Where the Forest Meets the Stars Page 5

  “If the airbag kills kids, why do they put it in the car?” Ursa asked.

  “Because people who make cars expect kids to ride in the back seat where it’s safest.”

  “What if a truck hits the back of the car where the kid is sitting?”

  “Are you going to follow my rules or not?”

  She clambered into the back seat and put on a seat belt.

  The dog ran after the car as they left the Kinney driveway. “Jo, stop! Stop!” Ursa pleaded. “He’s following us!”

  “How will stopping help?”

  Ursa leaned out the back-seat window and watched the dog vanish with a bend in the road. “He can’t keep up!”

  “I don’t want him to. He can’t come to my study site. Bringing a predator would freak out my birds.”

  “Jo! He’s still coming!”

  “Stop hanging out the window. This road is narrow, and you’re going to get whacked by a tree branch.”

  Ursa stared miserably at the passenger-side mirror.

  “He knows this road. This is where he was born,” Jo said.

  “Maybe he wasn’t. He could have jumped out of a car.”

  “More like he was dumped out of a car by someone who didn’t want him.”

  “Will you go back for him?”

  “No.”

  “You’re mean.”

  “Yep.”

  “Is that where Gabriel Nash lives?” Ursa asked, pointing at the rutted dirt lane and NO TRESPASSING sign.

  “I think it is,” Jo said.

  “Maybe Little Bear will go there.”

  “Egg Man probably wouldn’t like that. He has chickens and cats.”

  “Why do you call him Egg Man when his name is Gabriel?”

  “Because buying eggs is how I know him.”

  “I thought he was nice.”

  “I never said he wasn’t.”

  Jo drove to the farthest nest to make sure the dog didn’t catch up, turning around at the western end of the road and stopping at the first piece of flagging tape. She took out the data from the folder marked TURKEY CREEK ROAD and showed the page to Ursa. “This is called a nest log. I have one for every nest I find, and each one gets a number. This one is TC10, which means it’s the tenth nest I’ve found in my Turkey Creek Road study site. At the top of the log, I record information about where and when I found the nest, and on these lines underneath I record what I see each time I monitor it. The nest had two eggs in it the day I found it and four the next time. The last time I visited, it still had four, and I noted that I flushed the female off the nest.”

  “Will the babies be hatched yet?”

  “It’s too early. The female incubates for around twelve days.”

  “Incubates means she keeps them warm?”

  “That’s right. Let’s see how she’s doing.” They left the car, and Jo showed Ursa how she marked instructions on a piece of orange flagging that would direct her to the nest. “INBU is the code for indigo bunting, the main bird I study, and this is the date I found it. The other numbers and letters say the nest is four meters to the south-southwest, and it’s about a meter and a half off the ground.”

  “Where? I want to see it!”

  “You will. Follow me.” As they pushed through wet roadside weeds, the buntings remained silent. Not a good sign. They should be chirping alarm notes. Jo’s suspicions were verified when she saw the wrecked nest.

  “What happened to it?” Ursa said.

  “You have to figure that out, like a detective who looks at clues to solve a crime. Sometimes inexperienced birds build a weak nest that falls down. If the nest wasn’t constructed well, rainy weather like we had today could have made it fall.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “From the clues I see, I don’t think so.”

  “What are the clues?”

  “First of all, I remember this nest was sturdy. Second, I see no eggs on the ground. Third, the parents are completely gone from the territory, which means this probably happened before the rain hit. And the biggest clue is how much the nest is torn apart. I’m guessing a raccoon pulled it down. If a snake or crow had gotten the eggs, there probably wouldn’t be that much damage.”

  “The raccoon ate the eggs?”

  “Whatever tore up the nest ate the eggs. On some nests I set up cameras so I know for sure what predator did it.”

  “Why didn’t you have a camera for this one?”

  “I can’t put cameras on them all. Cameras are expensive. Let’s go to the next nest.”

  “Will they all be eaten by that stupid raccoon?” Ursa asked as they walked back to the car.

  “I doubt it. But my hypothesis is that buntings will have lower nesting success in human-made edges, along roads or crop fields, than they do in natural edges, like next to a stream or where a big tree has fallen. Have you ever heard the word hypothesis ?”

  “Yes, but people from Hetrayeh use a different word.” She crawled into the back seat. “I had a hypothesis about you today.”

  “Did you? What was it?”

  “If you didn’t bring the police back again, you never would.”

  She’d articulated a hypothesis with remarkable competence. And with too damn much confidence. Jo twisted around to look at her. “What does that mean? You think your hypothesis is proven and you’re staying with me?”

  “Just until the five miracles.”

  “We both know that can’t happen. You have to go home tonight. Shaw—my advisor—will be here in a few hours, and I’ll be in trouble if he finds out you’ve been living on the Kinney property for two days.”

  “Don’t tell him.”

  “How am I supposed to explain a girl sleeping at my house?”

  “I’ll sleep somewhere else.”

  “You will. At home. That’s why we’re out here. You’ll show me where you live, and I’ll bring you to the door. I’ll tell whoever takes care of you that I’m going to check on you every day. And I will check on you. I promise I will.”

  The girl’s brown eyes swamped with tears. “You lied? You didn’t really want to show me your bird nests?”

  “I did. But afterward you have to go home. My advisor will—”

  “Go ahead, take me to every house, and the people will say they don’t know me!”

  “You have to go home!”

  “I promise I’ll go home when I see the miracles. I promise!”

  “Ursa . . .”

  “You’re the only nice person I know! Please!” She sobbed, her face almost purple.

  Jo opened the rear door, unbuckled the girl’s seat belt, and held the child in her arms, the first time a head pressed against her bony chest. But the girl didn’t notice what was missing. She tightened her grip on Jo and cried harder.

  “I’m sorry,” Jo said, “I really am, but you must see I’m in an impossible situation. I could get in trouble for letting you stay with me.”

  Ursa pulled out of her arms and dragged the back of her hand across her runny nose. “Can we see another nest? Please?”

  “There are four more, and you can see them all. But afterward you have to go home.”

  She wouldn’t agree. Most obstinate child in the universe. Jo drove on. Other than a flush in her cheeks, the girl had completely recovered from her cry by the time Jo parked at the next orange flag. “I hope the raccoon didn’t get the eggs,” Ursa said.

  “It should be babies. They would have hatched within the last day.”

  Ursa jumped out and read the text on the flag tied to a sycamore sapling. “It’s an indigo bunting nest that’s seven meters northeast and one meter off the ground.”

  “Good. Now we’ll find northeast with my compass.” Jo showed her how to use the compass and sent her in the correct direction. As Ursa approached the nest, the parent birds began to call in alarm. “Do you hear those loud, abrupt chirps? That’s what indigo buntings do when you get too close to their nest.” The agitated male balanced on a milkweed plant, his sapphire
feathers lit by a setting sun that had finally emerged from fleeing rain clouds. “The male is right there in front of you. Do you see him?”

  “He’s blue!” Ursa said. “He’s all different colors of blue!”

  Her excitement was intense and real. But if she was from that road or any other nearby road, she would have seen that bird before. Buntings were common on Southern Illinois roadsides.

  “I see the nest!” Ursa said. “Can I look inside?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Ursa parted belly-high weeds and peered into the nest. “Oh my god!” she said. “Oh my god!”

  “They hatched?”

  “Yes! They’re really little and pink! They’re opening their beaks at me!”

  “They’re hungry. Their parents had trouble finding insects for them in the rain today.” Jo looked at the four newly hatched buntings. “We have to leave them alone. Do you hear how upset the parents are?”

  Ursa couldn’t take her eyes off the tiny birds. “This is a miracle! This is it, the first miracle!”

  “Haven’t you ever seen baby birds in a nest?”

  “How could I have? I’m from a planet that doesn’t have baby birds and nests.”

  “Let’s go,” Jo said. “Their parents need to feed them while there’s still light.”

  When they got to the car, Jo asked, “Was that really the first indigo bunting you’ve seen?”

  “It was. It’s the prettiest bird I’ve seen on Earth so far.”

  They checked the next nest, which had four eggs. After that was a white-eyed vireo nest. Vireos weren’t Jo’s target species, but she took data on any nest she found. The nest was still active with three vireo nestlings and one cowbird nestling, and on the way back to the car Jo told Ursa about brown-headed cowbirds and how they laid their eggs in the nests of other birds, called “hosts,” that raised them.

  “Why don’t cowbirds want to take care of their own babies?” Ursa asked.

  “By laying their eggs in the nests of other birds, they can make lots more babies because other birds do all the work. In nature, the winner is the one that produces the most young.”

  “Are the vireos mad about raising the cowbird babies?”

  “They don’t know they’re raising cowbirds. They get tricked into doing it. And often the host’s babies don’t get enough food because cowbird nestlings are bigger, grow faster, and cry louder for food. Sometimes the host species’ nestlings die.”

  “Will the vireo babies die?”

  “They looked okay. Their parents are doing a good job of keeping everyone fed.”

  Ursa stalled getting in the car to look at the last nest. She stopped to look at flowers, asked Jo about a beetle, and pretended to be fascinated by a rock she found in the weeds. Ursa remained preoccupied with the rock in her hand while they drove to the last nest, passing Egg Man’s lane on the way. They left the car, but before Ursa had time to read the flagging tape, a white Suburban with a university plate drove around the bend. From behind the wheel, white-haired Dr. Shaw Daniels waved at Jo. He parked behind her car and ducked his lanky body out the door. “Working at this late hour?”

  “It isn’t late,” Jo said. “It’s only six o’clock. I didn’t expect you until closer to eight.”

  “The last session was canceled because of food poisoning.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  He shook his head. “It was something people ate at the reception the night before.”

  Jo looked through the open driver’s side door at Tanner, seated in the back of the Suburban with Carly Aquino. The guilt in his returned gaze was obvious, as was his attempt to hide it behind a smarmy smile. What had Jo ever liked about him other than his pretty face? She looked away from him, at Leah Fisher in the front passenger seat. “Did any of you get sick?”

  “We’re all okay,” Leah said.

  “Fortunately, we didn’t stay at the reception for long,” Shaw said, “because we had dinner with John Townsend and two of his students.” He kept glancing at Ursa. “And who is this?” he asked.

  “Ursa lives around here. I was showing her how I monitor nests.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ursa,” he said. “I’m Shaw. What do you have there?”

  “It’s a rock with pink crystals in it,” Ursa said.

  “Cool,” Shaw said, his gaze falling to the flip-flops that dwarfed the girl’s feet.

  “She was barefoot,” Jo said. “I loaned her those so she wouldn’t hurt her feet. Are you hungry?”

  “Very,” Shaw said. “All we had for lunch was a few chips in the car.”

  “Good. Go up to the house and have a beer while I check this last nest.”

  “Did I hear the word beer ?” Tanner called from inside the car.

  “You did,” Jo said. “Lots of it. The door to the house is unlocked.”

  As Shaw drove away, Jo hiked toward the bunting nest, her worries about Ursa momentarily erased by Tanner’s apparent guilt. An awkward conversation was at hand, and considering what a coward Tanner was, he’d prolong the tension for as long as possible.

  Fierce barks sounded down the road. Jo had never heard the half-grown dog bark like that, but it had to be him. “Damn it, the dog is going at them,” she said.

  “He won’t hurt them,” Ursa said.

  “How do you know? He’s defending the Kinney house like he lives there. I should never have let you bring him onto the porch.”

  “I’ll teach him not to bark.”

  “You’ll take him off the property . . . when you leave.”

  The barking hadn’t stopped. Jo hurried in the direction of the last nest.

  “Shaw is nice,” Ursa said behind her.

  “He is, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make you go home.”

  “I don’t have a home here!”

  Jo stopped walking and faced her. “Don’t even think about telling him you’re from another planet. Don’t tell any of them that. Do you understand?”

  6

  Lightning glimmered in distant southern clouds. “I hope that’s heat lightning,” Jo said. “I don’t want to miss another day in the field.”

  “It’s good for you to take a break,” Shaw said.

  Her illness again. All four had asked her how she was feeling. And Carly and Leah had suggested she get a field assistant to help her. They wouldn’t even let her put the burgers on the grill. Sit down, Joanna. We’ll cook dinner while you rest.

  “I’d better close my car windows just in case,” Jo said, walking away from the fire.

  “I’m going in for another beer. Anyone want one?” Tanner said behind her.

  “No thanks,” Shaw said.

  “I’m good,” Carly said.

  “This is my last,” Leah said.

  Ursa was catching fireflies and putting them in a jar Jo had given her. When she saw Jo leave the group circled around the fire, she followed at a distance. Jo had let her eat dinner with them and listen to their conversation around the fire, but soon Jo would have to make her leave. Already she had evaded questions about why the girl was hanging around the cottage, and fifteen minutes earlier, Shaw had said, “Isn’t it about time that little girl went home?”

  Jo sat in the dark car in the driveway, pressed the ignition button, and closed the windows she’d left open in her hurry to rescue her visitors from Little Bear’s assault. The dog had instantly calmed after Jo and Ursa arrived, but she’d had to explain that he was a stray that wouldn’t leave. “Probably you fed him, which means you’re stuck with him,” Shaw had said critically.

  If he only knew.

  “Nice ride.” Tanner’s voice came out of the darkness.

  He’d had at least six beers, enough to lubricate him for the speech Jo had expected all night. She locked the car as Tanner’s handsome face emerged from shadows cast by the porch lights. “I know,” Jo said. “It’s the first newish car I’ve ever owned. But I’d truthfully feel better having my old Chevy down here. These gravel roads are beating the cr
ap out of it.”

  Tanner put his hand on the shiny red hood of the Honda SUV. “It was your mom’s?”

  “She insisted I take it, and my brother didn’t want it.”

  “I caught another lightning bug, Jo. I have four now,” Ursa called from under the hickory tree.

  “But you have to let them go soon,” Jo said.

  “I will,” she said.

  “Cute kid,” Tanner said. “Won’t her parents be worried she’s out so late?”

  “I think the home situation is a little questionable,” Jo said.

  “That sucks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jo . . .”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and waited. Tanner stepped closer, his features obscured by a tree shadow, and his faceless proximity made the humid darkness feel like a church confessional.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t go up to Chicago to see you,” he said. “But I thought . . .”

  “What?”

  “I thought you wouldn’t want me to see you like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know . . . sick. No hair and all that.” When she didn’t respond, he twisted his neck from side to side to crack it, his standard nervous gesture. “Was I wrong . . . ?”

  “You were right. I didn’t want to see anyone.” If she’d learned one thing in the last two years, it was that life could be hard enough without adding petty resentments.

  He took a swig of beer to wash away the last of his sin. “Did you want one?” he asked, holding the beer out. “Should I get you one?”

  “No thanks.”

  He took another long drink from the bottle. “You look great, by the way.”

  “Great for a cancer survivor?”

  “Just great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you going to do reconstruction when you’re feeling better?”

  “I am feeling better.”

  “But probably you have to wait awhile . . . ?”

  Jo took her arms off her chest. “This is how I want it. Now that I’ve experienced the chest freedom a guy has, I’ll never go back.”

  He half smiled, assuming her humor came from bitterness. “I can see why you would want that after everything that happened. But at least your mom was diagnosed in time to save you.” He tilted his head to one side to crack his neck. “I mean . . .”