Traveling Light (22 page)

She felt Maggie studying her.

“So who’s the somebody you left behind in New York?”

“Damn, you’re good,” Paula said, and they both laughed. “He’s in France for six weeks.”

“Think you’ll go back?”

Paula looked at her knees. “At some point,” she said, and tried to relax, but a dark mood seeped in on the heels of her happiness. Memories and obligations pecked at her. No one walks away unencumbered.

Paula wanted to be enveloped by the smell of old linoleum in Maggie’s store, the cluttered shelves of beauty products, potato chips, breakfast cereals, refrigerated shelves of smoked fish and the fun of thumbing through Avon catalogs.

“Sounds like you and Rick are good friends,” Paula said.

“More coffee?” Maggie offered, raising her cup as she stood to refill her own.

“No thanks.”

“Rick blew into town ten years ago. Sort of like you,” the woman said, looking at Paula in a funny way. “Unhappily married, not that you are, though I suspect most folks are.” Maggie raised her eyebrows.

Paula looked at her naked ring finger.

“—unrewarding career,” Maggie started to explain. “Came here with some buddies for a fishing weekend and basically never went back.”

“He never went back?” Paula looked at Maggie.

“In a manner of speaking,” she clarified. “Never
looked
back—of course he went back, bowed out of his partnership, settled his affairs, sold his house and bought the new one.”

“What partnership?” Paula asked.

“His law firm. Rick’s an attorney. From the Cities.”

“Oh.”

“Apparently had done quite well for himself,” Maggie explained. “He turned sixty last month; we’ve got the same birthday.”

“Kids?”

“Nope, but that’s another story.” Maggie glanced sideways at her in a way that said there was a whole hell of a lot more to it. “You know.” Maggie turned to face Paula. “Sometimes there’s no starting over because the stuff that you’re working with is just plain bad. Rearranging bad never turns it good unless you develop a taste for bad. Some of us gotta start fresh, walk away. Alcohol, bad love, shitty life, whatever. No one faults a person for that. And the ones that do are bitter ’cause they don’t have the guts to do it themselves.”

“Oh.” Paula couldn’t move, as if she’d gotten hit by a blunt object. As if Clotho, one of the three Fates, and the spinner of the thread of life, had borrowed Maggie’s mouth to cite line and verse from a page of Paula’s fate. It was so clean, so pointed, she felt as though Maggie knew everything.

It took Paula a few moments to recover.

“I don’t have kids,” Paula said. “You?”

“Four of ’em. All grown. Some days I say, ‘Thank God they’re grown’; others I miss their sweet baby smells so bad it kills me,” she said, and looked down at her knees. “All of ’em moved away—Chicago, the Cities.”

“You must miss them.”

“Every day.” Maggie looked at her hands. “Ephraim wants to remodel the store, ‘update.’ Says it’s ratty.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother customers any.” Paula looked around at the shelves that looked to be in need of perpetual restocking.

Maggie sighed. “I’m ready to retire. Ephraim says retiring kills ya.”

Paula thought of Vassili, who’d never lived to find out, and Eleni, who said the same thing. The IGA was a gold mine. The only grocery store in a tourist town aside from a few health-food stores that sold meat, real toilet paper, plastic forks and spoons, Campbell’s soup, Coke, Pepsi, hair dye and ibuprofen.

Maggie sat quietly, thinking. “Maybe in the next few years. Travel, maybe move back to Red Cliff where we’re from, see the grandkids.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Ephraim inherited the store thirty years ago.”

“Would one of your kids take over?”

Maggie laughed in a dark way. “Hon, that conversation’s long dead.”

“Does Rick still practice law?”

Maggie gave her a look. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing—just curious. He seems like a smart guy.” She shrugged, wondering what the big deal was.

“Well, hon, I’d say you’re no slouch yourself,” Maggie countered. “Let’s just say he works on special projects.”

“Oh.” Paula got the sense she’d entered forbidden territory.

Just then a family with four giggling adolescent girls entered the store.

“Well, break’s over.” Maggie stood and began shoving the chairs back against the front window to clear the aisle.

“Well, thanks for the coffee.” Paula tossed the empty cup into a wastebasket by the door. “I’ll fill this out and bring it back.” She held up the Avon order form in her hand.

Maggie smiled and nodded back as the mother asked about mosquito repellant.

Paula walked out to the street. She could see the top of Fotis’ head. He was either napping or busy with the bone. Walking down two doors, she found the Ben Franklin and waltzed in.

CHAPTER 9

Next morning she thought nothing of driving up the steep incline from the guesthouse to Rick’s. Scent from a wood fire along with the nutty smell of burning leaves got stronger as she approached. Thick gray clouds like sooty cotton balls hung low over the lake, setting off the yellow leaves to glow brighter than the day before.

“Stay here,” she said to Fotis, and parked. Closing the door, she clomped off in her stiff new work boots in search of Rick. Last night she’d taken Fotis on a long walk. Blisters already brewed on three toes; her big toe was at the mercy of the bend in the leather boot, while two others had just begun complaining. She wanted to tough it out, but the thick wool socks provided no cushion at all as she walked toward sounds of Rick foraging about in the otter enclosure.

She was primed and ready to show off the new work attire. Hair pinned back, face free of earrings and necklace, black and yellow plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The tag in the back was irritating. She reached in and yanked; threads popped and a tiny patch of yellow came out. She stuffed it into her jeans pocket. A thick black polar fleece jacket had replaced the hideous sweatshirt. She pushed up its sleeves.

Each step hurt worse; it would be a long day at this rate. There was a first-aid kit prominently displayed in the raptor room. Band-Aids might help. Thank God she hadn’t walked to work; it was at least a quarter of a mile. She’d have been barefoot by the time she got to Rick’s. The Ben Franklin clerk had suggested moleskin pads, “to cover those tender areas during the break-in period,” but Paula had taken the advice as some sort of marketing ploy, though the clerk had shook his head as if to say,
It’s your funeral, lady.

As she approached the otter enclosure, the smell of damp hay and warm mammal became thick. A garden hose snaked through the chain link. She spotted Rick bent over, cleaning. He wore grimy olive green rubber boots. The top of his sandy gray hair sprang in damp curls from the effort; the only clear view was that of the two back pockets of his jeans. “Okay if I put Fotis in with Sam again?”

“Any reason you drove?” Answering a question with a question—she was getting used to it. Rick sounded more amused than peeved.

Paula looked over to his house; the lakeside glass wall of windows sparkled like sheets of polished quartz. No sign of a lady friend.

The lake mirrored a sky with no horizon. It was hypnotic.

“Sam’s already out,” Rick called back.

“Okay.”

“There’s food in each kennel. Didn’t know if he’d eaten; just open the doors. They’ll go in.”

“All right, thanks.”

“Shut each gate; wait till they’re done before you let ’em out,” Rick instructed.

“I will.”

“Once they’re settled come on in,” he said. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Fotis dragged her toward the backyard where Sam stood motionless, tall and shaggy like a cartoon version of a wolf. As they neared, Sam dropped down onto his front elbows and emitted a squeal before running off, inviting Fotis to chase. She stood watching the two of them romp like best friends. Her throat cramped; happiness hit so sharply it hurt. She breathed and looked up to the trees. They were noticeably barer than the day before. The freshly fallen yellow leaves formed circles beneath the drip line of the trees. As the dogs rustled through the leaves, she closed her eyes. She wanted to remember this scene forever.

“Okay, you guys,” she called, and clapped her hands, walking toward the kennels. Sam ran toward her and Fotis followed. When she opened the gates, each ran like a bullet to his respective food bowl.

Closing the gate to each kennel, Paula waited. Fotis’ rabies tag clinked on the side of the bowl. He finished first and looked to Sam, who finished and glanced back as if clocking in. “You guys done?” She unlatched each gate and Sam dashed off to the trees with Fotis chasing after.

*   *   *

“Okay, I’m back,” she announced before opening the otter gate to step inside. “How’s the eagle?”

“Had a rough night, but his lead levels dropped a few points.”

“Thank God.”

“He’s not out of the woods yet.” Rick stopped scrubbing and looked up to get her attention. “Remember yesterday when you started to play with the otters and I told you to stop?”

She nodded.

“Do you know why?”

She looked down at her boots.

“You invited them to imprint,” he said.

The animals were irresistibly cute.

“They’re not stuffed animals,” he said, scolding. “You play, they imprint, you’ve ruined their lives.” He went on. “Imagine one of them approaches someone’s kid in a campground and bites to initiate play.” He studied her for a few moments. “It’s seen as an attack and the animal pays.”

The scenario played out in her mind. She nodded and looked down at the crease in her boot.

“I see.”

“When they’re imprinted, we become peers. They look to humans for food, for a mate.” He stood up, hands on hips to stretch his back, keeping his eyes on her. Foamy cleanser smelling like Pine-Sol dripped from his scrub brush. “Imprinting begins at birth,” he began. “Parents identify what to eat, how to hunt, who’s a mate. Human contact screws it up.”

“Then what about the eagle?” She looked toward the metal building. Rick hadn’t shut her down as she’d murmured and stroked the bird’s chest feathers.

“Adult raptors don’t imprint. We treat them, comfort them as best we can. Release is the goal unless injuries impair their survival. We want them well and back to their territory, their mates—therein lies the payoff. You’ll see when we release.”

She thought of the eagle, alone in the box.

“Wild turkey vultures on the other hand”—Rick turned and pointed with the brush to a large black bird with a bald red head of wrinkly skin—“are a different story. Which is why Sigmund here never goes away.”

“He’s got a name?”

Rick smiled wryly. His lips were a bit crooked. “Too bad they’re not good to eat.”

“Hhhh—” She looked at Rick. “You don’t mean that!” One glance said he did.

The vulture was a few inches shorter than the eagle; his head resembled fresh hamburger meat.

“Why’s his head so disgusting?” she asked.

“Easy, you’ll hurt his feelings,” Rick said.

She laughed.

“He’s got a crush on you,” Rick said.

The vulture tilted his head to sustain eye contact.

“Don’t let it go to your head, though; he falls in love with every female who works here.”

“Seriously, his head looks like a giant hemorrhoid!”

Rick suddenly bent over, laughing. It pleased her.

He straightened, wiped his eyes and said, “If you had to stick your head into the rib cages of rotting, dead things for a meal you wouldn’t want a head full of feathers gathering bits of bacteria and rotting flesh either.”

A mild gag reflex kicked in. Perhaps she was more squeamish than she’d thought.

“After a meal they sun themselves. It burns off the bits of bacteria and dead flesh. They’re important players in the cycle of the forest.”

She studied his expression. A bit of a smile turned his lips. Aside from sun damage, his skin was pitted in acne scars that had merged into wrinkles with the aging process. When he was talking about animals, twenty years peeled off; he became fresh, so alive.

“Here.” Rick held out a pair of rubber gloves along with a pair of rubber waders that looked like overalls with attached rubber boots. “We’re cleaning this morning.”

Sigmund took a few steps toward her. She stepped back even though there was a chain-link fence between them.

“Vultures get a nasty rap, but they’re really quite gentle.”

“So I could just walk over and pick him up,” she dared. Sigmund tilted his head as if displaying his best angle.

“Go ahead. He’d love it.” Rick’s voice was low, almost a gurgle at Sigmund’s love-starved expression. “If he doesn’t he’ll vomit.”

Paula looked at Rick. “Delightful.”

“The stench from their stomach is so vile it drives away everything except for the females—they seem drawn to it.”

“Yum.”

“They also urinate on their legs to kill off lingering bacteria. Their urine is acidic for that purpose.”

“Oh goody.”

Rick looked at the otter shelter. “Imprinting’s only a threat with the young,” he went on to explain. “So we limit contact to feeding and handling only for medical procedures. Even with caution, imprinting is a risk.”

“So how do you avoid it?”

He bent over and picked out twigs, leaves, from the bottom of the otter pool. The three otters hid from him in the wooden shelter. “Very carefully.”

One of them peeked out at her and then withdrew.

He motioned for her to wait and stepped to close the door to their shelter.

“I try not to even speak around them; I’m breaking my own rule,” he whispered.

“They seem afraid.”

He looked at the shelter.

“Avoidant. Which is how they should be.”

She looked toward two eagles sitting in the sun, each tethered to a stand by leather jesses on their feet. One puffed out his belly and leg feathers seemingly in bliss.

“Does he like the sun?”

Rick looked. “Animals love the sun. These two are flightless. Both about twenty years old. One’s a bald; the other’s a golden. Been with me for years. Normally we don’t get goldens up here; don’t know where he came from. He’s mostly blind, too blind for the wild—some sort of head trauma—the other lost part of a wing. He can’t hunt. Mixed it up with a power line over near Two Harbors. Sometimes they get so fixated on a field mouse they miss power lines, barbed-wire fences. These guys have ‘sanctuary’; we’ll see who outlives whom.”