Traveling Light (16 page)

Paula reached for wadded-up paper gasoline receipts. She’d lost most of her anger at Roger long ago. When had that happened? She paused, thinking back; emotion pulsed in her hands. Whenever it was, it seemed her soul had quickly followed.

She’d been a girl with pluck, Roger used to say. But all her rough edges had worn as smooth as the small stones that washed ashore on Jones Beach, eroded after ten years of living in a junk pile. But she’d stayed. She’d stayed. She’d only wanted what other women want. She’d not been greedy.

Someone tapped her and she jumped.

“Sorry to scare you, miss,” an older man asked, “but are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, fine. I’m fine. Just clearing out some garbage.” She smiled. “Been on the road for a few days.”

The man didn’t look reassured but nodded and continued on his walk.

Paula bent over and grabbbed a McDonald’s bag stuffed with wrappers and coffee cups. She clasped the trash against her chest and headed toward a gray rubber garbage can buzzing with a thick cadre of yellow jackets. A newspaper lay on top. It looked as if someone had just set it down. Shooing away the yellow jackets, she dumped the trash, picked up the newspaper and tucked it under her arm. Something to read while waiting for her food; she’d not seen the news in days.

Fotis greeted her as if she’d been gone for a month. “Hey, cutie pie,” she said in a voice that made his ears lie back and his hind end wiggle. She sat down with the paper still tucked under her arm and gave the sun-bleached tabletop a cursory read. Initials corralled with hearts and “IF
YOUR
NOT OUTRAGED,
YOUR
NOT PAYING ATTENTION.” It made her chuckle. Just as she turned to read the newspaper, her name was called.

“Paula?” another young woman called from the “Pick Up” window, making tentative eye contact as she held up a white paper bag.

Paula stepped to get the food. Fotis followed to the end of his tether; a tiny stream of drool trickled from his lip.

“Here we go.” She sat down to arrange the brats on a paper plate. As she bent over to put the plate down in front of him, she saw a man sitting at the adjacent table recoil in disapproval. The brats were gone before the plate was even down. Maybe Fotis had a tapeworm; she’d heard of colleagues picking up things while researching in parts of the developing world, their only symptoms being perpetual hunger and weight loss.

Fotis began licking at the paper plate.

“Hey, hey, hey.” She leaned over, chuckling, and took away what was left of the plate. “God, don’t eat the plate, too,” she said in Greek.

She’d expected a comment about hungry children or obesity in dogs, but the man said something to his wife instead.

Fotis turned his attention to her sandwich.

“Uch ooo,” she continued in Greek. “You’re a bottomless pit.”

She took a bite and chewed, trying to ignore Fotis’ eyes. “Shit.” She handed over the other half of her sandwich. She could starve to death before he’d lay off.

“Now shut up,” she whispered. “That’s all you get.” As she took another bite a blob of egg salad dropped onto her chest. “Damn.” She wiped at it with a napkin, which made it worse.

She unfolded the newspaper:
Cook County News Herald, the local news of Grand Marais.
Next to the masthead was a sketch of a bear leaning against a tree stump, relaxing with the newspaper as a bird sat on his head reading along. She took another bite of the sandwich and folded the newspaper back to read an ad in the classified section that was circled in blue ink:
Wanted: Part-Time Wildlife Rehabilitator of Raptors and Mammals.

Without thinking she took out her phone and dialed. “I’m sorry; you must first dial the area code or hang up and ask for assistance.”

“Shit.”

She asked the nosey couple if they knew the area code.

They looked surprised.

She dialed again.

“Yes?” The man sounded out of breath.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “I’m calling about the ad for the wildlife rehabilitator.”

“And?” he said.

“Well, uhhhh…” She stumbled on her words, caught off guard. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“You work with raptors, wild canines, before?” His voice was gravelly.

“Two years, nine months of working with birds—not so long with canines.” She looked at Fotis.

“What kind?”

“Parakeets, macaws, parrots, cockatiels, finches—”

“Sounds like you worked in a pet shop.” He hadn’t laughed but might as well have.

She still visited Pet World on Saturdays when going to see Eleni. The spicy smell of cedar bedding for the guinea pigs, mice and rats hadn’t changed, nor the homey crackling feel of the waxed linoleum tiles as the aging floor gave with each step. The same huge faded paper posters of exotic jungle birds were joined by plastic inflatable palm trees that Mr. Sanchez had added recently to frame the new tropical aquarium fish displays. He no longer replaced birds as they’d sell. Fish were easier, he’d told her, since he was even more stooped over with crippling arthritis since his wife, Berta, had died. Paula would take out the last few remaining macaws and parrots and let them sit on her head and shoulders as she helped Mr. Sanchez clean out bird, rodent and reptile cages. When his high school part-timers didn’t show up, she’d help ring up customers if the shop was busy. The old cash register had taught her basic math, since it didn’t provide “cash back.”

“I’ve fed, cared for and trained birds,” Paula spoke up as a point of pride. “Also worked with guinea pigs, chinchillas and iguanas, snakes and other reptiles.”

“Look,” he cut her off. “Either you’re a bird person or you’re not.”

“Would I bother calling if I wasn’t?”

No answer. She looked at her phone.

“Lotsa lifting,” he said like she couldn’t handle it.

“I’m strong.”

“Ever swing a hammer?”

“Of course.” It had been fifteen years since she’d put up shelves in her old apartment.

“The work’s more with wild raptors.”

“Well, I’ve fed and cared for wild birds.” A pang hit her as she thought about the sparrows, finches and cardinals on her office window ledge.

“What kind?”

“All kinds.” She knew she sounded full of shit.

“Hey—can I come over and talk to you about the job?” she pushed.

“Doesn’t sound like a good fit.”

“Can I at least see what’s involved?”

More measured silence. “Rehab’s not for everyone,” he said.

“Well, let me at least find out more.”

“I’m pretty busy right now.”

“I won’t get in your way. How do I find you?”

There was a pause. “Highway Sixty-One north till you’re almost out of town, make a right.”

“Street name?”

“Last one on the way out of town. Can’t miss it,” he said.

“Go right and then what?”

He’d ended the call.

CHAPTER 7

The phone call left her hankering for a cigarette. She spotted an IGA grocery store across the street. She’d grab one pack of cigarettes, not a whole carton, and then change into her last clean blouse before going to see about the job. Rolling down the windows enough so that Fotis could stick out his head, she kissed him between his ears. “You stay,” she explained. “I’ll be right back.”

Opening the back door of the Escape, she felt for the collar of her blouse and pulled it out. Wrinkled, but wrinkled was better than blotches of egg salad. Folding it up, she stuffed the blouse into her purse.

She felt the dog’s eyes on her through the glass doorway of the IGA. The smell of old linoleum made her think of Roger. Half-unpacked boxes of merchandise in the aisles made her smile. Why hadn’t he called?

Instead of charging straight up to the register and the overhead racks of cigarettes, she began strolling the aisles of the cluttered little store. There was Roger’s shaving cream, a Gillette brand that stores in New York sold out of quickly. She grabbed six cans, thinking to stock up, and tucked them in her arms before noticing there were several more. She’d come back tomorrow morning before leaving for Thunder Bay. Roger would be happy; she’d tell him when he called.

Then she saw a display of Canadian Club sparkling club soda—it was his favorite. She’d always thought the brand old-fashioned. On Fridays she’d make him a scotch and soda after work.

She thought sadly about their little routine of dinner while watching the news every evening. Although they’d spent the better part of every summer on separate continents, this separation felt different. He should have been with her on the cliff in Two Harbors, watching the men load the tanker.

Fear tickled beneath her collarbones; something unnamed was threatening to take away her polar bear. She clutched the cans of shaving cream, needing to know that everything was all right, but something about taking Fotis had been divisive. Yet it wasn’t Fotis. She could blame him or blame herself for standing her ground. Fotis was like those two diminutive lighthouses in the harbor illuminating a passage to safety—the part of her for which Roger had made no room in their marriage—reissuing what hadn’t fully withered, though God knows she’d tried to kill it off. Working to death, hoping those needs would shrivel away and die if she lost herself in the Center and the next big publication. “You can’t get everything in life,” friends would say, and she’d chalked up not having Roger be a “real” husband as one of the casualties of that adult axiom.

But still she’d longed for the feel of his arms at night, his scent, to hear the subtle surety of his breathing. It bothered her not to have an arsenal of funny sleeping stories about his snoring to share at dinner parties. She’d sit there mute while resentment gathered in her throat like a pile of partly digested food.

And strangely, for the past day she’d felt no impulse to phone and leave Roger lingering messages gushing about the beauty and majesty of the rocky outcroppings or the mystical loveliness of horizonless Lake Superior with its bridal veil of fog. These things were hers alone. Maybe Eleni had been right; something about the whole drive was beginning to feel disloyal. Paula thought about the mythic Penelope who deceived unwanted suitors by asking them to wait until she finished knitting a garment, then by night secretly unraveling whatever she’d completed during the day. Was she also buying time?

While Paula grabbed a stick of deodorant and a large tube of toothpaste, it dawned on her that she hadn’t shaved her legs since her last morning in New York. She grasped a pink package of razors and looked around for a basket. She’d only come in for a pack of cigarettes.

The cluttered aisles were punctuated with boxes of unfinished stocking jobs, price guns with stickers (stores in New York hadn’t used those in years); it looked like someone hadn’t shown up for work. A carton of toilet paper was left half-unpacked. She strolled through the meat and dairy section, which proffered an assortment of locally caught smoked whitefish and trout, homemade brat sausages and large basted shrink-wrapped bones, presumably for dogs. Would Fotis know what to do with one? She picked up two, figuring it might keep him occupied while she went to see the bird rehab guy.

As she approached the checkout the deodorant fell, clanking on the floor. A can of Roger’s shaving cream hit and began rolling away from the checkout station. Leaning over the rubber conveyer belt, she unloaded her items onto the surface and bent to retrieve the others. The overhead cigarette rack was calling her name.

“Jeez,” Paula said as she stood, noticing an older woman who had stepped behind the register. “Didn’t think I needed so much.”

“This it?” the older woman asked. The smell of her perfume was familiar.

Paula kept her eyes level, ignoring the cigarettes. “Like your perfume.”

“Why, thank you, dear.”

Judging by the older woman’s wrinkles, Paula figured they might be just a few years apart.

“My husband gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Nice husband. Better keep him,” Paula said as the woman chuckled at an inside joke.

“You wonder sometimes, don’t cha?”

Paula nodded, her eyes widening. She liked the accent people had had since she entered Wisconsin, like Canadians.

“It’s Avon,” the woman added. “I’m Maggie, the Avon Lady.” She nodded slightly to introduce herself and then pointed to her matching pearl earrings and pendant. “These are Avon, too,” the woman said with pleasure.

“I’m Paula,” Paula said, staring at the pendant. “Wow, that’s pretty.” She looked at the woman in surprise. “I didn’t know Avon even existed anymore, much less had jewelry.” Something about the woman’s pride made Paula want to wear Avon jewelry, too. She remembered one of the Philoptochos ladies from the church had come over several times to their apartment and lined the top of Eleni’s hand with stripes of lipstick.

“Well, my, that’s pretty, too.” The woman pointed to Paula’s Edwardian pendant.

Paula touched her neckline.

“Thanks.”

“Was it your mother’s?”

“Oh no.” Eleni owned little jewelry, except for pearl earrings Paula had given her on her seventieth birthday; she would wear them to church on Christmas and Easter when she wasn’t feuding with the ladies Philoptochos. Eleni had made it abundantly clear that she “would never wear anything antique, since someone might have died in it.” Paula’d always felt that a woman without jewelry is like a woman without love.

“Something I found in a little antique shop years ago.” Paula touched it.

“Avon makes all sorts of things these days,” the woman said. “‘Not Your Mother’s Avon,’ they say.”

The woman’s coiffed short black hair hovered on being old-ladyish yet looked stylish enough to skirt the divide, shiny, straight, not one hair out of place. It was clear she took pride in her appearance. The clinking of three silver bangle bracelets stamped with Native American motifs, along with the woman’s Asian features, made Paula wonder if her checker was American Indian.

“On vacation with your dog?” The woman picked up one of the shrink-wrapped bones. The scanner beeped as she set it into a plastic bag. Paula scooted the rest of her items toward the cash register.

“Ummm—sort of,” Paula said.