Jack did indeed take care of the seafood, which freed up Baker to search for Sealy and Christy. He found the two in less than five minutes and was perplexed to find that Christy had talked his wife into calling 911 from the house of someone who lived several hundred yards down the shoreline. Both were now convinced that Jones would not have just disappeared like that.
At first Baker didn’t think anything at all had happened to the old man, but the longer he listened to Sealy and Christy, the more plausible some disastrous possibility seemed to be. He got in touch with Jack by phone, and Jack calmed him down. Jack also canceled the rescue search.
Then, of course, Baker went right back to Sealy and Christy, listened to them talk, and was nervous all over again. With the seafood already gone, there was no reason for Baker not to join the girls on a search for the old man. And the longer they walked, the more conflicted he felt. Yes, Jones’s history suggested the disappearance was merely part of a long-established pattern, but that pattern had been long established with someone else. Baker did not want to take any chances. Jones had helped him. He was one of the last people to see the old man. Baker felt responsible in some way. So, despite the absence of any kind of evidence that might have swayed opinion one way or another, Baker searched for Jones.
They had been walking north, up the bay’s edge, for about ninety minutes with no sign of the old man, when the girls decided they needed water. Christy was not shy and said she would be happy to knock on a door and ask a stranger to save them from death by excessive thirst.
While the girls crossed a backyard and approached a woman on the porch, Baker stepped up onto the wharf and took several steps down it. He did not go far over the water’s edge before stopping to look back in the direction from which they had come. His legs were spread widely, his feet firmly planted on the deck. Baker grabbed the railing and began to stretch a bit. He was stiff and sore from the activity of the previous night.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sealy and Christy were still on the porch. The woman was not there, so he assumed she had gone inside to retrieve the requested water. When he turned back to resume stretching, Baker jumped and jerked his hands from the railing in alarm. While his attention had been directed toward the house, a bird had landed on the rail, only inches from his right hand.
Baker chuckled briefly and looked to the house again. He was the tiniest bit relieved to see that the two women had missed his reaction. The bird had scared him, and he had jumped almost completely across the wharf’s walkway—a walkway that was not very wide at that point. Baker chuckled again as he got his breathing back under control and shook his head, somewhat embarrassed by his reaction to the small bird, which had been an arm-flailing jump more appropriate to a crocodile at one’s feet. But the bird was very close to his hand, and he had always been nervous around birds anyway. And this one, despite Baker’s crazy movement, had not left its spot on the rail.
“Okay, bird,” Baker said aloud, “time to go.” He flapped his hand at it, saying, “Go. Go! Shoo!” The bird merely cocked its head and hopped a couple of times. Baker placed his hands on his hips and frowned.
Baker had fished the bay and gulf most of his life and knew it was not unusual for a tired bird to stop and rest on one’s boat or a wharf railing. Flying across the bay—why ever a bird did that in the first place—would tire the creatures. That is why, when the bird landed on the rail next to Baker, though he had been momentarily frightened, he was not surprised the bird had stopped to rest.
Baker crossed his arms. The bird didn’t look tired to him. It occurred to him that birds rarely landed this close to humans on a wharf. When a boat was their only landing option, birds often would allow themselves to be picked up and held in one’s hand. A wharf, though, has safer alternatives, since it is connected to shore, than the resting place this bird had chosen.
The bird flew a few feet from where it was and perched on the opposite rail, but it executed a sort of pause on the way, fluttering in Baker’s face as if the man was in the way. Baker ducked and backed off a bit, totally flustered now and unsure whether to stand his ground or not.
When the bird began to vocalize with clacks and gulps and chortling pops and whirrs, Baker realized that the bird was a starling. He was fascinated, of course, having been significantly devastated by starlings, but he was curious to find that his rage had faded into an odd gratefulness to this species.
He and Sealy, the girls . . . they all were happier in the apartment with the future they were planning than they had ever been in the much larger house. He had decided that boats and fishing and cooking gourmet meals at his own movable, outdoor restaurant appealed to him much more than farming ever did. Sealy was more excited than she had been in years. The flower bed business was already turning out to be a great idea for her, the family income, and their marriage.
The bird leaned toward Baker from the rail, screeching as if it were telling a story of its own to an audience of one. Typical starling, Baker thought. The bird was darkly colored but glistening with a shine accented by a speckled pattern. In the late morning sun, its glossy feathers, the blackest black, seemed polished by highlighted flecks of deep green.
The idea of gratefulness for a tough time had been rolling around Baker’s thoughts for almost a week now. He had decided that had it not been for the starlings, he would not have met Jones. He was grateful for Jones, so Baker supposed that meant he was grateful for the starlings. After all, they were part of the process that brought Jones and him together.
Sealy had wondered aloud if Baker would have been open to a guy like Jones before—would Baker have really listened, she asked, had he not been in that awful position? Probably not, Baker had decided and, again, gave another point to the starlings.
Baker moved past the starling and leaned against then sat on the rail. The bird in front of him was jabbering incessantly. Baker thought of Jones at that moment and almost burst into tears. He was confused. Was he angry again? No, he didn’t think so. And Jones was not hurt, was he? Or gone, right? Was it even possible, Baker mused, that he could have the terrible fortune to have finally found someone like the old man—a man who even called him “son”—only to be abandoned? Baker remembered Jones’s often repeated words: I’ll be around. I always am.
The bird’s chattering increased. From Baker’s vantage point its bright yellow beak contrasted with the background provided by the darker water of the bay. The bird was annoying, and Baker briefly considered attempting again to shoo the bird away but thought of Jones and did nothing.
Chattering, clicking, and whistling, the starling increased in volume. Baker looked up at the house and was dismayed to see that Sealy and Christy had evidently been invited inside, for they were nowhere in sight. He glanced at the bird. It seemed to be increasingly frantic, which struck Baker as funny. “What?” he said aloud to his guest and shook his head in amused wonder. Baker crossed his arms and peered at the house again. He wished Sealy would come outside just to see this ridiculous bird.
At that second the starling chose to stop chattering. From wide open, the bird went silent. It was such a sudden change that Baker jerked his head around to see what had happened. The bird jumped with a single flap of its wings and perched on Baker’s left knee. Only a force of will kept the ex-farmer from toppling backward over the rail and into the water below.
Baker did not move, and for a moment, neither did the bird. The starling clicked once, made a gentle whirring sound, and slowly lifted its wings. Baker stared as the starling—this one, he knew, was a female—extended her wings to bare the feathers underneath.
The starling’s open wings revealed an absence of speckles on their undersides. The feathers were jet black. Baker was transfixed; a gust of wind from nowhere, it seemed, blew down the length of the wharf. The starling leaned into the breeze as her feathers ruffled for a moment. Slowly, carefully folding her wings, the starling looked at Baker, shook herself once, and flew away.
Baker stood
and shaded his eyes with a hand to watch her fly, twisting and looping through air currents and around obstacles imagined and real. It was so much like his own life, Baker thought. He, too, had generated some amazing twists and turns. Some of them had been good, some not so good. For a long time he had battled a tendency toward depression, and though Sealy did not know it, a couple of times he had even thought of suicide.
He had been happy. He had been sad. In his life Baker had experienced anger, fear, sorrow, love, longing, hate, defeat, joy, loss, and a hundred other feelings. Baker understood what hope felt like, and he knew the nagging ache of worry too. But never—not once until now—had Baker ever known what it was like to experience the peaceful calm of certainty.
He was overwhelmed, but in his mind and heart there was no longer any doubt that his life had meaning. He had purpose beyond himself, a purpose beyond today, beyond tomorrow . . . Beyond? Yes, he knew about that, too, for he had been given a glimpse of genuine truth.
A melody drifted across Baker’s memory then . . . What? he thought. What is that old song? A line came to him quickly, and when it did, he sang it aloud: “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me . . .”
Baker smiled and looked to the sky. “Not just the sparrows,” he murmured softly. “His eye is on the other birds too.”
It was a genuine truth he would never forget. For Baker Larson had just seen a brilliant white spot under the wing of a starling.
Epilogue
Shortly after we talked to Christy and the Larsons, I left, having declined Jack’s invitation to join him for lunch. It had occurred to me that I might look for Jones myself, but in any case, I knew I would not be good company. Frankly, despite my upbeat performance for our three new friends, I was sad.
As I thought about what I had told them about Jones and the situation, I had been satisfied that they were convinced about the old man’s safety. On the other hand, I also recognized their longing, the strange sense of unfinished business, of things unsaid. They never had the opportunity to wrap Jones in their arms and express their gratitude. They never got to say, “I love you.” There wasn’t time to whisper good-bye.
I understood. I had been there. It was another of the lessons I had learned from him . . . a lesson he continued to teach. “Regret is tough to repair,” he had said to me one night as we walked the beach. I was young, living under the pier, and still nursing wounds I carried from the deaths of my parents. “It’s a fairly simple thing to avoid,” he had said, “but regret surely is tough to repair.”
“How do you avoid it?” I had asked, which I am certain was what he had intended. “Really now, Jones . . . how can you avoid regret?”
“No unfinished business,” he answered simply. “No good things left unsaid. Wrap folks in your arms. Express your gratitude. Always say, ‘I love you.’” Then he shrugged. “That’s how you avoid regret.”
“Really?” I pushed him. “That’s it?”
I will never forget . . . he stopped walking and turned to face me. “Yes, son,” he said. “That’s it. I thought you knew. But maybe you just don’t want to think about it right now. One day you will. To avoid regret, you do and say and express every good thing you can possibly do and say and express to those you love. ’Cause you’re going to find there isn’t always time to whisper good-bye.”
As I drove with the bay on my left, I wondered if I would ever become consistent in living my life with constant displays of gratitude. That’s what I had decided it would take to live a life without personal regret even if there wasn’t time to whisper good-bye.
Jones certainly seemed to disappear without my having told him how much he meant—to me and many other people. Every time the old man left—though I always looked and looked—I was unable to find him.
As the Fairhope Pier came into view on my left, I turned right and drove up the hill. At the top, I parked and looked carefully at the old house where I had learned so much just a few days before as Jones explained the beauty of “the first breath.” Exiting the car, I walked into the yard and stood under the big oak tree. I remembered the feelings I had attempted to sort out the last time I was there. Now I was attempting to resolve a different kind of feeling.
As I considered the people I had met lately—those who had also experienced more than a passing relationship with the old man—it seemed to me that their problems had been solved. Was I the only one in the group without an answer?
Christy had squealed in delight when Jack gave her the check for the seafood. It was, she told us over and over, exactly what she needed to buy the camera of her dreams. Baker and Sealy were also overjoyed with the financial windfall and were determined to begin their businesses without debt.
Jack and Mary Chandler were continually creating more ways to add value to the lives of those with whom they worked and lived. Bart and Kelli’s lives, it appeared, had also taken on a new direction. Before leaving everyone at the bay, I had played a voice mail message from Bart, left on my cell phone. Would I be interested, he had asked excitedly, in attending their first parenting class? He and Kelli, he explained, would be teaching at the Eastern Shore Community Center, and thirty-one people were signed up so far. I had already called Polly, and we were making plans to be there together.
So was I the only one in the group without an answer to his life’s most pressing problem? Apparently, yes, but I managed to chuckle, remembering that Jones would tell me it wasn’t answers I needed. I needed perspective.
That was the moment, of course, when it hit me. I looked toward the house again and smiled broadly as the puzzle pieces in my head began to slide together. With a story of birth, Jones had explained death and in the process managed to remove much of the fear from the equation.
Jack had mentioned the huge perspective the old man had given Mary Chandler about Alzheimer’s. I saw the opportunities created by thinking in a different manner. There were financial opportunities and opportunities to become the kind of parent or leader who would shape culture.
I shook my head and thought about Jones somewhere, walking along, laughing at me. He must have been amazed at my inability to see what was right in front of me. The truth, I now realized, was that everyday life, of which we all are a part, is exciting enough.
If I can manage to keep my eyes and ears open, a twenty-four-hour day holds undeniable drama, astounding possibilities, and the certainty of making a difference in the lives of others.
I remembered a remark Jones had made one night after I had complained about the condition of our nation and world. He had reminded me that we either create our culture or give in to the culture that already exists. Then he added, “See here, now . . . what’s the first thing you do upon walking into a dark room? You flip the light switch, of course, and immediately the room is no longer dark.
“Light always trumps darkness. It always has, and it always will. Therefore,” Jones said as his blue eyes bored into mine, “if you see that your world is darkening . . . if you believe that the culture of your nation is growing dimmer by the year . . . don’t blame it on the dark! Darkness is only doing what darkness does.
“If darkness is winning the battles, my friend, it is because light is not doing its job. You are light. So wake up. Wake up.” And then he said it again. “Wake up!”
As I walked away, I called Matt on my cell phone and told him my manuscript would be ready in seven days. I also warned him that there would not be some fantastic storyline with this one. No spies, no wars, no intrigue. This book would be a document of everyday life, and the book’s hero would be an old man.
It is time to wake up, I thought.
I stood at my car and imagined Jones walking downhill to the bay. In my mind he turned east there and finally walked out of sight a couple of minutes later. In fact, it was so clear that for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I had imagined it or not.
As usual, there had not been time to whisper good-bye, but in my mind I wrapped my old friend tightly in my arms. I held h
im longer than he wanted, but I was able to express my gratitude and tell him how much I loved and appreciated him. It was an important moment for me. It was a connection that I needed and one that I felt deeply.
And, of course, I wanted to get everything said, for in truth, I didn’t know exactly when I would see the old man again. Not that I was worried about it. I knew Jones would be around if I needed him.
He always was.
Acknowledgments
If you have ever heard me talk about a book I have released, I almost always use “we” instead of “I.” As in, we just released The Noticer Returns. Believe it or not, I don’t talk like that because I have multiple personalities. The reality is, without the support of the friends and family who make up my team, none of this would be possible. Everything I do is actually part of a much larger we effort. The following people are those who make up the we. Thank you all for your presence in my life:
Polly, my wife and best friend. Thanks for your love, wit, patience, and happy spirit.
Austin and Adam, our boys. You guys are the best. I am so proud of who you are becoming. Remember to smile while you talk!
Robert D. Smith, my personal manager and champion. After thirty-four years together, you still manage to make every day count.
Todd Rainsberger. Your “story” advice is always on the mark.
Scott Jeffrey. Your guidance and wisdom have kept us steered in the right direction for years.
Duane Ward and the entire team at Premiere Speakers Bureau. We have become such great friends that I often forget we are partners.
Gail and Mike Hyatt, one of the best couples I know. Had it not been for you, this book would probably not exist.
Matt Baugher, my publisher from W. Your wisdom is exceeded only by your patience. In addition to being the best at what you do, you have become a great friend.