The Birds of Connaught Park: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – War and Peace



Christine Ryerson had never seen such a font. The front page of the Vancouver Sun consisted of two gigantic words:

IT’S OVER!

The letters were taller than the length of her hand, even if she had long fingers for a woman. Kelly’s third grade class must have been a wildfire. The teachers would let them celebrate. The smile on her own face put dimples in her cheeks. It’s going to be so much better with Jack at home. People will talk to me and we’ll have friends again.

She put the newspaper down and pushed away from the kitchen table. Passing through the ornate living room to the front bay window, she could see a corner of Connaught Park. There were no celebrations there today, only because it was raining. She felt an unbounded energy that reminded her of being young, surging though the great Pacific forests of British Columbia. White people rarely ran, and the women not at all. Sometimes she felt so restless in Doctor Jack Ryerson’s big, comfortable house, a bird in a cage.

She had not heard from Jack in a month. She wondered if he would just show up at the door, or would he write ahead?

He will write. He is not the spontaneous type.

She would sometimes tease him that the only crazy thing he had ever done was to take Bird-Watching as an elective in Medical School. And look at the trouble it had caused! He had fallen in love with a Native American girl. Granted, he’d never actually said so.

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In their pith hats and British safari getups, Jack and the others would lug their expensive binoculars through the forest while teacher prattled on about jays, dowitchers, nighthawks, and ruddies. Christine was eighteen then, expert tracker and guide. She ran them hard, making their muscles ache by nightfall.

“What do we do if we come across a bear?” asked Blake, a carrot-haired man with glasses. His skin was already going red at the forehead.

“I will chase it away,” was her only answer. Her eyes shone with a dark confidence that made her unassailable. As she covered the terrain with gorgeous, supple movements, Jack found himself staring at the smooth skin on her muscular legs. Her full breasts and narrow waist were impossible to improve upon. Jack’s manhood was confronted and aroused. At first, none of the men noticed his fascination. They were staring too.

On the fifth night, she slept on the ground closest to him, under a starry sky that refused to shut off. To his surprise, he eventually slept, and woke up magically restored, like a phoenix.

They spoke that morning, but only because she was tactless. Not eating breakfast herself, she came and squatted in front of Jack as he stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth.

“Good morning Mr. Jack Ryerson. How do you feel? I think you did not sleep well.”

He might have been charmed by this forthright concern, but surprise overtook him. A white woman would never have singled him out in front of the others. They were snickering, and Blake’s eyes were so wide they looked like they would leap from his sunburnt face.

“No. I slept well enough, thank you,” he said, a large dollop of annoyance in his voice.

“Ah. That’s good. It will be a hard trail today.”

She stood up and walked away in one fluid motion.

She had not lied about the terrain, which was uneven and climbing. Jack was unable to find anything through his binoculars. He kept wondering if she’d meant to embarrass him, but he was also titillated: to notice his wakefulness, she had to have been unable to sleep too.

In the afternoon, as she stood away from the others, he finally approached her.

“Miss Whiteduck, I am sorry if I was short with you before. It’s only that I found your question rather…impertinent. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“You dislike like that.”

“Dislike…what?”

“Unexpected situations. Any kind of surprise.”

Again! This was the second time today that she had probed him so directly, and she had been maddeningly accurate both times.

“Well goodness, do most people enjoy unexpected situations? Miss Whiteduck, I don’t know why you are at odds with me, but I won’t have any more of it. My sleep habits, my likes and dislikes, are my own business.”

He spoke low, and none of the men turned about.

“I am not at odds with you Mr. Ryerson.”

Christine’s eyes were soft, and her brow was knit. He looked away, and then she did too. Finally, he said:

“I suppose I am not used to such…directness. It is a bit personal, don’t you find? It isn’t very ladylike, either. I mean, not that you should be…or rather, I mean…of course it’s normal that you are different.”

“I know. Anglo Saxon Canadian women wouldn’t dare ask about YOU. A man might, but never a woman. They would talk about the weather. Goodness, we’ve been getting heaps of rain this autumn, haven’t we?”

“Why does it feel like you are laughing at me?” he said with a slight smile.

“No Mr. Ryerson, not you. But really, what purpose could there ever be in discussing the weather or who won the derby?”

“But the weather does matter Miss Whiteduck! We might need to bring an umbrella or even chose to stay indoors if it is foul.”

“I would never let the weather make up my mind about anything.”

She had the “chasing a bear” look again.

“I believe you. I might though. I suppose it also gives people a chance to get acquainted without delving into personal details right off the cuff. But to answer your questions – which are far better than whether I am enjoying the excursions, or whether these blasted mosquitos have consumed every last bit of my blood - I did sleep poorly, AND, I don’t like ambushes or surprises. There! You were right.”

“I think you are the one laughing at me now! And so, how are you enjoying the excursions?”

Jack liked her dimples.

“Quite frankly, I am enjoying it much more than I ever expected.”

“You have discovered an affinity then, for the birds?”

Jack hadn’t noticed a bird in days. He rallied, “Say, why did you say that about me anyways, that I am…not happy…with unexpected situations?”

She smiled modestly.

“I have a gift for discernment. My father taught me that people’s habits and characters are closely related. If I focus, sometimes I can infer things. Your sleeping bag, how you dress, the quality of your binoculars, how regular you are in what you do, how you speak with the others. Every one of these things tells me about you.”

“Indeed! So are all my secrets bared? Let’s have it.”

She looked at him as if measuring for an outfit, but he felt sure she was being playful.

“You are a steady fellow Jack Ryerson. Regular in your habits; sleep, organization, and efficiency are your hallmarks. You are logical, not an adventurer, and you picked this wild-eyed elective only because it was shortened compared to the other courses. You also theorized that learning a thing or two about the wilderness could be useful someday. But you weren’t really going to rough it, so you shopped for the finest sleeping bag, the best clothes, the best binoculars. You are used to having money and don’t fuss over the cost of things. Your parents are probably wealthy, which has given you a slight air of entitlement. You read a lot, but by necessity, not usually for pleasure. You are independent and have no close friends, or not many. You are not particularly trusting. You do have a strong sense of justice, and are generous towards those less fortunate. Oh…and you are 24 years old. Am I close?”

Close? His own mother could not have done better. He struggled for an explanation. She could have checked with the school registry to get some of these details, and interviewed one of the other students. Anyone could see he was a loner, and many in the classroom came from wealthy families, or had picked the course for its brevity. It was an impressive trick, but he felt he had deciphered it.

“Not bad - except I do read for pleasure. At least I used to. Medical school has rather monopolized my resources…”

“Tolstoy,” she interrupted. Jack stopped.

“War and Peace is my favorite book. But goodness, how did you know that?”

“Actually, I don’t always know how I know. I look at you and I can feel that you are not 25, and not 23…you are 24. And I also had a feeling that you would like Russian authors. Tolstoy was a good guess. It felt right. But must everything have an explanation? I mean, you can’t explain why a man that is so set in his ways finds it impossible to sleep at night…can you?”

Jack was once again caught in one of those unexpected situations. He did not answer.