BIRDY

Near the on-ramp to I-80, Birdy asked Jake if he wanted to hear the story about the day Chet Newton drowned. He cringed like he had bit into something sour. He didn’t want to hear it again. 

“Or I can just sit here like a bump on a log,” Birdy said.

He had picked Birdy up at The Mustang, a roughneck bar outside the oil town of Sinclair, Wyoming. He merged onto the interstate. In his rearview mirror he saw Christmas lights on the roof of the Mustang that spelled out Cold Beer. They headed west to Rawlins where Birdy had lived since she was eleven. She was his great aunt, his grandmother’s sister, going on eighty-two years old.

The Saturday night run to the bar had become routine. Jake would return from work to find a note on the kitchen table. 

Took a cab to the Mustang. It’s Ladies’ night. 

Pick me up at 10pm.

Love, Birdy.

Birdy nestled into the truck’s large bench seat, feet barely touching the floorboard. Her medical oxygen tank leaned against her leg. It piped air through plastic tubing to the cannula attached under her nose. She lit a cigarette without concern for the warning label on the tank. 

Jake eased the tank away from the burning cigarette. Taking up the slack pulled the cannula from under her nose. She yanked the tank back to her side. 

“Can’t breathe without my air!” She righted the nose piece and took a drag from her cigarette. “Are you trying to kill me?”

She held her coat closed with one hand, a cigarette in the other. She started telling the story. Smoke escaped with each spoken word. Jake mouthed along to the familiar line, “Poor, poor, Chet.”

Birdy’s story changed a little each time. The facts remained. On June sixteenth, 1922, Chet, the toddler, drowned in the horse trough while the Newton family was shopping in Lincoln. Myra, the oldest daughter, eleven, was left behind to tend Chet. Jake had never met nor heard of Myra until Birdy first mentioned her in the story.

“Myra was sore, having to babysit,” Birdy said. “Ruth teased her about it. Always a troublemaker, that Ruth.” 

“Easy, Aunt Birdy. That’s my grandma Ruth you’re talking about.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” she said. Annoyed, she flicked the ash from her cigarette. 

She described Chet. His eyes were like hazel gems. His blonde hair was fine and soft. 

Jake’s mind wandered as he drove. He had been taking care of Birdy since September and was eager to leave Wyoming to start college. His final duty station with the Marine Corps had been in Albuquerque. He had decided to stay there and registered for the 1994 fall semester at UNM. College plans were pushed back when Dad called for a favor. 

“I need you, son. I need you to stay with Birdy while I make arrangements for her to live here in Utah.”

Birdy’s license had been revoked. Too many accidents. Without a car, she called Dad constantly with needs. Moving her to Ogden was the only practical solution.

“She keeps losing things,” Dad said. 

She lost her glasses in April, her house keys in June, and a couple weeks later, she misplaced her checkbook. For each incident, Dad had to make the six-hour drive from Ogden to Rawlins and spend a couple days resolving the issue. 

“I can’t go to Rawlins,” Jake said. “What about Uncle Dale?”  

“He has his own issues,” Dad said.

Jake lobbed up excuses. He had a girlfriend. 

“Family first. She can wait.”

He had a job lined up. 

“You can pick up day shifts at the railroad yard.”

“I don’t want to work the yard,” Jake said.

“Are you going to help or not?”

By the end of September, Jake was in Rawlins, working in the railroad yard during the day, and taking care of Birdy the rest of the time. 

Birdy nudged Jake.

“You listening?”

Jake nodded.

It was night when the Newtons returned from Lincoln. The house was dark. The stifling heat had caused haze to rise. The front and back doors had been left open to cool the house. Mother found the screen door unlatched. Myra was asleep on the couch. Mother asked for Chet. Myra said that he had been sleeping on the couch with her.

Birdy’s account of that night included intimate details, like the way her mother seemed to wither as they searched for Chet and the way her father’s voice cracked when he called the sheriff. 

“It was a rodeo. Absolute chaos,” Birdy said. She flailed her arms like a drum major, stabbing the air with her cigarette to emphasize high notes as she described the search party. “They searched from Hell to breakfast.”

They searched for hours. While everyone was outside, a deputy came in and cornered Myra in the living room and questioned her. 

“We were asleep. I don’t know where he went,” Myra said.

“Look what you’ve done,” the deputy said. He punched her in the back.

“It took the wind out of her,” Birdy said.

Birdy began to cough. Jake reached to pat her back. She parried, slapping his hand, countering with a cigarette jab. He flinched. 

“Jeez!”  

Moments like this caused Jake to reflect on his great aunt. She was completely different from the family he had grown up with in Utah. Her lack of reverence, bad habits, and even the way she talked, made him wonder how they were related at all. 

“Now where was I,” Birdy said. 

Before dawn, farm hands arrived. The one in charge of watering the horses found Chet. 

“I think about the water in the trough and the way it reflected the stars. Chet must have thought it was something else,” Birdy said. “You know what I wish? I wish it would have been me instead.”

They passed the Sinclair oil refinery, a massive collection of pipes and petroleum tanks sprawled below the mesa. At the top of the mesa, they were in range of KSL out of Salt Lake City. Birdy tuned the radio until it picked up Mystery Theater. E.G. Marshall’s voice crackled through the speakers. 

“What happened to Myra?”

“She was never the same,” Birdy said.

“I mean, where is she now?”

“Oh hell! Do you mind? I can’t hear my program.” 

She was asleep when they arrived at the house. He helped Birdy out of the truck. Her long coat held her frail limbs in place. With a sleepy voice she told Jake he was a good boy. Vermouth overpowered stale cigarette breath.

“Lordy. What’d you have tonight?” Jake said.

“Too much,” Birdy said.

He helped her to her room, she closed the door. He took off his boots and undressed down to white Marine issued boxers. He laid on the couch. On the television, the Stone Temple Pilots performed Creep on Saturday Night Live.

###

He woke as Birdy tucked a blanket around him. A cigarette dangled from her lips. He winced, bracing for ash to fall on his face. The scrambled TV illuminated the room. In a creepy child’s voice she said, “They’re here.”

“Cut it out,” Jake said.

She turned off the TV. He listened for her door to close then drifted back to sleep.

  ###

Jake flipped through channels featuring Sunday morning evangelists. The phone rang. He put on a flannel shirt and went to the kitchen. He saw his reflection in the window. His military haircut clashed with his wanna-be grunge look. 

It was Dad letting him know he wouldn’t be up until next week. Jake cussed under his breath. 

“I want to get back to Albuquerque,” Jake said.

“Just one more week.” 

“She smokes non-stop.”

“Always has,” Dad said. 

“She’s been drinking at the Mustang.”

“Don’t be a rat,” Dad said. “Everyone hates a rat.”

Dad asked when they had last seen Uncle Dale. Jake told him that Birdy insisted on calling instead of driving all the way to Medicine Bow. 

“It’s only an hour,” Dad said.

“Why didn’t you tell me how Uncle Chet died?” 

There was a long pause. 

“I thought I did,” Dad said.

Dad hung up the phone.

                        ###

They ate breakfast. Birdy asked why Ray called.

“Dad will be up next Saturday.”

Birdy needed a pencil and paper from the junk drawer. Jake rummaged through the drawer. He found a pen and pad among playing cards, rubber bands, and old bills. At the back of the drawer, he found house keys, a pair of glasses, and a checkbook. He jiggled the keys. Birdy turned and looked. He held up the checkbook. She turned back and sipped her coffee. Jake dropped the keys on the table with the pen and paper. He sat and ate eggs. Birdy set her cup down.

“You gonna tell Ray?” 

Jake spoke around a mouthful, “Nobody likes a rat.” 

Birdy labored to grip the pen. Blue veins wove between arthritic knuckles. Her cursive rippled as she wrote her chore list. 

“Dad wants us to check on Dale.”

“That’s what the phone’s for,” Birdy said. 

Jake pointed at the list of chores with his fork. 

“Well, shit,” she said. At the bottom of the list Birdy wrote Visit Dale.

              ###

Once, when Jake was ten, he and Dad had been hunting north of Medicine Bow. On their way out, Dad said they were going to check on Dale. 

At Dale’s, the CBS Sunday night movie featured The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Dale’s wife, Margie, had already gone to bed. Dad sat on the couch, Dale in the La-Z-Boy. They talked about grown-up stuff. Dad asked about Aunt Birdy. 

“Nothing’s changed. She’s still a cranky old maid,” Dale said.

Jake arranged empty beer bottles into a football formation on the coffee table.

“Your offense is short a player,” Dale said. He set an empty on the table. Jake slid the bottle to the wide receiver position.

“Who’s your team?” Dale asked.

“Steelers. This is Stallworth. This is Lynn Swann.” 

Dale slammed his hand on the table. Half the Steelers and Lynn Swann tipped over. 

“Goddammit! We’re Broncos here!” Dale laughed loudly. Margie emerged from the hallway in her light blue robe, arms crossed. 

“Sorry Margie. He provoked me.” Dale winked at Jake. “He’s a Steelers fan.”

She pulled her robe tight. “We’re Broncos here.”

Dale settled back into his chair. They watched the Good, the Bad and the Ugly shoot it out. Dale started to snore. Jake put a blanket over Dale. Dad locked the front door on the way out.

On the drive home Jake asked why Dale called Aunt Birdy an old maid. Dad didn’t answer.

“What does it mean?” Jake asked.

“It means she’s lonely,” Dad said.

    ###

Jake and Birdy headed out to do chores. Birdy sat on the edge of the seat as if she was riding the bus on the first day of school. They stopped for prescriptions, cigarettes, and to check the mailbox. At the Safeway, Birdy told Jake to get beer for Dale.

“What kind?”

She rolled her eyes. 

“Everyone knows Dale drinks Coors,” Birdy said. “Goodness. Sometimes I wonder if we’re related.” 

On Highway 30 Birdy took a bottle from the pack and asked Jake to open it.

“Seriously?” 

He steered with his knee and opened the bottle. He threw the cap on the floor. Birdy took a drink. 

“You know what I wish? I wish you would go to college in Laramie. You could be a Cowboy. You could stay with me on the weekends so we could be in touch.”

“That’s what the phone is for.”

Birdy took a drink then called him a smartass.

        ###

Jake parked in Dale’s driveway. 

“You coming?” Jake asked.

“Don’t rush me.” Birdy drank her beer. 

Jake cupped his hands to the screen door. Dale was asleep in his chair. 

“Uncle Dale!”

Dale’s Myna bird started squawking. Dale yelled. “Dammit, Elway! Shut the hell up.”

Dale was bigger than Jake remembered. He had his father’s features, tall forehead, sharp nose. His face was tan except for white lines along his temple where his glasses had marked their territory. Dale put his glasses on then opened the door. His voice boomed like he was at the yard yelling over passing trains.

“It’s Ray’s boy!”

Dale pulled Jake into his chest. He smelled like beer and Pennzoil.

“Birdy coming in?” Dale asked.

“Give her a minute.”

Dale saw the twelve pack 

“You Mormons will do anything to get invited in.” 

They went inside. Elway shifted side to side in the birdcage.

“Still like Pittsburg?” Dale asked.

“Yep.”

Dale yelled, “Broncos!” 

Elway squawked, “Touchdown!” Then, as if bored, turned away and groomed with his beak. Jake sat on the couch, Dale in the La-Z-Boy. Dale set the beer on the coffee table.

“Mormon kryptonite. Want one?” 

Jake shook him off. 

Dale held up his beer.

“To my sweet wife.”

He drank then opened another. 

They talked about Jake’s time in the Gulf War. Dale complained about Schwarzkopf, that he should have taken Iraq. He asked how college was going. Jake said he was starting in the spring.

“Who knew the Wheeler’s would have two college boys. First Ray, now you.”

Birdy came inside, her tank in tow. She stopped to kiss Dale’s forehead. 

“Hello brother.”

“Hey sis.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, parting it to the side.

“You need a haircut.”

Dale pulled her arm toward him and kissed the inside of her wrist like he was taking her pulse. 

“You’ve let the place go to hell,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen. They listened to the clatter of pans and water filling the sink. Birdy turned on the kitchen radio. She sang along with George Strait.

“When is Ray coming for Birdy?” 

“Next Saturday,” Jake said. 

“I guess it’s for the best. Maybe one day he’ll come for me and Elway.”

There was a small box of photos on the coffee table. Jake saw a photo of two men leaning on a Union Pacific loader. 

“That’s your grandpa Newton and me,” Dale said.

There was a photo of Dale and Margie at Mile High Stadium. 

“Here’s an oldie,” Dale said. 

It was a black and white of a family standing in front of the United Methodist church of Lincoln, Nebraska. Their height cascaded from the father to the youngest child. 

“Easter. Mom made us wear ties,” Dale said. 

Jake named people in the photo except for a toddler that was holding Birdy’s hand. The boy was pulling away toward the tree swing in the background. Jake’s mouth went dry.

“Is this Chet?” Jake said.

“Yep. That’s my baby brother. It’s the only photo I have of him.” 

Jake studied the photo. He flipped it over. It was blank.

“Where’s Myra?” Jake asked.

Dale’s eyes narrowed. 

“Who?”

Jake held the photo like a detective questioning a witness. 

“Where’s Myra? Your other sister.”

Dale scolded with his eyes and snatched away the photo. He pointed at the girls, his finger bending the photo inwards.

“Listen, numb nuts. I have two sisters. Ruth and Birdy.” He shook his head. “If you weren’t Ray’s boy, I’d wonder how we’re related.”

Dale opened a beer. Birdy brought Jake a Coke and asked if they were going to watch the Broncos?

“Hell yes. Right Jake?”

“Sure,” Jake said, his face red from Dale’s reprimand.

Birdy asked if they wanted sandwiches.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Dale said.

  ###

They ate ham sandwiches and watched football. At halftime, Birdy took the plates to the kitchen. She sat at the table and read the Casper Star. Dale told a joke about John Elway and Terry Bradshaw at the pearly gates. When Jake didn’t laugh, Dale said he needed some fresh air. He motioned to Jake to follow him. They put on coats and went outside. Snow flurries swirled as they walked to Jake’s truck.

“What’s this? `82?” Dale asked.

“`83.” 

Dale held his hand above the hood like he was a fortune teller.

“V8?”

“You got it,” Jake said.

They discussed snow tires and came to a consensus that Michelins were the best. They leaned on the tailgate looking out to the Snowy Mountain range. Dale told how he took a deer there. He held his hands out wide, fingers spread open like antler tines.

“A huge muley. Six-pointer.”

 Jake tugged his coat down and shivered. He was still dumbfounded about Myra. He cut Dale off.

“Birdy told me about Myra. Who is she?”

“Well, shit,” Dale said, lowering his hands. You know how to ruin a good hunting story. He opened a beer.
“I just don’t get it,” Jake said.

Dale loomed over Jake.

“It’s family shit. You should know it.” He pointed at Jake with his bottle. “Either Ray didn’t tell you, or worse, you didn’t pay attention.”

Dale said that Birdy was short for Roberta. They had always called her Birdy. Her full name was Roberta Myra Newton. Dale locked eyes with Jake making sure he was processing what had been said. 

“Got it?” Dale said.

Jake nodded.

“Don’t know why you want to make a federal case out of it,” Dale said. 

“She could have told the truth,” Jake said.

Dale finished his beer. He threw the bottle across the yard. It landed with a thumb near the fence. 

“The way I see it, if it helps her survive, she can tell it any Goddamn way she wants. The fact is…” 

Jake glanced at Dale. He had his glasses off, eyes closed. He was biting the back of his hand. Two short gasps escaped. Jake looked away as if he had opened the wrong door to a bedroom. Dale stifled a profound sob and exhaled as if forcing his emotion into the freezing air to die. Jake watched snow fall across the open range. Dale regained his composure and put his glasses on.

“It’s a hell of a weight to carry. She was eleven, just a kid. Mom couldn’t bear it. We left everything behind and ended up in Wyoming,” Dale said. “She carries it like it happened yesterday,”

An image of a deputy hitting eleven-year-old Birdy crossed Jake’s mind, her writhing in pain, wind knocked out. He kicked at the snow, ashamed. 

Dale touched the top of Jake’s ear. His hand was warm. 

“You’ll lose your ears out here.”

They started walking back to the house. 

“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” Jake said.

Dale put his arm around Jake. 

“I’m not mad, kid. I like you even though you like the Pittsburg Squealers.”

The Broncos beat the Seahawks. Birdy was on the couch. She had the Seagram’s 7 from the hutch. 60 Minutes came on. Birdy said she liked the new girl, Leslie Stahl. Dale and Birdy fell asleep during Andy Rooney’s essay on NAFTA. He turned off the TV, covered Dale with a blanket, then helped Birdy put on her coat. He locked the door on the way out.

They turned off highway 30 onto I-80, west toward Rawlins. 

“You know what I wish?” Birdy said. “I wish you could stay with me.”

“Me too,” Jake said. 

He felt a heaviness in his stomach. Near Sinclair, Birdy lit a cigarette over her oxygen tank. She started telling the story about the day Chet Newton drowned. She fell asleep in the middle of the story. Jake took her cigarette and smashed it in the ashtray. 

One thing is for sure, Dad’s not going to let her smoke in his car. 

He imagined Birdy, sneaking away, taking a cab to downtown Ogden to one of the bars on 25^th Street. Jake smiled thinking of the look on Dad’s face when he would find the note from Birdy telling him to pick her up.  

Just past Sinclair, Jake tuned the radio to KSL out of Salt Lake City and listened to the end of Mystery Theater. It was dark by the time they arrived back in Rawlins.

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