Wild Birds of Maine

CHAPTER ONE

The red-eyed vireo was singing his heart out, somewhere near the top of the big maple, but he had not shown himself. The yellow warblers had gone quiet, so the constant chirping of chickadees provided his only accompaniment.

Emma took another step closer to the edge of the pond. The loon was still ignoring her.

One more step, she thought. Any further and it will disappear back into the cattails.

She took the step and slowly lowered herself down on one knee. She brought the camera up to her eye and focused, twisting the lens until the loon came sharply into view.

It turned in the water and stared in her direction. She managed to take a dozen clear shots before it dived beneath the surface. She didn't think any of them were particularly good, but that was all right. She'd taken hundreds of pictures of loons. They had been Greg's favorite bird.

"They are the most inept, clumsy birds in the world," she would tease him, "They can't even take flight from land."

He would always reply, "And they are still here after millions of years."

When she rose to her feet, a pair of red winged blackbirds skittered out of the reeds in front of her and flew off into the trees.

She walked through the knee high grass and Queen Anne's Lace, back to the trail. The grasshoppers were out in full force. It would be good to come back and watch for bluebirds. She hadn't seen one in years, but there were reports that they had returned to the area. Bluebirds loved to eat grasshoppers.

She stepped in to the path and checked her socks and her bare legs for ticks. A tick can kill you.

Despite the midday sun, it was dark and cool under the canopy of the trees. As she rounded the last bend in the trail, a half dozen woodcocks scurried away and hid in the underbrush.

She crossed the rough plank bridge over Higgins Brook and emerged into the sunlit parking area at the trailhead. The mini van with the New Jersey plates was still the only vehicle in the little lot. She had not seen anyone on the trail; they must have hiked all the way up the mountain.

She checked her legs for ticks again as she stepped out to the road. The sun's glare was almost blinding, but her eyes soon adjusted. Waves of heat shimmered off the asphalt ahead of her. She walked along the dirt shoulder where the ground was cooler.

There wasn't much traffic. A big blue SUV came up behind her and flew by, going much too fast. She wasn't surprised to see it had Massachusetts plates. Ethan and Marge Littlefield drove past in their old Ford pick up. They honked and she waved.

The only other sign of life was a trio of crows pecking at the carcass of a roadkill squirrel. They hopped a few yards away as she approached, but returned to their meal as soon as she had moved along.

She stopped at the bottom of Union Cemetery Road and checked her mailbox. The only thing in it was an application for a new credit card, addressed to Greg. She was fifty yards up the dirt road when a young girl came around the bend on a bicycle. She had long blonde hair and wore a pink and white sundress.

"Hi, Emma!" she called.

Emma waved. Cassie Danielson and her family had moved into the old Sawyer house the previous summer. Every time she saw the girl and her brother Devin, she was surprised at how much theyhad grown.

"Hi, Cassie," she said as the girl rode toward her.

Cassie made a circle around Emma, then lowered her feet and walked the bike alongside her.

"My mom said I should tell you that I saw a big peckerwood."

"Do you mean a woodpecker, honey?"

"Yeah. He was banging his nose on the side of our house."

"That's not his nose, it's his beak."

"My mom said he was poking holes in the house. Why was he doing that?"

"There must be insects in the wood and he's trying to eat them."

"We got bugs in our house?" She seemed genuinely alarmed.

"Probably just carpenter ants. I'll come talk to your dad when I get a chance."

They passed the Danielson's driveway. Emma considered going to the house now and talking to Steve, tell him he needed to call an exterminator and in the meantime, to hang some suet in the trees to draw the woodpeckers away from the house.

But she didn't stop. Cathy stayed beside her until they got to the edge of the cemetery that gave the road its name. She would not say that she was afraid to go near it, but Emma had noticed that she never did.

"Bye, Emma," the girl said, turning her bike and pedaling back toward home.

Emma liked the cemetery. It was, as intended, a place of peace for the Civil War veterans and their kin who rested there. In the spring, it transformed into a garden of pink lady slippers and purple violets. Every Memorial Day, volunteers from the American Legion post came out and put tiny American flags on each soldier's grave. They were the only visitors she had ever seen there.

Just beyond the cemetery she turned into her own driveway. Beverly's car was parked in front of the house. As she walked nearer, a mixed flock of chickadees and goldfinches fled from the big feeder. A lone nuthatch hung upside down on the suet cage and completely ignored her.

Beverly was on the screened in porch, sitting back in an Adirondack chair with her feet propped up on the porch rail. She held a pink pastry box in her lap and was munching on a cream horn. Confectioners sugar dotted her blouse.

"Well, make yourself at home," Emma said.

Beverly swallowed and smiled. "I figured you went walkabout and you'd be back soon."

"I just hiked down to the pond."

"I brought pastries from Sunrise Bakery," Beverly said, holding up the box. "You remember Sunrise, don't you? We used to go there all the time."

Emma picked a raspberry danish from the box and sat down facing her. "Of course I do," she said.

Beverly shrugged her shoulders. "Honey, we've been friends since you moved here, what, twelve years ago? I never see you anymore."

"I just need to be by myself for now."

"You've been by yourself for almost a year."

"Bev, I go to town all the time."

"You go to the Shop and Save and then you go home. Do you ever visit anybody? Go out to eat? See a movie?"

Emma had no reply. Beverly put the pastry box down on the table. She leaned forward in her chair and said, "I worry that you're suffering from depression."

"I'm not depressed. I'm in mourning. Don't pathologize it."

"I'm not trying to judge you, dear, I just wanna make sure you're okay."

"I'm okay."

"You don't want to turn into the old lady in the woods that the kids all say is a witch, do you?"

"Actually, I might like that."

"I suppose it has its upside. But I didn't just come out here to give you a sugar buzz, although you probably needed one. I had something I wanted to talk to you about."

"All right," Emma said, "What is it?'

"I'm glad to see you've got your camera. I was wondering if you were taking your bird pictures."

"I didn't for a while, but I have lately. That's what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No. Did you know that Bert Latham died?"

"Yes, I was sorry to hear that. But it was a couple of months ago, wasn't it?"

Bev nodded. "He had that bookstore in our building since I was a little girl. It looked like his daughter was going to take it over, but she backed out. So, it's empty now and I've got to find a tenant. And with the economy the way it is, I haven't had a single enquiry."

"I'm surprised with all the summer people around here," Emma said.

"I am too. So, the other day I was at the hardware store, buying lids for my canning jars. How come you always have the jars but all the lids have disappeared?"

"I don't know. Is this eventually going to have something to do with me?"

"I'm getting to that. So, there was this guy in there, giving Eunice grief because he didn't like their birdseed."

"Didn't taste right?"

"Ha ha, very funny. No, the birds didn't like it. Or, there was some kind of bird he wanted, and it wouldn't come to his feeders."

"Well, different species have different diets. The kind of food you put in your feeders will determine which birds come to them."

"Anyway, that started me thinking, so I went over to the aisle where they have the birdseed and they've got, like, two or three kinds and they've got a few bird feeders, and I thought there are a lot of people who like birdwatching and feeding them and that kind of thing..."

"I've read estimates that about fifty million Americans are birders."

"Exactly. So what if you had a store that just sold bird stuff?"

Emma nodded. "Sure, there are stores like that, but none around here."

"And birdseed and feeders is just the start. I thought about you, and your prints of your pictures. And that guy down in Owls Head who does all the bird paintings. He probably sells prints."

"Joe Grimshaw. Yes, he does."

Bev began marking items off on her fingers. "Books about birds. Whatever equipment birdwatchers buy, binoculars or what not. T-shirts. Toys. Shit, refrigerator magnets. Whatever."

"If you're asking me if I think that a store like that could work here, I'd say yes, it probably could. You'd get business from the summer people and you could probably sell enough seed and suet in the winter to pay the bills in the off season."

"Great. I think we should do it."

"We?"

"It's not going to work if I don't have a bird expert."

"I could certainly advise you on what kind of seed to carry and..."

"No, no, no. People are going to come in and ask questions. 'I got this red and yellow bird comes in my yard, what kind of food should I give it? Where can I go around here if I want to see an eagle?' Stuff like that. How the hell am I gonna answer them?"

Emma sat back in her chair and took the last bite of her danish.

"Come on, Em. It'll be fun."

"I got enough from Greg's insurance to live comfortably, but I don't have the money to start a business."

"But, that's the thing. I own the storefront. Our initial cost is for the inventory, and I'm pretty sure I can cover that. If not, it won't be any problem getting a small loan."

"It would be a lot of work."

"You got something else to do?"

Emma did not have an answer. Beverly stood up and, noticing the sugar on her blouse, shook it off.

"Listen, honey," she said, "Just think about it, okay?"

"I will."

She walked with Bev to her car. "Are you really going to think about it?" Bev asked.

"Yes," Emma said, kissing her on the cheek, "Unless you drive me completely crazy on the subject."

As she stood with her arms crossed, watching her friend turn her car around and head down the driveway, Emma felt an urge to call out; to bring her back, or better yet, to hop into her passenger seat and go to lunch with her, go shopping, just stroll on the Riverwalk together. But Beverly was gone and she was alone again.

She took a step or two toward the house, then paused, and walked to the barn instead. The side door was stuck. She realized it hadn't been opened since the previous summer. She shoved hard and it swung open.

It was dark inside. She flipped on the overhead lights. The first thing she saw was Greg's Subaru Outback. She winced and clenched her teeth before looking away.

In the back of the barn, in what has once been the cattle stalls, she found what she was looking for. The collapsible tent was neatly packed and leaning in the corner. The folding tables and chairs, the spin racks and display boards and easels and all the rest of her art fair gear were stacked beside it.

A memory came to her. It was the first year that she had shown at the Blue Hill Fair. The sky had looked threatening all morning. Just after noon, the clouds burst, dropping torrents of rain. She and Greg had hurriedly lowered the tent flaps and secured them to the poles. Greg stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck and the side of her face.

His hands slipped down her body. He slowly inched her sundress up over her hips. She bent down, resting her elbows on the table, while he slipped her underpants down. She remembered the feelings that washed over her when he entered her, and she remembered listening to the sound of the rain drumming on the top of the tent, desperately hoping that it would not stop. That he would not stop, that they could be joined in their bond of pleasure forever.

It was hot and muggy in the tent, as it was now in the barn. Her dress was soaked with their sweat when they finished. After the rain stopped and they reopened the tent, a customer looked at her and remarked that she must have been caught in the storm.

"Oh, yes," she responded, "It got me very wet."

She broke away from her reminiscence. She was becoming aroused, and she did not want that. It always led to melancholy.

Her banner was draped over the pile of equipment. White letters on a green background read, "EMMA WEAVER, MICMAC FALLS MAINE, NATURE PHOTOGRAPHY."

She moved the banner aside. Two wooden crates sat on top of the pile. In one, there were eight large framed and matted photographs. She looked through them. These were the pieces that she considered her best work. Looking at them felt like running into old friends.

The last picture was her favorite. It had been an accident. A blue jay was perch on the branch of a snow frosted spruce. She focused in on him, but just as she took the shot, something spooked him and he flew off. She moved on, looking for other subjects. But, later, when she went through the day's pictures, she noticed the cause of the jay's flight. A tufted titmouse could be seen in the bottom right corner. He was just landing on a lower branch. One foot already grasped the branch, the other was about to do so. His wings were spread, slightly blurred, caught in flight.

There was something about the picture, the field of green needles and patchy white snow, the tiny bird not much more than a streak of gray and white, barely noticeable at first glance, that moved her.

It spoke to her of the very nature of her lifelong interest in birding. The bird, barely seen, still in motion, captured for her the ephemeral essence of her relationship with the subject of her work. Birding was an activity of the moment, her photography an attempt to grasp and hold something that derived its beauty from its refusal to be held.

Wasn't that was made love so special as well? The bird is there, and then it is gone. One day you have a husband, the next day you don't.

She looked in the second crate. It was filled with smaller matted pictures, shrink wrapped in clear plastic.

This is my work, she thought, this is the thing I love the most. Or, at least this is what I love the most that I still have.

She had taken plenty of pictures in the past year, but she'd done nothing with them. Wasn't sharing the beauty that she saw the point of it all? Why take them if all she did was hoard them for herself?

Still, she didn't need to take on the responsibilities of being a partner in a store to do that. It was too late to sign up to exhibit at any of the summer art fairs, but there was still Fall Festival and the Rotary Club's Christmas fair.

She spent the remainder of the afternoon going through the day's pictures. In addition to the loon, she got some nice shots of a wading blue heron, and a few cardinals and grosbeaks. Nothing stood out. They were ordinary pictures. None came close to the ephemeral titmouse, or the shot of the plunging osprey that had won her first prize at the Farmington Art Fair.

There was more to nature photography than just point and shoot. You had to seek out the best subjects, frame your shot, adjust your focus, and most of all, wait for the perfect moment.

That was all lacking in her recent photos. She needed to put her heart back into her work. That meant sharing it. An art fair now and then would help, but she wondered if she might find herself more inspired if she were engaged on a daily basis.

After supper, she sat on the porch and watched the finches and sparrows at her feeder. When it grew dark, she thought about going inside and watching some television. But another thought came to her. Bev had mentioned that the store could sell books. She thought about what books she would choose to carry. They would certainly need to have field guides. She preferred Peterson's. Greg had been partial to the Audubon. National Geographic was good as well, as was Sibley.

Some people might be looking for serious ornithology books, as well. Or art and photography books. Children's books.

She went into the house, but instead of sitting down in front of the television, she went into the spare bedroom that she used for her office/studio. She got a notepad from her desk, then crossed to her bookshelf and started making a list.

CHAPTER TWO

Emma held the stepladder steady while Beverly lifted the wooden sign up to her husband.

"Needs to go up a smidge on the left," Dexter Ames called out from the front door of his barber shop.

"Okay, Dex," Adam grumbled, "I got it."

"Be nice, honey," Bev told her husband, "He's trying to be helpful."

"He's trying to be a know it all," Adam mumbled.

He finished hooking the sign to its wrought iron arm and let it dangle.

Bev took several steps back, to where her daughter, Lily, was watching. She draped her arm over her shoulders and said, "Looks good to me, what do you think sweetie?"

Lily shrugged. "It's okay, I guess."

"Emma, come look," Bev said.

Emma let go of the ladder and joined them. She looked at the sign, tilting her head from side to side. It was sky blue, with white cursive letters reading, "Wild Birds of Maine." In the top right corner there was an image of an osprey in flight; in the lower left was a perching chickadee.

"I love it," she said.

"It looks like the hawk is going to eat the little bird," Lily said.

"It's not a hawk, dear," Emma told her, "It's an osprey. They don't eat other birds, they eat fish."

"Just saying that's what it looks like," Lily said, ending the conversation by taking her phone from her pocket.

"Who cares?" Adam said, still wobbling on the ladder, "Just tell me if it's straight or not, so I can get down off this christly thing before I break my neck."

"It looks fine," Emma told him.

Adam climbed down, stepped back and looked at his work. "It's a little on the slant," he grumbled.

"So climb back up and fix it," Bev said.

"It ain't that slanted."

Bev laced her arm through Emma's and they turned to face the store front. The display window to the right of the door featured several of Emma's framed prints. A row of assorted bird feeders hung above them. At the bottom of the window, there was an arrangement of books, centered on a beautiful coffee table edition of Audubon's Birds of America.

Most of the left window was covered with a large sign that read "Grand opening sale. All birdseed 20% off regular price." It was framed by bird houses of all shapes and sizes.

"Looks wicked good if you ask me," Bev said.

"I think so, too."

Hand in hand, they entered their store.

Emma smiled as she looked around. Even if the store failed, the experience of the last few months had been so positive, so affirming, that it would have been worthwhile. As a used bookstore, it had been dark and dusty, but now it was bright and lively.

She and Bev, with help from Lily and her friends, had painted the walls robin's egg blue. The tin ceiling had only needed a good cleaning to turn it from dull gray to bright white. Adam had climbed his rickety ladder and taken care of that and she was thankful to him for it.

They kept some of the shelves from the bookstore, not just for the books and magazines she had selected, but for toys and games and knickknacks as well.

Her art fair spin racks had been put to use, displaying postcards and greeting cards. She had used her connections in the arts community, realizing there were a surprising number of artists in the state who used birds as a theme in their work. They had taken some of Joe Grimshaw's prints to sell on consignment. Emma had remembered a potter from Deer Isle who did lovely bowls and tea pots with bird designs, and had made an agreement to sell her work as well.