Shell Fragments
Ben Penley

Shell Fragments

Gill wanted me to acquire the sanctuary’s rarest—a bald eagle whose left leg and general spatial awareness were lost in a hunting “accident.” His son, Gill said, as strange as it sounded, had always had a thing for American pastimes and icons. At the age of ten, he was already a Reaganite with slicked-back black hair, talking about fireworks and the dangers of welfare.

 

But as for the acquisition, Gill said, it was important that I not mention his name. It might be advantageous to go at night, even. Perhaps if I went when the park was closed, I wouldn’t have to interact with his friend. If for some reason I did, a failing business person wouldn’t want to be reminded of Gill’s success. Come to think of it, Gill said, he wanted me to be successful, too. And to have a job come next month. Understood? he said. He told me that he had placed some bolt cutters and a burlap sack in the ticket hut. Got it? he said. I understood the point at which he was getting.

 

*

 

As a welcome to Florida, Lacie took me to Honeymoon Island. The place was an undeveloped section of shore with a visitor’s center. Lacie made some jokes about eloping but walked those back because, to be honest, she had always envisioned a church wedding. An ordained minister equipped with a Bible and draped in a stole. A minister who could talk about respect and forgiveness. Pews full of her family on one side and her husband-to-be’s on the other. Vowing love and life under the colored light of stained glass.

 

Lacie kept her shoes on in the sand because she hated the grittiness. How it felt between her toes and how, even if she washed off at the beach and then at home, the grains still found their way under her bedsheets. We walked on anyway, to where the beach became narrower and the wildlife more abundant. When we were past the sightline of the sun and water bathers, we put down a towel. We lay there for a while, and when the wind stopped and the humidity turned into sweat, I took off my shirt and told Lacie to join me in the water. Being from Florida, she said, she wasn’t too interested in the water. Like other Floridians, she knew what it contained. A few years ago, she said, a Portuguese man o’ war had drifted onto the shore a few miles north. Did I know how deadly that thing could be? Not to mention the bull sharks. And so we sat on the towel, sweating and watching the waves surge and retreat.

 

*

 

The morning after Gill’s call, I went to the bird sanctuary, hoping to negotiate a reasonable price with the bankrupt owner. The park was just past the municipal tennis courts full of concrete fissures. The open entrance gate was plastered with signs advertising such sentiments as THE BIRDS THANK THE COMMUNITY and CHILDREN WELCOME. I parked in a vacant sandy lot next to a sign shaped like a thermometer that denoted dollars fundraised. The mercury reached three-quarters of the way to the goal.

 

I walked toward what appeared to be the office, cutting a path through the bird cages. A waddling buzzard poked its naked head through the wired cage, following and pecking at me as I went past. A peacock with no tail feathers screamed. What I had supposed was the office, I found, was just a locked storage shed. Just then, a man coiling a water hose rounded the shed corner.

 

I told him that I wanted to inquire about a bird. He asked me what I wanted to know and then started with the facts. All the birds were rescues. The total life gained by his rescuing was fifty-two bird-years, assuming that the birds would have otherwise been put to sleep at the time of rescue. Recently he had decided to expand operations to birds that were not of prey. Had I seen the featherless peacock?

 

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Ben Penley

graduated in 2017 from UNC-Chapel Hill with a minor in creative writing. He attends pharmacy school at the UNC Eshelman School of Pharmacy and lives in Hillsborough.