The Hummingbird (24 page)

She picked up her book again, using that slip of paper to open to the page she’d left. “I just saved you the time.”

“Thank you.” I stood. “But I keep my promises.”

I left her there to read on undisturbed.

MICHAEL WAS SITTING
on the back stoop when I pulled in the driveway. Before reaching a standstill I had already taken the data in: sneakers and socks on the step beside him, a glass in his hand with lots of ice.

I climbed out of the car to the fragrance of phlox, which bloomed flagrantly in our neighbor’s garden. Michael basked in the afternoon sun, eyes closed. Barefoot Michael. It was another one of those moments when I just reenlisted, when it didn’t matter how hard life was right then, or how tired I was feeling, because I felt the irresistible pull of love.

I called to him over the roof of the car. “Hiya, handsome. How’s your day?”

“I am the greatest walker that ever lived.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Well, you’ve got your Gandhi, your Lewis and Clark—”

“Don’t forget Johnny Appleseed.”

“A piker. Guy didn’t have to deal with one minute of Portland traffic.”

I came around to kiss his cheek. “Which I gather you did today?”

Michael opened his eyes. “Am I allowed to brag?”

“I think you just were.”

“Then can I brag some more?”

I pushed his sneakers aside and sat. “I’m listening.”

“OK, I had just reached the shop this morning when the congressman’s office called to say the screw had arrived.”

“You did that, Michael.
You
made that happen.”

“So I walked there to pick it up.”

“That must have taken forever.”

“Two hours. Then I swung by here—”

“Oh, honey.”

“Then walked to Gene’s to drop it off.”

“Johnny Appleseed falls three notches. And Gene must have been so appreciative.”

“Actually, he got all awkward on me. But I made him put the screw in, and strap his leg on.” Michael laughed. “Of course he insisted we go for a walk.”

“Wait, though. Doesn’t Gene live on the north side?”

Michael jiggled his glass to tip an ice cube into his mouth. “Uh-huh.”

“Then why’d you come by here? That must have added an hour at least.”

“Yeah.” He crunched the ice, swallowed it, stared into his cup.

“Sweetheart?”

“To get my gun.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I brought him the .50, Deb. The big one. Four hundred rounds, too.”

“You walked halfway across this city carrying a high-powered rifle?”

“I didn’t figure any taxi would want me for a passenger. But it was in the zip-case, so everything was all legal.” He chuckled. “Never in my life saw drivers more ready to let a pedestrian cross the street.”

“Oh, Michael. Congratulations. And thank you.” I threw my arms around him, but he did not respond. I hugged him closer, but he still held solid so I let go. Then he rattled himself another piece of ice to chew.

“Was Gene pleased, at least?”

“Like I said, awkward. He didn’t want the gun, even though it’s way better than his. But then he seized on it, you know? And started talking about how this was a great gift, because now he could really sharpen his shooting, and that would help him start the process of getting shipped back over.”

“What? He wants to be deployed again? That’s crazy.”

“Times five. I get it, though. The guy was a janitor before the war, no power, no respect. Join up and you get training, responsibility, rank. But there’s no way anyone wants a one-legged soldier.”

“Did you try to talk him out of it?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to lay down the whole disability thing. So I told Gene the most spectacular pile of horse shit about the explosion day, because he has no memory of it. About him being a hero. The lives he saved, including mine. Duty done, mission accomplished, that kind of thing. You should’ve seen him, standing straighter. Literally, his body changed.” Michael held the icy glass to his forehead. “Today I learned the power of a loving lie.”

“A what?”

“The truth didn’t matter, Deb. I would have told Gene anything to help him. My conscience doesn’t feel so great about filling him with bullshit. But I got the gun out of the house for you, and now he has a functioning leg.”

Again the Professor had been right. Or was it Soga? “I am proud of you.”

He shrugged. “Crazy fuss over one little screw. Madness.”

“Still,” I said. I wrapped my arms around my knees, since he was uninterested, and hugged myself for a while instead.

THE 51ST ANNUAL BROOKINGS AZALEA FESTIVAL
featured a special guest who had not visited in years. In 1990, Ichiro Soga was seventy-eight years old. Nearly forty-eight years had passed since his American mission. Yet the controversy in anticipation of his arrival remained virulent and visible.

Jack Eggiman, a Pearl Harbor survivor, wrote the
Pilot
to castigate a man “who dropped a little bomb in the weeds. There are not enough words to put on paper the contempt I feel for the Brookings Harbor Chamber of Commerce and the people of this town who are trying to make this individual a hero.”

Yet when the festival arrived in May, and with it the visitation of a stooped and elderly man, the community’s embrace appeared devoid of controversy. At the welcome banquet, Leanna McCurley showed him a giant sandwich she had made in the shape of a submarine and plane. A photo in the
Pilot
shows a presentation so detailed, half an olive serves as Soga’s flight helmet.

The Japanese visitor presented another check for the library’s programs for children. He gave giant carp wind socks to the mayor, Chamber of Commerce president, and library director. When they appeared perplexed by the gift, he swung one in the air so they could see: It was like a giant fish-kite, but secured in one place on the ground instead of flying high on a string. In turn, the welcome committee presented Soga with a walking stick made of myrtlewood, the tree of local pride.

Controversy surfaced at the festival parade because Soga wore a hat decorated with a small American flag on the brim. Several veterans declared that they were insulted. Staff Sergeant Shirley Laird, who drove the lead Jeep in the military portion of the parade, gave his explanation to the
Pilot:
“He’s still a Jap.”

Otherwise Soga’s visit resembled the others: touring the port of Brookings, inspecting local fisheries. He stayed at the home of local banker Henry Kerr.

In general there was less bowing this time, not due to any diminution of manners, but rather because the guest showed fatigue in the afternoon and therefore participated in fewer activities than in past years. Toward the end of each day, he appeared to lean more heavily on the myrtlewood cane.

The next-to-last evening, seven local churches sponsored a dinner that caused an unexpected reunion. Heather Baker—now twenty-three years old, a college graduate working in Portland and engaged to the owner of a small hotel—hailed Soga from the moment she entered the room.

Heather was taller than Soga now, full haired and buxom. Soga was diminutive and frail. When he made a deep bow to her, she responded by giving him a bear hug. The moment was sufficiently moving that the crowd applauded. It was also immortalized by the lens of the indefatigable Piper Abbott.

All the while, Donny Baker kept his own counsel in matters concerning Ichiro Soga. There were indicators, however: Although he now served as treasurer of the Chamber of Commerce, he remained at his business rather than attend any festivities during the visit. He did not appear at the event where his daughter behaved so photogenically. Donny was mum about Soga, yet somehow managed to be universally considered on that topic to be as rough as sandpaper.

By contrast, his conduct upon seeing the
Pilot
the following morning was revelatory. Under a headline that in 1990 could only be read as tongue-in-cheek—“World War II Officially Over”—the newspaper devoted nearly half of the front page to a photo of his daughter embracing the Japanese man.

The subsequent sequence of events can be reconstructed by Heather’s interview with the
Pilot.

Donny saw the photograph and swore. “Damn it to hell.”

He stood, throwing the paper down. He paced a moment, refilling his coffee cup and glaring at the front page again. “That Jap bastard,” he said, storming from the room. He returned strapping on his holster, a pistol clipped in its slot.

“Where are you going with that?” Heather asked.

“Just you keep shut,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “You’ve already done enough.”

As he pulled on a windbreaker, Donny’s wife wandered into the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Back later,” he said, and with a slam of the door, he roared off in his truck.

IT WAS 7:00 A.M.
Donny was expected at 7:30 for the daily pre-opening tasks at the nursery: unlocking the safe, turning on computers, and activating the watering system. He was due at a meeting of the Chamber’s finance committee at nine o’clock. Lunch was with the builder of a new subdivision, to negotiate a landscaping contract.

Instead, Donny drove east of town, to the Kerr home. The household was barely stirring. However Soga, perhaps due to the eight-hour time difference between Japan and Oregon, was awake, dressed in his suit, and strolling in the garden. Piper Abbott sat parked in the driveway waiting for eight o’clock, when the Japanese guest was scheduled for a breakfast meeting with the school board.

Donny pulled into the driveway and called out his truck window. “Hey, Soga.”

The pilot paused in his meandering, smiling as if by reflex.

“C’mon,” Donny said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Ichiro Soga raised an eyebrow but did not say a word. Leaning on his myrtlewood cane, he hobbled to the truck. Donny opened the passenger door, and Soga climbed aboard.

CHAPTER 16

CHERYL MET ME
at the door the next morning. She blocked the doorway and looked at me over the tops of her purple cat’s-eye glasses. “Chat a sec?”

“Oh no. Has he begun dying?”

“No,” she said, gesturing down the driveway. When I stepped back, Cheryl pulled the front door closed behind her. She had her things already packed, the bag’s strap over her shoulder.

We ambled out onto the road. The pavement was dark from rain, but the skies were clearing, and it felt as if the humidity might burn off.

“What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check in with you about the daughter.”

“A charmer, isn’t she?”

“I thought it might be just me. Last night we had a fair dose of ‘What are you doing to him?’ and ‘Why isn’t my father in a hospital?’ ”

“So there’s a need for education about hospice?”

“It may take a little more than that,” she chuckled. “I also heard ‘Are you completely incompetent?’ and ‘Are you trying to kill him?’ ”

“Oh, Cheryl.” I put my hand on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

We had nearly reached her car, and she laughed. “I would like to make some clever observation about apples falling near trees. But Professor Reed actually has some charm, way down deep. While this peach of a gal . . .”

“I haven’t found the sunny side of her either,” I said. “Are there any immediate issues we need to deal with?”

“The problem is solving itself. She’s leaving today.”

That stopped me cold. “She’s not going to see him through?”

“Apparently not. She asked if I would referee their last conversation. That was her word, referee. I told her my shift was ending and you could help with that.”

“Lucky me.”

“Sorry.” Cheryl slid the key into her car door. “Like I said, a real peach.”

BARCLAY REED’S SKIN
looked loose and thin, translucent like an onion, which I recognized as dehydration. I checked his chart and the level in his water cup. Two ounces since ten
P.M.

“I know,” he said, blinking open his eyes. “I know.”

“I can swab you with glycerin,” I offered.

“Thank you, no.” Pressing the button to lift his bed’s upper half, he took several deep and noisy breaths. “Let me see if I can manage a few swallows now. I have a feeling I’m going to need a bit of fortification.”

As I brought the straw to his lips, he glanced past me. I turned to see his daughter in the doorway.

The Professor sucked hard, draining the cup with a noisy slurp. Pulling away from the straw, he forced a smile. “Good morning, Deirdre.”

I moved back by the desk, getting out of the way, less a referee than a guard. I hoped they would not hurt one another needlessly. But I suspected their needs were beyond my understanding.

“It’s D,” she said.

“D is not a name,” he replied. “It is an initial. An abbreviation to signify a bad grade.” He turned his face to me. “Why call yourself by a nomenclature that sounds like the verge of failure?”

Oh, you are not finished yet, I thought. She came when you are weak, but you are far from defeated.

D rolled up one sleeve of her sweater. “Am I a failure, Barclay?”

“Why ask a question whose answer is foregone? We both know you have risen admirably. Perhaps meteorically.”

“Anger is a formidable motivator.”

The Professor sniffed. “Anger is a snake that eats its own tail.”

D tilted her head back, watching him down her nose. “It is such a shame that your aphorisms are so far superior to your intellectual integrity.”

He crossed his arms. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“I know the truth.”

“You believe you do. Which is arguably worse.”

She rolled up her other sleeve. “Your claims of innocence exist in outright denial of university arbitration, severance without pension, and academic disgrace. Not to mention other matters of guilt we could discuss.”

“Deirdre, you fatigue me.”

“Reality fatigues you.”

He mused a moment, eyes unfocused. “You are utterly without mercy.”

D stood straighter, shoulders back. I realized she was taking it as a compliment. “About that much, you are correct.”

“Yes, well.” He picked at a thread on the blanket. “At least we know where you learned it.”

“Ah—” She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He had bested her. She could not deny her parentage. It was his trump card.

“I think,” I said, returning from my corner by the desk. “I think the Professor could use a bit of rest now.”

“Don’t call him that in my presence. He is not a professor anymore. He is a nothing.”

And she left the room. But I knew D was not done yet. It felt more like a boxer, going to her corner between rounds. I brought the Professor his basket of remotes, taking the water cup to refill.

He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, a father’s pride and joy.”

“I don’t know,” I said, shedding my neutrality in family matters. “Looked to me like a snake eating its own tail.”

For once he did not bother to hide his smirk.

D DROVE OFF SOMEWHERE
to do errands. I cleaned the house, washed the few dishes, and gazed at the lake for a while before returning to the Professor’s bedside. Late that afternoon, he awoke with a start.

“I’m right here,” I said, rising from my chair. “What do you need?”

“Has she left yet?”

“No.”

He relaxed, sighing.

“Do you want to speak with her again?”

He closed his eyes, pondering. “One more salvo, don’t you think?”

“I think you should do what’s best for you.”

The Professor opened his eyes. “Nurse Birch, is there a recipe for the ideal last parental conversation? Some script you might supply?”

“Not that I know of. But you can decide in advance what you’d like to accomplish. It may not happen, but it’s still worth a try.”

I raised the water cup. He put the straw to his lips by reflex but did not take any that I could see.

This was all a huge exertion for a man in his last days. Any moment now, Barclay Reed would begin actively dying. It would require all of his time, demand all of his energy. A man not eating and barely drinking will soon sleep the last of his existence away. I was determined to make it peaceful.

Which meant finishing business with Deirdre, however unpleasant, as soon as possible. “Shall I call your daughter in?”

“Yes. But then please do not leave the room.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

D STOOD AT THE DOOR
with her hands on her hips. It may have been a power pose, but the fact that she hesitated at the room’s threshold revealed her true emotions. I knew her suitcase sat by the front door. I knew she’d charged her phone and computer for the trip. Her escape was almost complete.

Yet in some ways, I felt worse for her. D’s father was dying, and she had no inkling of how to make peace with him. When he was gone, D would have to figure it out all by herself.

When she finally strode in, it was as purposeful as if she were coming to receive a diploma. As she halted at the foot of his bed, the Professor bowed ever so slightly. “Yes?”

“It’s time I recommenced my life,” D said. “I have a conference in San Francisco, then I’m going home.” She placed two fingers on the bed frame, but jerked them back as though the wood were hot. “I am saying good-bye.”

Barclay Reed gazed at her, his fondness unconcealed. “We both are.”

“I do not forgive you.”

He harrumphed. “Perhaps one day—”

“Not likely.”

“Please know,” he persisted in a quiet voice, “should the kindness arrive to you some years hence, that I accepted your forgiveness today.”

“How can you accept what I have not given?”

“I am the one doing the giving, Deirdre. Should the time come that you find the character and self-esteem to forgive me, please remember that today I absolved you from any guilt about how long it took to arrive.”

“It’s not Deirdre,” she said to the floor, her voice choked. “It’s D.”

And she was gone.

We heard the door close, the rental car start up and drive away. We listened while a breeze stirred the tree outside his bedroom window. There was a scent of newly mown grass. The Professor let out one long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. “But I also think that was a pretty spectacular and wise gift you just gave her. Years from now, she will thank you.”

“Yes, well.” He adjusted his bed angle an inch. “Some time ago you told me that suffering was educational.”

“I believe that.” I expected him to say something about his daughter next, about what his hurt at her hands was teaching him about the long patience of parental love. But he surprised me.

“Instruct me then, Nurse Birch. What are you learning from your husband’s suffering?”

I all but gulped. “Excuse me?”

“Your Michael. What is the latest thing his pain has taught you? Perhaps it will prove instructive.”

So I told him about Gene, and the screw, and the gun. This time the professor did not interrupt once, until I explained about the loving lie.

“Clarify,” he said. “Your husband knowingly fabricated heroism by his friend in order to convince him to take the rifle?”

“Not just that. Also to make him feel better about himself, in a way that only a fellow soldier could do.”

“Hold right there, please.” Barclay Reed silenced me with a raised hand. “I’ve just made an interesting connection.”

“I’m listening.”

He shifted in bed. “Here I am up to my neck in disease, we both know I’m in real trouble. Yet my mind just this moment acquired a new idea.” The Professor pursed his lips. “I may keep learning right to the very end.”

I thought: People generally die as they have lived. For a scholar, learning might be as habitual as breathing. But all I said was, “Would you like to share what you learned?”

“You’ll see momentarily,” he said. “First I need you to refresh my memory. What was that exercise called, the four inquiries?”

“The Four Questions, yes. I’m sorry you found it so annoying.”

“Do I recall accurately that one of them concerns apology?”

“Yes: ‘Is there anyone you wish to say “I’m sorry” to?’ ”

The Professor rubbed his hands together. It was the most animated I’d seen him all day. “Could you please fetch some paper?”

“DEAR DEIRDRE.”

I sat at the bedside, taking dictation. Fingers interlaced in his lap, he continued in his best lecturing voice.

“Or as you would have it: Dear D. You are correct, as ever. Blount’s research was impeccable. Mine was the sloppy work of a tired mind.”

I paused with the pen, but the Professor continued his oratory.

“He had made all the true finds, a sailor in uncharted waters, while I circled below like a shark, hoping something edible would fall from the stern. I justified it to myself by reasoning that his career was so green, it could easily withstand pruning by a senior historian. I was motivated by selfishness, greed, and ego.”

It was hard for me to write those things, because I did not believe them. If the Professor had impressed me with anything over the months, it had been the integrity of his intellect. But he persisted.

“Therefore I admit to you, now, today, and for all time: After decades of admonishing students for cheating, I committed precisely that academic crime. It was the wrong thing to do. I was wrong.”

He waited for my writing to catch up. I ached to interrupt, but before my hand stilled he spoke again.

“Obviously I paid a high professional price, but it was a pittance compared with the loss of your esteem. Therefore today I wish to apologize—not in a vain hope of changing your opinion of me at this late hour, but for the sake of my own conscience. I am sorry, genuinely sorry. I congratulate you on your immense career achievements despite my misdeeds. I wish you all continued success.”

At that he held out one hand. “There. May I sign it?”

I swallowed. Incredible. But his arm was outstretched for the clipboard.

“Here you are,” I said, handing it over with the pen. He wrote his name in a fierce burst and shoved the clipboard back at me. I scanned the letter. There was a space between my writing and his signature, where I imagined he would write if not exactly “your ever-loving poppa,” then at least “fondly” or maybe even “love.” But it was blank, a space of missed opportunity.

“Nurse Birch, would you please mail this epistle immediately? I relish the idea of it greeting her when she arrives home from the conference.”

“I’m not supposed to leave you alone.”

“Might we agree that, personality idiosyncrasies aside, I have been generally undemanding in the final wishes department? I wish to call that trump right now.”

“I don’t know, Professor.” I was tempted to add that I did not want to mail a letter that said what this one did.

He raised his right hand. “I, Barclay Reed, do solemnly swear not to die while you drive to the post office and back, so help me God.”

What could I say?

The drive along Lake Oswego to the post office was lovely, dappled light through the trees. Sometimes there is a guilty pleasure in taking a break from the bedside. Meanwhile, in the gaps between houses, I could see the water flashing, beautiful and untouchable. I remembered that in May I had hoped to swim in that lake, had meant to ask the Professor for permission to use his dock.