Blown Around(Marvin Bibby) BLOWN AROUND
by
Marvin D. Bibby



The man set the mop bucket upside down on the patio to drain, then straightened to his full height, put both hands against the small of his back, twisted his upper body side to side, and stretched. He frowned when the top of a sixty foot redwood tree in the neighbors yard whipped violently in a sudden gust of wind. He walked across the patio, opened the back gate and stepped out into the alley.
The wind pelted him with grit, howling gently as it tried to get through the opening behind him. The bucket fell over on its side, then clattered across the patio. He grinned. The forecast had been for a light breeze. But this was a wind. A north wind. And the first good north wind of the season. And it was a shoot day, besides. He slowly shut the gate, righted the bucket and made his way across the patio to the house.
"What else is there to do?" he asked. "Starting to blow pretty good out there."
"That's it." She looked up from the counter, spatula poised in mid air. "I have to frost these cookies and water the tree."
"Can I help?"
"No. Just be ready by six to pick up the kids at the airport."
"You sure?" he asked again.
"Yes, I'm sure. There is nothing more for you to do."
"Think I'll go hunting, then."
She frowned, then turned and looked at the kitchen clock. "This late?" she asked, shaking her head. "It's almost noon. You never go this late."
"North wind picked up. Gusting good. Might be flying this afternoon."
"Six o'clock. We have to leave by then for the airport." She dipped the spatula into the frosting bowl, then lifted it out and pointed it at him. "Six o'clock and don't be late."
Two hours later he sat on a break in the check, his feet in a foot of water, his upper body obscured by head high weeds, eating a piece of cheese and a fist sized piece of barbecued steak. On the pond in front of him, two coots swam valiantly into the wind, heads cocked, eyes turned upwards to study the hawk circling above them.
The hawk was the only bird in the air. In fact the only bird he had seen flying in the hour that he had walked the checks, expectantly waiting for the sound of thrashing wings at every bend that provided shelter from the wind. But the ponds were as empty as the sky. Even the coots had crawled onto dry land, only returning to the water at his approach to swim in a huddled mass for another sheltered spot.
The coots gave up on the hawk and paddled over to inspect the half dozen mallard decoys resting in the lee of a crescent shaped clump of tules. The coots swam through the decoys, made their way to a patch of salt grass and disappeared.
He finished the cheese and then the meat, took a couple swallows of water, then leaned back on his elbows, enjoying the day.
And the wind was fine. It roared. Whistling as it swept past his ears, whipping the tops of the weeds above his head.
The water was choppy; blue-black with tints of red, it rippled across the pond and broke against a tule line a hundred yards away.
The sky was a light watery blue, almost colorless above the brilliant white of Mount Lassen, clearly visible to the northeast, fifty miles away. To the west, the peaks of the Coast Range above Fouts Springs were capped with snow, as were the tops of the Sierras due east. To the south, the Sutter Buttes grew solidly up from the valley floor; with the sun behind them they had a purplish gray cast.
Mauve he had called them in that first published story, years ago. How did the line go, yeah, "A woman I once knew would call them mauve, but to me they looked purple jutting up out of the valley floor." Well, they still looked purple and today that is what he would write. Funny how as the years wore on it was getting harder and harder to beat around the bush.
He studied the empty sky, then shook his head. On a day like this, even this late, there should be birds. But there were none. But even without the birds, it was still better than sitting home. With the boy coming home for Christmas, this would be the last day he could hunt for at least a week. In fact, he had to pick up the boy - hell, he wasn't a boy any more, he was a thirty year old man with a new wife - at the airport this very evening. The man looked at his watch. If he wanted to be safe, it was time to go.
He sat up, a twinge of pain in his lower back reminding him of the pill. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small wad of aluminum foil. He unwrapped the foil, exposing an oversized brown pill. He dumped it out into his palm, then wadded up the foil and replaced it in his pocket.
Getting old, he thought, remembering the constant pain, startled when he realized his back felt better now than it had in weeks. He flexed his shoulders, testing for pain, surprised again when it did not come.
His back had been tender for years, but for the last month it seemed to hurt more each day. His wife had suggested the glucosomine. Help rebuild the cartilage, she said. Take it three times a day, she said. With some food, she said.
He looked at the pill. Pain in the ass, he thought, then popped the pill in his mouth and chased it down with a swig of water. And where the hell were the birds. He could not remember a time like this. He had hunted hard this season, three days each week, and was lucky to get a pair of mallards every third time out.
It used to be different, a lot more birds. He pulled a stem of grass free from its sheath and picked at the vacant space between his two front teeth. Don't burn the rice stubble like they used to, he mused. Now they flood the fields and let the stubble rot. Too much water. Water everywhere. Maybe the ducks are scattered. Every year, more and more changes. Sometimes you wonder if you can keep up with them.
And the boy. He was married. The man shook his head. Barely able to take care of himself and he gets married. Next thing you know he will have a kid. The man snatched the grass stem from between his teeth and examined it. And that would make him a grandfather. He flicked the grass stem into the water. Grandfather! He grimaced at the stab of pain in his back.
Like small black phantoms, a dozen coots darted out from beneath the intertwined spikes of two salt grass clumps, spun indecisively in opposing circles, then settled into a compact mass. Dressed in shades of slate and black, beaks of polished ivory reflecting the sun, the coots moved as one; tightly bunched they forged diagonally across the pond into the wind.
The man grinned, then settled back on one elbow, enjoying the play of light on birds and water. Give it another hour, he thought. Be cutting it close but I can make it. God, I hate Christmas. Birds start flying and I get stuck entertaining. Hell, the kid isn't interested in seeing me anyway. We'll just end up in an argument. And his new wife. He sat up, twisted side to side, both hands pressing against the small of his back, trying to ease the pain. What will I say to her?
A sudden gust of wind howled across the pond, rattling the weeds above the man's head. The flock of coots veered sideways, their ranks broken, each coot, now on his own, paddling hard for shelter. Faint, against the roar of the wind, came the gabbling cries of distant geese. The man studied the eastern horizon. A white cloud rose above a distant tree line, turned gray then settled into black lines that moved toward him.
The man shifted uneasily, looked again at his watch, then studied the advancing waves of geese. Snows, he thought. What do I want with them. The gabbling was louder now, individual cries distinguishable as the first uneven V arrived overhead.
Battered by the wind, the flock veered sideways, wings folded, they slipped down a dozen yards, then turned back into the wind, wings pumping with effort. Sixty yards high, almost in range, the man thought, studying the next group. The air was full of plaintive cries as a thousand geese passed overhead. Behind them another wave awaited the chance to take their place.
The man grinned. Felt the adrenaline surge. Fingers gripping the forearm, a lone digit caressed the trigger guard. Clouds of geese filled the sky to the horizon; a few stray blobs of gray mixed with the white. The man's fingers stopped their movement, his body tensed; eyes narrowing, he studied a small bunch of darker geese that had separated from the mass of white.
Wings set, they slid sideways on the wind towards him. His breath caught, then released when the geese turned back into the wind, wings beating hard as they fought to regain lost altitude. Thirty-five yards, he thought. Maybe thirty. Couldn't miss. Christmas goose, he thought, grinning. Haven't had goose for years. Bet the boy's new wife has never had goose. He looked at his watch, looked back at the geese. Plenty of time.
He wondered at himself. Wondered at the fixation. The refusal to leave. To go home. Hell, he did not hunt geese, as a rule. And this wasn't hunting, this was shooting. These geese were just trying to make it to sanctuary and he happened to be sitting in the right place when they flew over. If it wasn't for the wind they would be a thousand yards high, distant specks against the sky.
The man narrowed his eyes, studied the small band of geese. Must be Ross'. The right size, just the wrong color. He remembered reading about a new blue hybrid that was a dusky gray. Hell, they weren't specs or Canadas, that was for sure. And they were mixed with the snows.
He imagined the reaction he would get if he showed up at the airport still dressed in hunting clothes with a couple of dead geese dangling by their necks from his hand. That will get us off to the right start, for sure, he grinned. Let her know who I am. And the boy. The boy who did not hunt. He would stand there passively, just looking at him, a slight sneer of superiority on his lips.
Geese were everywhere. The man sat perfectly still, unmoving, head down, watching the tableau in front of him out of the corners of his eyes. The air was alive with the cacophony of their noise; thousands of voices yelled at each other in screeches, yelps and gabbling warbles, creating a high pitched, raucous din which ebbed and flowed in the man's ears.
The man cautiously swiveled his head, watching the gray geese slowly lose ground against the increasing force of the wind. How in the hell did we end up so far apart. He shook his head. Wasn't cut out to be a father, I guess. With a series of yelps, the small skein of geese wavered back and forth in the wind like a hooked trout fighting the line in heavy current.
Suddenly, the geese fell silent, folded their wings, dropped five yards, then turned and set their wings to glide with the wind for several hundred yards. A series of anguished cries turned them back into the wind, where with heads extended, tails down, they hung momentarily suspended in time and space while beating wings clawed at the air in a futile effort to regain their previous altitude.
The man worked his feet free of the muck, searching for solid purchase, judging the new line that the geese would take. They'll be damn near straight overhead, he thought. Can't be twenty yards. Even #3's will do them at that range. He slowly turned his wrist, glanced quickly at the watch. Three-thirty, now. Fifteen minutes to pick up the decoys, twenty to walk to the truck, ten to get my boots off.
Eyes watching the geese from beneath the rim of his hat, he continued the calculation, ten minutes to check out and an hour to get home. Damn fools will come right over me. His hand tightened on the forearm. Sixty more yards and the center of the line will be directly over me. He measured the geometry of the shot in his mind for a moment, then returned to his count. Say two hours, total, that makes it five-thirty. Thirty minutes to spare. Hell, I'll have time to change.
The line of geese faltered, then turned with the wind, sailing back the way they had come. The man sighed, watched them turn again and start their weary passage back towards him on almost the same line as before. He glanced again at his watch, quickly counting the hours and minutes, revising the time table, watching the geese.
Why is it always like this, he wondered. A stab of pain grabbed at his back. He eased his body into a stretch, shifting slowly side to side, stretching the muscles, easing the pain. Why am I worrying about getting somewhere on time to meet people to do something that nobody will like, the man thought. And the boy. He will yammer with his mother. Talk, talk, talk. About nothing that interests me. Noise and babble. And the boy's wife, she may not understand English.
The wind howled, increasing in energy. The geese rose and fell with each beat of their wings; their yelps and cries changing pitch, pleading with each other for the strength to go on.
The man had thought when he retired that it would be different. That the season would be his. But he retired in the spring and that summer the boy decides to come home for Christmas. To leave his life in France designing women's clothes and come back to the States for the first time in ages - and with a wife, no less. To stay! To do what, the man is not sure. To stay with him, maybe. To be angry at him again, maybe. To argue with him, again, for sure.
The wind is screaming, now. It burns the exposed cheek of the man's downturned face, stings his nostrils and threatens to rip the cap off his head.
The man wants to stand and shout, yes! The man wants to stay on this check, forever. To stand with outstretched arms welcoming the geese, who reach out to him with elongated necks and beating wings and quavering voice. Speaking in sounds that he truly understands; speaking to that part of him that knows no Christmas, that knows no hearth, knows no home, knows no son's new wife, or feels no angry son's disdain.
To stay, alone, with the birds, with the wind, with the water. That is what the man wants. That is all the man wants. All the man has ever wanted. He wonders for a moment if that is not what all men truly want.
The pain in the back is constant, now. The man wonders whether he is truly ill, or if the cartilage is still weak, or whether the cold and the day were too long. Or is it simply that he has become an old man whose beard is white that does not want to go home. And then he notices that the geese are closer, much closer.
In fact they are over his head.
Wings pumping, heads turned to the side, eyes cast down - fixed on the man.
Who stumbles upright, booted feet scrabbling in the mud for purchase.
Surging free of water and mud he stands on the check; weeds whip against his chest; wind roars in his ears.
Shotgun clutched in outstretched fist, opposing arm spread wide, he embraces the geese.
Then, his body sags; pain stabs at his back. He sets the shotgun carefully down on a patch of weeds.
It is time to go home.

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