6/23/12

A Clay-colored Robin
By John Laneri


Once at cruising altitude outbound from Chicago, the woman beside me nudged my arm. At the time, I was sound asleep, having drifted into a much needed nap.

“Do you mind giving me half of the arm rest?” she asked, her elbow prodding mine.

Startled, I lifted my head and turned to her half awake, thinking thoughts that probably would have frightened my mother.

“Sorry, I must have dozed off,” I replied, as I glanced her way, noting a modest appearing woman with brown hair and gray eyes.

Before long though, we were sharing the armrest and exchanging an occasional word back and forth.

“You seem to be enjoying that article.” I eventually said, pointing to her magazine.

She pushed half-glasses against her nose and glanced toward me. “I am. It was written by a former schoolmate.”

She returned to the article, so purely out of curiosity, I looked to see what she was reading.

Surprised, I saw that she was into the feature that I had published in Audubon a few months earlier. I recalled it as one of my better presentations – the one featuring a photographic composite of the best wildlife areas along the Rio Grande River between Texas and Mexico.

Naturally, I began to rack my brain, hoping to recover some tidbit of information that would point me to the right person. Then, I remembered her, my memory turning to Maggie Smith, a girl from my childhood. I recalled her as a schoolmate that I ran with one summer before the fifth or sixth grade.

“Are you Maggie Smith?”

She marked the page with a finger. “Yes, I am. Do we know each other?” She continued to study me for several moments then her eyes lifted a fraction. “Brad Herron?”

“The one and only,” I replied. “I lived in the yellow house in the middle of the block.”

She smiled. “How surprising. I was just reading one of your articles.”

“I hope it was enjoyable.”

“Very enjoyable,” she replied, as she removed her glasses. “It's amazing how coincidences happen. I was thinking about you while I was reading your article. I must have read it at least three or four times.” She paused to look me over. “We had so much fun together as children.”

“That we did,” I replied, noting her features beginning to brighten.

She cocked her head toward me. “I’ll never forget that elm tree in your front yard.”

It took me a moment, but then I recalled the accident. “How’s the leg?” I asked, feeling a bit embarrassed when I remembered the day she had fallen from the tree.

“I forgot about it years ago. Did you know I had to wear a cast for three months?”

“I tried to visit you, but your parents wouldn’t let me in the door. After that, you moved away, so I never knew what happened.”

“They were convinced you'd pushed me.”

“I didn’t push you. It was an accident.”

“I know,” she replied, blushing momentarily. “I knew you too well. You were my best friend.”

We were quiet for several minutes as a multitude of childhood memories came flooding back. Finally, she pointed to the magazine.

“I’ve read several of your articles. You’re quite good.”

I went on to tell her how my career had blossomed once I realized that people were more interested in my photography than my writing. In turn, I learned that she worked as a curator for a museum in Minneapolis.

“You seem happy with your work,” she continued. “I see you as a modern day adventurer exploring jungles in Brazil.”

“I’m not quite that venturesome, but I do enjoy the work.”

Before long, we had exchanged our life histories in enough detail to let us catch up with the last twenty years. I learned that we had a similar number of relics in our past – married and divorced once each, sworn off the opposite sex, set in our ways.

“What takes you to Texas?” I asked.

“The museum is sending me to a workshop at the Pan Am University. We’re planning a Rio Grande exhibit. And, you?”

“I’m starting another commission job for Audubon. I’ll be staying close by in McAllen. It's only a few miles down the freeway.”

At that point, I had not been completely truthful. While I did plan a commission series in the near future, my primary reason for making the trip to South Texas was to specifically photograph the Clay-colored Robin – an rather bland but extremely elusive bird recently spotted north of the river.

I also failed to tell her that the bird had become something of a nemesis. To date, my attempts to photograph it had totaled three – one for each year on my South Texas resume.

We changed planes in Dallas and departed in separate directions, gushing with promises to stay in touch. Two hours later, I walked into a hotel room eager to find my bird. At that point, the Clay-colored Robin remained the most important thing in my life.

Before dinner, I made several phone calls to local birding enthusiasts. From what I could gather, the robin was being sighted along a twenty-mile stretch of river south of town. I recalled the area and knew it to be semi-tropical terrain – a habitat not to be taken lightly.

I also knew that a quality photograph would boost my career enormously, especially when the people at Audubon laid eyes on a vivid glossy of the bird nesting in Texas.

After eating, I turned in early, eager to get started at dawn. However, the weather forecast was for rain, and by the time I returned to the hotel Friday evening after exploring each of the known areas, my sense of failure was huge. Not only was I dejected and thoroughly soaked, but I was also beginning to wonder if I would ever find my elusive, Clay-colored Robin.

Later, after a shower, I checked my messages, and much to my surprise, Maggie Smith had phoned to invite me out for a drink. An hour later, I was on my way to her hotel wondering what, if anything, I was getting myself into.

On stepping into the lobby, I spotted her at a table near the bar, her attention directed to a small combo playing Mexican music.

“Have you been waiting long?”

She looked up smiling. “I came early so I could enjoy the music. I ordered you a margarita.”

I noticed that she was wearing sandals and a casual sun dress that blended perfectly with the bright colors of the Mexican culture.

“How was your meeting?” I asked, as I took a seat across from her, amazed at how refreshing she looked with her hair down and the glasses gone.

She finished the last of her margarita then said, “We were busy with lectures and a field trip to the river… nothing overly exciting. But, we did see a very unusual bird. Someone called the thing, a Clay-colored Robin.”

“A Clay-colored Robin!” I replied, much too loudly. “I’ve been trying to photograph that bird for years.”

She touched my hand. “If you want my opinion, it’s not worth the effort – too bland, not sexy enough for a real adventurer.”

I suspected that the margarita was having its effect, so I went on to explain that the bird’s appeal related to its elusiveness, largely because it blended so readily with the surroundings.

“Where did you see it?” I asked, trying to control my excitement.

“Somewhere close to the river. But, don’t waste your time. Birds are like women. Go for the flashy ones with bright colors. They’re the most fun.”

By then, I knew the margarita was getting to her, so I suggested Mexican food, and before long, we were seated in a small restaurant several blocks from the hotel. There, we ordered more margaritas. Later, we sampled the fajitas and flour tortillas as we delved into the splendors of our childhood.

While we were considering a desert, she again touched my hand. “Can I ask you something important?”

“Of course, we’re friends.”

“Did you feel something special between us that day when I fell out of the tree?”

I looked away trying to recall the many emotions that plagued me following her accident. “We didn't have sex like your parents claimed.”

She set her margarita aside. “We did have our clothes off.”

“But only because we were using them for flags while we defended our fortress. We were best friends – children in a make-believe world.”

Even now, I was still uncertain of what had actually happened. All I could remember was that she had missed a step and fallen from a branch. Her body sprawled against mine. We squirmed about for a few moments, trying to maintain our balance until our eyes locked on one another. At that instant, I knew that something special was happening to us. It was as if our hearts and our spirits had become one. Then suddenly, before I knew it, she slipped away and tumbled to the ground – breaking her leg in two places.

The incident had continued to bother me long after she had moved away.

“You look pale,” she said, laughing. “I’m healed. My leg still works.” She tapped a foot against my knee. “See, no problem.”

When the restaurant finally closed, we walked back to her hotel hand in hand, singing a few old time songs. I think we were romantically high by the time we reached the lobby.

Once there, she threw her arms about my neck. “I’m so happy we met again. I've thought about you so many times over the years.”

I searched for her lips. She responded eagerly. But then, like a fading flower, her eyes rolled back and she dropped to the floor about as drunk as any one person could be – her action leaving me to wonder if she had truly forgiven me for the broken leg.

The following morning, I again arose early and took to the field in search of my Clay-colored Robin. The realization of experiencing another lost opportunity was beginning to depress me. I had only one more day to complete my search.

For most of the morning, I spent my time to the west, working the river. Flooded roads wasted three hours of my time, a flat tire cost me another. Finally, by two o’clock, I concluded that I would not be finding a Clay-colored Robin, so I phoned Maggie Smith in hopes of meeting her at one of the local nature parks to photograph a South Texas sunset.

In truth, I wanted to see her once more, if for no other reason than to maintain contact and perhaps explore old feelings. I liked her. And, thinking back, I had always liked her. Being with her gave me a deep sense of pleasure.

She was already waiting when I pulled onto the parking lot at the wildlife center. We talked for a few minutes rehashing our day, and then I loaded my gear and we started into the field.

Once on the trail, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“To a secret place,” I replied smiling, as I pushed through a dense stand of scrub.

“Isn't it a bit late for a long hike?”

“We'll be back before dark,” I replied, as we turned away from the trail and started into the brush, my track taking us further into the dense flora typically seen near the river. At the time, the sun was still well above the horizon.

“I thought we were planning to photograph a sunset.”

“We need foliage too,” I replied. “There's a place just ahead where we can use the colors of the sunset as a backdrop against the natural vegetation.” I pointed into the distance. “It's another quarter mile or so beyond those trees.”

“I hope you know where you're going. It's getting dark.”

I stepped around a fallen tree and continued on, my thoughts taking me to another of our childhood escapades. “Do you recall that night in the woods when we were children?”

“How could I forget?” she replied, as she hurried beside me. “I was thinking about it a few minutes ago. I still laugh remembering your screams when that search dog licked your face?”

“I thought it's tongue was going to take my head. I also remember that your parents were not happy that we spent a night together in the woods.”

“To me, you were the bravest person in the world.”

“Only because you made me be brave,” I replied, remembering the fear and uncertainty we experienced that long scary night, running frantically back and forth through dense forest, thoroughly lost – our fears compounded by the thought of ever being found.

Finally, we edged through a mass of vegetation and emerged into a clearing. Ahead in the twilight, I spotted a makeshift footbridge thrown across a ravine.

Moving on, I hurried across the bridge, feeling the planks creak beneath my feet. I turned toward the west, my eyes taking in a specular confluence of colors, filtering through the trees. “Wow, check that out. Now... that’s a great sunset.”

She pointed toward the bridge. “I don’t like the looks of that thing. What if those boards break?”

Laughing, I said, “They should be fine. Come on across, we can shoot our pictures just as the sun disappears. The setting is one of my best ever.”

“Give me a minute. These boots are starting to hurt my feet.”

I watched her tug on a boot lace, then glance about the surroundings. We were undoubtedly alone, and the light was fading fast.

Truth be told, she never did cross the bridge. I tried coaxing her, but I suspect that she knew better because some two hours later and much to my embarrassment, we were still feeling our way through another dense jungle of vegetation in complete darkness, uncertain of where our footsteps would lead us.

“Are we lost?” she asked, as her hand reached for mine.

“I’m not sure. But, be careful where you step. Snakes are common at night.”

At the three-hour mark, biting insects found us. We became separated after six-hours when something charged our way and sent us flying in opposite directions.

Several hours later at the hotel, after a harrowing, all-night ordeal, my hand seemed to be groping about, searching. For some reason, it felt detached from my body, which I seemed to remember had finally made it to a recliner beside a spa near the pool.

“Can I pour you more coffee?” she asked wearily.

“I'm too tired to lift a cup, but thank you.”

“You still know how to entertain a girl in the woods,” she said, as she sighed deeply. “I haven’t been that scared since… well since we were children.”

I reached to scratch a bug bite.

She turned to me. “Is your shoulder bothering you? You took a hard fall when that bridge collapsed.”

“It only hurts when I move.”

She looked away to poke a finger through a hole in her sock. “I’ll never understand how I lost a boot.”

“You were running and screaming,” I reminded her. “Something was chasing you.”

“I must have panicked.”

“You did. I was lucky to find you.”

She glanced my way. “I didn’t know I could still climb a tree. You should have joined me. We could have found a branch and finished what we started as children.”

I raised my head and turned to her. “I was afraid you’d fall and break your leg again.”

She laughed. Our fingers intertwined. And then, we drifted off to sleep.

In the end, I still did not have a photograph of my bird. But by then, I knew that I had finally found something much more important. And the most surprising part of all, I realized that Maggie Smith had always been my Clay-colored Robin.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print edition periodicals.