Traveling Light (18 page)

“Endaxi, endaxi,” she found herself comforting him in Greek and purring from somewhere deep within, mimicking Rick.

The bird calmed and she felt him relax onto the table.

“Now with your elbow, help me brace his torso.” Rick looked at the quantity of blood and then placed the syringe on the side table. “I just got a lead analyzer,” he explained. “Now I get results in seconds. This guy beeped off the charts.”

Then Rick took out a brown glass bottle. “Ca-EDTA,” he said, and picked up another syringe. Paula held the eagle’s feet and braced the bird’s wings against the table with her forearms. “Anti-toxin,” Rick said. “Draws out lead.”

The eagle pushed up and spread his wings. They thumped against the table, knocking off the syringes of blood onto the floor. Her face was enveloped in the curve of his torso, where the wing extended. The wings were so massive it felt like a dream.

“You got him?” Rick asked.

“Yeah,” she said.

He drew medicine as Paula held on.

“You sure?” he said with a little laugh, but she didn’t take it as mean.

“Yep.”

He injected the bird. “He’ll get one of these three times a day.”

“Will he make it?” she asked again.

It took Rick a while to answer. He sighed deeply before he spoke. “He’s in pretty rough shape.”

Her heart felt as if it would burst for the eagle, his raggedy-looking feathers, crazed demeanor. She felt helpless.

“He’s lost lots of weight. Muscle wasting,” Rick said, over his shoulder as if he didn’t want the eagle to hear. “Bones where muscle should be.” He touched the bird’s breastbone. “His keel. Feel,” he said, and reached to secure one of the eagle’s feet so that she could let go.

Paula reached and felt the bone.

“You shouldn’t be able to feel that,” Rick said, watching her face carefully.

He then smoothed over the bird’s head and wing feathers, feeling the sharp angles. “I’m afraid his organs may have begun to shut down. Came in pretty dehydrated. Started an IV on him right away yesterday when he first came in, was up with him most of the night,” Rick said.

He gently pinched the skin on the eagle’s chest. “Seems more hydrated. We’ll try and tube-feed him.”

She looked at the curve of his neck where the white feathers met dark brown and wondered how and why nature had drawn such a definitive line.

“You’re a real fighter, old man,” Rick said to the bird, his voice suddenly riddled with warmth.

He then surrounded Paula’s hands with his. “Now let go.”

She didn’t want to.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I got him.”

She released her hands and Rick took the eagle from her.

“Let’s leave him for about thirty minutes, let the medication absorb. We’ll come back to tube-feed him.”

Rick lifted the bird. He spread his wings again, grazing just over Paula’s head. Her skin prickled with the sense of it.

The man carried the bird back to the cardboard box, gently lowering and then covering him with the bedsheet.

“Can he get out?”

“Nope.”

Funny how something as fragile as a cardboard box, an old bedsheet and eight clothespins was enough to contain such a creature.

“It’s like a nest,” Rick explained. “A cocoon. It calms them, makes them feel safe.”

She already ached for it—longed to climb into the box, curl her body around it to give comfort as Fotis had done for her that first night in the hotel.

Paula was drained; her arms were empty tubes of flesh. In all the years she’d spent studying society, trying to understand why people do what they do, or don’t do, more understanding had passed through that eagle in a split second than over the course of her lifetime of study.

“Well.” Rick took off the long gloves and looked at her without a change in expression.

She waited.

“Consider that your job interview,” he said. “By the way, your shirt’s buttoned crooked.”

She looked down but was too electrified to even care. She’d never felt so drained yet so alive.

“You smell like cigarettes, too.”

“I haven’t smoked since New Jersey,” she said with such defiant conviction he burst out with a laugh.

“Smoke kills birds, so knock it off unless you’re gonna chew.”

She frowned before realizing he’d said it to shock her.

He motioned for her to follow. “I’ll show you the mammal side before we come back to tube-feed this guy. Don’t take a lot of them, but can’t turn ’em away either,” he said, talking into the air as she hurried to catch up.

They walked toward a chain-link area that contained a litter of three orphaned otters swimming and twirling around in a large pool. Their bodies were slick; one swam backward while another slipped under and then resurfaced, jumping on top of the other in play. Paula’s body felt as light as the eagle’s. Three tiny heads bobbed up and then down before turning to look at the newcomer.

“They’re just about ready for release. A couple more days,” Rick explained.

“What are their names?” she asked in a playful way.

He stopped and glared. “They’re never named. You name it, you claim it.” He then turned to the fence, holding it open for her to follow.

*   *   *

That night she’d slept in the Escape at a public campground on a half-moon beach next to Lake Superior. She’d combed the area for over an hour looking for a room before giving up; two young desk clerks had searched online before shaking their heads. But all she could think of was holding the eagle, the feel of his weight, worrying about him surviving the night until she could see him again.

Before she’d left that evening, Rick had let her take the eagle out of the box. Rick showed her how to slice fresh trout into tiny chunks and mix it with baby food in the blender. Then he’d shown her how to gently snake a feeding tube down the eagle’s esophagus into his stomach as she held on to his body. Tomorrow Rick said he’d let her try.

She’d driven back to the IGA to buy a rotisserie chicken to share with Fotis, hoping that Maggie was still there and she’d get some advice on places to stay. Maggie was gone for the day, but the IGA clerk gave Paula directions to the public campground, where there was access to a bathroom and a shower. So she drove up and parked next to a small hut, which looked like it would house a parking attendant.

“You’re in luck,” a burly man said. “Someone just left. The wife’s water broke. One of the lakeside spots, too. You got a camper?” The man looked out the window of the small hut toward the back of the Escape.

“Just my car.”

“How long you plan on staying?”

She shrugged. “A couple of nights?”

“There’s a pile of firewood behind your spot. Five bucks a bundle, the honor system, ‘you take some, leave some’—envelopes are right here outside the window.” He looked over his glasses at her.

She smiled.

“Need your license or photo ID.”

She rifled through her purse and handed it over.

He wrote down information and then looked up at her.

“Long drive,” he said. “You drive straight through?”

“Oh God, no.” She laughed. “Two stops. Ohio, Wisconsin.”

“Visiting friends?”

“Sort of.”

“I just need to make a copy of this.” He held up her driver’s license. “Homeland Security requires it this close to the border.”

“Really.”

He looked up at her. “We’re an hour by car from the border, twenty minutes by boat.”

She looked out to the harbor. It was dark except for a bright full moon shimmering on the water and light from the beacons on either side.

“Showers are behind you there.” He pointed. “Bathrooms in the same facility.”

Paula pulled the Escape up to face the lake. The front tires touched a sliver of the red rocky beach. She hoped the tide didn’t get much higher. There was a long asphalt walkway bordering the campground starting from a rocky outcropping and continuing from the marina to downtown Grand Marais. Each campsite had a picnic table. The grounds were lit up like a baseball field. People had set up the equivalent of their own living rooms: folding chairs, tablecloths, bottles of ketchup and mustard, glass jars holding wildflower arrangements.

The neighbors at the next site waved; she waved back. Their dog barked at Fotis, but he ignored it. Paula felt so different, chosen; she wanted to tell everyone she’d held an eagle. How many people get to hold an eagle to their chests?

She climbed onto the picnic table to sit, holding the leash and looking out toward the lake. On the asphalt walkway an older man, shaggy hair and beard, soft looking around the middle, rode a child’s bike. The man sat tall on the seat and looked embarrassingly excited, like a ten-year-old trapped in a seventy-year-old body.

He accelerated and then turned and rode back.

“Grandpa, you fixed it!” His grandson jumped with elation before running, speeding up as the man egged his grandson to chase.

“You should get a bike, too!” the boy exclaimed.

“Nah, I’m too old to ride.”

“But you just did!” The boy squealed as he threw up his arms.

“Nah. Too old.” The man pulled over and dismounted, abruptly offering the handlebar to his grandson.

The boy’s shoulders wilted, confused as to why his grandfather was suddenly irritated. “Well, thanks for fixing it,” the boy said in defeat.

Paula’s heart sank. The boy took off and rode down the path, putting one hand pensively into his pocket. She watched the grandfather watching him.
Get that bike, Papou,
she’d wanted to say.
Just do it for God’s sake; your grandson is asking you.

She left Bernie a message apologizing profusely for not calling earlier, telling him she was going to be a few days late. “Nothing bad,” she assured. “Just different. Interesting. Amazing, actually,” she’d said. “I’ll call you again early next week.”

Then she called Celeste and blubbered on about the entire experience.

“You what?” Heavenly asked. Paula could hear
NCIS
blaring from the TV in the background. It was one hour later in NYC.

“What was she holding?” she could hear Tony carping.

“A bird, an eagle,” Celeste had said.

“A what?” Paula heard Tony over the TV.

Paula was excited and knew she wasn’t making much sense. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“All right, but be careful that damn thing doesn’t poke out your eye,” Celeste said, and signed off.

Still ignited by the experience, Paula walked Fotis up and down the waterfront until late that night, hoping to calm down enough to sleep. As she stepped out onto one of the shoreline boulders, Paula remembered the Greek myth about how Aetos, the eagle of Zeus’, had fallen on hard times. The bird had once been a beloved and respected King. But all of the adulation from the King’s subjects had roused the jealousy of Zeus, who realized the people loved this King more than him. After planning to incinerate the King’s family with a thunderbolt, Apollo softened Zeus’ resolve and convinced him to turn the King into an eagle. So while the King made love to his wife, Zeus snuck in and turned the man along with his wife into golden eagles.

Slipping off her sandals, Paula dipped her feet into the water. It was surprisingly cold. She thought it would be like the lakes in Upstate New York, lakes that turned pleasantly tepid during the summer; this felt as cold as the ocean. Fotis sniffed the rocks and then touched a paw into the water.

“Don’t like
nehro
?” she asked. She was tempted to splash him with her foot to play but thought he might not like it.

He looked at her. She thought back to his bath in Pets du Jour; was that only days ago?

She and Fotis walked the town streets past couples, arm in arm and packs of friends, laughing and sitting on benches with take-out food. Loud music blared from a live band at the Gun Flint Tavern. Cars were parked along the beach. Several of the galleries had their front doors propped open. People paraded in and out or stood outside restaurants reading menus taped in windows. “A forty-five-minute wait…,” she heard bits and pieces of plans being made. Families walking the sidewalks, eating ice cream off of waffle cones that were dripping more quickly than the people could lick.

The sky was still illuminated as if some giant searchlight were burning. After she and Fotis had walked back to the campground, Paula again sat on the picnic table in front of the Escape. It was well after midnight, the waves had started to calm her and a feeling of exhaustion set in.

Climbing into the back of the Escape, she used her dirty clothes like a blanket. The plummeting temperature surprised her, along with the dampness. She huddled against Fotis in the cool night air. Her arm, chest and back muscles had just started to throb, but she’d fallen dead asleep before having much chance to notice.

She dreamed that Fotis was growling at a horse. Deep, low growling like the rumbling of thunder, primal and terrifying. She could hear the horse clomping about, munching on leaves, stripping vegetation from bushes and small trees. In her dream, the dog’s snarl through the window drove off the horse.

CHAPTER 8

Paula shivered awake in the damp morning air. She felt like she’d slept through to October. Her shoulders ached as she turned. The windows were fogged up, not enough light from the RV park to read her watch. Fotis licked her face. Her phone was in her purse on the floor of the front seat. Reaching up, she fumbled for the dome light, pressing until it switched on. Just tilting her wrist to check for the time hurt—Rick said to be there by seven. It was a little after five.

“Shit.” She sat up too fast, bumping her head on the ceiling.

She’d had no heavier clothes; it was summer when she left New York four days ago.

Armed with the spa white hotel towel she’d pilfered from the Soho Grand and the plastic IGA grocery bag containing shower items she’d sorted the night before, she opened the door and climbed out, Fotis tagging along on his leash. Tiptoeing barefoot, she spotted the outdoor lights of the dimly lit wooden shelter marked “Private Showers.” “Ow, ow, ow,” she mouthed quietly, brushing one foot off on the other as she hurried. She should’ve looked harder for her sandals.