Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,126
mouth frantically opening and closing. Grabbing him by the tail fin—he was heavy, about forty pounds—I dragged him back into the water to ease his passing. He floated on top. He was being carried away by the undertow; there was no struggle left in him.
I hadn’t seen such a big sturgeon in years. He must have been fifty years old. Sturgeons are bottom-feeders. Pop told me that sturgeons can live to be one hundred years old—some may even live to be two hundred. I watched as the giant fish settled in for the inevitable, rocked by the water’s gentle motion.
Dogs go into decline after a decade. Bingo was only eighteen when he died. Ma was fifty years old. Eighty years is considered the top end of a human life. Yet for some reason, God thought it was important to confer virtual immortality on sturgeons.
Thinking about it had the odd effect of buoying my spirits— looking for a lost homing pigeon didn’t seem quite so crazy when you consider some of the ways that God chooses to entertain Himself.
Back at the car, I pulled on my running shoes, swung the car into reverse, and decided to devote a little more time to the search for Bingo.
I boarded the ferry and thought about what I was going to do—retrace the whole trip to Maine, hoping to spot him somewhere en route? Chances were he was dead, a raptor got him, a cat, maybe a car. He could’ve flown into a store window, or some creepy kid probably nailed him with a BB gun.
The more sorry fates I conjured up for Bingo, the more motivated I was to keep looking.
I drove around on the mainland for a couple of hours. At one point, a mourning dove flew up in front of the windshield and I slammed on the brakes, thinking it was him, trying to reconcile my conflicting feelings of hope and futility.
I’d been driving for most of the day, the sun was beginning to set, and I was considering calling it quits—but then, Jesus, there he was. Over there, it was him, Bingo, there was no mistake about who it was. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I almost missed him. I was on this narrow country road, quiet, sweet, overgrown, smelling like clover. I couldn’t even say what made me take this offbeat side road, but I spotted him: There he was, walking, full of purpose and looking straight ahead, pausing occasionally to peck the ground but steadily making his way on the train tracks, his wing a half-extended fan and dragging on the ground.
We were about twenty-five miles from home. He was hoofing it on this defunct railway line, overgrown tracks surrounded by cornfields and open pasture—the only sounds the buzz and whir of insects and the chirping of birds. He couldn’t have chosen a safer route; those tracks hadn’t seen a train in years.
The sun burned down on the top of my head as I stepped onto the grass at the side of the gravel road and softly shut the car door—I didn’t want to scare him. I didn’t feel like chasing a bird through a field of weeds and rock. I walked slowly toward him, calling his name and whistling “Bye, Bye Blackbird” to attract his attention.
He paused at the familiar tune and, cooing, continued pecking along the track, looking up finally as I came toward him. After pausing for a moment, I bent and scooped him up in my hands, where he relaxed. As I was walking back toward the car, I was hoping there was no one around, no one watching and wondering what the hell I was doing.
Sliding in behind the wheel with little Bingo in my hands, I couldn’t believe how lucky he was that I found him. His wing was obviously broken, but it was easy enough to repair a broken wing.
I set him beside me in the passenger seat and then lifted open the carrying case Uncle Tom had made me bring just in case I found him.
I put him inside, and his contented cooing grew stronger. He was safe. He knew he was going home. I turned onto the narrow two-lane highway, shut off the air conditioner, and rolled down the window, the air warm as a blanket; I took a moment, half laughing, half crying, to breathe in the consoling aroma of a perfect day in June.
“Maybe we should change your name to Karl Malden,” I said.