Who Is August Binwalter

By Nellis Boyer

Tortured by an inner certainty that he is not a Binwalter, August struggles to discover his identity before Alzheimer's disease drags his mother into obliviion. Can he convince her to tell him the truth before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595632442

Nellis Boyer

Nellis Boyer lives on seventeen acres in northern California with her husband, Jerry, and a household of rescued animals. This is her eighth book.

Book preview

Chapter One

August pushed the big yellow beak of his crow mask, shifting it to the top of his head, and flapped his feathered wings in an attempt at cooling himself. The costume was hot, being made entirely of faux feathers, and although he had asked for the endangered spotted owl, all the shop had left was the crow. Bird suits had enjoyed a healthy surge in demand due to the university’s announced intention to chop down the remaining oaks on its property and erect fiberglass kiosks in their stead. Righteously outraged students paraded the streets in animal costumes protesting the planned execution; the polar bear and camel might have seemed out of place, but everyone was willing to overlook minor details, and some braver souls, August included, perched high in the aged branches, creating brief interest that quickly faded as the story became old news

His nest in the threatened oak had become cluttered, and he roosted among plastic water bottles, empty cans and jars, books, magazines, tissues, plastic bags (for bodily wastes) and a first aid kit. The worst trauma he’d suffered, other than jeers and ridicule from the frat clones, was the bump on his head from a falling limb, not the tree’s fault, as he had weakened it with his pulley line. Far below, his co-conspirator and erstwhile girlfriend, Claudette, ran supplies up as needed, and the constant pulling on the branch had brought the whole thing crashing down, beaning him and causing her to dodge quickly, avoiding a nasty accident. They had reestablished the lifeline on a sturdier limb, and the supply bucket rose and fell smoothly once again. He stood at the edge of his nest, flapping his impressive wings, looking much like a creature from a Japanese movie about to soar over the campus. Passers- by took note, standing far back from the tree, not wanting to be crushed should he, by some miracle or unfortunate circumstance, become airborne. By the thirteenth day of his nest-in, August was hallucinating. Although the vigil had achieved its purpose and the tree was still standing, he was in melt-down. The roost was constricting, and he felt panicky: fear and paranoia were settling in. Claudette had sensed something amiss when he stopped sending his bagged bowel movements down in the bucket. She warned him of the possible health hazards of hoarding the stuff up there; You’re a craizoid, man. Send your stuff down like you’re supposed to, or I’m splittin,’…. to no avail. It seemed his self-imposed isolation had finally taken its toll, and August had snapped.

Now he shrieked, Cawwwww, Cawww, Cawwww, and hurled his stored-up feces through the branches at pedestrians. Embarrassed by this turn of events, bored with the adventure, and disgusted by her friend, Claudette disappeared, leaving the giant crow to fend for himself. And fend he did when the police arrived, accompanied by an angry little old lady. There he is officers. That’s the perpetrator, she screeched, pointing her boney finger at the crow in the tree. That’s the poop-thrower. As a taxpayer in good standing, I demand you bust the overgrown avian.

His wing flapping and beak pecking were of no consequence against the Berkeley police, who borrowed the fire department’s ladder truck and used its bucket to haul him from his perch.

The crow man trod the floor of the community holding cell awaiting arraignment, eliciting terrified reactions from hung-over drunks and drowsy druggies who mistook him for one big hallucination—a consequence of imposed withdrawal –and mumbled promises to their higher powers never to touch another drop or snort another line. Fortunately, the judge, a member of long-standing in the Audubon Society and an avid birdwatcher, mistook August for a kindred spirit, and released him with a warning. No more feces throwing, my boy, he admonished, wagging his finger and shaking his head. Can’t have this kind of incident soiling our city’s reputation now, can we? August thought he detected a hint of a grin at the corner of the man’s mouth.

Thank you, sir, of course not, replied the crow, I lost my head, he stammered, the beaked mask in the crook of his arm staring directly up at Judge Herman.

Dismissed, yelled the magistrate, banging his gavel on the desk.

August flopped his big yellow crow’s feet down the courthouse steps, thankful for the judge’s leniency and anxious to shed his cumbersome costume Plodding along the sidewalk on Ashby Avenue toward his mother’s house, he realized his zeal in protecting the tree had gotten the better of him. He was not cut out to guard trees, and he wouldn’t have undertaken the caper if he hadn’t been so angry at the university for kicking him out at the end of the semester. The tree sit-in had seemed a good way to get even; flawed logic, he now realized. Yes, he had come to revere the giant oak, naming her Mathilde in a fit of tenderness, but what could one lonely crow hope to gain against the mighty academia?

True, his grades had fallen perilously low, but his professors weren’t aware of his day to day struggles, what he had to endure just to maintain; his mother’s deteriorating health, and his sister’s constant acting out. They should have given him a commendation, not simply discarded him like so much used soap. But perhaps it wasn’t too late. If he pled his case he could make them understand, and they would reinstate him. It was worth a try. He would focus, not let himself be distracted from his goal. And Claudette? She had certainly flown the coup—deserting him in the face of adversity, leaving him to fend off the fuzz alone. Some friend.

He padded up Ashby, his feathers drooping, his tail between his knobby knees. Tired of carrying his mask, he pulled it back over his head and continued walking, indifferent to the stares of fellow pedestrians and bicycle- riding students, most of whom were accustomed to bizarre spectacles on the Berkeley streets. At least he was upright and moving, not propped against a building or passed out on someone’s cement lawn.

At long-last, the family home appeared; a large, brown- shingle two story sitting high above the street, its overgrown grass encroaching into the bed of drooping Shasta daises beneath the living room window. Old and in obvious need of repair, the place stood out like a sore thumb; a giant weed in the tidy flower bed that comprised the rest of the block. The white paint on the woodwork trim peeled and hung in long strips, revealing an underlying faded yellow, the parched wood shingles, the skin of the house, split and slanted sideways, while sheets of mismatched composite roofing displayed a patchwork quilt pattern resembling a scrabble board. Angel, August’s nineteen-year old sister, sat on the scruffy, battleship grey porch steps reading a text book, and when she noticed the large crow flapping up the cracked cement walkway, she dropped the book in her lap and screamed. August pulled at the crow beak, lifting the mask from his head and spread his wings. It’s just me, he squawked, pulling yellow feathers from his eyelashes. I got rousted from my perch. Is mom home?

Why are you dressed in that outfit? And where have you been? She squinted and cocked her head, as if another angle would help She’s in the kitchen. Angel watched August maneuver his big yellow crow feet up the steps, grabbing a long toe as he reached the porch.

What’s the skinny, bro-crow, aren’t you going to tell me why the get up? She wore faded jeans, ragged at the ankles, and tennis shoes without socks. Her tee shirt, stretched tight across her little breasts, read Go Find Yourself. She was tall and skinny and her dirty blond hair hung in uneven lengths on her shoulders, the result of a self- trim, for she was far too flighty to sit in a hairdresser’s chair for any length of time. Her face was shaped like a valentine, her chin a little point beneath her bow -shaped mouth and angular nose. She had been born prematurely, and the doctors feared she would not survive. When she had, Ardith, their mother, named her Angel, her little miracle baby. Now Angel was constantly distracted, unable to focus on any one thing for any length of time, and driven by a need to achieve perfection in everything she undertook. She had been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder and given pills for the condition, which she swallowed fitfully if she felt like it. The doctors blamed her behavior on her premature arrival, but Ardith didn’t buy it.

August ineffectively sheltered his own plethora of eccentricities, the main distraction being a firm delusion that he did not belong to his family: that he was not a Binwalter, only visiting…a permanent house guest and brother by proxy. Playing into this obsession, he now saw his painful dismissal from the university as a symbolic rejection of his very existence. This warped interpretation of the recent event had magnified his obsession to a frightening new level, and he could think of little else.

Let go of my toe, please, Angel, I want to get out of this costume, he whined. If you’d been around, you’d have known I was tree- sitting on Duarte for the last thirteen days. Where have you been is the question. August shook his feathered leg in an effort to free himself from his sister’s grasp. She had disappeared several weeks before he began his sit, telling no one where she was headed.

Binnie and I went on vacation, if it’s any of your business. We took a lot of day trips, and spent a week in a cabin at Yosemite. Talk about boring, nothing but trees up at that place; trees and big rocks. She released his toe and picked up her book, shaking it at him. Look at this lawn, what’s left of it. Why are you sitting in someone’s old tree when you should be taking care of our lawn? Mom needs our help, August. I’m going to paint the kitchen. She opened the book and flipped through the pages, trying to find her place.

You’re painting? That should be interesting. He envisioned her slopping paint around the kitchen in a manic pursuit of perfection. The linoleum was in for it. When is this venture to take place?

As soon as mom gets the color she wants in her head. She’s working on it. Hopelessly distracted, Angel slammed the book closed and dropped it on the porch. I can’t concentrate with you standing here yaking. I thought you wanted to change. She stood, stretched, and strode down the stairs, taking them two at a time with her long legs.

I’m going downtown. See ya’.

You could turn on the sprinkler, too, yelled August, as she skipped down the sidewalk.

She raised her right hand over head and extended her middle finger.

Chapter Two

August put a big yellow foot against the front door and gave it a shove, his mask in one hand and his sister’s book in the other. The door banged against the wall, the knob lodging itself in the familiar hole caused by many such entries.

I’m home, mother, he yelled, dropping the mask and book on the hall table. He flopped into the living room, slipped off the yellow crowfeet, and tried to unzip his costume from the back, but he couldn’t reach the zipper. Mother, he yelled, where are you? Hearing the back door creak, he met Ardith in the kitchen, where she had just deposited an armful of late-blooming flowers from the yard.

You’re home, she exclaimed. How nice. What’s that you’re wearing, a bird costume? Why are you dressed like a bird? And where have you been all this time? She stared at her son as if she had never seen him before, her soft blue eyes the color of the cornflowers in the sink. He hadn’t said anything to her about his predicament with the school for she probably wouldn’t remember anyway, and he was ashamed to tell his sister.

I told you mother, I was sitting in a tree, and I had to wear the costume. You remember. Now, can you help me get out of this thing, please? Can you pull down the zipper?

He wagged his arm behind his back in an effort to show her what he needed. Ardith had early onset Alzheimer’s disease, and communicating could sometimes be trying. She found the zipper and pulled it down, smiling and patting her son on the back.

There you go, that’s better now, isn’t it? My, it feels hot in there. I’ll bet those feathers are heavy, too. He stood relieved, wearing only his under ware.

Why would you do such a thing, August?

To save a tree mother, a beautiful old oak.

She returned to her flowers and searched for a proper container in the cabinet below the sink. You did a good thing saving that tree, August. I’m proud of you.

Thank you. He folded the costume and laid it on the kitchen table, pausing to watch as she snipped and arranged. Her grey hair fell softly on her shoulders, and her skin glowed, powdery and soft-looking, like dusted flour in a bowl. At fifty-nine, Ardith Binwalter was still a beautiful woman, petite and refined, a window now for ten years since her professor- husband, Oswald, had dropped dead from a heart attack in front of his second year biology students. She had been diagnosed with the dreaded affliction last year, and she wore her burden stoically, hopeful that a wonder drug would be found before it was too late to do her any good. Suddenly aware that August was watching her, she turned and smiled.

Go along and get yourself dressed, son. Then maybe you can drive me to the market.

August was stocky, shorter than his sister, and his skin was olive- toned, his hair, dark brown. He had a round face, and his nose was long and slightly crooked. When he managed a grin, his mouth flashed with big, white teeth, and his eyes became narrow slits. He looked nothing at all like any other members of his family, they being fair skinned and blond, and while this biological fact troubled him greatly, adding to his delusion, it was a hazy, inner turmoil that had been the crux of his identity crisis for as long as he could remember. He was eight when Oswald died, and he didn’t have a good recollection of the man because his father had always been busy or gone. There were many photographs, however, and he didn’t look like him either.

Now he studied the family portraits hanging on the wall as he did each time he climbed the stairs, but as usual, he was unable to discern a resemblance between himself and any of those people. He openly feared he’d been adopted, and although he begged his mother for the truth, over and over, year after year, she had always denied it. But he didn’t believe her; the turmoil wouldn’t allow it. Now time was running out, for soon she would not remember what the truth was, and this thought left him more frantic than ever. He dressed in Levis and a short sleeve shirt, pulled on his Birkenstocks and returned to the kitchen. His mother had finished her chore, and she carried the arrangement to the living room, placing it on the fireplace mantel in front of the large mirror that hung on the wall.

There, she said, admiring the bouquet’s reflection, a twofer. Alright, let’s go to the market, August, we need some groceries. Ardith had given up her car keys when she got the diagnosis, for suddenly she didn’t feel capable behind the wheel. The first thing the disease had stolen was her confidence.

He backed the old Plymouth sedan out of the detached garage down the long drive to Ashby Avenue. It was nearly five, and traffic was heavy with commuters deliberately using side streets to avoid the freeway, a phenomenon that left the freeway empty and the side streets stacked with cars, slowing everyone no matter which direction they were headed. Just getting to the little market a few blocks away was nerve wracking, and now, in hopes of avoiding a major jam up, August turned down Duarte, a mistake that took him past Mathilde, where just that morning, he had nested. Sorrow of sorrows, roughnecks wielding chainsaws ground away at the massive trunk, already half- way through her mighty girth, and then, as August and his mother sat trapped in traffic, helpless prisoners forced to witness the gruesome spectacle, the mighty giant crashed to the ground, shivered, quaked, and lay still. The remnants of August’s sojourn rolled from beneath her branches into the gutter; his nest crushed along with what remained of his shattered nerves.

That was my tree, he wailed, tears rolling down his chubby cheeks. I let her down, and see what they’ve done to her. I should have been stronger. I knew they couldn’t be trusted. Suddenly traffic surged forward, leaving the Plymouth idling in the middle of the street.

Step on the gas, son, gun it! yelled Ardith, pounding her fist on the dash board, a strange outburst from the usually timid woman..

Startled by his mother’s behavior, he sobbed, Are you all right?

Of course I’m not all right, we all know that, she snapped. Now stop oogling that tree and let’s go, we’re blocking traffic. She stuck her foot out and slammed it down on the accelerator, sending the old car lurching forward.

August immediately stomped on the brake, confusing the Plymouth, burning its rubber, spinning it in circles until it came to rest in the very spot where they had sat, directly in front of the fallen giant. He gripped the wheel, reluctant to move, filled with remorse for being plucked from his charge. Car horns blasted and angry curses sailed up the street. In his