8.2 The Zombie-Ferrets Strike Back

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Saturday. Two days after my editing date with Whit and six days after Mara learned about her parents' death, life was returning to the status quo: Dad was in the tower, Mom was in the kitchen, and I was alone in my woods.

A yawn pried at my cheeks but I tightened my lips and swallowed it. The midnight editing sessions were taking their toll.

Whit was gone, stuck at a last-minute sleepover with his computer camp friends. For a split second I wondered what those dweebs had that I didn’t... suspenders and tape on their glasses? I always imagined an army of white Steve Urkels with Whitney as their captain.

I wedged my camcorder in the elbow of a branch, then wiggled my shoe beneath the blanket of leaves to rustle up a log. I swiped a trio of rollie-pollies from the bark and rapped the fat stick with my knuckles; it was soft, damp, and hollow. Perfect.

I worked quickly without losing sight of the castle wall. I didn't have time for another encounter with the bullies.

I aimed the microphone at the trunk of the nearest Maple, pushed record, twisted my waist with Ken Griffey Jr. precision, and wailed the soft log into the tree with a satisfying thud. I hit it again, then again, then placed the mic on the ground and beat the shredded stump against the leaves.

In the distance, a twig snapped. It was probably a squirrel, but I moved my work a few steps closer to the castle just in case.

The house was calmer without Bobby and Jake barreling through the corridors. After the “goober incident,” Mom called the agency and had the twins transferred to a family dedicated to difficult children. “Parent therapists” they're called. I was sad to see them go, but with all the commotion around the house, it was probably for the best.

When the log was demolished, I scanned the brush for another instrument and discovered a broken chunk of cinderblock half-buried in the dirt beside the house. The dull clank of stone-on-stone would be a great sound effect for the battle sequence, so I turned the mic toward the castle wall, heaved the brick above my head--

--and music ruined the take. Ten feet up, Livy's bedroom spewed the catchy yammer of I Saw the Sign by Ace of Base. I stepped back, furrowed my brow, and stared at the second-story window.

I cupped my hands like a megaphone, but just before I could shout my sister's name, I remembered that Livy was at Haley's after a sleepover.

It was Mara's music. I stood on tip-toes to better hear the song.

The view was no better from three steps back, nor ten. The window only reflected the apparitions of tree branches and sky.

Twelve steps back and my shoulder blades kissed a tree. I inspected the branches for climb-ability, but even André the Giant wouldn't be able reach the lowest limb without a step-stool.

An abnormal protrusion caught my eye at the back of the trunk. It was lighter than the bark, the size of my hand with square edges... a piece of two-by-four. A nail in the center confirmed my fear and I looked up. Five more pieces of wood were ascending the trunk. They were rungs.

“Woohoo!” My father's voice seemed miles away, yet loud enough to hear over Mara's radio. “Beth!” he squealed. “Grab the kids and get up here!”

I didn't realize that Mara's light was on until it flicked off. I snatched my camera, forgot about the makeshift ladder, and bolted inside.

*  *  *

Mara and I scampered side-by-side up the spiral staircase. Mom waddled across the ballroom, apron around her waist, with a ladle in her right hand and Fantasia in her left. Her sliver of smile said, “I love my husband, but thank the birds it's over!”

Dad's head poked over the balcony ledge. His binoculars smacked the rail but he didn't care. “Where's Livy? Get Livy! And hurry up!”

Before Mom could respond, Dad was back inside the tower, whooping and hollering as if Barry Sanders had just scored a touchdown.

Mara touched the top step a split second before me. Panting, she smacked my chest and said with a grin, “Beat ya!”

The tower smelled like salted urine thanks to the open can of artichoke hearts beside Dad's chair. He was standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, binoculars in hand, pointing to the lake like a toddler who just learned to say the word “airplane.” “Two of them,” he said. “Male and female.”

Mara and I stood between Dad and the window and pressed our noses against the glass. In the distance, two specks hung motionless between lamb-tail clouds and the placid lake.

“Kinda small,” I said.

Mara didn't speak. On the window, a vapored imprint developed around her hand.

Mom finally arrived with the baby and used the ladle to brush a curl of hair from her eye. “Whew,” she said, then used her foot to slide the can of artichoke juice toward the stairs. She took her place beside her husband and squinted.

“They're magnificent,” he said.

“I don't see 'em,” she said.

I pressed my finger against the glass. “See those tiny specks? That’s them.”

“They're kinda small,” she said.

Dad sighed.

“Mr. Parker,” Mara said. “Can I try the glasses?”

In one fluid motion, Dad unhooked the binoculars from his neck as Mara raised her hand to accept them. She pinned them between the window and her brow, then peered inside.

I remembered the camera at my side and turned it on. “Think they'll come closer?” I asked.

“Shh,” Mara said.

I scowled playfully, but she didn't see. Her eyes were enamored with the binoculars. “What are they called?” she asked my father.

“They're Bald Eagles,” he said, matching her revenant tone.

“I mean... what are they really called?”

Dad cleared his throat. “Haliaeetus leucocephalus.”

“Haly-aytus luco-cefalis...” Mara's voice disappeared into whispered awe. “They're magnificent.”

Mom bounced Fantasia and blew a bubble in the baby’s tummy.

I twisted the zoom and focused on the specks a hundred miles away. I respected the creatures; they were graceful, majestic and a neat symbol for our country. But despite my patience--despite my twelve-year-old need to operate on the same level as my father--I never felt the joy that held him captive for days at a time in that tower.

For ten minutes we watched the animals soar. When the excitement waned, I lowered my camera and turned my attention to Dad. He wasn't watching the eagles, but the intensity in Mara's eyes.

Mom rubbed his back. “The baby's getting fussy,” she said and pecked his cheek. “I'm proud of you.”

He kissed her forehead. “Take care of Fantasia. I'll make lunch for the kids.”

When Mom was gone, Mara gave the binoculars back to Dad. “Thanks, Mr. Parker,” she said, her finger twirling a thread on her loose-fitting tee. “That made my day.”

“Mine too, sweetheart.” Dad slipped the binoculars into their sheath, then turned around and squinted through the rear window and into the woods.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Looks like we have some fellow birdwatchers.”

My heart sunk between my stomach and bowels. I closed my eyes and prayed to all things sacred that the kids were A.J. or Trent or Danny or Ryan; somebody who was already obsessed; somebody I could manage.

I took the binoculars, held them to my eyes, and sifted the view through the timber and green. Sure enough, three boys stood frozen beside that bastard tree. They weren't bullies. They were new.

“Woohoo!” It was Livy. Her exhilaration shook the tower’s foundation.

Mara and I exchanged a confused glance. She shrugged.

“Yeehaw!” Livy cried again from the base of the ballroom stairs. “Guess who's got a boyfriend!”

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