It took a full ten minutes to get Nick to his foot and the second he was upright his leg folded under him and threatened to undo all their work. A quick grab by a strong arm around his waist kept him vertical, but only barely as he started tick-tocking back and forth like a metronome.
He hopped back a few steps and grabbed a section of wall, leaning against it heavily, bad leg barely off the ground, the weight of the splinting pulling on the break.
A wave of nausea broke over him and he executed a move of pure gymnastic genius, folding himself in half like a jackknife, hands braced on the wall behind him as his head fell to practically hit his knees. He let out a single long groan of mixed discomfort and pain, then rose back up straight, practically slamming himself back against the canyon face.
A barrage of expletives left his mouth, half mumbled but clear enough to make out their ferocity and obscenity.
Warrick stood by his side like a spotter, waiting to see if his partner was going to take a header. After watching his partner fold himself in half like a tortilla a few more times, each episode ending in Nick almost snapping straight back up, the curses flowing freely, he reached out a tentative hand and grabbed Nick by the shoulder.
"Bro, if you need to --"
"No. Nooooooo," Nick moaned as he folded again. This time when he stood back up he finally looked at his friend. "Not puking," he ground out. "Hurts too much."
He fell back again against the mountainside, his face a picture of distress that morphed to anger.
"Should be doin' better than this."
"What? You thought a couple hours on your back was gonna make it all go away, Nick?"
"Book said…"
"Book said what? If I remember the book says seek immediate attention. The book says you're supposed to be in a freaking hospital. It also says prepare for fucking CPR! So if you're still standing and have to suffer through a little sickness, bro, consider the alternative. Now c'mon. Let's get you back down."
Nick angrily waved off Warrick's help and bent at the knee, sliding down the wall, falling the last foot down, landing jarringly on his rump, his bad leg slapping the shelf floor causing him to suck in a breath with a hiss.
"Tired of layin' on the floor," he grumbled. "Its frickin' cold and my arms are going to sleep. And my back is never gonna be right after this."
"Thought layin' on a firm surface was supposed to be good for your back," Warrick tried jabbing.
Nick gave him a look that was the equivalent of flipping him the bird, then sighed, lowering his forehead to his bent knee with a sigh.
"Sorry. 's just…this sucks, man."
"That, my friend, is the understatement of the century," Warrick said as he slid down to join his friend, wincing himself as his sore ass hit the floor. "Only took you this long to realize how bad this sucks, bro?"
"Yeah, it's finally dawning on me," he muttered to his knee. "You may as well grab the pencil before I assume the position again."
"You up for the puzzle?"
"Last I checked my brain's not connected to my leg. 'sides, you have anything else in mind? Don't think I'd be much fun for charades."
"Ookay…if you say so…" Not even bothering to climb back to his feet the taller man crawled over to the backpacks, digging into Nick's for the pencil, plumping the cases back up into a pile for Nick's feet, and grabbing the first aid kit on his way back.
He popped the lid on the old white box and fished out a small foil wrapped packet of Tylenol. Miming opening the pills and pointing at his partner, Nick replied with an upraised hand. "Nah. Can't imagine a little Tylenol's gonna do me a lick of good. You take 'em."
Warrick gave him a 'suit yourself' look and stuffed the medication into his shirt pocket.
"A'ight, bro. Let's get you settled back down for the night."
"I'm not a cranky toddler, Rick," he said with a roll of his eyes.
"Maybe not a toddler, bro, but cranky?"
"Ha ha," he said with a glare, but began scooching himself back out flat on the floor.
"Hold up, hold up," Warrick said shortly, lowering himself gingerly back down to support his back against the wall. "Here," he said, scooting closer to where Nick balanced in a vee shape. "Rest your head on my legs."
Nick gave him doubtful look. "Thanks anyway, man, but I'll pass. Besides, you got skinny legs. Your shins'll be worse than the floor."
"Then use my upper legs. Not much more meat but…"
Nick raised an eyebrow. "You want me to lay my head in your lap, bro?" he asked with a chuckle.
Warrick sighed in exasperation. "Look- you said yourself the floor is cold. Be better for you. Besides, I'm freezing too. Case you hadn't noticed I got re-soaked on my little jaunt to get you help."
Nick appeared to consider for a moment, then rolled his eyes and scooted a few inches closer and tentatively laid his head as close to his partner's knee as he could.
"We go to our graves with this, bro," he said as he jostled for a comfortable position.
"I'm the one with a dude's head in my lap. Just chill. And, uh, stop wiggling."
Nick pale face blushed red and he immediately stilled. Then burst into laughter, soon joined by his partner.
"…eight letters, and we have a double 'r'. Friend of Gatsby."
"I read that in college lit. Think the guys' name is Carraway."
The pencil squeaked on the newsprint as Warrick filled in the spaces. "Fits. Damn! You remember that?"
"His first name was Nick. Stuck with me."
"First First Lady of the 20th century."
"No frickin' clue," Nick mumbled. "Next."
"No, no wait. Lessee, who was president in 1900?"
"Weren't all the presidents in aught years killed or something'?"
"Yeah! Some curse. I think it's years divisible by 20."
A long pause. "...1900 is."
"A'ight... um, presidents who've been shot" – he snapped his fingers. "Got it! McKinley!"
"Mmm hmm," Nick sighed noncommittally. "Now you just gotta know his wife's name."
"Ah, shit. Yeah. A'ight next one. Here you go, one for you, Bird Boy. Genus of the red-tailed hawk... Nick? You still with me?"
"Ahum...yeah...what?"
"Genus of the red-tailed hawk."
"Buteo."
"Hunh. Figures you'd know that one. How's that spelled? Nick?"
No answer but for light snoring. Warrick nodded, dropping the pencil and paper off to the side and closing his eyes. "Sounds good, bro." He settled his head back against the canyon wall and closed his eyes.
"Nicky, this is Mr. Grüner. Jacob, this is my son, Nicholas."
"Pleased to meet you, sir." Small grubby hand reaches out to be engulfed in the man's calloused bear paw. What kind of name is Yacub?
"Pleased to meet you as vell, Nicky. Your papa tells me you would like to see my birds, yes?"
"Yes, please." Hand shoves back into Toughskins pocket. Favorite pair, forest green, knees not too badly worn.
"Zehr gut. You two gentlemen come this vay. I have many birds you vill like, Nicky."
A glance up for confirmation from Dad, white-toed sneakers scuff in the dust following behind the flannel covered bear man.
Large, freshly-painted barn. Smell of must and bird droppings. Chickens mill around in random circles, beaks pecking for leftover corn kernels. They squawk and scramble as they pass, reforming in their random groups in the wake of the three humans.
A dozen or so large wood and wire cages, most of them empty. The last three contain avian guests. The first is a red-tailed hawk. Razor sharp pointy beak snaps open and shut, small dark eyes follow the three as they walk past the cage.
Stopping in front of the cage. A small chubby white finger extends towards the wire - so close to touching the soft-looking red feathers.
"Nicky!" Dad's hand grabs his when he is mere inches from the cage. Mr. Grüner steps up, small smile on his huge face. "She is beautiful, isn't she, Nicky? Vould you like to see her?"
Another look at Dad, face easing out of anger (and fear?) and a gruff nod. "Yes, please, Mr. Grüner." Hand is released from Dad's grasp and shoved back into his pocket.
"This girl, she is still vild, yes? I vill take her out, but you mustn't touch her."
Quick fervent head shake. "No, sir."
Mr. Grüner slips on a heavy leather glove, opens the cage. The hawk backs up, head turning quickly, small dark eye flicking between the man and the boy. The glove nudges the raptor's taloned toes digging into the wooden perch. The talons give reluctantly at first, then ease onto the man's hand. He eases the bird out, a minimum of fuss, a single annoyed beating of long wings once the hawk is free kicks up the dust from the barn floor.
"Mr. Galvez brought her in to me. He saw her from his truck out on the highvay. She had broken ving. But she is almost better now. Soon she vill be ready to go home."
"What's her name, sir?"
"No name, Nicky. No, she is a creature of the vild, not a pet. A creature this beautiful should not be in a cage. She should be out there, flying. And soon she will be, yes?"
"Yes, sir." The hand struggles in the pocket, straining to reach out and stroke the hawk's feathers, to feel the rough skin on her legs.
The men exchange smiles. "Come. I show you a friend. You vill like him."
The hawk is returned to her roost with a singular ear-piecing shriek. Mr. Grüner chuckles. "Sie erhalten Ihre Maus, meine Königin," he croons to the bird. The hawk darts a glance at the man.
"She understood you, Mr. Grüner! What did you say to her?"
"I told her I vould be giving her her mouse soon, Nicky. She understands my German, especially ven I tell her food is coming." A low growly laugh emanates from deep within the barrel chest.
"Come. Ve see my friend now, yes?"
A few long strides followed as quickly as short legs will take him. They stop in front of the last cage. Inside is the most beautiful bird. Another raptor. Striking markings of black and charcoal against a bluish-gray background and a snowy white chest. The head markings are of the deepest black and make the bird look as though he is wearing a mask and cap.
"Alo, mein Junge. Dieses ist ein Freund, sein Name ist Nicky." The man clucked and cooed over the bird as he put his hand in the cage, the bird sidestepping easily into the outstretched glove.
"Nicky, this is my friend, Netzie. Netzie is a goshawk. Is short for goose hawk, because he has those bars on his face like a goose. Netz is the Hebrew word for hawk, so I thought it a gut name, yes?" Another low, slow rumbling from within the cavernous chest that emerged as an almost silent chuckle.
"Yes, sir." The hand is now digging through the thin cotton fabric in the pocket to dig fitfully into the flesh of his thigh, fighting against the urge to reach out.
"Why does he get a name, Mr. Grüner?" A quick look at Dad to make sure the question is allowed.
"Netzie und I have a very long history together, Nicky. Back in Germany, before the var, I vas a falconer. Do you know vat that is?"
Quick head shake, no.
"My family raised these birds to help us on our farm. They vere used to hunt rabbits und squirrels, that my family could eat. My papa did it before me, und his papa did it before him. Ven I get to America, I find Netzie as a babe. I bring him home and I train him, mit a tether und a hood. After many years, Netzie no longer needs the hood or the tether. Now ve are just friends, yes?"
"Yes, sir. Does Netzie still hunt?"
"Ach, Netzie is getting old, like me. But he still likes to make his rounds." Another rumbly chuckle. "He still brings me back the occasional rabbit, but I alvays let him eat it. I eat beef now, like a real Texan!" The bird shuffles uneasily on his arm as the man quivers with barely contained laughter.
"Shh, shh, Netzie. I'm sorry, boy. Just relax…sh sh sh…" He soothes the bird's ruffled feathers, but the bird won't settle. The reason is soon clear as an aged German shepherd pads in to butt its head against the man's hip.
"Ach, no vonder. Netzie! It's only Fritz. So jealous, he is, tcha!"
A bear paw descends to caress the dog's cheek, smushing its head against him. Calloused fingers dig into a favorite spot behind the dog's ear and a tongue like a slice of bologna emerges as the shepherd pants out its pleasure.
"Here, Nicky. Vy don't you take Netzie while I go get Fritz some vater, yes?"
Eyes open wide as dinner plates and no glance at Dad in case he's gonna say no and that would ruin everything because the bird is being handed to him, two steps of the taloned claws and they are on his arm, the hawk much heavier than expected but the arm is out, sweat breaking out on his forehead at the strain, and the talons break through the sleeve of his denim jacket and there's probably blood being drawn but the raptor is THERE, on his arm and he is inches from the small dark eye and the glimmering hooked beak, and now the other hand can't control itself in his pocket anymore and a finger reaches out to stroke the soft chest feathers.
Silky smooth, warm, heart beating so rapidly beneath his fingertips, and he runs a knuckle joint down the chest and over the wings, feeling the muscles trembling just under the surface.
Dad behind him and he risks a quick look, face spreading into a shit-eating grin as he sees his father looking warmly at him.
Dad bends his face to meet his ear. "You got him, Pancho? He looks pretty heavy."
"Got him, Cisco. Isn't he neat?" No other words in his child mind for how spectacular, how amazing and majestic the creature is.
The bear man is back. "Ah, I see you and Netzie are making friends, yes? Maybe you come out and help me mit my birds again, Nicky?"
"Yes, sir. I… I'd like that." Pipe cleaner arm is now shaking in earnest as he struggles to hold the bird up, the hawk disturbed at the tenuousness of his perch, it sidles back and forth, fluffing up its wings and letting out a raucous screech.
"Ach, he is so touchy, that one. Maybe it's time I put him back, Nicky. But you will visit him again, yes?"
The horny paw stretches forward to take the bird, the sleeve of Mr. Grüner's quilted plaid flannel shirt pulls up to show a faded blue tattoo. Looks like numbers.
"What's that, Mr. Grüner?" Grubby fingers reach for the marking, Dad's hand once again snatching his out of midair and holding it firmly.
"Ach, don't vorry, Bill. I vill show the boy." A paw pushes back the sleeve to show the whole series of inked numbers.
"Were you a sailor, Mr. Grüner?"
A surprised look passes over the huge ruddy face. "No, Nicky. Vy?"
"Because my sister said only sailors get tattoos." Didn't mention she actually said drunken sailors.
The man drops his arms suddenly, the goshawk fluttering into the air with another pissed off sounding squawk.
A darted glance at his father shows a reddened angry (embarrassed?) face. Worried eyes dart back to the bear man as he grasps his knees as if in pain until a loud growly laugh emerges and he rises to bend back and laugh at the barn rafters.
Dad's hand grabs his upper arm firmly; panic sets in. White-toed sneakers shuffle fretfully in the dust.
Mr. Grüner raises a hand to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, then comes over in two huge strides to wrap arms like steel bands around him in a warm, not too painful hug.
Mr. Grüner sinks to one knee to look him in the eye. "You are funny boy, Nicky. Thank you. I tell you vere I get this, yes?"
Risking only head movement, a jerky nod.
"Back in the var, there vere bad men. And they took me und my family away from our farm and put us in a bad place. Me, und my vife, und my children, ve all get these tattoos in the bad place, because there ver many, many people there like us. And the bad men marked us to help keep track of us, yes?"
Another head jerk, Dad's hand tightening on his shoulder.
"My daughter, Miriam, up in the house, yes, und I got out because gut men, like your Grandpa, came and rescued us. And ve come to America, vere the gut men ver. Und I found Netzie, but I no longer had a son to share Netzie vith. Und as the years passed, I realized that I took Netzie from his home, from his family, and I kept him here, on a tether. So I promised myself, no more falconry. For Netzie, it is too late. He vould not make it on his own any more. Now, I help birds ven they are sick or hurt, but I alvays let them go ven they are better, so they can go back to their families, yes?"
"Yes, sir." Tremble in his voice.
"Nicky, there vill always be bad men out there, but there vill always be gut men, like your papa, around to make things right. Don't ever forget that, yes?"
"No, sir."
"Gut. Komm mal her, Fritzele! Ach, mein Hündele." The shepherd is back, water dripping from its still dangling pink bologna tongue and flews. Meaty hands grab the dog's face as the man plants a kiss on the top of its muzzle.
The goshawk has caught sight of the dog's return and eyes it up warily. Another screech and it crosses the threshold of the barn into the bright Texan sunlight. A flap of its beautiful blue gray wings and a small tornado of dust stirs up as it takes off into the afternoon sky.
Eyes follow the bird in its flight and white-toed sneakers lift off from the barn floor as he rises to follow the raptor, arms outstretched, wind already ruffling the hair on his forehead.
A hand grabs his arm, no, Dad, I'm flying with the hawk, I'll be back in time for lunch, I swear, just let me go--
Nicky!
Please, Dad- just--
"Nicky!"
Green eyes are staring down at him, single eyebrow arched over one of them.
"Not your dad, bro. Sorry, but it's morning. And if you don't let me up soon… let's just say it would be a bad thing."
