The Art of Floating (19 page)

PLOVER REPORT

JUNE 2012

N
ESTING
P
AIRS:
12 (refuge); 4 (Sandy Point Reservation)

P
AIRS
S
TILL
S
ITTING ON
N
EST:
12 (refuge); 4 (Sandy Point Reservation)

C
HICKS
H
ATCHED:
2 (refuge); 1 (Sandy Point Reservation)

C
HICKS
F
LEDGED:
0 (refuge); 0 (Sandy Point Reservation)

B
EACHES:
All beaches closed to humans.

•  •  •

“Plover lover!” Joe Laslow shouted at Mrs. Wysong. He grabbed his coffee and stormed out of Starbucks.

“Elitist selfish male humanoid!” she shouted back, adjusting the clasps on her plover warden uniform. Only the piping plovers could move Mrs. Wysong to shouting. And every year at this time, they did.

By July, she'd be swearing.

When Toad finally settled into a peaceful sleep, Sia climbed back into her own bed and dreamed that a spaceship shaped like a great blue heron shot through the universe, then slowed to a hover above the beach just outside her bedroom window. In the moonlight, it stabbed its long, narrow beak into the ocean floor as if stabbing for a fish or a shrimp, and with a deep moan, the beak began to glow. In that weird dreamlike way of being able to see inside and outside at the same time, Sia watched Toad slide down the center of the beak. Then the moan ceased and she heard Toad hit the water with a splash.

With three flaps of its wings, the heron ship took off, and Toad was left standing on the edge of the shore.

•  •  •

“He is not an alien,” Sia said.

“You're the one who had the dream. Not me.”

“Right, Jil. A dream. That's it.”

“Maybe Toad's people implanted the dream in your brain. Maybe they're accessing you from their planet.”

“What planet?”

“I don't know. Whatever planet he's from.”

“Maybe,” Sia said. “And maybe I'm really an alien, too.”

“Or,” Jilly continued, ignoring Sia, “maybe they've found my beacon and are hovering overhead right now in a ship trying to figure out a way to get Toad out of your clutches.” She jumped up and peered out the window.

“My clutches, Jil? Isn't that a little extreme?”

“Well, out of your house.”

“He's not an alien, Jil. I have no one in my clutches. There's no spaceship. End of story.”

•  •  •

“Tell me about the fish.”

Sia rubbed her belly. “Do we have to talk about it?”

Her therapist noticed the rub and jotted a note. “Yes, we do.”

“What can I tell you that I haven't told you already? Toad's pain is mine.”

“It doesn't have to be,” her therapist said. “You can say no to it.”

“No, I can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Can you read without your glasses?” Sia asked.

Her therapist looked at Sia over her bifocals. “No, I'm farsighted.”

“You can't control that? Force your eyes to see twenty-twenty?”

“Of course not. It's a biological problem.”

“Exactly. So is my issue with empathy. I absorb the pain of any person near me.”

“That's . . .”

“That's what?”

“Undocumented. Unscientific. Impossible.”

“Didn't you tell me a few weeks ago that anything is possible?”

“Different context.”

“How convenient.”

“M, what are you looking for?” Mrs. Dixon was wearing her shockingest purple muumuu and matching fuzzy sandals.

M jerked her head down and whirled to face her friend. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mrs. Dixon said. “Nothing?”

“Just looking at the sky, trying to decide if it's going to rain later.”

“M, there's not a cloud for miles.”

“I see that now.”

Mrs. Dixon tottered across the lawn. “You're lying. You're out here day and night staring at the sky. You even sleep out here sometimes.”

“I don't.”

“You do.”

“Well, it's lovely out here.”

“Bull puckies. It's mosquito heaven. You're up to something. Is it Odyssia? Is something wrong?”

“No, it's not Odyssia.” M glanced at the sky.

“M,” Mrs. Dixon said, “I know you. Tell me. Is it the man Odyssia found? Is he really an alien like Jillian says? Are you looking for his ship?”

“No, no, it's nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

“I'm preoccupied, that's all. Taking comfort in the firmament.”

“Mmmmm.”

•  •  •

The Dogcatcher smiled. “The firmament, the firmament,” she singsonged to herself, inching along the outer edge of M's fence. “The firmament, the firmament.”

“
Odyssia Dane,” Richard said, “I believe we have a lead.”

Sia looked up. “We do?”

He smiled and beckoned to the kitchen with his head. “Come inside. I'll tell you about it.”

Toad was sitting with Gumper just a few feet away. Earlier Dr. Dillard had nattered at him for an hour, but though the whole ordeal flustered and agitated Sia, Toad seemed unaffected. Before Dr. Dillard's visit, he sat and stared. During Dr. Dillard's visit, he sat and stared. And now, two hours after Dr. Dillard's visit, he sat and stared. She wondered how long a person could survive in this state.

“Sia?” Richard said.

She stood and followed Richard into the kitchen. “So,” she said, “what do we have?”

“An e-mail sent to our Toad hotline.”

“From?”

“France.”

Sia nodded. “France, huh?”

“It came through last night. I was going to call you, but I'm worried.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“Me? Why?”

“That you're in too deep.”

“It's my worry, not yours.”

“That's not entirely true. I asked you to keep Toad.”

“Fate asked me to keep Toad. You were just the conduit.”

“Fate?”

“Richard, this has been my whole life. I find things. I lose things. I find other things. In the beginning, they were just little things. Insignificant things. A comb. A book. An injured seal. A ring. You know, normal things.”

“But then?”

“You know as well as I do things changed, got bigger, when Jack disappeared.”

“And you think there is a lesson for you in all this losing and finding? Something you've been missing.”

“Maybe.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What is it? What is it you're supposed to learn?”

“I don't know yet. I only know that I'm supposed to keep and help Toad. So stop worrying. I'm fine.”

“I'm not convinced, Sia, but I can't force you to change what you're doing. Let's just try to figure out if this new lead has any validity. You know in the past few weeks, we've received more than five hundred tips about him.”

“That many?”

“A lot of them are kooks, folks who send notes to every hotline for every cause. Lonely people who need someone to talk to.”

“But?”

“Like I said, last night we got an e-mail from a man in Paris who insists Toad is a street performer who disappeared a few months ago.”

“A street performer in Paris? Toad?”

“That's what the man says in his e-mail.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“To risk sounding like Jillian, Toad is too good-looking to be a street performer. They're always scrawny and poorly dressed. Do you remember the suit I found Toad in?”

“Odyssia, you aren't stereotyping street performers, are you?” Richard laughed.

“Yes, I guess I am,” she said. “What kind of street performer?” She was thinking mime.

“Juggling, singing, dancing.”

“And what makes you think this tip might be worth investigating?”

Richard pulled a piece of paper from the file in his hand and held it out. “The man faxed us a photo.”

Sia took it. “Oh, my God.” The quality of the fax was poor, but the likeness was there. The man in the photo had a sharply cut jaw and deep-set eyes.

“See?”

Sia closed her eyes. “Okay, what's next?”

“The French authorities have gotten involved. They are trying to track down the street performer.”

“Do you have a name for the guy?” Sia said.

“Pierre Babin.”

“Pierre.” Sia looked out the window at Toad. “My grandmother's neighbor had a dog named Pierre.”

“We should hear something in the next few days, Odyssia. I'll let you know.”

•  •  •

Words swarmed Sia. She tried to sort them in her head . . .

blue

candid

wilt

snare

bank

 

But she couldn't. They sloshed in her brain like ice in a cup of tea.

No order.

No meaning.

“Pierre,” she said.

Th
e first animal Jackson brought into their home was a wounded otter.

“He was hit by a car,” Jackson said as he gathered splints and bandages and filled the bathtub with water. The otter was thick and long like a loaf of bread, and he looked at Jackson with such love Sia thought he might live in their bathtub forever. She and Jackson nursed him and nourished him, and as soon as he was strong enough to splash his way out of the tub and chase Gumper through the house, Jackson released him back into the wild . . . a little farther away from busy roadways.

The second was a bear cub that must have wandered down from New Hampshire or Vermont with its mother and somehow got separated, perhaps by crossing one of the highways. The bears only came when spring was slow to arrive up north. If the new buds and berries weren't ready when the bears bumbled out of hibernation, they came in search of bird feeders and garbage cans, crossing the state border into Massachusetts only long enough to fill their bellies and wait out the vernal equinox. The cub was beautiful, darling, and petrified. She shook and bawled all night like a baby until Sia and Jackson distracted her with a bottle of warm milk. They tended her like awkward new parents for nine days until Jackson found a program that accepted the cub with the promise of eventually trying to release her back into her home territory. He knew it was a long shot, but he wanted them to try.

•  •  •

“Do you like zoos?” Jackson asked on their third date, but he didn't wait for an answer. “I despise them,” he said.

•  •  •

For a long time, Sia thought the last question Jackson ever asked her before he disappeared was, “Cappuccino or Americano?” But she'd forgotten that after he'd tossed on his shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers and bounded out the bedroom door and down the stairs, he'd bounded right back up, popped his head in the door, and asked, “Should I take Gump?”

“No,” she'd said, “I'm going to cuddle him until you get back.”

When she remembered that question, she realized she should have said yes. Gumper might have saved him, pulled him back from wherever he'd gone, like Bernadette and the toddler.

“Go
od morning. Mrs. Dane, please.”

New York.

“Good morning. Is this Odyssia Dane?”

Los Angeles.

“May I speak with Odyssey Dannon?”

London. Clip clip clip.

“Hello. I would like to speak to Odi . . . Odee . . . Oddy. I am sorry. I do not know how to pronounce this name. Maybe you can help me? The surname is Dane. D-A-N-E.”

Mumbai.

“Hi there, ma'am. I'm looking for the gal who found the silent guy. How ya doin' today?”

Teeexxxaaaasss.

•  •  •

When Wingnut called, Sia paused. She knew she had to give the story to someone.

“Melissa,” she said, “if I give you exclusive access, you have to promise to respect Toad, me, and the story. No sensational slants. No alien stories. No love stories. No fairy tales. No questions about my husband. None of that crap. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Melissa said. Her voice was full of sugar. “And I'm sorry about the alien thing. My boss asked for it.”

“What if he asks again?”

“I'll say no. I'll quote him your stipulation up front. He'll do it for an exclusive.”

“No exceptions, Melissa.”

“No exceptions.”

“Then you can have the story.”

“Really?”

“That's what I said.”

•  •  •

The phone rang and rang.

“You know,” Sia told Toad, “this is all about you.”

Clearly Toad didn't give a hoot. Or it didn't register. (Or he didn't understand English. Or he couldn't hear. Or . . .)

The reason didn't matter. The ringing phone changed nothing. The attention from reporters from all over the world changed nothing.

Toad sat.

Toad stared.

Toad sat.

Toad stared.

Toad sat.

Toad stared.

When Sia could no longer stand the ringing phone, she yanked him up out of his chair and said the words Gumper spent his life waiting for (besides “Time to eat”): “To the beach.”

Once free, Gumper performed his usual antics. He leapt, bowed, barked, and bellowed. Every few minutes, he dropped a worm-worn log at Sia's feet. “Throw it! Throw it!” he hollered in dog-speak. And she did. Though not as far as she could have because of that one time when Jackson had thrown a log . . . far . . . really far . . . so far it was immediately swallowed up by the water.

Even so, Gumper had plowed in, determined to find the log, unable to let go of the memory of it. As the rain lashed down, he'd swum and swum, diving into waves, biting at the water. Jackson and Sia had cuddled together on the shore and watched him grow smaller and smaller, proud until the moment they realized he'd gone too far. One moment, they saw the top of his head. The next, he was gone. Within seconds, Jackson had stripped down to his boxers, left his coat, a pile of clothes, and his shoes on the sand, and dived headlong into the waves. Horrified, Sia barely breathed until the sea dumped both Jackson and Gumper onto the sand like clams from a bucket.

•  •  •

“Good God,” Sia said, “it's as bad out here as it was back home.”

The beach was littered with families, and every single person, except for the kids entranced by their sand castles, stared at Sia and Toad like they were either Hollywood stars or freaks in a circus show. Men and women stood on their towels and shielded their eyes with hands and hats as they struggled to get a good look at Toad in the bright sun.

“Only the sand is saving us,” Sia said. “These folks are all afraid to leave their private terry cloth islands in case it's too hot to get back. Just smile and wave.”

Toad did not. He continued along a few steps behind, paying no attention to Sia or the voyeurs.

The folks Sia knew from yoga class or the library called hello, and out of respect, Sia called back, but she moved Toad as quickly as possible through the throngs of frolickers, steering him when necessary by his elbow.

When they reached the spot where the hungover college girls lay like tortured corpses in tiny bikinis on bright orange towels, Sia thought they would have a few quiet moments. These girls were knocked out, heavy with last night's liquor and postmidnight pizza. It would be hours before even the hardiest of them would rumble out of sleep, take a few swigs of iced tea from the cooler, and begin in a rough, throaty voice to recount the night's adventures. But Gumper broke the spell. As he leapt onto their towels, jarring them into consciousness, he bleated his joyful noise like a disobedient mule. When the girl in the polka-dot bikini lifted her throbbing head and spotted Toad and Sia, she flew into a sitting position so fast she forgot to retie the strings of the top around her neck and for a second her plump, perky tits wagged at the world.

“Hey, you guys,” the girl said. She slapped the thighs of the girls to her right and left. “Look, it's the Silent Man.”

Sia heard that voice again . . . the deep, godlike, James-Earl-Jonesy voice: THE SILENT MAN.

All the girls shot up into sitting positions, put on their sunglasses, and looked in the direction of Polka Dot's pointing finger.

“The Silent Man?”

“Really?”

“Yep, that's him. The hot guy they talked about on the news yesterday.”

“How do you know it's him?”

“That's Odyssia Dane with him.”

“Who is Odyssia Dane?” one girl asked.

“You know,” Polka Dot said, “the woman who lost her husband last year and never found him.”

The girls giggled. At this age, they couldn't even imagine having a husband, let alone losing him.

“But she found this guy instead?”

“That's what Melissa Cho said on last night's news,” a girl in blue-and-white stripes said. “She said she found him out here on the beach somewhere.”

“He's gorgeous,” Polka Dot said. “He looks like a movie star. Look at that hair.”

“Yeah,” a girl in pink breathed as she poked her breasts out a little more and ran a hand down her belly.

As the girls fantasized about finding a man on the beach, they tied up the strings to their tops and brushed sand from their towels. Only one noticed anything more about Toad than his heart-throbbing good looks. Caroline Faye. She was the quietest of the group, part of the gang more because she'd been around since kindergarten than the fact that she still fit in. She was tall, gangly, and thoughtful, better liked by the other girls' mothers than by the girls themselves.

“I think he looks sad,” she said.

Polka Dot took a swig from a water bottle and spat it at her. “You would. How could you think that guy looks sad? What could a guy who looks like that be sad about?”

“I know he's gorgeous,” Caroline said. “I have eyes. But there's something else about him that's bigger than that.”

Sia and Toad crossed in front of the girls. “I just think,” she said, “that he needs help. I hope that woman helps him find his way home.”

Though the other girls were already losing interest in a man who was completely ignoring their buoyant young breasts and were turning over to roast their bottoms, Sia heard Caroline's words. The little fish that had been resting quietly, perhaps happy to be close to the water, flopped hard. Sia grabbed her middle and looked at Toad. It was tough to imagine how someone could hold such emptiness for so long. Even in the middle of her yearlong mourning, she sometimes laughed at Gumper's antics or Jillian's fumbling attempts at humor. She'd even smiled once in a while when she dreamed of Jackson. Toad was far deeper than she'd ever gone.

•  •  •

They turned for home when Sia caught sight of six reporters and their cameramen chugging down the beach. The lenses of the cameras were long and large, and Sia knew that even though there was still a good bit of distance between them, they were snapping photos and footage that would look as close as if they'd been shaking hands. She pulled her sun hat lower on her head and grabbed Toad's arm.

“Let's go,” she said. “They've got us.”