The Egret

Sarah Pazur

        Bunny Miller called two times in a row. I somehow missed his first call—it never rang—a glitch, perhaps, of scrolling, clicking and bouncing between layers of screens and searches, the call swiped into a hidden window by accident. The second time he called, I almost didn’t answer, I usually don’t answer numbers I don’t know, but the caller ID registered it as Bunny Miller. I was renting a cabin from him on NayBer, extending an upcoming work trip into a weekend getaway.
        Hello? I answered lying down.
        Uh, it’s Bunny. From the cabin? Is it too late to call? He sensed I was in bed.
        No, no, I lied, sitting up trying to sound cheerful even though by calling at this hour Bunny was likely about to disappoint me, to tell me the cabin was unavailable. I braced myself for bad news.
        Good, good. There was a long pause. So, you’re from uh…Dexter is it? 
        Yep, I’ll be working in the Coldwater area on Friday and decided to stay for the weekend. 
        Oh? 
        I stood up, embarrassed he could hear my creaky box spring, and started to pace, hoping to get by without a lot of small talk. 
        I’m a literacy consultant. I’ll be doing professional development at Stonecoast Academy, not sure if you heard of it?  So, yeah, just staying on a couple extra days over the weekend. Making a trip out of it, I guess. It’s my birthday next week too, so—
        Huh. My daughter-in-law taught second grade at Stonecoast. 
        Oh yeah? What’s her name? 
        Elaine. She didn’t like it, he said and let out a laugh. She lived next door to the principal. 
        Well, that can’t be fun, I joked. Bunny stayed quiet. Can’t really relax with your boss lurking next door, right?— I continued, not sure how to respond. 
        Nah, she was fine, he finally said before changing the subject. What time will you be here? Door’s always unlocked, so don’t matter to me. He started crunching on what sounded like potato chips.
        Well, I was thinking around 4, after work. Shouldn’t take me too long to get there from the school.
        Ok. Ok, he swallowed. Another pause. So how bout we meet at 6? To go over some things. 
        It wasn’t common for NayBer hosts to call guests in advance, and even less common they’d ask to meet you in person unless they lived on the property. Keyless entries were pretty much the norm now. Some home owners didn’t even communicate with guests through the app at all. They had property managers take care of everything. And most of them only engaged in essential communications, messages about check-in and check-out rules. Notes about where to dump the trash. How to manage the quirks of the house like a sticky toilet handle or a wonky screen door. 
        Ok, that should work I said, trying not to let on I was annoyed about this unnecessary step.
        Don’t forget you put in 333, he said. 
        I fumbled through a pile of mail for a pen. Sorry? There’s a code?
        No, no in your GPS. The actual address won’t get you there for some reason, takes you on the other side of the lake over there by The Morgans, he said, as if I personally knew The Morgans. 333 works though. Just type in 3-3-3 Randall Cove. We’re the last house on the dead-end road. 331 is the address, but yeah 333 will get ya there. Go figure. He had stopped crunching but continued to make sounds with his mouth.
        Thank god Bunny had given me this address tip I thought, picturing an argument with Jay, hungry, carsick, pissed off, shouting at him “it says THREE-THREE-ONE Randall Cove, SEE?” holding the phone to his face after he accuses me of typing it in wrong, The Morgans peering at us through lace curtains as we lap their house a third time.
        Got it. Thanks. Good talking to you, Bunny, I said and hung up.
        Jay picked me up from the school. He spent the day in town going from bar to bar while I worked. A familiar route: Lamplighter for eggs and a Bloody Mary, Willows for a PBR and Canadian Club, the Moose Lodge for a game of pool, a bowl of chili and a Stroh’s. Last stop was always Omar’s where he ordered a CC on ice, read a pocket-sized book of Frank O’Hara’s Lunch Poems and waited for my text. I could smell the sour beer on his breath when we kissed hello but decided not to say anything about his drinking. He unloaded our bags, slinging the expensive binoculars I bought him for our wedding anniversary over his shoulder. He regularly brought them along on trips like this but never used them. One time he forgot them at a rental and the owner FedExed them to us overnight after my panicked phone call. It made me wonder if he even liked them. Gift-giving is something I pride myself on. I get people things they genuinely like, or things they don't think to get for themselves. Or maybe something they only mentioned once, in passing. I’d squirrel away the detail, excited for the look on their face when six months later they opened the gift. How’d you know? they’d beam.
        When I arrived at the place after a long day of training at the elementary school, all I wanted to do was change my clothes, fix a drink, and head down to the lake with a book. Knowing Bunny was on his way made me anxious. Jay and I couldn’t relax and start our weekend together until his visit was over. I wondered what Bunny possibly needed to go over about the house that couldn’t have been a text.
        The place was rustic, exactly like Bunny described in the app. A nostalgic Michigan cabin, a retro charmer on Randall Lake it said. The lawn was covered in garden tchotchkes, the grass a blend of green and blonde, the tree buds just about to pop. We walked through the open door into a mudroom with an old washer and dryer then through a simple kitchenette, which had an 80’s model Frigidaire with a Willow’s Bar takeout menu pinned to it. A macrame plant hanger dangled at the window above the sink. You could smell Palmolive soap as if someone had just been there doing dishes, and, for a second, the scent transported me to my grandmother’s home, though she’s been gone for decades. We continued on, the tacky linoleum sticking to our shoes as we walked until we entered the wood-paneled living room with veal-colored carpet. There was a cutout window on the opposite wall that looked into a glass sunporch. I had to hand it to Bunny. He didn’t oversell the place, it was rustic, needed a lot of TLC, but the charm was everywhere, from the antique model ships right down to the old secretary desk with its nautical rope detailing and stack of vintage sailing books on top. The house smelled musty, like wet pine needles, but that, too, was endearing. 
        I love this place, Jay said before we could even look at the rest. He grabbed the bottle of Bandol we packed and plucked two dusty glasses off a liquor cart. C’mon, let’s go look at the lake.
        He slid the patio door open and I followed him onto the marshy stoop, down the steps and onto the deck. Jay uncorked the bottle and gave each of us a generous pour. He always filled them right to the brim. We walked down the sloping yard to the water, trying not to spill our wine, talking about the first sips like we always did. He pointed to a house across the lake—Look!—it’s The Morgans—and we laughed. The dock wasn’t in yet. It lay upturned on the grass covered in thousands of tiny zebra mussels like rows of cirrhotic grey fingernails. We crouched down to see if they were alive.
        I checked my phone and noticed a missed message from Bunny telling me he was here. How’d I keep missing him?
        We started up the low hill to the house with our empty glasses and bottle, and walked around to the front where Bunny was standing near his bike. 
        Chloe? 
        The wine had taken effect. Hey Bunny! I said. We love your place!
        Yeah, this is a really great place, Jay added. Such a classic Michigan cottage. We love how you left its original charm. 
        Oh thanks, Bunny said, a little embarrassed. I had pegged him in his seventies, but he looked a lot younger than his NayBer profile. Younger than his voice on the phone. Suddenly his name suited him. Rabbit eyes I thought. Gentle and a little far apart. 
        You get in ok?
        Yep, super easy. Thanks for the heads up on the address. 
        Now there’s kayaks over there by the shed, I got some fishin’ poles in there too, if you’re interested. 
        I don’t think I could get this one in a kayak, I said smiling.
        Bunny looked at Jay and sized him up for a second, as if wondering what kind of man wouldn’t get in a kayak. 
        Well, they’re there if you want em, supposed to be real nice this weekend he said and started to walk toward the backyard. Jay and I trailed close behind. 
        That’s what I saw, excited it worked out and we could be here to enjoy the lake. I think we’re—
        The dock’s not in yet. Not for another few weeks.
        No problem, Jay said. We’re super low maintenance. Just give us a bottle, a view, and our books. 
        I was going to make some joke about sounding like alcoholics, but stopped myself.
        That’s what I like to do too, Bunny said. One time I had a guy stay here for the whole summer. An engineer from Arizona. Old guy with a buncha grandkids. He read twelve books while he was here. Every time I come here, he’d be in that chair right there reading. You see the books inside? Those were his. 
        I remembered the collection of Dean Koontz novels in the sunroom. 
        Before we could answer, Bunny went on. I was planning on cutting the grass so it would look nicer for you. Didn’t get to it. Might still cut it tonight. You say you’re going into town?
        That’s ok, really. It looks great to us, I said. Probably do the fish fry at Bill’s Grill. So are there any special things we need to know about the house?
        Bunny started inspecting the lawn ignoring my question. So now, you said you been to Coldwater before?
        Chloe comes once a month, Jay chimed in. To work with the school. I was annoyed he mentioned my work, worried Bunny might get on the bit about his daughter-in-law.
        You must have a lot of stories about people that have stayed here, I said. 
        His eyes twinkled a little and I could tell I had finally said the right thing.
        You wouldn’t believe half the stuff. Last week had a father and son staying here from Denmark. Dad was here to do some work for Heinz. Boy stayed here while his dad worked. Teenage boy, maybe sixteen? Seventeen? Nice kid, far as I could tell. 
        When they left, I noticed the door to the attic crawl space was open. I got up there to shut it and looked inside. Saw about three cases of empty beer bottles up there. They were Heinekens too. Bunny laughed. Kid had a good time. Real good time. 
        The two of them cracked up. I thought about the time I found an empty wine bottle next to the couch in the basement on a night Jay and I weren’t drinking. Now Bunny was on a roll. 
        Another time had a woman from Venezuela here, Ana. She was part of that program at the tomato factory where they hire immigrants to work, put em up in town. She met a local, nice lookin guy, and they rented the place for a weekend in February, coldest weekend of the year. She started telling me about Heinz, the way they own you. It’s their apartment, their schedule, their rules. You even have to put your money in their bank. Can you believe that?
        We shook our heads. Crazy, I said.
        Anyway, she stayed here with her boyfriend that weekend. She had never seen snow or ice fishing. She walked right onto the frozen lake looking inside the shanties, making friends with the fishermen, taking pictures. Snow started falling hard and we couldn’t get her back inside. So I just get the bottle of whiskey leftover from New Year’s and bring out a stack of cups for everyone and we all had a drink out there in the storm. 
        The three of us looked at the lake at the same time like we might see Ana and the ice shanties even now, in April. In the distance, I thought I saw an eagle and almost pointed it out, but before I could say something it was gone. I wished we had the binoculars. I remembered the time Jay swore he saw a snowy egret on Crooked Lake, a bleary white avian shape that without its nuptial plumes a naked eye might mistake for a seagull. We had wandered far from the cabin that afternoon, a bottle of Fumé Blanc in tow, passing it back and forth along the shoreline. Jay had forgotten the binoculars. We argued about what we saw—it was rare to see egrets in Michigan. Later when we told a friend about it, we both said it was an egret. It made a better anecdote. I glanced over at Jay and could tell he was enjoying himself. He loved a good drinking story.
        Well, we adore the place, I said. 
        Bunny grabbed the rag hanging from his back pocket and started brushing off the patio chairs. I do a deal where if you leave me a good review, I give you a free night next time you stay. You said you come to Coldwater often?
        Oh wow, that’s so generous of you, Bunny. Jay looked at me with raised eyebrows, suggesting we lock in the free offer. 
        Yes, so generous! I said. We will be here again in May. That would be so nice.
        Oh, it’s nothing. I like sharing this place with people. He stuffed the rag back into his pocket. Well, you know how to reach me, he said. 
        Yes. Yes. Thank you.
        Jay checked the time on his phone. We should probably head to Bill’s soon.
        Best fish fry in the area, Bunny said, and winked.
        Ok, well, I’ll follow up with you about that stay, Bunny. By the way, I saw all those reviews about the comfortable bed. Looking forward to sleeping in tomorrow, I said. 
        Tempur-Pedic, he said, and headed back toward his bike. 
        Bunny’s generosity seemed to hang in the air as he rode away. 
        What a nice guy! Jay gushed as we got in the car. 
        I wondered how he could afford to give away all those free nights. I thought about Jay’s reaction, how much the free stay had meant to him. 
        On the way to Bill’s I got a message from Bunny. 

Bunny 7:48 PM
Very nice to meet both of you. Hope you have a relaxing weekend. I can’t believe the warm weather. I forgot to tell you that you could use the sofa bed instead of the bed because you can see the water when you wake up. In the summer tall ferns grow around the house and the boat shed and around the barbeque grill. 

        I thought again of the snowy egret. How impossible it is to hold onto what we see—in a person, on a marbled stretch of kettle lake. Jay looked out there on that warm September day and insisted. Then, for the life of me I couldn’t remember what he said when he opened the binoculars on our anniversary.



  

Sarah Pazur is a writer and critic whose work examines literature, culture, and the uncertain boundaries between memory and imagination. Their essays and reviews have appeared in various publications. They live and work somewhere.