Who is Mackie Spence? (3 page)

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 since 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.

Twilight has made the transition to darkness. My eyes strain to adjust as the cooling night air hits my face. Where is Mackie?

Hearing a sound to my left, I wheel. Someone is in the cage with Number 26. Moving toward the figure, I pick out a familiar, wheedling voice.

“Here, little birdie, come to papa. Come to the feedbag, birdie. Where are you? You freaking bird. Yeah, you're coming with me.”

It's Brody. That bone head! He must be on something, thinking he can just walk in and take an eagle out with him. Then I stop. Someone else is in the cage with him.
Mackie?

“Brody, don't move,” she says in a commanding voice. “Don't move an inch.”

For a moment it's quiet. Then I hear the slight whooshing sound of Number 26 as she flies through the upper reaches of the cage. I want to move, but my feet stay rooted to the ground.

Not Mackie, no
, whispers a voice inside my head.

Mackie has moved between Brody and Number 26, her back turned to Brody. She lifts her arms in a T-shape in front of him as the eagle gathers speed. It's all playing out like a bad horror film. The eagle dives in attack. Mackie stands in the way.

But suddenly, Number 26 struggles out of her assault and alights on an upper perch. She screams in alarm, dropping her head and retracting her wings. Number 26 isn't attacking anymore. She's demonstrating submission!

“Brody, move. Get out.” Mackie speaks in a low, but forceful voice.

Brody doesn't move, so she switches to a sweet voice, “That's right. Back to the gate.” She shoves him through the opening, and I feel myself breathe again.

I want to tackle Brody. Hard. Mackie could have been hurt. Number 26 might be re-injured. As I come at them in a sprint, Mackie holds up a hand and shakes her head for me to stop. Rocking back on my heels, I manage to halt. Just barely.

“Let's get him inside,” she whispers, her voice shaking with urgency.

Brody has gone quiet, though I don't trust him to behave. Mackie takes the lead followed by Brody, who stumbles like he could fall over. I trail both as we return to the shelter's main building.

Once inside, I grab Brody by the front of his shirt. “What were you thinking?”

He looks at me like I'm the crazy one. “Jer, you need to get a life. Hanging out here with Mackie? What's up with that?”

I bite my lower lip.

“Just wanted to see how big she was.” Brody makes a flapping motion with his arms like a bird in flight, spirals in a circle, and collapses on the floor.

Keeping her eyes on Brody, Mackie edges over to the window.

“I don't see his car. How did he get here?” she asks.

I walk to her and squint at the parking lot. “Right. I don't see it either. I'll call and see if Jake can pick him up.” I reach inside my coveralls for my cell phone and dial for information. Brody's older brother Jake lives at home for his freshman year at the U. Unlike Brody, Jake has always been a straight-up guy.

Jake answers my call.

“Hey, it's Jeremy Tarleton. Your brother's passed out at the wildlife shelter. Are you picking him up, or should I feed him to the coyotes?” I ask in a tight voice.

“Tempting, but I'll come get him,” Jake answers.

“Dim your lights when you pull in, okay?”

Mackie and I stand in front of Brody. We each take one of his hands in our own and drag him outside onto the front entrance stoop. Mackie says she wants to check on Number 26. I don't ask if she needs help. Clearly, she and the eagle are on very good terms with one another.

I stand guard over Brody, who remains out of it. When Mackie returns she says, “Number 26 seems to be okay. I let her know things will be fine.”

I let her know things will be fine?
How could she let Number 26 know something like that? This is one of several questions I have for Mackenzie Allison Spence, including why didn't Number 26 complete her attack? But first I want Brody gone, before the next shift of volunteers arrives.