Molt – Chapter Seven

The First Day of Snow

TUESDAY, OCTOBER SEVENTH. It’s a bitter cold morning as I pull into the University parking lot. I lock my door just as the first snowflake of the season lands on my eyelid. It’s not the sudden chill of this ice on my face that sends a shiver down my spine; it’s the sudden knowledge of what this day is. This is the first day of snow. Over the years, I have not had the best of success on the first days of snow.

The first day of snow was the day my grandmother died. The first day of snow was the first time I got my period. Last year was a double whammy: I had my wisdom teeth removed on the first day of snow, and when I returned home from the dentist that afternoon, I opened my door to find that my apartment had been broken into. Claude was untouched, but the rest of the apartment was a mess. I remember yelling at the snow from my open window that night. Even though the pain from oral surgery was unbearable, I had to let the snow know how I felt once and for all. But with fluffy words like “dang” and “hula-hoop” of course. I can’t recall the context in which I used the word hula-hoop exactly, but I’m sure it had applied.

The snowflake has already melted from my eyelid and I fool myself in the hope that maybe it’s just a false alarm. I turn to the front doors of the school, I think about the report in my bag with the name Templeton Rate on it, and I wonder just what might be in store for me behind those doors today. On this day: the first day of snow.

I’m sorting papers as I sit at my desk in the lecture hall, waiting for my Avian Science class to begin. If any of these students would stop texting long enough to actually notice me, they’d probably note that I’m doing a very poor job at looking like I’m sorting papers.

Last night I was imagining what I’d say to this man who disappeared out of thin air last week. An angel is what Sylvie had suggested he was.

Just one more from the litter of angels.

Last night, I wanted to ask him whether he followed me into The Strangest Feeling on purpose or if it was merely a coincidence.

Last night, I wanted to ask him why he abandoned me there, and where exactly he’d disappeared to.

Last night, I wanted him to apologize to me for what had happened.

Last night, I wanted to know how the paper with his name on it fell into my hands.

But that was last night. Right now I just wanted to see him again.

If I hadn’t wanted to see him again.

As I contemplate all of this, I zone out a little. The stack of over-shuffled papers in my hand almost falls to the floor. I need to focus, and get things started here. I don’t know how many students should be in this class, but most of them appear to be here, so I rise from my desk and get on with it.

“Who here can tell me the step-by-step process by which a bird will molt?” A hand is raised, and I’m sure I’ve never seen this girl before. “Yes? Go ahead.”

“Molting is cyclical, right? Birds shed older feathers, which are replaced by pin feathers. Once the pin feathers become full, the older ones will shed again.”

Blue checkmark. A molt will occur at least once a year for adult birds, and in some species, up to as many as four times. Because feathers take up anywhere from five to fourteen percent of a bird’s total body weight, molting requires an enormous amount of its energy. I know this because I have to know this.

“That’s good. Thank you…um, Tanya.”

“Haley.”

Whatever. I take a sip of my coffee. This morning’s selection is a French vanilla latté. Non-fat. No whip cream. The barista who made it wrote ‘N-V-L’ on the side of the cup. Sadly, I’m starting to recognize the handwriting of the various employees.

“Can anyone specify the proper order in which feathers will molt?” Four hands go up, and I make my selection. “John?”

“Jack.”

Close enough.

“Generally,” Jack continues, “a molt begins from the bird’s head, progressing downwards to its wings and torso, and finishing with the tail feathers. Is that correct?”

He’s absolutely right. Blue checkmark. Many birds’ feathers are molted progressively in waves, beginning on the head, face and throat, and extending backward towards the tail. Usually, there is a symmetrical loss of feathers from both sides of the body, which balances feather loss, so that the bird can maintain its energy levels and function normally. I know this because I have to know this.

“I’ll accept that. Are there any examples of a molt that can take place outside of a bird’s standard molting period?”

No hands are raised. But after a few moments to think it over, one student takes the plunge. I gesture an open palm towards him, giving him the go-ahead to share his thoughts.

“How about a frightmolt?” he asks.

“Go on,” I urge him.

“Well, a frightmolt is sometimes activated through fright or fear. In frightmolt, the rectrices are shed most frequently, as are the smaller feathers of the breast and the dorsal tracts. In this type of molt, the bird usually retains the feathers from its head and wings.”

This kid’s been studying, whoever he is. Blue checkmark. In frightmolt, a peculiar molt unique to only a few types of birds such as Passenger Pigeons (Ectopistes migratorius), Mourning Doves (Zenaida macroura) and some upland game birds, feathers are simply expelled or dropped. The slightest contact or pressure will relax the muscles of the feather follicle, and the quill is set free. I know this because I have to know this.

I don’t waste my time in an attempt to identify this student; I simply move on to my next question. “Can anyone think of other biological examples of molting? Not just in birds?”

And then I hear a voice from the hall. Everyone hears it, and rows of heads turn in unison to have a look towards the door.

And I knew it wouldn’t be long.

“I thought this was ornithology?”

I take in that glorious mop of hair over those hauntingly dark eyes. Some dirt still marks his face. It’s Templeton Rate all right, leaning on the frame of the open door.

“That’s correct,” I say. I won’t let him shake me. “This is Avian Science.”

“Well let’s get back to the birds then, huh?” He moves deftly up the steps to find an empty seat next to some skinny brunette that I instantly dislike.

If that skinny brunette had been telling this story, I certainly wouldn’t read it.

He’s snuck up on me again. I feel totally unprepared for what’s happening here. But I’m a professional. I will not be put in my place. Not in my class. “Not quite yet Fauntleroy.”

“It’s Templeton actually.”

“Pardon me. My point was that sometimes it’s important to be aware of how other animals evolve in order to find the exact answers you’re looking for.”

“Do tell, Professor Donhelle,” he quips sharply. Some of the other students snicker a little at his abrasiveness. I can feel him trying to turn my class against me.

“Of course,” I begin, “the most obvious example would be in reptiles, where a snake will shed its skin. Or how about in mammals, when old hairs fall out, only to be replaced again? And molting is known as ecdysis in arthropods, such as when a crayfish sheds its exoskeleton.”

“Simply fascinating,” he says, in his most un-fascinated tone. “Let me ask you this though. Can’t molting be a psychological process as well as a physical one?”

Red circle.

“You mean in the figurative sense?”

“To molt is to change, correct? It’s a transformation into someone or something else. Psychologically or physically. Temporarily or permanently.”

Another red circle. If this were any other student on any other day, I probably would have excused them from the lecture hall for being so antagonistic. I’m not the kind to simply put up with unjustified hostility in my class. And yet, Templeton Rate has a sneaky way of getting me to listen to his every word.

“Don’t you agree?” he asks me. Without another response from me, Templeton looks around him for some endorsement. “Do any of you agree?” I catch some nervous eyes as they dart around the room; the students are starting to wonder where this conversation is headed, and whether or not it might hold any relevance to what will be on their next exam. “Aren’t any of you paying attention in this class?” And truthfully, I’m starting to wonder if I should be taking notes as well.

“Change is one thing Templeton,” I finally say. “It’s a small shift in behavior. It’s taking the bus home instead of an offered ride. It’s drinking your first coffee, or smoking your first cigarette. But evolution dictates another thing entirely.”

“Not to me it doesn’t.”

“Well, that being said, fact will always win out over opinion.”

“Is that a fact?” The brunette beside him shifts away from Templeton, just a little closer towards the wall. Maybe my dislike for her was not quite as justified as I had first thought.

“Yes it is.”

Lacking any better answer, all I get from Templeton is, “Well, that’s just your opinion Professor.”

Again, red circle.

……..

Just over an hour later my class is finished. Not soon enough though. Templeton Rate kept to himself for pretty much the remainder of the lecture; he was scribbling something down on a piece of paper the entire time. I couldn’t avoid being a little bit distracted by his presence. And I don’t work well with distractions. It was as though my class was the Power Of Science, and Templeton was that smelly, bloodied raven.

The students begin to file out, on to live the rest of their lives. Templeton coolly walks to the front of the lecture hall, picks up my empty coffee cup and tosses it into the recycling bin. He sits in its place on the edge of my desk as I try to piece it all together.

“How have you been, beautiful?” he asks.

I take a peek at the coffee cup in the garbage, and I wonder if there might have been at least one more cold drop left. “I’ve been a lot less wired,” I say to him. “I think I’ve had too much coffee lately.”

“So, where did you disappear to on Thursday night?” he has the nerve to ask me.

“Excuse me?”

“I came back from the can, and you were gone. That horrible cheese bread made me shit like a goose.” I’m unimpressed by his language, but I’m a little more astonished by his on-the-spot avian simile. Geese spend most of their waking hours consuming mass amounts of vegetation, but their digestion is rapid and inefficient. As such, they excrete feces almost nonstop.

“So what’s the deal?” he continues, “I thought I still owed you another cup of coffee?”

“Actually, you owe me a meal as well now, since I had to pay for two.”

“Well then, how’s tonight sound?”

“I don’t think so Templeton. I’ve got more papers to mark. And if they’re as bad last night’s bunch, I won’t be going anywhere tomorrow night either.” I start collecting my materials, although I just have to ask him, “How can you blame me for ditching you last week? I looked for you at the diner, but you were gone.”

“I was in the ladies room. Maybe you didn’t notice in your exhaustive search, but that men’s room was more than just a little bit revolting.”

Maybe I noticed? Perhaps only if I had lost all five of my senses, would there have been any doubt. Now that I think of it though, I probably should have checked the ladies room as well as the men’s, just to be sure.

Before I can ask Templeton anything about the case of the magically appearing report he’d written, he’s already generating some new problems for me. “I’ve got another paper for you to look at. I wrote it right now, during class.”

I try my best to downplay any interest. “Wonderful. I’m sure it’s another brilliant opus.” I wish my façade were the truth, and that I really wasn’t interested. That would make things so much easier. But how do I change the subject? And do I really want to? “You wrote a full paper in the last hour?” I ask him, hoping the end to this conversation might be getting a tiny bit closer. “How is that possible?”

“Well, I don’t know what constitutes a full paper, but it is two pages.”

“I’d say more than two pages.”

“Actually, it’s more like one-and-a-half. And double-spaced. And I did some of it last night while I was working.”

“The doorman thing, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s nice to know you were paying attention to the details.” He unfolds two pieces of paper from inside his coat pocket, and holds them out for me. I notice his hands are covered with tiny scrapes and scratches, all in various states of healing. “I had to borrow some paper from that babe next to me though.”

“I knew you were the kind of guy that copied answers.”

“I don’t know if that would help me much in this class. Everyone here seems a little tardy.”

“Tardy means late. I think you mean retarded?”

Templeton presses, and waves the papers in his hand. “Well, are you going to take a look at it or what?”

I’m careful to not get any of the dirt from the paper on my fingers as I scan all one-and-a-half double-spaced pages. Like the report I read through last night, this one is also written in charcoal. All things considered though, his penmanship is still quite reasonable. The content, however, is anything but. It’s just more of the same unsubstantiated randomness as Templeton’s previous paper. Actually, it’s even worse, as if on purpose. I mean, someone would really have to be trying pretty hard to get his facts any more wrong than this, but he’s managed to pull it off.

Red circle.

I’m almost too distracted by what’s going on around me to remember what the most important issue here really is. “Why exactly are you giving me these papers anyway? As far as I knew, you’re not enrolled at Hawthorne.”

“Who said I am? I never told you I was.”

“Well, are you or aren’t you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replies defensively. “I’d have to be pretty fucking bored with my life to have nothing better to do than hang out with a bunch of retarded bird-watchers in my free time.”

I hand the papers back to him. “You’re a very perplexing individual, Templeton Rate.”

“So that’s what you like about me. I was wondering what it would be exactly.” Templeton re-folds his masterpiece and slips it back into his pocket. “Listen, the reason I’m here is to learn. And the reason you’re here, in case you didn’t know, is to teach people like me.”

“People like you?”

“It’s all very simple, Professor Donhelle.”

He’s got me right where he wants me. And something inside me simply doesn’t want to fight it anymore. So I get up on the figurative diving board…

“I suppose if you’re free later tonight, I’d be willing to meet you in the library for some extra help. How would six o’clock work for you?”

Templeton leans right in my face. And am I mistaken, or is that cheese bread still wedged between his two front teeth? “Really?” he asks, almost surprised by my offer.

…And I take the figurative plunge.

“You’re right. It is my job. I would be doing a disservice to this school if I didn’t offer you my help. You could obviously use it.”

If I didn’t offer him that extra help.

“Look at you,” he says with a victorious smile. “You are molting. Right before my eyes.”

He turns away from me and exits the lecture hall, his last words trailing from beyond the door. “Let’s make it six-thirty. I’ve got another class this afternoon. See you then.”

I look back in the trash at the empty cup of coffee, and I wonder if I have just made a big mistake. On this day: the first day of snow.

NEXT CHAPTER

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