Fiction: Hawks of the Interstate

By Scott T. Hutchison, M.A. English ’87
Illustrations by Hadley Hooper

[ Fifth Annual Middlebury Magazine Fiction Contest ]

“Could you get the girls fed before dropping them off? I really don’t have time to fix them anything tonight. Of course that means we can meet later than usual at the rest stop to make the exchange. And hey, would the Sanbornton rest stop be okay, rather than the one in Hopkinton? It will be closer for me and where I’m coming from. How about we meet there at seven. Seven works best for me.”

“Did you see it, guys?”

I lean over a little, trying to keep my eyes on the road while looking out at the same time. At the last moment I spot the raggedy puff of poorly arranged plumage tenuously perched on a telephone pole, scanning and waiting for opportunity. We pass and the girls settle back.

Caitlin turns to her sister. “Did you see it, Beth?”

“Was it an eagle?” Beth ventures, unsure.

“You didn’t see it,” Caitlin laughs imperiously. “You missed out, loser.”

I decide it’s time to tell them. “Girls, Mom’s made a little change in …”

“He was beautiful,” Caitlin says, “just like the ones you teach about, Daddy.” Even though Caitlin is in sixth grade, she likes to keep up with what I’m teaching in my eighth grade science class. Beth is just in fifth grade, but keeping up with her sister’s interests and priorities seems to advance her in the eyes of her classmates.

“Listen guys …”

“There’s another!” Caitlin bellows.

“It’s a red-tail!” Beth says, taking a stab at identification. “Hawks are the noblest birds there are. Don’t you think?”

Caitlin then goes dramatic, rolling and batting her eyes. “I think I love ’em.”

“I love ’em too!” Beth giggles, and the two of them start making moony faces at one another and hugging.

With another quick glimpse, I reckon it to be a sharp-shinned hawk, or maybe a Cooper’s hawk, though it’s hard to tell just how big it is. I know Beth’s just tossing out names she knows, but that’s okay. The kid is enthusiastic, even when she’s in the wrong.

“Wow, this is like going on your hawk watch, isn’t it, Daddy?” Caitlin has looked over the silhouette identification guides and bulleted info sheets that I provide to my students, and when she compares the eighth grade fall hawk-watching excursion to the sixth grade’s saltwater fish tank or to the fifth grade’s life-cycle of the pollywog program, she lets me know in no uncertain terms that she would like to be excused from her classes for the day and go hiking in the mountains with me and my students. “I’m pretty good at hawk watching. I can spot ’em, tell you what they are. Maybe you should think about taking me along on the watch, huh, Daddy?”

“Me too!” choruses Beth. Another glance in the rearview mirror, and I catch the traded looks and smiles.

“Why are you turning here?” Caitlin asks when she recognizes I’m turning the wheel, taking an unexpected exit to change direction.

“We aren’t going to the drop-off just yet. We’re going to the grocery store to get some fresh food to make a dinner, then home. We’ll meet Mom later tonight. That was her on the phone a minute ago. That’s the plan.”

The back seat goes quiet.

I try to fill the void. “So you girls like those raptors, huh? You are good at spotting them, I’ve gotta say. Raptors are like monarchs—kings and queens of the avian world. Top-notch predators. Raptors are special, they’re worth studying, learning from. They’ve got it all over crows and blue jays and such.”

They hate it when the routine changes on them. I know they’d rather get into Karla’s minivan with the DVD player in the back and go to McDonald’s—Micky D’s first, then off to DQ, Funmeals and Butterfinger Blizzards. With me, we’ll pick up some chicken and salad, some yogurt and granola. They’ll eat it, but both the food and I tend to be a disappointment when compared to the quick and easy meals Karla serves up.

“Hawk at two o’clock,” I call out, pointing. There’s a little northern harrier hanging around on the upper spire of a tamarack, watching the cars go by. The girls see him, and with enthusiastic squeals they come back to their better natures.

I might be a teacher, but I don’t tell them what I really think about these particular birds. I feel the machinery rolling beneath me, a paved human world that has gobbled up hill and dale and woodland, resulting in these hawks of the interstate. The truth: these are the castoffs, the scroungers, the second stringers in a preening predatory world. Real raptors—the strong, the fast—would never choose this degraded environment. They hunt animals and other birds for their food, spiraling over mountainous and hilly terrain, swooping down from cliffs and over patches of open country. In courtship, they are acrobatic, exuberant, breathtaking to watch. They possess a grace and nobility that’s barely discernible in these little thin-pelted pretenders. These vagabonds you spot every couple of miles or so along the highway must be the laughingstock of their kind—avian panhandlers, waiting for what comes their way. I wish better for them, but that’s not the way it is.

Every fall I teach my students about raptors, concluding the lesson by taking a bus to the trailhead parking lot of Whiteface Mountain and then climbing to the summit for a day of observation during the annual hawk migration. The Belknap Mountains of New Hampshire are perfectly placed for birds exiting Canada heading south for the winter. What we see varies from year to year, but we’ve been lucky enough to catch a glimpse of both bald and golden eagles, who along with the ospreys, like to fish the hundreds of lakes nestled throughout the range. We’ve seen vultures glide over, as many as 60 at a time, though numbers that large are rare. And then there’s the hawks—always the hawks. Accipiters, buteos, harriers.

We spy a northern goshawk on the wooden bracing of a McDonald’s billboard, taking advantage of the windblock. Two worlds and focuses for the girls—and they lean toward the familiar.

“Can we go to McDonald’s? We’re hungry. Fries would be really good right now,” Caitlin mews.

I can’t listen to that kind of working-me tactic, so I go for the changeup. “You know, there was a situation down in Texas where some red-shouldered hawks had nested on a billboard. And the townspeople did the right thing—they protected those birds. Let ’em nest, raise their young, and then move on. Unlike this golf course situation down in Florida—same thing, a nesting pair of red-shouldered hawks, only this time the birds didn’t fare so well. It was awful.” I’m practiced at delivering half information to my students, dangling a little bait to get them engaged and prompt questions. Fortunately my turnoff is coming up, and we’ll be at the grocery store in a minute.

“What happened to the hawks, Daddy?” Beth’s voice has true concern in it.

“Well, the hawks had a nest near this golf course’s clubhouse, and they went after some people. They were defending their young, protecting their nest. But when the golf course people and the Department of Agriculture dealt with the issue, their solution was horrible. They shot the birds. Got guns and shot ’em. They said they’d considered all the options, said they’d debated all the various ways they could deal with the problem, but me, I don’t think they did.” Bait and wait.

Caitlin goes for it. “The hawks were attacking people? That sounds pretty bad if you ask me. I’d hate for a hawk to peck me with those curved beaks. But I don’t like the idea of shooting raptors. That’s just wrong. What else could they have done, Daddy?”

I spot the sign for Shaw’s Grocery Store. I choose not to correct Caitlin on the beak comment. It’s the talons you need to worry about—the beaks are just for tearing the quarry once it’s been nailed. And it’s the talons that pierce like nails. “Well, they said that relocating the birds would be difficult, even though that might resolve the matter. But here’s the deal: hawks like to go after prey. Plain and simple, that’s what they do. So the people could have put out a little decoy or prey item and strung some thin mist netting next to it on collapsing poles. The hawks would have gone for the bait, and they’d have become entwined in the netting. Catching the hawks that way would have had two results: the birds could have been moved, or probably the birds would not have enjoyed being caught and handled—they’re sensitive to being handled—so they would have backed off of their attacks. But that’s not what happened. Those folks just went for the easiest rather than the best choice, and what really gets me is that after the adult birds were killed, the nest wasn’t even checked for two days. When they finally got a ladder and looked, the chicks were gone. Probably became prey for some other creature without their parents around to keep them safe. People making mistakes on top of mistakes, which of course leads to—”

“Can I pick out the cereal, Daddy?” Beth interrupts. “Fruit Loops is offering a free music download with every purchase.”

When we get home for dinner, the only way I get the girls to eat the chicken and salad is I have to promise to pull them out of school and take them on the hawk watch next week. It will take some finagling with Karla to put that plan together and help me keep my promise. I try not to hate Karla for putting me in this position.

On the way to the Sanbornton rest stop, Caitlin correctly identifies a northern harrier flying low to the ground. I’m happy to see it actually hunting, and I pull the car over so we can watch as the bird glides over a rare piece of open field next to the highway. “They use hearing as much as sight to catch things,” she tells Beth.

“I know that, bean-head,” Beth fusses back.

“Yeah, sure you did,” Caitlin says, dismissive of her little sister. I know they’re both edgy because of the late switch-off. Still, they know something about these birds, and it gives me a small sense of pride.

We watch the harrier swoop and nail something—but then the bird struggles on the ground. He flaps and teeters. We watch him fly back up and try to land on a construction company sign declaring some new project launch that’s located at the near-edge of the field. The harrier makes an attempt to settle on the sign, but something doesn’t connect for him and he flaps and teeters. There are gasps from the seat behind me as he tumbles to the ground, all grace and balance leaving him. He flutters around looking angry.

“What’s wrong with him, Daddy!” The girls’ voices blend into one.

I’m scared. Scared for this poor, pitiful bird. Scared to tell Beth and Caitlin. But I take a shot at it, best as I can, inadequate though I may be. “Well, raptors are susceptible to a couple of really bad health problems. He’s unable to perch, and raptors need to perch. They need to be able to hold on, stay in place, watch all of the movement in their world. So that makes me think he has what’s called bumblefoot. It’s an infection. It could be aspergillosis, which is a fungus that sometimes affects the respiratory system of a raptor, but the way he’s acting I’d say it’s probably bumblefoot.”

“Do something, Daddy.”

I call information and get the number for Fish and Game. After three different connections there, I finally get a guy who listens to the issue. He’s never heard of bumblefoot, but he promises to drive out and take a look when he’s free. I try to keep my voice even, with Caitlin and Beth hanging over the seat back, intense on my efforts here. When I hang up, we watch the harrier rise into the air and fly away.

I turn and face them. “A man from Fish and Game is coming right out. He knows all about this kind of thing, and he’s pretty confident he can do right by this bird.”

“But the hawk flew away, Daddy,” Caitlin says. She has her mother’s fierce blue eyes, and she’s staring into me, through me, wanting a better answer.

“Not to worry. Hawks stay in a small territory. They like to hunt in the same place. The guy I spoke with will know what to do. He’s a trained professional.” Sometimes when I teach I make choices: when there’s been a tragedy of any sort and the kids want to talk about it, I try to reassure them. I bend things. Okay, I lie. Sometimes, being the one they look to for answers, that’s the best I can do.

My heart goes out to that poor bird.

I make the girls sit back and buckle up again, and put the car in gear.

“You said a man from Fish and Game will take care of the hawk, Daddy?” Beth asks.

“Yep.”

“They aren’t connected to the Department of Ag…what’s that word?”

“Agriculture,” Caitlin says stonily. I catch Caitlin’s piercing look in the rearview.

The girls then go quiet on me. Two mutes. Funny word, mutes. Mutes is a word used when talking about the world of raptors—mutes are also known as “hawk whitewash”—hawks project fecal matter further than you’d ever believe, streaking and splattering things, often when they’re agitated. I’m feeling a little whitewashed myself.

The minivan pulls into the rest stop at 7:21. Karla gets out, brushes dark hair back from her face. She’s wearing a tight black dress and high heels—she’s looking awfully fine for a Sunday early evening—leading me to think that’s she’s probably been out on a date. I feel myself wince. I want to ask her about that, while at the same time I really, really don’t want to ask her about that. I look at her legs and the way her ankles thinly fit into the shoes, a trait I’ve always practically salivated over. I wince when a couple of what look to be hungry college boys turn from buying candy bars and stare after her. Some guys check out middle or upper torsos, for some guys it’s all about a pretty face, but me, there’s always been something about strong healthy legs and thin ankles that stirs me into action. I push that away for the time being, too.

The girls fly out of my car and race into her open arms. They’re so little and fresh, and they gravitate to Karla like she holds all the answers to their happiness. I thought the same thing once upon a time. Then came the changes, the bumps, the deceits. I barely blinked, and one day I found myself living in a schlumpy apartment, seeing my girls every other weekend. But now its time for the show.

With both girls wrapped around her, Karla smiles at me. “Hi, how you been?” No apology—never anything like that.

But here we go. This part of the counseling we’ve both stuck to, and I’m thankful for it. No squabbling in front of Caitlin and Beth. We need to look good. Even if we aren’t good, even if what’s beneath the surface eats at us with black and vicious heartbeats.

Karla doesn’t wait for my answer. She bends down to the girls and kisses each of their heads. “So what did Daddy feed you guys this evening? Let me guess—chicken? Salad? Yogurt?” Then all three of them laugh and make ugh noises while sticking out their tongues. I know that when they go to McDonald’s the girls always get McNuggets and fries, while Karla opts for a salad shaker, all followed by parfaits. I guess it’s the speed and the noise and the trans-whatever smells that attract them.

“Hey, the girls have something they really want to do with me next week, Karla. It means a day out of school and I’ll need you to drop them off, but they’d really like to go with me on my annual hawk watch. I sorta promised them.” I smile when I’m asking.

I see it in her eyes. She’s looking inside of me, determining how best to put this thing to rest. But it’s the show. The girls are bouncing and pleading, they try to work her, reiterating my promise, how Daddy said. If this doesn’t work out, somehow I’m guessing it’s me they’ll dole out their hostilities to.

Karla makes her move. She steps up to me and takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. A hard, aggressive squeeze. “I’ll give you a call and we’ll see if we can work it out.” I can read the answer in those eyes. A gust of wind rolls through the parking lot, blowing sandy dust and scraps of paper trash between the cars. We close our eyes and brace against it for the moment, still holding hands, and then it’s gone. With a toss of her head, Karla’s feathered hair whips back into place. “Ready girls?” Red nails give a sharp message, and then they’re speeding away from me toward the mini-van. I watch them load up, watch the hands wave from the back seat as they make their escape.

The life I should be living roars up, and a dark need blazes through me. I get my fingers beneath an edge on the Toyota emblem. I rip the stupid silver hawk silhouette off the hood, and fling it down onto the pavement with all my might. The action is fast and pitiful—I lose my balance and take a digger into the front panel, actually putting a divot into the side of my car. I’m so angry at my own ineptitude that I scuffle up to my feet and kick the tire, resulting in acute pain that rockets up my leg. People at the rest stop vending machines stop and stare at the crazy man in the parking lot damaging his own car and self.

I make it back onto the interstate and settle into the middle lane, heading for what I have to call home. I try to get out of my head and think about something else. I go far away. I imagine that, winging its way toward me, right at this very moment, a vibrant creature has lifted off from the highest spire of a balsam, diving down the face of a mountain, confident that mouse or songbird will present itself, content for the moment to ride the thermals, now letting them lift him, effortlessly, higher, higher.

Abruptly, I’m brought back down, in disbelief at the scene before me, tires squealing on the interstate tarmac. Jerking the wheel I swerve across traffic and pull into the breakdown lane, cars flying by and honking. Sorry. I have to rub my eyes—but did you see it? Did you? The way he let himself drop from the heights of the cell phone tower, talons flashing, all power and need, pouncing upon the blackened banana peel rotting by the side of the road—did you see that noble bird?