The Hummingbird War

  The Hummingbird War

  by Joan Shott

  Copyright 2011 by Joan Shott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  For my cousin, Ronald Gerard Pierce

  PFC - E2 - Marine Corps

  Length of service: 2 years

  Casualty was on Sep 6, 1966

  In Quang Tin, South Vietnam

  Hostile, Ground Casualty

  Gun, Small Arms Fire

  Body was recovered

  (From: Vietnam Veterans Memorial - The Wall - USA)

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks to the following people who helped me take my dream for this book to a reality: Dan Caine, Louise Creighton, Nancy Ellery, Paul Gates, Judy Gunderson, Richard Hacker, Thao Huynh, Judy Luoth, Steve Morrison, Tuyen Nguyen, Kara Pomeroy, Nathan Rizor, Al Shott, Sophea Sun, and Marty Wingate.

  Cover design by N.V.Rizor and Andrew Ziegler

  Contents

  The Hummingbird War 2

  Acknowledgements 5

  Contents 6

  Chapter One 8

  Chapter Two 12

  Chapter Three 18

  Chapter Four 23

  Chapter Five 27

  Chapter Six 35

  Chapter Seven 39

  Chapter Eight 45

  Chapter Nine 49

  Chapter Ten 56

  Chapter Eleven 62

  Chapter Twelve 67

  Chapter Thirteen 73

  Chapter Fourteen 78

  Chapter Fifteen 83

  Chapter Sixteen 88

  Chapter Seventeen 91

  Chapter Eighteen 93

  Chapter Nineteen 96

  Chapter Twenty 103

  Chapter Twenty-One 105

  Chapter Twenty-Two 109

  Chapter Twenty-Three 112

  Chapter Twenty-Four 117

  Chapter Twenty-Five 122

  Chapter Twenty-Six 124

  Chapter Twenty-Seven 129

  Chapter Twenty-Eight 132

  Chapter Twenty-Nine 135

  Chapter Thirty 140

  Chapter Thirty-One 144

  Chapter Thirty-Two 147

  Chapter Thirty-Three 150

  Chapter Thirty-Four 152

  Chapter Thirty-Five 155

  Chapter Thirty-Six 157

  Chapter Thirty-Seven 161

  About the Author 163

  Chapter One

  I packed the backseat with clothes, bird books and binoculars, and my mother’s old record albums, and drove north from Useless Bay. Lethal currents swept out towards the Straits of Juan de Fuca with the force of a tidal wave one hundred and eighty feet beneath as I drove across the Deception Pass Bridge. The dizzying height pumped blood through me as cold as the water below and provided a momentary diversion from the real reason for my heartache.

  Coasting past acres of forlorn, empty tulip fields, I hugged the narrow streets of Mt. Vernon without ever taking my eyes off the road. Rather than boarding the ferry from the south end of the island, which was five minutes from my house, I followed the northern route to Seattle, an extra two hour drive. The Volvo lumbered onto the interstate, and I heard my father’s reprimand as if he had snuck into the backseat with all my possessions. Take the damned ferry, Diane. You like to spend your life driving that old car?

  But getting on a boat was like getting on a plane and that was the last thing I wanted to do. Although I’d never set foot on an airplane in my life, it was impossible to consider traveling by air. I would have no control over what might happen. Not to say I was completely comfortable driving in a car either, but with the steering wheel in my hand I could turn to avoid an accident or run head-first into a tree. At least in my car, I had some power over my fate.

  My journey on I-5 south towards Seattle was at a steady 55, the car rattling to its bones at any higher speed. I slowed for the exit for 45th Street, and the Volvo’s worn brakes squealed metal on metal. I made a mental note to ask my father to fix them; one last repair, please.

  Heading down the busy avenue, I caught sight of the monumental spires of the University of Washington campus buildings and my heart filled with dread. I hoped I had what it took to live up to my expectations, but as I drove through the unfamiliar streets just about anyone could have convinced me I had my own name wrong if they stared me down long enough. I kept driving. I’d promised my husband, my former husband — I didn’t even know what to call him anymore — I would go to school. I heard his voice pushing me forward as I moved along the path towards a new life. Go to college and show them how smart you are. Make something of yourself. I’ll be home before you know it. Okay Birdie?

  I stumbled along the streets in first gear, circling the same places over and over, trying to find the duplex I’d rented with three other girls. I’d been to the house once before, but I couldn’t recall what it looked like. I would be a traitor to my real home if I let the details of the new place settle in my mind. When someone behind me blew their horn I realized I’d stopped in the middle of the street, lost in thought, and I stepped on the gas. Gears clunked and old springs squeaked in protest, but I continued to search for the house number as I tried to ignore the dread rising inside me.

  If I couldn’t even find a simple address, how could I make it through college?

  On the day I’d come to register for classes I’d seen an index card pinned to the bulletin board at the student union next to notices for anti-war rallies to protest the war in Vietnam. I turned so I could focus only on the apartment listing. The rent was reasonable. But it was a three-bedroom place and there were four of us, so the last two to sign up, someone named Amy and myself, would be sharing a room.

  After I found the house by negotiating one-way streets and dead ends, I unloaded my belongings and began the first days of a new routine. I thought it would be enough of a shock to my system to get me back into life again, like CPR to my catatonic senses, yet I spent most of those first few weeks in the library stacks sleeping with my head on my books rather than go back to the place that was empty of anything I wanted or needed. I hardly looked at, never mind spoke to, my roommates. I didn’t really live in that apartment. In my heart I still lived in my house on Useless Bay. And the phone would ring, if I waited patiently. And I’d hear Bobby’s voice, if I listened hard enough; the flat a’s of his New England accent and the certainty of his words would flutter across my heart like the leaves falling past my window.

  The girl I shared my room with, Amy, had her own circle of friends who had come to the campus as a group, all from the same town, the same synagogue, she’d said. We had little in common other than the air we shared in the confined space of the third bedroom. She must have sensed my need to be left alone and kept to her side of the room.

  Louise was the roommate who’d signed her name to the lease and frantically collected our part of the rent on the first of the month when it finally crossed her mind, usually after midnight. She hid in her room behind a book when she was home, but on occasion she was known to drink a little too much and argue about politics. Always liberal, leaning towards radical. She was rough around the edges, but kind enough to smoke her cigarettes on the back porch in deference to Amy’s allergies.

  And then there was Nancy. She tried the hardest to involve me in some kind of social life. I pushed her away over and over
, but she bounced back like one of those little rubber balls attached with string to a paddle. She would corner me as I left for class and ask again and again, So, Diane, do you have a date for the weekend? Want to meet a guy my boyfriend knows? She never grew tired of asking. I shrugged and walked out of the house, heading straight to class and back home after dark, never considering the offers she made.

  I drifted through English and history classes, not interested in reading heartfelt poetry or accounts of the past which would eventually lead like steps to the front door of the history I already knew too well. At least my chemistry and math classes kept my mind focused on facts, not my memories, but my ornithology class left me bored and longing for the life within the trees of my island home.

  I was something of a bird expert already, having been nuts about them since I could remember. I knew the names and the habits of all the local species, and most of what the teaching assistant said was old news to me. I was particularly disappointed when she glossed over the part about hummingbirds, doubting she had ever stood in a garden to watch them as I had done year after year. If she had, how could she fail to have been charmed into submission by their bravery, their aerial prowess? I could have taught the class better than the instructor. So I decided on my college major: ornithology. I didn’t think about it at the time, but I was choosing something which would keep me connected to my old life with Bobby. But, I did love birds, too. I did.

  Weeks passed and I grew attached to my new routines by razor-thin threads. When I went back to Whidbey Island on the weekends I still felt a twinge in the pit of my stomach when it was time to leave. I ran through the back yard and filled all the bird feeders. As I topped the hummingbird feeder off with sugar water, I mourned the fact I wouldn’t be there to see them during the week. I missed their battles; the fierceness of their Lilliputian posturing as they defended their territory.

  On a rainy Sunday in November, before I headed back to the city for the week, I drove into Coupeville where I bought a hummingbird feeder for the Seattle duplex. As I peeled off the bills at the register, I worried if I’d be able to make things work to keep the house Bobby had bought before we met. The money from the Navy paid most of the bills for now, but I didn’t know how long it would last. I crossed my fingers as I rattled across the Deception Pass Bridge on my way back to campus that there would be some hungry Anna’s hummingbirds in the Seattle neighborhood, and I’d be able to keep them in sugar water there and at the island house.

  Nancy worked as a clerk at the office of the campus police, so I asked her advice about taking a part-time job. She nodded her head eagerly as we sat in my bedroom and talked, her straight, dark-blonde hair rolled onto soup cans as a method of straightening it to mimic a sleek model’s look.

  “Oh God, Diane, you should definitely do it. I swear it’s the best place to meet guys. I’ve already dated three of the officers. It’s all just for fun, you know, nothing serious.”

  “That’s not why I want a job. I want to make sure I don’t dig into my savings, and I keep running into expenses I never expected,” I said, feeling tears building and about to fall.

  Nancy reached over with those long, beautiful fingers of hers and put her hand gently on my arm. “That’s life, isn’t it? I always plan on saving part of my paycheck, and then I see a sale on boots and there it goes. God, being responsible is, you know, hard.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s hard, but if it weren’t hard I guess it would be easy to be perfect, wouldn’t it?” I rolled onto my stomach and splayed across the bed.

  “Well, look who’s talking. You stay at the library until it closes and finish every term paper way before it’s due. Do guys ever call the house for you? Like never. How do you live like that?” She turned sideways, looking at her profile in the mirror and running her hands over her flat stomach and the waist of her skin-tight jeans.

  “I’m here to get an education, and I’m not interested in dating.”

  “Oh, Diane, you’re not one of those, you know, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Nancy’s eyes darted to the corners of the room. “You know, a girl who likes girls, because if you are…”

  “No. NO. Just because I’m not interested in going out on dates doesn’t mean … I’m just trying to get over someone. Our relationship was very involved, and I’m not ready to see anyone else yet. I still love him and I miss him.”

  “I can dig that. I think most women can relate to getting over someone who dumps you. Don’t feel bad, Diane. You’ll meet someone else. Give it time. Why, you’re smart and pretty. With those long eyelashes of yours and your perfect skin, you won’t have a problem hooking up with another guy.”

  “Yeah, I won’t have a problem,” I said, sure my facetious answer was lost on her.

  “In a few weeks when you’re feeling better, we can, you know, double date,” Nancy said, wrinkling up her nose.

  Oh God, she couldn’t let it go. She was, I suppose, a romantic at heart, and wanted to see me with some man who would fill my nights with loud music, drugs, and sex. Let her try. I wasn’t going down that path. But at least she didn’t eye me suspiciously anymore when I sat home at night working on math and reading thick novels for my English class. She didn’t try to fix me up with her boyfriends’ buddies, and she kept enough distance to let me heal the way I had to, as if my heart would ever mend.

  Chapter Two

  There are days when I wonder what my life would have been like if I weren’t so crazy about birds. Searching for another species to add to the growing life list I kept tucked between the pages of my Peterson Guide might have been what set my world fluttering from the trees as if from a shotgun blast.

  I’d driven my old Volvo to Bowman Bay on my day off from my job at the Oak Harbor A&P, wanting to hike despite the threatening weather and hoping to see the migrating widgeons and harlequin ducks on the gravel-rimmed beach. Mrs. Gunderson, who’d been in my check-out line just the day before, mentioned she thought she’d spotted a red-throated loon near Lottie Bay, about a half hour’s hike from Bowman. The loon, so elusive, was a bird I’d dreamed of adding to my list. They were very much like me: timid and quiet until disturbed.

  As I left the parking lot, the marsh grass on the path’s edge tickled my bare legs. I stopped every few yards to peer through my binoculars until the rain began to fall, and I retraced my steps along the sandy path. The rain came down harder as I ducked into the Volvo. Then, as luck would have it, my car refused to start. Out of the blue, a man dressed in sharp khakis came up to the car, willing to take a look under the hood. He was the most handsome man I’d ever seen, his streaked blonde hair cut short, but with a promise it could easily curve over that cowlick of mischief at the center of his forehead. He grinned and showed dimples like two more smiles. I hesitated to accept his help, but he seemed nice enough, and he let me stay in the car, locked and safe from harm’s way. So I pulled the hood latch under the dashboard — slowly and carefully — as if I knew I was opening something bigger than just the hood of a car.

  “What is this, a 47?” he asked, peering around from under the hood.

  “That’s right,” I answered through the slit I’d opened in the window.

  “Gee, this car’s probably as old as you, huh?”

  I wanted to tell him the car was a year younger than me. I wanted to tell him my name and where I lived and everything about me, but I sat frozen behind the wheel.

  He fiddled with something under the hood and got the car to start right away. I shifted the Volvo into gear and thanked him through the tiny opening I’d allowed at the top of my window as drops of rain pecked at my face. I was too timid to offer my hand, too out of step with the times to use the opportunity to slip him my phone number. I just smiled and said, “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

  And he grinned and said, “I don’t want to think of what would have happened to me if you hadn’t been here, Birdie.” I watched him in my review
mirror standing in the parking lot, soaked to the skin, still smiling. He’d seen me watching the birds along the water’s edge and had come up with his own name for me: Birdie.

  I drove the dirt road out to Highway 525, navigating through fogged windows, trying to get past the fluttering in my chest. When he’d looked at me I’d felt joy radiate from my bones, and I didn’t even know his name. The farther I drove, the stronger I felt the backwards pull like the seduction of an outgoing tide.

  I stopped at my father’s Esso station on my way home to beg him to take a look at my car for the third time that month. My father smirked when I asked if he could keep it running for just a while longer.

  “You know, little girl, this car ain’t nothing but a pain in the ass. Why’s it you kids like these foreign cars? If you was to bring me a Ford or a Chevy I’d be able to do a fix on the cheap. Well, at least it ain’t Japanese. Don’t want no Jap cars after almost losing my life to fight them bastards.” He gingerly touched his side where his old scar lived as he did every time he mentioned the war.

  We looked down at the engine, the smell of burning oil rising between us, when a jet landing at the nearby Whidbey Island Naval Air Station roared over our heads.