Birds of a Feather

Wings spread overhead. Scanning. Searching. Gliding. He swoops, ducks and coasts barely above the ground before ascending once again. His uncanny sense of hearing did not fail him. A tiny, incapacitated vole dangles from powerful talons. His virtually soundless hunt due to an underside full of soft down feathers is interrupted by a faint low-pitched call in the distance. A series of single-syllable shrieks is all it takes to avert his attention as he angles his head left, then right, to locate the direction of the noise. Asymmetrical ears allow him to pinpoint its origin, precisely. Following his instincts, he reroutes midflight, flapping a giant set of grey, tan, and white streaked wings as graceful as a pair of synchronized swimmers.

{o,o}

Dottie wakes up too early, she decides right away and looks around. "It’s a good try" she mutters to herself. Peach tulle curtains adorn a single window allowing just a shard of evidence that was daybreak. She noticed a collection of books first in the corner of her room where the sunlight collected. There is a miniature bookshelf, painted and repainted so many times that the original color would be impossible to determine at this point. The last coat was an uneven pale green, quickly altered she assumed from the noticeable spray paint drip marks. She flipped the nightstand lamp on and inched toward the shelf methodically. There was a selection encompassing everything from “Goodnight Moon” to the “Lord of the Rings” series. There has got to be something in here I haven’t read yet, she thought to herself. “Birds of the Midwest,” caught her eye. She grabbed it and retreated to under the covers. A thin, threadbare quilt lay atop the polyester rainbow comforter. It was the only thing she really owned and it was slowly crumbling to pieces just like her life.

Dorothea had been in “The System” for over a year. She preferred to be called Dottie, which was how her mother referred to her more often than not. At 10 years old she was taken from the only home she had ever known, dysfunctional as it was. They labeled it that because she wouldn't have ever come to that conclusion on her own. Didn’t her mom do the best she could? Weren’t they getting by well enough? Dottie’s father left before she could even say dada. There were some things she understood perfectly, even at her age, like her mother’s incapacity and overall deficiency when it came to life skills in general. Sometimes she seemed to be getting her act together or maybe it was just wishful thinking on Dottie’s part. Deep down, she knew better when her mom didn’t come home after a couple of days, then blamed her absence on picking up an extra shift to cover the rent. They were always falling short, somehow. Eviction became a terrifying vocabulary word that she had learned firsthand. But her mom was always looking for a good man to help them out and maybe even be like a father to Dottie. It wasn’t exactly her fault each would end up leaving them more broken than they had found them. Her mother tried and failed but that didn’t keep her from giving up the hope that someday things might get better for them.

On the other hand, Dottie could never understand how a father could walk out on his family, setting them up for a lifetime of struggle. Desperation was not an ideal circumstance and sometimes her mom vicariously put them both in dangerous situations. Child Protective Services made a case for substantiated child maltreatment based on neglect after an intrusive neighbor continually reported my unattended status week after week.

Unrecognizable to even herself, Dottie was once inquisitive and studious, now captious and aloof. When she wasn’t being the stereotypical withdrawn preteen, she was starting arguments and lashing out. Begging someone, anyone to notice her and treat her the way she felt inside; like crap. Most did exactly that because they didn’t understand what it was like to have a never-ending supply of confusing emotions build up, becoming an internal pressure cooker. Although, anger was the only one she could pinpoint. The rest took a backseat to this dominant reaction fueled by fear and a sense of impending abandonment. Dottie couldn’t remember the last time she cried and she didn’t care if she never did it again. Crying was considered a weakness in her eyes. Her mother did it all the time and it never helped or changed anything. Her anger had a purpose, kept her safe and on guard. It kept her alive as far as she was concerned. Although, it scared her to have no control once the boiling point was reached and a release was required. Sometimes she even dissociated and watched the derailment occur from a bird’s eye view. That was how unaware and utterly helpless she became during these episodes. This young couple seemed nice and well-meaning, and she liked the way they decorated her room but they wouldn’t know how to handle an intemperate character flaw. After they exhausted their limited parental skills set, she would wear out her welcome just like she always did. Another thing Dottie understood all too well was how certain instability in life was especially inside the child welfare system.

The wind outside howled and whipped around shaking the bare branches through her window. Somehow a storm on the horizon was a comfort. It matched her mood and she could wallow in its gloominess guiltlessly for as long as nature empathized with her. A strand of curly auburn hair fell in front of an olive eye, partially obstructing her vision. Perfunctorily, she swooped it up and away with an open palm, securing it around a loose gingham scrunchie that hung at the base of her neck. Her distinctive features made people look twice, although, she never considered herself a natural beauty. She assumed they were gawking at her heterochromia, a difference in color between two eyes. Her other eye was emerald green, almost as translucent as sea glass. Besides this, there was a wild appearance to her like a once domesticated animal that had gone savage. Thick, dark eyebrows slanted toward the midline of her face instead of arching outwards; between them a set of 11 wrinkles already forming as a result of her default pensive facial expression.

What she considered as “pretty” was normal and she was anything other than a typical sixth-grader. “Pretty” meant you had a mom that French braided your hair and reminded you to change your underwear. It meant that you had clothes that matched or that didn’t, depending on the current style. While most preteen girls were preoccupied with boys and cheerleading, she was rummaging through trashcans, trying to find a half-eaten sandwich or candy bar. Overall, survival mode had a detrimental effect on Dottie and left its imprint both physically and psychologically. Counting the hours between meals slowed the passage of time somehow, and matured her well beyond her chronological age. Dottie felt like she had lived an entire life or two by now and often acted older than her biological mother, 20 years her senior.

Even before she experienced the hardships in life, it seemed like the cards were stacked against her Dottie. Being named after Dorthea Puente the “Death House Landlady", a serial killer in the 1980s, that victimized the elderly and disabled to cash in on their social security benefits, was not something she liked to confess. It’s a family name was all she could come up with when anyone asked, even though that was a two-fold lie. She had no family that she knew of and her mom just liked the name despite it being attached to a monster. Just another one of her maternal missteps was all Dottie’s mind could rationalize.

{o,o}

Perched on a rafter above the hayloft of a bank barn, he rotates a concave face like a satellite being positioned for perfect reception. Eyesight is only slightly inferior to his excellent hearing thanks to human-like eye positions optimizing depth perception. But mostly he relies on acoustics; pings of sound to map out a dark world. He released a screechy noise of his own to communicate his grandeur presence and offering, resting atop a bed of mildewed straw.

{o,o}

There was a quiet knock at Dottie’s bedroom door, then a creak. More light poured in from the hallway permeating the shadows along the walls to reveal a matte apricot hue she had not noticed before. Now that she thought about it the room did have the faint odor of fresh paint. It comforted her to know that someone had prepared something especially for her even though she preferred a darker color palette. A soft voice in almost a whisper asked her how she slept. It was late into the evening last night when the caseworker dropped her off and most of the words spoken were need-to-know instructions like where the bathroom was located. The overwhelming feeling of so many unknowns had taken its toll on Dottie and she was not much for conversation upon her arrival. It was refreshing that Jessie and Brad, didn’t take offense when they showed her to her room and she chose to turn in for bed early.

Dottie's new foster parents lived on a small farm on the outskirts of a small town. It was a modular home with a brick base and a back porch overlooking many acres of unattended farmland. It was fabricated onsite, constructed piece by piece when the couple married 5 years prior but its foundation and add-on decks fooled the eye into assuming it was a traditional ranch-style home. Only the interior aspects showed signs of structural weakness. Thin paneled partitions separated rooms and the linoleum and low-density carpeted floors swayed if you were a heavy walker. The main television could be heard in every room of the house except the back deck. It was by far the sturdiest part of the building with its thick wooden beams, stone-tile flooring, and tin roof. The room was closed-in with large windows giving a panoramic view of the surrounding landscape. A wood-burning stove, positioned in the corner, compensated for its lack of central heating. It was a cozy setting and somehow felt familiar to Dottie even though she grew up mostly in the low-income housing section of urban areas. Perhaps it was how she often saw herself, a tough exterior masking a fragile and insecure interior.

Jessie invited Dottie to breakfast in hopes she would emerge from her room and they could get to know each other a little better. Her stomach growled a little and she couldn’t deny her interest in the sweet-savory aromas escaping from the kitchen. Crispy bacon and buttermilk waffles! It was like Christmas having a meal already prepared instead of initiating a search for something, anything to satisfy relentless stomach pangs. She gobbled down the entire plate set in front of her, then, became self-conscious wondering if she had eaten too quickly. Her foster mother was just turning around, tea in hand when she saw that Dottie had finished. Declining seconds in fear of seeming like too much work, she uttered the word "no" and “thanks” casting her eyes downward. Jesse smiled, showing a set of large perfectly white teeth. She sat down and started the introduction she had rehearsed over and over in her head. The one about her and her husband, who was already at work, and their love of children and her hope that Dottie will feel comfortable and come to them if she ever needs anything. She mentioned their 2-acre property that sat amidst 30; Dottie was free to explore and roam as she pleased since it was owned by an old farmer that has not worked the land in years.

Over the next few months, Dottie became pretty comfortable with the lay of the land. Settling in was easy. Brad and Jesse made it that way. They took walks with Dottie at sunset, bought her new clothes, asked questions that required more than a yes or no answer. Opening up was still hard for her but feeling accepted by them gave her permission to talk in a way. Sometimes she surprised herself and revealed more than she thought she ever would when helping Jesse in the kitchen or fishing with Brad. It scared her that she liked them, liked the house, and was starting to like her life. She knew happiness was fleeting and the anxiety of a possible bad turn of events gnawed at her the same way her stomach pangs used to. Her biological mother was still not reachable according to a recent meeting with the caseworker but she could always turn up and request reunification. For once, Dottie prayed she wouldn’t. Her foster parents had made it known they were trying for a baby of their own but it was taking longer than they anticipated. What if it happened now and caring for 2 children became too much of a burden? Love had always had its limits in her experience. These questions and disappointments from her past were always on in the back of her mind. So she distracted herself by burying herself in another book.

Country-life grew on Dottie in the same therapeutic manner reading had. Immersing herself in the natural beauty of her surroundings seemed to soothe her soul like a warm hug, and alleviate a degree of worry around her circumstances. Spending more time outdoors stabilized Dottie’s moods. It appeared to inhibit her overactive limbic brain; commonly triggered when negative emotions arose. The sunshine overhead and vastness of the fields that were turning gold in the wake of the incoming autumn season, called to her daily.

The impending start of school would soon bring with it another whole host of problems. She did not consider herself proficient in making friends, especially since the only ice breaker she knew of was to inquire about what someone might be reading. It became painfully awkward when the answer was nothing. Today, Dottie grabbed her library copy of Keeper of the Lost Cities, a water bottle, and headed outside wearing a windbreaker jacket, athletic shorts, and knee-high muck boots. The sun was just rising fast and by midday, she knew how hot it might become in the absence of clouds. There was a dilapidated barn, red and faded, at the edge of the old man’s property line demarcated by a rusty barbed-wire fence. She retreated there sometimes to lay in the hayloft and read. Sacred energy welcomed her in to silently observe all the critters that inhabited the abandoned building. Wild rabbits scurried in and out of open crevices from missing tongue and groove stall boards, evading nearby predators. Hawks circled, frogs croaked, squirrels scurried, bees buzzed, and once a large shiny black snake slithered across a beam directly in front of her. She wasn’t freaked out or scared in the slightest. After spending most of her childhood afraid, nothing in that barn appeared to be a legitimate threat.

She trudged over the rich topsoil, damp from the morning dew, ducked in between the braces of an old cattle fence, made a detour by the willow tree around the pond, and arrived at her destination within 20 minutes. An increase in the humidity level made her shed her jacket early into the hike but once inside the cool and musty barn she draped it back over her shoulders, then pulled her wavy hair out from underneath. There was a shuffling noise above; some debris fell landing a couple of feet from where she stood. Looking up, she saw him soaring through the upper gable and disappearing out of the hay door into the cerulean sky. Dottie stood there in amazement for a minute. She had never seen a bird, that big, that close. He had large round eyes and a white, heart face with tawny colored plumage covering the dorsal side of his body. It could only be an owl, she gathered from her very limited ornithology knowledge, mostly as a result of that book on birds she randomly found in the bookshelf in her room. Concluding there must be a nest nearby, she began to take a closer at the barn’s gambrel-style ceiling. She walked around the perimeter of the loft inspecting the hayfork pulley system that dangled from a track running underneath the main pitch and perpendicular to the beams. No evidence of a nest. Disheartened, she sat down in her usual place and turned to the dog-eared page of her book. It didn’t take long for her to become immersed in Sophie’s quest to the lost city.

When she began to feel that familiar hungry feeling set in, Dottie knew it was lunchtime. Standing, she dusted off her backside, shaking loose the bits of dust and straw that had attached to her clothing. It happened so quickly she almost missed it. Another large bird flew into the barn, straight up into the cupola, a dome-like structure protruding from the roof aiding in ventilation. A speckled underbelly and reddish-brown wings, similar to the shade to Dottie’s hair, distinguished it from the last bird but had all the other same characteristics. There was a nest and it excited her to know that this would be their temporary home. She pressed her book to her chest and thought about what it would be like to have an owl, just like Harry Potter had Hedwig. She named them Speckles and Bartholomew. On the walk back home, she conjured up all the mystical adventures they might have.

That night, in bed, Dottie could hardly sleep thinking about the nest and wondering if there were eggs or babies and how many. She referred to her bird book and learned that Barn Owls lay between 4-6 eggs, which hatch in about a month. Being August, it was late into their nesting season, which may occur when there is a disruption in the food supply. It was true that much of the surrounding farmland was being developed into cookie-cutter neighborhoods as the county experienced growth, resulting from affordable taxes and a reputable school system. It was good for economics but bad for wildlife.

{o,o}

A ghost in the dark. He floats up, above the eave and roosts on the window vent delivering another fresh kill. Some missing louver slats and deterioration around the base create an opening and a perfectly protected shelter for his life-long mate to incubate their young. Black and grey pellets from undigested bones and fur line the space, insulating a cluster of dull ivory and dirt-stained eggs. Exhausted, he scoots to a support beam and grips it tightly by locking all 3 claws into place. Then, closing his amber eyes to drift off to sleep. On the horizon, a dark navy sky is bathed in shades of rose and lavender by the rising sun, revealing the dusty fields inch by inch.

{o,o}

School started and the same predictable problems with being the new girl presented themselves again. Where to sit at lunch? Who to team up with during P.E.? Inquires about her name. The kids were different. The mascot was different. The building was different. Yet, some things never change. Dottie found a table and sat amongst the most accepting-looking of her peers. She introduced herself and made small talk, consciously resisting the urge to pull her book out when she spotted an index card in the bottom of her paper lunch sack. It was from Jessie:

Have a spectacular first day Dorthea. They are lucky to have you at Bloomfield Middle School. I hope you like your teachers. Some have been there since I was in school. XOXO

Every day when she got off the bus, she unpacked her book bag, said Hi to Jessie, snatched the book she was currently reading, and ran back out the door almost in one, singular motion. She couldn’t wait to get to the barn and note the status of the owls. School drained her but she was instantly energized by the thought of seeing her majestic friends. There were more and more noises coming from the rafters and she knew the eggs were hatching, one by one. Sometimes she would see the male or female glide out of the hayloft to satisfy the begging calls of their owlets. As sure as she got up and readied herself for school each morning, these trips to the barn became her afternoon routine. Until Brad approached her with the devastating news of the sale of the plot of land that contained the barn. “I’m really, really sorry but it is going to be torn down next week,” he informed her.

If she were one of the brave characters in her books, she would’ve devised a plan and found a way to prevent the demolition of the barn. Stories with happy endings always kept Dottie wishing and believing that somehow she would get what she wanted out of life. It was her way of escaping into the fantasy that outcomes were controllable because in the end good must prevail. Dottie felt small and helpless because she knew that no special power lay within her. Unfortunately, this wasn’t fiction. Real-life just had a way of hurting her over and over.

The morning of the demolition, Dottie got ready for school as always but just before the bus arrived she slipped out the back door with her muck boots on instead of converse high tops. Brad and Jessie suspected something was amiss when they saw her navy blue Jansport backpack still on the entryway bench. They spotted her sneaking off through the fields and began to follow before she was out of sight.

The vicious roaring of engines and motors announced their presence even before Dottie witnessed the horrific sight. A fleet of diggers and excavators had invaded her sanctuary. How was she supposed to overcome a bastion of heavy machinery? She watched the chaos long enough for her foster parents to catch up with her. They reached out to touch her arm. All the years of disappointment bubbled to the surface and manifested in the initiation of a fight. She hurled herself in the direction of the demolition equipment just as an excavator's arm stretched out, preparing to make its first strike against the weathered timber frame. Brad grabbed her intending to stop her from running into harm's way but stayed in an embrace position as Jessie joined in. Dottie began to shake, but their firm hold on her remained. Here it came she thought; the fits of wrath that sent everyone running for the hills and left her in the last place she desired to be, all alone. However, something inside of her cracked, like the rupture of a shell when its content’s need for growth outweighs its need for protection. Tears gushed from dichotomous eyes like erupting geysers. Flowing uncontrollably down her cheeks, everything that came in contact with her face became soaked. It was the security her foster parents offered that helped her come apart; this time, not with rageful fury but with cavernous sorrow. For once she allowed herself to feel a sense of loss, allowing herself to heal a part of her deeply wounded core. Dottie only really knew how to connect with storybook heroes. She had spent most of her time in a fictitious world because it was safer there, not like the unreliable nature of the people that were supposed to love her. She realized that this incident had differed from those in her past because she had let people into her broken heart. It didn’t feel like the world was ending or at least if it was, she wasn’t alone.

Within a matter of minutes, Dottie’s safe haven was reduced to a construction site. She didn’t know why she had become so attached to this place. She was always so careful to avoid warm feelings around anything that might be stolen away from her before. Her emotions threw her off balance, turned her upside down. She decided that if she watched any longer it would ruin the way she remembered her time here. This image of anarchy might taint all her good memories. Defeated, she turned and began to walk back to the house. Jessie and Brad exchanged a bewildered look and followed behind her. It was understood that a “sick day” was in order.

If Dottie had her way, the old barn would still be standing. Speckles and Bartholomew would return year after year to rear another batch of owlets. It saddened her to know that they would have to find a new place to do this. Dottie understood how hard not having a home base could be on a soul. It wasn’t natural to wander and search, never settling down. Most of the time she felt like an alien just visiting this planet. Here, a "home" seemed to be an essential foundation for developing an identity. The place she came from was more like the land of The Wild Things; chaotic. Although, Dottie was not particularly fond of that story. There was nothing she wouldn't have done to have a choice like Max to leave that scary island and return to a predictable world. By scavenging for food and remaining on high alert for danger, her own owl-like instincts emerged. What she didn’t see clearly quite yet was just as their paths were diverging so would be their commonalities.

{o,o}

A chill in the air tells him to forage voraciously. The countryside provides ample sustenance until blankets of white cover and silence the golden fields. Even with the extended hunting hours silence will fall and predation will be impeded. Once, his domain used to span a 1000-acre region but has been drastically decreased to accommodate rural development. The owlets have dispersed to establish their own home range. It will be a hard winter on all since the youngsters were forced to leave the nest early before they were able to become experienced hunters. He lands on an old leaning fence post to conserve energy and rotates his head back and forth, tuning into every echo.

{o,o}

Inside the window of the cozy little farmhouse, Dottie sits on her bed flipping through the pages of Legend of the Guardians – The Owls of Ga’Hoole. With the tattered blanket bunched on her lap, a full moon was shining bright enough to make her bedroom walls look as if they were glowing. She stops to gaze outside thinking about her old refuge, the barn, and its inhabitants. Feeling nostalgic, she tears out a sheet of paper from her blue spiral school notebook and grabs a mechanical pencil. She begins making a circular outline, then shades, retraces, erases, and adds some definition with a black crayon to finish. “Dottie! Dinner’s ready,” Jessie called. A roast simmered in a cast iron dutch oven on the stovetop. The pungent smell of peppery gravy floated through the house. When Jessie turned, Dottie could see how her belly had grown, protruding beneath a loosely tied burlap apron. Brad came up behind her and rested his head on Jessie’s shoulder admiring the menu spread. It made Dottie smile to see him as excited about eating as she was. She held up her picture as they both stopped and gasped. “We didn’t know you could draw, Dottie. It’s beautiful,” Brad remarked.

“Can I put it on the refrigerator?” Jessie asked.

Dottie nodded in response. They sat down at the round walnut table, helping themselves to heaping portions of crispy beef with lemon-thyme carrots and baby potatoes, smothering it all in a mound of gravy. A French loaf circulated as they each tore off a healthy portion to dredge through their plates. It occurred to her that maybe what she had lost in the field that day had been replaced with something better. She was part of a real family; one that she assumed only existed in storybooks. Perhaps, she could write a happy ending inside this home where the black-and-white sketch of her spirit animal hung on display.