Killdeer

The phone began vibrating in Drew’s pocket at exactly 12:30, thirty minutes before last call. Parole officers never called this late, not even the anal ones. And he’d just finished swing at the mill, so he knew it wasn’t the boss.

He didn’t care to know who was calling just before closing time. Drew was more interested in eating something and getting some sleep. He monitored the pair of eggs frying on the stove. Drew liked his eggs thoroughly cooked, not runny in the slightest. He remembered how Mary Catherine would crinkle her nose as he made breakfast: “You’re ruining them,” she’d say. The yolks burst and spread quickly, covering the plate with milky liquid like a mudslide after the first strong rain, whenever she fixed them. His hand hovered over the pan, spatula at the ready.

The muffled buzz of the phone mingled with the low hum of the refrigerator and the pop of the eggs in the grease. Then the phone stopped vibrating and went to voicemail. The eggs were left to harmonize with the refrigerator. No singular pulse jarred his pocket, so no message.

The yolks turned a dull yellow, Drew flipped his eggs and put a piece of bread in the toaster. Again, the phone began to vibrate against his thigh. He pulled it from his pocket and stabbed the ignore button. Drew noted that the number was local, but not one of his contacts. The phone went still in his palm. Again, the caller left no message. He checked that the missed call was the same unknown number and stuffed the phone back in his pocket.

The bread sprang back into view, slightly burned. Drew slathered some blackberry jam on the toast, then slid the eggs from the pan, grease included, onto a small plate. He stood at the counter to eat. As he cut the first bite with a fork, the phone renewed its efforts to draw his attention away from food and sleep.

“Jesus,” he mumbled as he retrieved the phone. He answered this time, afraid the constant calls would burn through his prepaid minutes. “Yeah?”

“Drew, that you?” Tanner asked. “Look man, I need a ride.”

“Where are you?” From the background murmur of voices and music and the slur in Tanner’s voice, he correctly guessed the answer.

“Sunset. You remember the place?”

Drew remembered the Sunset Tavern. It was directly across the parking lot from the Value Clean Laundromat where Tanner’s sister worked. Mary Catherine drove them around most of the time back then, since she consistently had a valid license. While they waited for her, they self-medicated in her mini-van or drank and shot pool inside the Sunset.

In those days, they worked seasonally on the wildfire suppression crews. The job seemed ideal to Drew. You worked hard from late spring until the first heavy rains of fall and it paid enough to keep you in heroin for the rest of the year. Still, it was strange to have his livelihood dependent on destruction, natural or otherwise. He remembered that during one particularly slow season, Mary Catherine had offered to start a fire, just so they could get some work in. “Nothing big.” She’d smiled at him. “Just a little grass fire along some ditch.” Crew work was dirty and dangerous, but it was a damn sight better than pulling the green chain at the mill or setting chokers. At least that’s what Drew told himself. But the fire chief didn’t take convicted felons or known junkies.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in fifteen. Meet me outside.”

Tanner hung up without another word. Funny, he hadn’t seen his old friend since the night Mary Catherine had him arrested. But her brother acted just like it was old times.

Drew covered the plate in foil and put it in the refrigerator. He’d heat it back up when he got home. He pulled on his boots and a quilted flannel jacket lined with fake sheep’s wool. The sleeves were worn through at the elbows. Drew clasped the red Seven Feathers Casino poker chip that topped his keychain and moved to the door.

Outside, a resilient November snowstorm continued its attempt to bury the Umpqua Basin. The rest of Roseburg, sound asleep, would wake to a surprise. The wind blew steadily and two inches had already accumulated. Drew wondered how badly the city would be crippled by the storm. Roseburg, like many cities in the Pacific Northwest, was ill-prepared for winter weather. The problem was the rarity of real snow. It would be stupid to invest in a fleet of plows and a stockpile of salt. Lord knows, Douglas County didn’t have a lot of extra money to spend.

Even though he’d just come home from the mill, his mustard-yellow Datsun pickup was reluctant to start in the cold. He brushed the snow from the truck’s windshield and headlights with his sleeve. In the cab, he cranked the key hard to the right. The truck clicked and squealed until it finally relented, turning over slowly three times, then sputtering to life.

Drew turned right onto Winchester Street and merged onto old Highway 99. There was no traffic. The snow sat in a loose layer over the pavement. He felt the Datsun shudder and shake with each minor adjustment of speed or turn of the wheel. At the first traffic light, the old truck skidded to a stop. Its nose protruded just beyond the outer limits of the crosswalk.

Even stationary, the snow slanting through the headlights like falling stars gave the illusion of motion to the Datsun. When the light changed, Drew pressed the accelerator and fishtailed through the intersection. After a block, he finally steadied the truck in its lane. He felt relieved that the road was empty.

After the truck repeated this performance at the next red light, Drew pulled off in the Safeway parking lot. From behind the seat, he grabbed a collapsible shovel and piled snow into the bed for ballast. Finished, he wiped his brow and stared at the sky as he coughed hard from exertion.

Overhead, the snowflakes dashed in and out of the yellow glow of the street lamps, as if trying to draw his attention away from the truck. Drew remembered waiting for the school bus in fourth grade. A killdeer harassed him every morning that spring. The tawny bird had laid her eggs on the ground somewhere nearby, probably in the gravelly ditch. A killdeer will fuss and act as if its wing is broken to lure predators away from its nest. The prospect of an easily captured bird was more appealing than a mouthful of small speckled eggs.

“The killdeer tries to trick you into giving up something good. Leads you off in the wrong direction,” his father told him. “Then, just when you think she’s yours, bam! She’s gone.” The old man always illustrated this last point by cupping his hands into a fake balloon, then crushing it into invisible powder.

Drew never saw the nest and didn’t care where it was hidden. Still, the killdeer was insistent that he not stand at the end of the long gravel driveway. Follow me, she urged, as she dragged her wing back and forth in the dust. At first, he found the display interesting, but as the days wore on and the killdeer failed to relent, Drew found her cries and dramatics annoying. Still, his father insisted, “It’s not her fault. It’s her nature. You can’t blame a killdeer for being a killdeer, son.”

With the added weight, the truck was more balanced. The back tires gripped the road and the Datsun stopped fishtailing. Drew continued north on old 99 toward Winchester, the road turning darker as the houses and businesses thinned out.

The Sunset Tavern hadn’t changed since he’d last been there, four years prior. The exterior was still painted teal with orange trim, capped with a rusted metal roof. There was no sign of Tanner. The parking lot was virtually empty; in this weather, most of the patrons hadn’t waited for last call.

As he sat in the cab and waited for Tanner to emerge from the bar, Drew thought about his own plans for the day. First, get some sleep, then wake in the afternoon, shower and shave, and eat a TV dinner. Then head back to the mill in Riddle for another shift, if the snow didn’t close the road.

In his rearview mirror, Drew could make out the faint glow from the Value Clean’s neon sign. He wondered if Mary Catherine still worked there. He hoped not. The last time Drew had seen Mary Catherine was at his parole hearing. He’d just completed rehab and was being released to work crew. Visibly pregnant and crying, Mary Catherine begged the judge not to impose the mandatory restraining order on him. Even without the order, Drew knew he wouldn’t see her again. But he remained silent as she went on.

Mary Catherine had called the sheriff immediately after he slapped her hard across the face. They were at the peak of their latest argument about nothing. The slap echoed through their cramped apartment like dry thunder, where no rain falls to break the tension. The argument stopped. She looked back at him, blood on her mouth, no words. Mary Catherine moved with purpose to the phone on the counter. And Drew made no attempt to stop her. Rather, he went to the living room, sat on the couch, stretched his neck as he rubbed the back of his head, and waited.

She regretted the call even before the police arrived. “Why don’t you go?” she’d said. “You can’t be here when they get here.”

But Drew didn’t move at first. He continued to wait for the sheriff, even as her suggestions became more urgent and pleading. At the last moment he fled, squeezing through the narrow bathroom window, then staggering down the street. This was more from an instinct that he had to try, not thinking he’d actually get away. He didn’t make it even half a block.

Of course, the deputy had to be Junior Billingsley, the punk who’d tormented him throughout high school. Junior tackled him hard on the sidewalk, stabbing his knee into Drew’s back. “Just like old times in PE, asshole.” And he’d chuckled as he cuffed him extra tight.

Like idiots, Drew and Mary Catherine had agreed to Junior’s demand to search the apartment. He found Drew’s stash in his closet, and a scale and sandwich bags in the kitchen. Drew was charged with domestic violence, resisting arrest, and possession of heroin with intent to distribute.

Mary Catherine didn’t know his stash was inside, and neither of them knew she was pregnant. “He didn’t mean to hurt me,” she told the court. “And I don’t want to lose him. I just wanted to scare him, is all.”

The judge cut her off. He lectured her about Drew’s history of violence, his prior assault with a weapon conviction. When she explained that that was just a bar fight, one swipe with a dull pocketknife, she might as well have held up an ENABLER sign. The judge then turned to Drew and made it clear that the restraining order was part of his parole, and if violated, he would go to jail.

Still no sign of Tanner. Drew reluctantly killed the Datsun’s engine. He hadn’t been inside the Sunset since his release. It wasn’t the sort of place his PO generally encouraged him to hang around.

Inside the dimly lit bar, the air was warm and stale. In some ways, the conditions weren’t that different from the mill, just with a more open layout. Both places had perpetual low lights and sour air, no matter the time of day or season. Both had sawdust on the floor. And both were usually filled with men complaining about their bills and their wives at home. Like the outside, the tavern’s interior was unchanged. Drew remembered the hours he and Tanner had wasted shooting pool, listening to old loggers long for the State of Jefferson, while across the parking lot Mary Catherine starched and folded sheets and wrangled lost socks.

It wasn’t hard to spot Tanner. He slouched over the bar, an open Rainier stubby in front of him.

Drew tapped Tanner on the shoulder. “You were supposed to meet me outside.”

“In this weather?” He swiveled on the stool to face Drew. “Piss off.”

“Ready?”

“What’s the hurry?” he asked. “Sit down. Let me buy you a drink, brother.” Tanner gestured for the bartender, who was cleaning glasses at the other end of the bar.

Drew waved him off. Outside of a small group in a booth across the room, there wasn’t anyone to distract the bartender from serving them. Still, he seemed content to continue to clean the glasses.

“Thought you needed a ride?”

Tanner turned back toward the bar. “I do,” he said. “But it ain’t last call.”

“Let’s go.” Drew grabbed Tanner’s elbow and lifted his old friend off the stool.

Tanner jerked away and staggered into the bar. He knocked the Rainier over, but managed to put the seat between them. “Look what you made me do,” he said.

“There a problem?” asked the bartender, suddenly interested, towel in hand.

“Nah,” said Tanner. “My friend here just gets a little grabby when he’s had a drink. Ain’t that right, Drew?”

Drew felt his fist clench and release. He couldn’t tell if Tanner was trying to make some point about their past or just making a joke at his expense. “Sorry,” he said. “We were just leaving.”

The bartender nodded toward the door and wiped up the spilled beer. Tanner closed his tab. The two men left the almost-empty tavern.

Back in the Datsun, the engine had cooled and Drew again had to crank the key to get the motor to turn over. “You still live in Mill-Pine?” he asked as they headed back to Roseburg.

Tanner sank into the seat, shaking his head. “Glide. You’d know that if you spent any time with your son.”

Glide was more of a drive than he’d bargained for in these conditions, especially with the sort of mood Tanner was in. His passenger let out a long belch as he continued to adjust himself in the narrow seat.

“When’d you move?”

“After Mary Catherine got a job tending bar at the Narrows,” he said. “We rent a little house behind the lounge.”

Drew wondered why Tanner still hung out at the Sunset if he lived behind a bar. “She ever go back to school?” He kept his eye on the road but in the periphery he could make out Tanner cocking his head.

“School?” Tanner made a noise that sounded like a cough, a laugh, or some combination of the two. “Yeah, I guess you could say she did. Never seems to stick with it, though.” He dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Got a light?”

Drew shook his head. “Don’t smoke that in here.”

Tanner searched his pockets and finally produced a matchbook. “It ain’t gonna hurt nothing,” he said and lit up. Smoke began to fill the cab.

“Why didn’t it stick?”

“What?”

“School,” Drew said. “Why didn’t Mary Catherine stick with it?”

“Can’t afford it. Too busy looking for someone to be a father to your son. Or maybe she’s just too dumb.” He made the noise again. “Take your pick.”

At the light, Drew reached across the cab and cracked the passenger window. “At least roll down the window.”

“Fuck you, it’s cold.” Tanner rolled the window back up.

Drew cracked his own window. It would be a lot colder if I left your ass on the sidewalk, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. “You still working wildfire season?”

“Nah, ain’t got the knees for it anymore. I’m self-employed these days.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, let’s just say your arrest gave me an idea.” Tanner slumped forward and held his hands near the heater. “I’m always looking for new customers, if you’re ever in need.”

“You know I’m sober,” he said. “It’s bad enough you making me pull you outta that bar.”

“You think you’re better than me, just ’cause your sleeves are rolled down. But I didn’t make you do anything you didn’t want to. Never have. You forget, I know you. You liked this shit more than I ever did.”

Drew felt the old familiar pulse in his veins, the empty longing that never really went away. He’d been clean for three years, none of which were easy. There were plenty of days after work that he would have liked nothing more than to shoot up. He missed the calm, numb feeling that used to wash over him after the initial sting of the needle.

Tanner reached into his coat’s interior pocket. “My product’s high quality, nearly medical grade.” He took an Altoids tin from his pocket and placed it on the seat between them. “Better than that junk you used to score.”

Drew tried to keep his eyes on the road. The beams of the Datsun’s headlights swarmed with falling snow. “Put that shit away. You know I can’t.”

“Why? ’Cause the court told you not to? Is that why you never call my sister? Why you’ve never even seen your son?”

While the restraining order didn’t apply to Drew’s son, it was impossible to see him in Mary Catherine’s presence. He couldn’t afford supervised visits and he didn’t know anyone qualified who would do it for free. Drew’s monthly paycheck went to child support, rent, and the Datsun. He lived on food stamps, gas vouchers, and a prepaid government-issued phone. There was nothing to spare. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

“I could go to prison,” he said. “I’m no good to either of them locked up.”

“You’re in prison now.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And you don’t have a clue what this is about.”

Drew turned to face Tanner, forgetting the road and the snow. “Then why don’t you tell me what the fuck this is all about?”

“Your sobriety is a delusion,” Tanner said. “You abandoned us.”

The Datsun swayed slightly, pushed by the winter wind. Drew firmly gripped the steering wheel and tried to keep the truck steady. Not that it mattered if he drifted into the other empty lanes.

“Abandoned?”

“You don’t have to see the assholes Mary Catherine brings home, considers at the bar. Watch her cry her eyes out with each false pregnancy scare, praying for another miscarriage. Or try to explain to your son why his father doesn’t even call.”

“I support them.” Drew returned his attention to the road.

“And we feel blessed by the checks you graciously send on the state’s behalf,” Tanner sneered. “But the kid needs a father.”

“Good thing he’s got his dealer uncle around to fill that void.”

“Fuck you. I’m just doing what you never had the balls to do. I take care of my family,” Tanner said.

Drew made the hard left onto Diamond Lake Boulevard toward Glide too fast. The truck skidded through the turn, jostling both men.

“Jesus!” Tanner cried. “Watch what you’re doing.”

But as the truck straightened out, Drew accelerated. He wanted this night to be over. He wanted Tanner and the heroin out of his truck. Most of all, Drew wanted to get some sleep.

As the Datsun approached the Winchester intersection, a stalled Honda Civic came into view. The hatchback was stuck in the middle of the left lane.

“Watch out.” Tanner braced himself on the doorframe.

Drew turned the wheel hard right and went into a slide. The truck missed the Civic but skidded off the road onto the strip of grass and trees that buffered the library’s parking lot from the street. He hit the salmon sculpture head on, stopping just shy of the first barren tree. Drew could already feel the burn from the seatbelt forming across his collarbone. Tanner groaned and rubbed a bloody lip. The painted salmon, once poised to rise from the Umpqua’s rapids, now rested on the Datsun’s hood. The pink flesh stood out in stark contrast with the falling snow.

The engine was dead. Drew turned the key but was met with silence. “Shit.” He tried again. Still no response. He’d have to retrieve the truck in the daylight. Luckily it wasn’t blocking the road, so it shouldn’t be towed immediately. Drew got out, slamming the driver’s door hard behind him.

He walked out into the street and around the Civic. Judging by the amount of snow piled on the car, it had been sitting there for at least the last half hour. The tracks leading to it had already begun to fill with fresher snow. Drew peered through the windows. No one was inside. With no obvious damage to the car, he was at a loss for why it had been abandoned there. Satisfied that no one was stranded, he walked back toward the Datsun.

On the corner, Tanner moaned as he stretched his back and shoulders. “Now what?”

“Your mom still live in Mill-Pine?”

Tanner nodded.

“Better start walking.”

“In this?”

Drew shrugged. “We ain’t going anywhere in the Datsun.” He turned to leave his old friend and the truck on the corner, but he paused at the intersection, not sure why he was waiting for the light. Then Drew swung around and returned to the cab. Tanner’s tin of heroin was still on the seat. For a moment, he considered slipping it into his jacket. After all, Tanner had offered it freely; he couldn’t complain. And how good a fix would feel before he collapsed into his warm bed. Drew weighed the tin in his palm.

He emerged from the cab and tossed the tin to Tanner: “Be sure to take this with you.”

Drew locked the truck and started for home again.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Tanner called after him. “You’re not a father, you ain’t responsible, and you won’t be able to stay clean forever.” He held the tin up and waved it back and forth above his head. “You ain’t better than me. You need this shit.”

And the killdeer’s wing is really broken, Drew thought.

As Drew crossed Diamond Lake Boulevard to walk the four blocks to his apartment, Tanner continued to shout at him about all the things he wasn’t. Drew never turned back to face the scene. The last discernible thing he heard Tanner scream over the wind was “You’re nothing, just like the rest of us. Just too fuckin’ stuck up to see it.”

Back at his place he was too tired to eat. Drew decided to head straight to bed. He removed his boots and coat, dropped them on the living room floor, and headed upstairs in his stocking feet. He could eat and clean up after he got some sleep.

Drew sat on his bed and watched the snow continue to fall through his grimy window. The room stayed cold, despite the sputtering electric wall heater. In the distance, he could see downtown Roseburg, nestled in the dip between hills and the river. The glow of street lamps and traffic lights illuminated the snow against an otherwise dark sky.

He wondered how far Tanner had made it in the storm. Had he managed to convince anyone else to drive him to Glide? Did he offer the tin in gratitude? Drew shifted his gaze east toward Glide, but with fewer lights he was met with darkness and his own opaque reflection in the window. Was Mary Catherine still up? Or did she close up the bar and go to bed, accustomed to the men in her life being absent? Drew imagined she sat outside their son’s room and listened to him sleep.

He pulled the phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Through muscle memory, he dialed Mary Catherine’s number, or at least the last one he knew. Finished, his thumb hovered above the send button. He wanted to call, just to tell her that Tanner should be on his way to Grandma Nancy’s. That he knew about the other guys. That he’d pay her tuition if he could. But mostly he wanted to ask about his son and tell her he was sorry. And why shouldn’t he call? Yes, Drew knew it would be in direct violation of his parole, but after visiting the bar, picking up a known user and nearly wrecking his truck he figured he already had plenty to explain to his PO. What was one more thing?

On the hills beyond the city, Drew saw the outlines of houses, some with Christmas lights already lining their eaves. The whole scene outside his window looked unreal, too tranquil and pristine. No, Drew thought, it looked more like a miniature model than a real town. The heater continued to sputter; the coils glowed orange in the wall. He lay back on the bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The phone was still cradled in his hand, his thumb suspended over the send button.

B.R. LEWIS

B. R. Lewis earned his MFA from the Inland Northwest Center for Writers in Spokane. He served as an editor for both Willow Springs and Sundog Lit. His fiction has appeared in Tribute to Orpheus 2, Gold Man Review, Cagibi, HASH, In Parentheses, Defunkt Magazine, and Drunk Monkeys.