The Finch and the Sparrow

Becoming a goldfinch was just an expression, or rather, an Expression, as Josh quipped.

The youth was so sincere, so guileless, that even a level-headed listener might almost be persuaded to believe his story, his perfectly ridiculous claim that he could, at will, and with a minimum of concentration, change his physical form into that of a bird.

Later, as he explained that this was not a pun, but a formal description of a mystical experience, the older woman giving him a lift cross-country would take on a new appreciation for a very old term, “Expression” — once called: metamorphosis.

Marcie Blomgren was undertaking an adventure of her own, driving home to regroup from a failed marriage on the West Coast. At thirty-four, she was the last person in her circle of acquaintance who was predicted to engage in odd, troubling sort of behavior; she didn’t drink, rarely smoked, voted Democratic and prayed Lutheran. She did not "freak out", to use his parlance, at Josh’s wild claims — she found them entertaining. The tawny young woman hitchhiking with him seemed to concur, but not for political reasons: these kids were, very much, a couple.

Josh liked to put it in these words: “I always wanted to fly, only I didn’t have a plane. Guess I had to figure out how to make do, without one. Well, I did.” The smile that followed was blinding, which fitted his whitish-blond hair, shoulder length as was the fashion, and a freckled face which had seen too much of the Arizona sun. Paislee said it made him look like David Cassidy, that kid on that TV show with Shirley Jones, but Josh pouted at that comparison: “Rather look like Robert Plant,” he said, unconcerned by Marcie’s look of incomprehension.

No way he was of legal draft age, yet Josh insisted that he had seen the last of his teen years. He admitted hoping Uncle Sam would “neglect to remind him” to suit up for the current “unpleasantness” then taking place in South Vietnam — a party to which he had little interest in being invited, any more than many men in their early twenties wished to receive that offer in the summer of 1972.

His girlfriend Paislee (she insisted that the spelling, with two letters E, was an intentional one) had the cutest Alabama drawl. She wore no brassiere under a man’s button-shirt, and blue jeans, cut so short that she had to brush his hand away from her thighs more than once. The young lovers had “expressed” their mutual affection without hesitation, which in fact led to their latest difficulty. “Squares can’t accept that we’re all part of nature,” the girl said, with a shrug. “I figure, we’re going to make it anyway, why not do it out in the sunshine?”

These kids had been good companions, for a single woman, on the road alone, during a tense time of change, both personal and national. It felt exciting and risky, this business, but she wouldn't help them cross the border physically. She wasn't willing to go that far.

^^^^

It took a few more more miles of hard road and a stop at a diner for Marcie to ask, “So how long have you been able to…” she blushed “grow wings and fly, is that right?” She glanced about, to see if anyone took notice of their fanciful discussion, but the truck driver at the counter just kept reading his paper. “As a bird? I mean, you become a bird? But you’re still, well… you, inside?”

“It sort of happens, like when you’re in junior high school,” Paislee said, as if it were an ordinary topic of conversation. “I developed early in lots of ways, but I wasn’t able to become a sparrow until I was almost sixteen. That’s my major form, the sparrow. ‘Birds of a feather’ — it’s like, I get what that means now. I think it’s why I feel so good with Josh. His major form’s a goldfinch.

“My dad’s going to catch some of the Summer Olympics," she pressed on, "in Munich. He wanted to go to the Winter Olympics, but he couldn’t afford to go to Japan, too. Just as well, if you ask me. Cold weather’s not really his thing. I’m looking forward, to seeing Canada — it gets really far-out, with the snow, up there. Beautiful.”

Marcie felt apprehensive, for the first time since she had offered them a lift. “It sounds like you want to get out of the war, by going to Canada?” She gazed at Josh, hoping her trepidation wouldn't show. If he were to turn unpleasant —

Josh grinned. “Why would I need to do that? I don’t think they have much call for goldfinches in the Army, do you?” The conversation drifted at that point to less controversial topics, such as Marlon Brando’s new movie, The Godfather.

Charles Lévesque did not look much like a United States marshal; he was beginning to show some middle-aged spread, wore thick-lensed eyeglasses and a once-crisp work shirt rumpled by the humidity. He was, however, known as a dedicated, tough deputy, with a strong performance record.

A young draft dodger had crossed state lines, making his capture a matter for Federals. Following up on a description of two “nudists”, one matching the boy’s description, the marshal arrived at the motel in Joplin, Missouri, and checked in with the manager. He strode down to room number 8, a bit after dark.

Marcie was just about to get needed shut-eye. The rapping of knuckles at the motel room door gave her a fright. She heard a stern adult male voice outside; it did not sound like the manager’s. He flashed what appeared, at first glance, to be a genuine lawman’s badge. “I’m not here to hassle you in any way,” claimed Lévesque. His accent was not local, but it was Southern, somewhat French. “I’d just like to speak with the kids, in private — just for a moment, if that’s okay.”

Marcie let the marshal inside. She did not appear to believe him, though she wanted very much to be a good citizen, and cooperate with the law. "Are you going to arrest them?” she asked, wishing she were in Wisconsin, safe from suspicion. "Because I can tell you, they're good kids."

He mused: Funny, how often the badge opened doors his character and good intentions could not budge in some quarters, and that was without even resorting to his greatest advantage. “Well, why don’t I speak with them first, ma’am, and then —”

^^^^

Josh pushed open the door, laughing, at that moment. He carried a bag of ice. His eyes squinted at the tall older man; he did not appear worried, did not seem even slightly offended by a black man issuing instructions to him. “What can I do for you, Wyatt Earp?” he cracked, shooting Paislee his most winning grin.

“Joshua Zane? I’m afraid we’re going to need a moment.” Lévesque did not ask for his identification, merely motioning for the kid to sit on the edge of a bed. Marcie stepped outside, in discomfort and distress, wringing her hands.

The marshal introduced himself, flashing the badge, which Paislee seemed to find fascinating; she held in in her hands, as if she had just captured a butterfly, or found a pretty rock. “I understand that you, and Miss Waite, were, well, ‘intimate’ in a public park.”

Paislee laughed at Josh’s corny attempt to emulate a fast-talking reporter, in a black-and-white movie from the nineteen-thirties — “Where’d you hear that, Mister and Mrs. America? Walter Winchell, getting on the blower?”

“He’s just dead, actually, thought you knew, but that’s… look, you two need to, you know, remember what’s at stake here. It’s bigger than one scared boy who wants to stay out of a shooting war, so he can act out a Playboy pictorial, in the woods, with his hippy girlfriend.”

"You’re damn right it is. Nixon can make friends with the Chinese, but not with the Viet Cong?” Josh was surprised to hear the anger in his own voice, to feel it welling up within him — not against the marshal, but against the marshal's employers, in Washington. “I haven’t even been called up by the draft board.” He was lying, for Paislee's benefit, mostly.

Paislee pretended to pout. “I’m not hippy. I’ve lost weight since we’ve been on the road.” She waited another second to laugh at her witticism. Being eighteen and untethered wasn't so bad. They would soar out of his grasp, unless...

“I have real law-breakers to hound. Goddamn it, I’m not here to lock you two idiots up." Then Lévesque did something truly unnerving: he smiled. "But first, I have a message for you: 'We’re all the same, under our skins. We’re all members, In Society.'”

^^^^

Paislee clapped her hands in relief and joy. “Oh, baby, did you hear that?” She came from money, Lévesque reasoned, like many so-called rebels in the blue-jean set. She expected that money to shield her, from any legal repercussions from this adventure.

“I did, yeah,” Josh admitted, though he was still guarded. “Tell me, do you have lots of forms mastered?” He gaped at the marshal, through new eyes.

“My first form was a kind of a swamp frog." This was not how he had hoped to resolve this; he had found them without needing to get rough, but they seemed like children to him, not serious lawbreakers. "Look-y here, you two seem like good kids, just babies really. Why don’t you exercise more caution from here on out, when you make love?”

Josh shrugged. It never occurred to him that one of their own could be a lawman. “I don’t know, it’s just…more fun in our own forms.”

“Well, all right then,” the marshal said. “Let’s go reassure Miss Blomgren. I will get out of your hair, right now, but if I have to find you, know that I can. They can still catch you, before you make the border, but I’ll slow it down, if I can.”

“Tell you what, Marshal. I’ll buy that story — right after you catch that guy from the airplane? The hijacker? Disappeared in Oregon? What was he called?”

Josh was sure he had scored a stinging retort, until the marshal responded. “You mean, D. B. Cooper? You may have to wait on that one.” Lévesque’s was a most intriguing smile. “Word is, he’s one of us.”

© 2021 Eric Wolf.

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