Stupefying Stories 24: Stupefying Stories, #24

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

By Pete Wood

The fat black crow squatted on the sand three feet away and leisurely pecked at the apple core Eric had left by a dune two hours ago. The bird never took its eyes off Eric, just staring at him with the relentless gaze of a mafia hitman. This is our turf, it seemed to say. Watch what happens to this apple core. You’re next, pal.

Where had all the seagulls gone?

Or the egrets or sandpipers. Eric hadn’t even seen a pelican since he arrived at Topsail Island, North Carolina, a few hours before.

Eric had never seen a crow on the beach at Topsail until today. And it just wasn’t one or two strays that had wandered off course onto seagull territory. The south end of the island seemed full of them as soon as he crossed the drawbridge from the mainland. He’d seen plenty of seagulls a couple of miles north on the old fishing pier this morning. Whatever was keeping the seagulls away seemed to be confined to an area of a few square miles.

The seagulls all appeared to be on vacation near the condo. A hell of a week to get to use the timeshare with all the nice birds out of town.

And he had a splitting headache. Two ibuprofen had barely made a dent. The pounding surf, usually Zen, matched his throbbing skull.

The crows were creepy enough without dragging the apple core a hundred yards from where Eric had dropped it on his beach walk. One at a time, three crows joined the alpha crow. Each took turns pecking at the core. None took their eyes off Eric.

I’m in a goddamned Edgar Allan Poe story, Eric muttered.

The head crow squawked.

Yes, I know, Eric said. Those were ravens.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

His mobile phone rang. Carrie, his daughter. God, had it really been six years since the divorce and four since cancer took his ex-wife? The timeshare remained as a testament to when they used to be a family. Five weeks a year.

You at the beach? Carrie asked.

Yep. Crows everywhere. He leaned back on the chair and savored the sun hitting his face. Crows or no crows, it beat being cooped up in an office writing appellate briefs.

There are no crows at the beach, she said.

There’s nothing but crows at this beach, Eric said. They’ve driven all the other birds away.

Three of the crows flew off. The head crow picked up what was left of the core and hopped over to Eric. The bird dropped it at Eric’s feet and let out a loud squawk and soared away.

Jesus. What was the bird trying to tell him? Don’t pollute the beach? We expect more of these cores every morning? You don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t leave us a core? Pay the protection, pal. Just pay it. You don’t want to see what we’ll do to your condo.

Dad? You there? Carrie asked.

Yeah. What’s up? They had exhausted the topic of crows. He and Carrie didn’t always have a lot to talk about. Many of their conversations were short and stilted. When she was little, they could talk for hours.

I was thinking of stopping by the condo for a few days. Can I bring a friend?

You’re blowing off school?

His daughter sighed. It’s fall break, Dad. We talked about this.

Carrie was a freshman at Eastern Carolina University. She’d been in a bad mood since eighth grade. Eric hoped she’d snap out of it in time to visit him once in a while in thirty or forty years when he made it to a nursing home.

Eric wouldn’t have the condo to himself and his girlfriend, but it was never a bad time to see Carrie.

That sounds great, Eric said. Who’s your friend?

A long pause that suggested that Carrie wasn’t telling him the whole story.

Her name’s Theresa, she said. She did not elaborate. Information from Carrie always seemed to be on a need-to-know basis.

He hung up. He thought about what to make for dinner and listened to the surf.

The angry squawks of the crows almost drowned out the ocean.

§

Crows lined the handrails of the battered wooden stairs that led from his condo porch to the beach. Every three or four years the damp salt air and storms wore down the stairs and they had to be replaced by the condo board. Every ten or fifteen feet little bits and pieces of abandoned stairs poked through the dunes.

Eric tried to ignore the crows. Unlike the seagulls, the crows had no fear of people. The birds held their ground until he got within one or two feet. A seagull might swoop down and grab a discarded crust of bread or a potato chip, but they didn’t linger. The crows let you know you were trespassing.

He stacked the charcoal into a small pyramid on the almost-rusted-out grill. About time to spring for a new one. He lit a match and stepped back and watched the flames whoosh up.

One of the crows hopped off the railing and snatched the book of matches and scurried a foot or so away. The bird bit into it, chewed for a second and spat it on the deck. It glared at Eric like he had tried to poison it.

It’s your own fault, dumbass, Eric said.

The bird just kept staring.

Margot, Eric’s girlfriend, stepped outside. She wore jeans and a flowery poncho. You’d never guess she worked at a Fortune 500 Pharmaceutical Company in Durham. She dressed like a refugee from Woodstock.

Jesus, Margot said. Maybe we ought to eat inside.

A sharp stabbing pain hit Eric’s frontal lobe. He closed his eyes and held his head.

The birds squawked.

He felt Margot massaging his shoulders and opened his eyes.

No birds in sight.

You’d think they’d stick around for dinner, he said.

Margot stopped massaging. Carrie’s here.

Carrie wore jeans and a Sinead O’Connor t-shirt. She had cropped her long black hair since Eric had last seen her.

Theresa, a tall smiling black girl with dreads, carried two knapsacks, a large to-go cup of coffee, and had a third bag slung over her shoulder. She wore an army fatigues-styled skirt and a Sinead O’Connor t-shirt that matched Carrie’s.

Eric hugged Carrie and shook her friend’s hand. You must be Theresa.

Just a roadie today, Mr. Gupta, Theresa laughed.

Carrie groaned and sat on the couch. You got a pistol to put me out of my misery?

She’s got a bad headache, Theresa said. That’s why I’m lugging everything. She held up the coffee. Usually she’ll carry this.

Carrie laughed. Shut up! Then she fell further back into the couch and closed her eyes.

Theresa stood at the window and studied the beach. A lot of starlings out there.

We got crows, Eric said.

Theresa shook her head. Those aren’t crows. Too small. Crows are huge. And mean. You got starlings. Pests. They built a nest in my parents’ house in Lumberton. In the damned dryer vent. She paused. Never seen them at the beach before.

A half-dozen congregated at the base of the grill like office workers might gather around the water cooler. They seemed drunk. They staggered about and fell down, quickly picking themselves up again.

I miss the seagulls, Eric said.

I’m going to lie down, Carrie said.

Just rest, Eric said. The burgers will be ready in a little while.

Dad, Carrie said. I’m a pescatarian.

He blinked. Huh?

Vegetarian who eats fish, Carrie said.

You got chicken wings a couple of months ago, Eric said.

That was a couple of months ago, Carrie said.

We better unpack. Theresa grabbed the luggage and shuffled after Carrie to the room with the bunkbeds.

Eric threw up his hands. Pescatarian.

You know they’re dating, right, Honey? Margot said.

Nobody tells me anything, Eric said. His stomach lurched a bit. He wasn’t sure why. His gut reaction to his daughter dating a woman was to disapprove. That disapproval gnawed at him more than his daughter possibly being gay or bisexual. Maybe she was just experimenting. It shouldn’t matter who she dated. Why the hell did it bother him?

"Nobody had to tell you that, Margot said. Matching Sinead O’Connor t-shirts? Do they need to carry a sign?"

A sign would be nice, Eric said.

A starling tapped on the sliding glass door to the deck.

§

Two hours later Margot, Eric, Theresa, and Carrie crowded around the bar at Captain Murkowski’s Seafood Shack a half mile inland, just after the bridge. They waited for a table.

A trip to the beach just didn’t seem like a vacation until Eric ordered a plate of fried oysters, shrimp, flounder, slaw, hushpuppies, and fries. He always promised himself he’d try something healthy or at least something different. Maybe seafood lasagna or lobster ravioli or grilled mahi-mahi. But who was he kidding? He’d always get the Calabash.

Theresa and Carrie drank diet sodas and giggled to each other. How had Eric missed the signs they were a couple? It was hard to keep up, not that Carrie exactly opened up to him.

A couple dozen seagulls gathered on the back deck near the stacked tables and chairs and the shuttered tiki bar. It had been a few weeks since the weather had been warm enough to sit outside at night on the deck that overlooked the intercoastal waterway. Folks richer than he docked their boats at Murkowski’s pier and came in the back way for dinner.

No starlings or crows or whatever they were outside.

A pair of twenty-somethings in Duke University sweatshirts swaggered up to the bar and ordered microbrews. They looked like fraternity boys in fraternity uniforms. Short hair. A couple of days’ growth. Khakis. Brown topsiders. Mormon missionaries dressed with more individuality.

They got their beers and squeezed in between Eric and Carrie near a post adorned with a life preserver—the sort of beach knickknack tourists expected.

We’re going to solve global warming, one of the frat boys said to Carrie and Theresa. We’re working with the Department of Defense.

The second glared at the first.

The first frat boy shrugged. What? It’s not a secret.

Jesus, the second muttered.

Theresa and Carrie exchanged a quick knowing look. This was not their first rodeo. They looked like they were trying not to laugh.

Really? Carrie asked.

Yeah, the first frat boy continued. They introduced themselves, but Eric forgot their names instantly. They were so interchangeable.

We’re doing our thesis work down here with Duke University, the second frat boy said.

It’s interesting stuff, the first said.

You gotta wear the sweatshirts? Carrie asked. Sort of like working at Burger King?

The frat boys laughed. We’re at the Duke Meteorological Laboratory, the second said. At the south end of the island. Not too far from the turtle rescue and rehab center. Or the ice cream place.

Everybody knows the ice cream place, the first said. There’s that giant statue of the pelican out front drinking a milk shake.

The second pivoted away from Carrie and Theresa for a second and rolled his eyes. He turned back to the girls. We’re testing some new detection equipment and maybe looking into weather control. Subtle changes in electromagnetic bombardment can—you know, a butterfly’s wings and all that.

Theresa nodded and smiled.

Chaos theory, Carrie said.

Sure, but we’re going to reverse things. We’re going to control the chaos. It’s more like a—

The first cleared his throat. Can we get you ladies a couple of drinks?

No thanks, Theresa said. We’re alcoholics.

Oh, okay, the second said.

We’re on probation, Carrie said. She pointed to Eric. There’s my probation officer down there.

Eric waved. Margot didn’t even try to stifle a laugh.

The first Duke student looked confused. You come to the bar with your probation—

Nice meeting you girls, the second said. He grabbed the first and they double-timed it to a table with an old lobster trap hanging overhead like the sword of Damocles.

§

After waiting ten minutes for a couple of fishing boats to go through the drawbridge, Eric drove everyone to the south tip of the island for ice cream.

What in God’s name does shooting electromagnetic waves into the air have to do with global warming? Carrie asked to nobody in particular.

Probably nothing, Eric said. It means that some professor came into a lot of grant money.

If those two dimwits are in charge of stopping global warming, we better all move to higher ground right now, Carrie said.

I like the mountains, Theresa said.

So, what year are you at ECU, Theresa? he asked. He didn’t dislike the woman. He just didn’t want her dating his daughter, even if he couldn’t articulate why.

I don’t go to ECU, Theresa said. I graduated.

She didn’t look old enough to have a college degree. What’s your degree in? he asked.

Theater arts.

Great, he lied. What do you do?

Does it matter, Dad? Carrie asked. Is some job a deal breaker? Does she have to work for Microsoft or Facebook in IT? We can’t all be lawyers.

I have a couple of jobs, Theresa said. Box office manager at Pitt County Community Theater. Then I do massages at a coffee house. I make coffee too. Three jobs. I have three.

"We met at The Pirate and the Bean," Carrie said.

Good thing you’re using your degree, Eric said. He had hoped Theresa had more going for her than a dead-end job in a college town. He didn’t know how to broach the subject with Carrie. If she accused him of being prejudiced, that would end the conversation right there.

What has that got to do with anything, Dad? Carrie asked.

Just making conversation, Eric said.

The theater gig is volunteer, Theresa said. Hard to get a job in theater.

That’s great, Eric said. He kept his mouth shut for the next few minutes. He and Carrie always had to argue about something, and he knew he’d just say something really stupid that would poke the bear.

He stopped at a light a half a block from the ice cream shop. He saw the Sea Turtle Rescue and Rehabilitation Center, now abuzz with activity. Topsail Island was a destination for sea turtles. Thanks to development destroying the creatures’ habitat, an animal protection charity had set up a clinic to house injured turtles until they could be returned to the ocean.

Topsail was not exactly L.A. Visitors noticed the little things that had changed