short, snatched away. The searing pain of his lungs filling with salt water sent his body into agonizing spasms. He turned his fate over to whatever bastard had him by the arm.
For
Christ’s sake,
if
you want me that bad, then go ahead. I’m done fighting.

Bagg’s limp body was whisked back to the surface and roughly shoved on board, where he threw
up
only
a small portion of the salt water he’d
inhaled
while trying to complain.

“You’re gonna be okay, buddy.
”
And Bagg w
ould have laughed at the idea
of being okay
had his lungs not been filled with what felt like needles and
coa
rse
sand. Yeah, thanks, buddy, Bagg thought. I was doing just fine
underwater
.

There were crackling voices on a radio and more hands all over Bagg’s body. Someone shielded his face from the rain with a flapping piece of orange plastic, and Bagg appreciated the gesture. Any remnants of anger over being rescued were forgotten. A brace was wound around his neck, and he was tilted and scooped onto a stretcher for the ambulance ride to the hospital.

There was an upside to falling out of a stormy sky in a large jetliner, left to kick and paddle across an angry ocean, bumping headfirst into a rescue boat still safely docked. Aches and pains aside, his room was filled to the b
rim with cheerful flowers
and cards propped open, signed with lovely little well
wishes from people he couldn’t possibly know. Nice. Very nice.

Bagg lay on his back, wires and tubes attached to him here and there, as he craned his neck to admire all of his pretty flowers. It was his first foray into consciousness in the two days since his arrival, and every muscle in his body was stiff and aching.

Above the colorful display were other more curious items, which Bagg endeavored to comprehend through his fog. Taped to the soft blue walls were drawings of birds. Some were in crayon, done by the hand of a young child. Others were in pen or pencil, with much more intricate detail. But as little as Bagg knew of birds and art, he got the sense
that
the same child had drawn them all. Perhaps it was something about the sweeping
, rounded shapes of their heads, o
r maybe it was the
uniform
tilt of the beaks.

And for just a moment, Bagg thought the little contortionist
Amira
had slipped into the hospital bed with him. In his right palm was a small hand, about the size and feel of his friend
’s
. Bagg
lifted the hand he was cradling
and realized it probably belonged to a child. It was incredibly soft, with tiny fingernails bitten and as crooked as his own.

Bagg peered down at the t
op of the sleeping child’s head
and found his next breath almost impossible, because he’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe. His chest froze at the sight of her
crooked part
and the sound of her own raspy breathing
,
almost a little girl
-
snore. Her hair
was
bleached from
the
sun, and what skin he could see on her forehead was more tan than he’d ever imagined it could be.

But as with most dreams of Morgan, Bagg allowed himself to enjoy a little of the illusion before getting pulled or slammed back to reality. Like being lost in the desert, maybe it kept your sanity around a little longer if you allowed the mirage to linger for a moment, before trudging forward in desp
eration
. Perhaps a quick taste of sweet water before it disappeared back to that place
Amira
had called thin air.

Bagg let himself smile at his little mirage
,
who had grown so much since he’d last seen her. When he dared to gently squeeze her hand, Morgan turned toward him, her own dream interrupted. Her eyes fluttered open like butterfly
wings
, as she tilted her face up to her father’s.

Those perfect round eyes filled with all the hope in the world. They were the most beautiful image Bagg had ever seen in his life. And his heart ached. His lost little girl smiled, then closed her eyes again and snuggled close
,
a slight
crackling noise coming
from a sheet of once-folded paper trapped between them. With his left hand, Bagg slowly pulled it free,
its edges torn and the entire sheet dappled from
water damage
.

On one side was a picture of a bird, probably drawn by the same hand as those
taped to
the walls. It looked like
a
seagull
peeking
out from a hole in the ground. Did seagulls live in holes? Bagg turned the picture over and was surprised
that
the writing
was entirely done by
a
heavy, sweeping
grown-up’
s hand, a
ll except for the letter
“i
”
in the signature. Instead of a dot over the letter, there
appeared to be
the
tiny spread wings of a bird. Even more surprising was
that
the signature
had been
made
by the man Bagg had come to see, to plead the case for a grou
p of people pushed right up against the edge of dry ground, un
wanted and undesirable, required to remain
invisible until it was time for the calliope
to be switched on. B
agg read the letter from the twenty-nine-year-old
multimillionaire
named Michael Dupont, which gave Miss Morgan Freeman
ownership of a little plot of land, a speck of mud and marsh, really, known as Fish Head Island.

The one clause added at the bottom, just under his signature, must have been very important to Mr. Dupont, since he’d written it in all capitol letters:

“TO BE KEPT AS A PLACE FOR DANCING BEARS, BUTTERFLIES, AND MAGIC.
”

THE END