Who is Mackie Spence? Read online

  After lunch, I walk out next to Mackie. My curiosity about when she will work again at the wildlife shelter is greater than my recent shyness around her. “Hey, Mackie. Are you working at the shelter today?” I manage to sound reasonably casual, though I hear my heartbeat echo like a roll of thunder.

  She turns her eyes that can charm an eagle into submission up at me. “Olivia reworked my schedule. I’m on the evening shift,” she says in a surprised tone.

  I can’t believe my ears. Together! Tonight! I control an urge to leap in the air and smack the ceiling light, or, worse, grab her arms and swing her around like a little girl. Instead, I manage to stay cool.

  “Are you working, too?” she asks.

  “Uh, yeah. I didn’t know Olivia was making adjustments. It’s good; good that we’re working tonight. Together.” I bite my lower lip. That sounded really lame. We head into our English Literature class, where I spend most of the session trying to pay attention as Mrs. Littlejohn expounds on the “still relevant” themes of Charles Dickens. Following alphabetic seating rules, Mackie sits in front of me. I’m happy that our last names beginning “S” and “T” have me sitting behind her.

  After sixth period, cross-country has a pre-race meeting. Coach motions for us to follow him, and we sit outside on the track’s sun-warmed, metal bleachers.

  “Tonight, get some sleep. Tomorrow morning, six o’clock sharp, we’re leaving from the front parking lot for the ferry. I want everyone suited up, ready to run. Don’t forget your shoes.” He looks pointedly at Trace Benton, and a couple of the guys laugh.

  Coach passes out copies of the course map. “Bring money or a ticket for the ferry. Also, very important, Ethan will run as our varsity alternate. His times are good enough to move him up. Tomorrow, we go out as a team and Ethan’s part of our team. Okay, remember your strategies, what we talked about this week. Think about how you’re going to run the course. Get in your zone. And be here on time. That’s it.” He whacks his clipboard against the bleacher to signal that we’re done.

  I settle in for another quiet ride home with Ben. We weave through residential streets lined with tall, thick Douglas firs and mature cedars. In my neighborhood, homes are set so far back you see only the openings of driveways. We’re within a quarter mile of Puget Sound and the air smells of saltwater and woodsy, organic decay. For me, that has always been the familiar scent of home.

  Ben pulls into our laurel-lined circle drive and stops at the halfway point.

  “See you. Early,” he says.

  “Yeah, too early,” I reply, climbing out of my seat.

  Ben snorts his agreement. He gears the Honda into first, and eases around the other side of the drive back to the road.

  As Ben leaves, I stand at the base of our porch stairs, searching the bottom of my gear bag for keys to the front door. I like being the first one home after school. I have all the space to myself. Not a grand place like some on the island, our house has been my home since I was born. I remember the day my dad told me it was built in the 1940s to resemble a small country lodge, with a river-rock base. Blue-gray rocks merge with cedar siding, topped by a dark green metal roof.

  I open the outer door and pick out a second key for entrance from the vestibule to the foyer. Because my dad designs security software and keeps files at home, we observe a number of protocols. Cameras are stationed at all outer doorways. I like to sometimes make faces at those, and one time got Justin to put on a gorilla mask so I could lift him right up to a lens. After the police came out on a silent run, I had to explain to them, and Dad, about the mask. We decided fooling with the system wasn’t such a good idea. I saw a smile on Dad’s face though, when he reviewed the security shots.

  In our family room, a river-rock half-wall sits behind a red wood stove, used when temperatures drop below freezing. Worn, wicker chairs and a big couch top a thick braided rug. Mom’s clay, raku, and stoneware pots are everywhere. Dad calls it Lodge-Chic. Mom wrinkles her nose at him when he says that. I like the place just fine, especially the woodsy smell from the overhead cedar beams.

  I flop down on the couch for a quick nap. Later, treading in my socks down the creaky, wood-floored hallway to the kitchen, I wonder who will be on rotation at the shelter. Three volunteers always work one shift. An adult will be with us, but who?

  I could text Mackie to ask if she wants to walk to the shelter together. That might come off as too pushy. Her family lives nearby in a waterfront home that overlooks the Puget Sound to Seattle. They have views of the city, the water, and the Cascade Mountains.

  Remembering Mom’s dinner instructions, I microwave and slam down two burritos, then eat a mashed up fistful of leaf lettuce. I examine my teeth in the glass door of a kitchen cabinet, and gulp some water to rinse my mouth, but decide not to chance a hanging green erratic. I sprint upstairs, brush my teeth, and pull an old fleece-lined jacket from my closet.

  Skipping down the stairs, I snatch my set of keys from the kitchen peg, and flip my phone, flashlight, and bike reflector into a small gear bag. Finally, I put on a pair of old training shoes, and take off at a trot.

  The western sun feels like a spray of heat on my face. Keeping to the soft road shoulder, I breathe in a mixed scent of sweet cedar needles and leaves. Yeah, late summer is my favorite time of the year. I need to store this up for January and February. That’s when the Northwest becomes dense green with gray-grim skies.

  I find the white entrance post to the shelter. The Olympic Wildlife Shelter is partially hidden behind a stand of tall Douglas firs. The one-level, ranch-style building holds an administrative office and rooms for animal recovery. To the south of the building, open-air cages let animals in advanced recovery stages build and test their strength before release back into the wild.

  I enter through the main door, see Mrs. Walton, and smile. She’s our adult volunteer for the shift. An ex-Navy nurse, Mrs. Walton is also a grandma, and someone I’ve always liked being around.

  She looks up brightly at me. “Hello, Jeremy. Looks like it’s you, Mackenzie Spence, and me tonight. I’ve been working mornings, so I haven’t met the Spence girl.”

  “She just started this summer. We’re friends.”

  “Good. We should be able to easily handle what’s here. Most of the critters only need feeding and cleanup.”

  As she speaks, I reach into a locker and pull out a men’s large, olive drab work coverall. Stepping in and zipping the coverall over my clothes, I hear the door open. Mackie.

  Her long hair is pulled up in a braid that begins at the top of her head and trails down her back. She pauses just inside the doorway, slightly flushed. Maybe she ran, too?

  “Hey, Jer,” she says, removing her sunglasses and tucking them in her shirt pocket. Then she notices Mrs. Walton and goes to her with a hand extended, speaking in an out-of-breath voice, “Hi, I’m Mackie Spence.”

  Mrs. Walton checks her out, shakes Mackie’s hand, and says, “Winifred Walton. We’re the team tonight so let’s get to it. We’ll look in on surgery patients first, then do feeding and cleaning. It’s the usual drill.”

  I nod as I lock the front door. The shelter is now closed for the evening.

  Mackie has climbed into her coveralls. The three of us move quietly into the Recovery Hall, the smell of disinfectant and animal urine in a seventy-two-degree building hitting me in a wave. Like always, I flinch from that particular combination of odors and heat.

  “Two of my grandchildren are coming to visit me tomorrow morning so I’d like to leave early tonight if at all possible,” Mrs. Walton says.

  We put on hoods, masks, and gloves that protect recovering wildlife from identifying humans as non-threatening. We want to look like aliens, something the animals will never see again.

  “Okay,” Mrs. Walton says as we pause outside the first doorway off the Recovery Hall. She reads from a clipboard that contains medical notes from Doc Kemp, our on-call veterinarian. “Hmm . . . we have a young fawn. A car hit her. Looks like s
he has a fractured front leg, set yesterday, and some nasty road-rash cuts.”

  Mrs. Walton opens the door, and we enter the room without speaking. The fawn lies on her side and blinks rapidly as we approach. Restraints, along with sedatives, have otherwise immobilized her.

  Mrs. Walton motions for Mackie and me to wait near the door. There is no sense in upsetting the young deer with all of us getting close. Then Mrs. Walton moves in to look at the wounds. The fawn turns her eyes to Mackie. I notice that the deer relaxes. Relaxing isn’t normal for a wild animal with humans so near. Mackie begins to tremble slightly. That’s something I’ve seen her do before, when she and animals new to the shelter first look at each other.

  Mrs. Walton carefully examines the restraint harness around the fawn to make sure it is intact before lifting loose bandages from cut areas. Applying salve through a small caulking gun, she doesn’t touch the deer with her hands. At the shelter, we try to keep all of our actions slow and clean. Mrs. Walton is a nursing pro, and the fawn stays calm, only moving as the salve is spread. Within a few minutes the sutures are dressed and Mrs. Walton inserts another bottle of intravenous fluid into the holder.

  Back in the hallway, Mrs. Walton nods. “She’s already healing. I like her prognosis.”

  Next, we enter a room that houses several injured raccoons. Most have been hurt by traps, but one juvenile has escaped a coyote attack, losing its tail and an ear. Again, the same protocols are observed and again, the animals noticeably relax after making eye contact with Mackie. Since Mackie doesn’t tremble, I figure that she’s maybe met the raccoons during some earlier volunteer session.

  Proceeding to two more quiet rooms, we look in on a couple of injured ducks, a goose, and an opossum. Again, the animals stay calm and show Mackie respect. Mrs. Walton seems unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Am I the only one who notices how the animals respond to Mackie?

  Now finished with the severe trauma cases, we retrace our steps through the hall to gather food and water. Pushing through the swing doors into the main room, Mrs. Walton looks pleased.

  “That’s what I like to see: stable and improving animals,” she says.

  “It seems like we have more raccoons lately,” I say.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Walton replies. “Usually that happens earlier in the summer, after the kits are born and moving around.”

  “I saw you give one of the juvenile raccoons another injection. Isn’t he healing?” Mackie asks, her voice soft.

  “He had surgery yesterday and seemed too alert today, so I gave him more to sleep. An incarcerated, unhappy raccoon could tear the hell out of this place and take us on, too. Why don’t you both feed the birds and I’ll look in on the coyote pup that’s in the small pen.”

  “Okay,” I say happily. Mackie nods. Of course I’m pleased to be alone with her. We head for the feed bins, just off the main room.

  “I’ll get the water,” I say. While I hoist a five-gallon container of water on my shoulder, she scoops seed and grubs into bowls. We walk down the linoleum-lined hallway that leads to the back door.

  As we exit the building, we can still see without additional light. The birds are caged outside, in a Small Flight Cage rehab box. Near the Large Flight Cage, the small box is used as a first step for birds that still need to regain their strength.

  As we approach, the sound of our feet crunching down on the tree bark-lined trail alerts three American crows. The Corvus brachyrhynchos straighten to attention. I mouth the words to myself, trying hard to remember the Latin genus and species pronunciation. They dip their heads slightly and appear to bow. In my years of volunteering at the shelter, that behavior has never been directed at humans. I suspect it’s because of Mackie’s presence.

  Resisting the urge to ask Mackie about it, I struggle to keep the shelter protocols for silence. I rinse and restock the ground-level birdbath while she empties the seed tray. Then, Mackie splashes some water inside to clean the shallow dish and dries it with a paper towel. Finally, she adds the seed and fruit. Moving on to the grub bowl, which has been picked clean, Mackie scoops in fat, wriggling grubs. Yum! Then we retreat and close the gate.

  We’ve saved the best for last: Diana, our resident Barred Owl. Strix varia. She came to the shelter during its first year of operation and has been a star teaching assistant ever since. With a damaged right wing, Diana can’t fly, but she accompanies our wildlife director on field trips to schools and speaking events. My favorite at the shelter, Diana has spooky, glass-brown eyes and dark, striped markings running vertically on her chest feathers. Her call pattern to other owls in the surrounding woods is a cadence of eight hoots, in groups of four.

  I have a gutted, defrosted mouse for her, a top pick on any owl’s menu. As we approach, Diana gives a low hoo-hoo. She knows her dinnertime, and it makes me happy to see her reaction to the food. Tonight, however, she doesn’t put on a show of lifting her wings to remind me of her superior size. After Mackie appears, Diana becomes quiet and lowers her eyes.

  I leave the mouse near her on a feeding dish and clean up the smelly owl pellets under her perch. If they aren’t removed daily, oh gach! The stench can get bad fast. I scoop and bag the waste, and Mackie and I exit through the door.

  Once inside the main building again, I struggle to frame my ‘Big Question.’ Removing my mask, I say, “Ah, Mackie, you seem to have an odd effect on animals.”

  She doesn’t respond and continues to walk toward the food bins. I easily match her pace, knowing she’s heard the question in my comment.

  “It’s not a criticism. I just want to understand, because I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  Mackie dumps the unused seed from her pail into the bin and ignores me.

  “Hey look, I’m just trying to figure out why you get a special response from the animals.”

  She takes off her goggles and hood, and shakes her braid loose. “Do you need to know why? Does everything have to have an explanation?”

  “Well, yeah. I’ve been volunteering here for almost two years and no one gets the kind of reactions you get. Why?”

  “Why do the animals react, or why have you never seen the same reactions?”

  At least she’s replied. Then she turns her dark eyes with their thickly fringed, black lashes to meet mine, and I falter, nearly losing my stream of thought. Silence.

  “Uh, okay, I’ll give you an example. Remember when you first started volunteering here? Number 26, the bald eagle that right away deferred to you? That’s not normal behavior. She gave you respect. And just now, in all the rooms, the animals relaxed when you walked in. That’s not normal. So how do you explain it?” I stop talking when I see her frown. Then her eyes soften and I plunge in again.

  “I’m not saying that you’re not normal. But the animals all seem to have reactions to you that they don’t have around other people.”

  She smiles her sad smile and shrugs her shoulders. “Jeremy, after we graduate are you going to study wildlife biology at the U?”

  “I’ve thought about it. Why aren’t you answering my questions?”

  “What if I don’t have answers to your questions?” she responds, holding my eyes in hers with a steady look that silently advises me to drop it.

  In all our years of growing up together she’s never been evasive with me. Why now?

  Then the doors swing open. Mrs. Walton marches in with a clipboard, announcing happily, “Okay. We’re buttoned down for the evening.” She looks at her watch. “It’s nine hundred fifteen hours. I really need to get home. I’m going to trust the two of you to finish up.”

  “Sounds good,” I say quickly. “We’ll do a load of laundry until the next shift gets here.”

  Mackie nods.

  With that, Mrs. Walton picks up her tote and says goodbye. We hear her old car moan and chug unsteadily as she pulls up the hill to the road.

  I look back at Mackie, and we walk toward the laundry room.

  “Mackie, we’ve known each other si
nce we were kids. What’s different now?” I push, hoping to appeal to our friendship.

  “I really don’t know what to say about the animals. Maybe they like my scent.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her.

  “Really, I mean it. Couldn’t what you’re seeing be their reaction to my body chemistry or something? Does it have to be something bigger?”

  Her attempt to disarm me isn’t going to work. I know too much about the animal kingdom. I shift from one foot to the other, trying to come up with a fresh tactic to get her to open up.

  “Yeah, well, I can see how an animal would find you attractive,” I say clumsily and hasten to add, “But that’s because you’re so cute.”

  She sticks her tongue out at me.

  “What I don’t get is why the animals show you respect.”

  “Respect,” she repeats, cocking her head like the concept has never occurred to her.

  “Come on Mackie.” Now it’s Mackie who searches my eyes for an answer. I sense I have the advantage and press on. “You know what’s going on is out of the ordinary. What is it?”

  She takes my right hand in hers and says, “Jeremy, am I so unexciting that it takes animals reacting to me in odd ways to get your attention?” I feel really thrown off my game.

  I became the silent one. Did she just flirt with me? No. Everything about her seems serious.

  We hear a muffled cry. Mackie drops my hand.

  Reaching quickly for my hood and goggles, I say, “Probably one of the raccoons.”

  My soft-soled shoes make light, thip-thip sounds as I run through the hallway to the raccoons’ room at the far end of the corridor. But the room is still, the animals curled into sleep balls. What was that sound? I hurry, looking in the windowed doors of the rooms along the hallway. Now it is ominously quiet. Where did the noise come from?

  Leaving the Recovery Hall at a trot, I run through the main room and into the laundry room. Mackie isn’t there. I run to the back door leading to the flight cages and step outside.