Traveling Light (26 page)

“You gonna eat, too?” she asked.

“I could have a bite,” he said, walking into a little alcove just off the hall leading to the flight room. She heard the clunking sound of a coffeemaker. “How’s he doing?”

She was surprised to be asked.

“I think the same,” she said.

Rick walked over with the glass coffeepot in his hand to take a look. He studied the bird and then felt the eagle’s chest. He sighed, gently pinching the skin near the bird’s neck to check hydration.

“Can’t he just drink water?” she asked.

“No. They get fluids from the food they eat.” Rick sighed as he walked to the sink and filled the pot.

They sat in silence as Rick read his stack of legal documents. Each time he stood up she noticed the seat and back were molded with the impression of his body. With his glasses on the tip of his nose, he periodically got up, checked the eagle and then walked over to a laptop to enter his notes.

Hours later Rick disappeared near the flight room. She heard him wrangling with something down the hall.

“You need some help?” she called.

He dragged a folded aluminum cot from one of the hall closets. “For when you get tired.”

“Thanks.” She watched him unfold it.

“Blankets in the closet down by the flight room,” he said. “Tomorrow, you’ll need to do laundry, bird blankets and towels. Soap, everything’s by the washer.”

She’d seen an old washer and dryer down the hall by the flight room.

“I can start it now if you want.”

“No, no,” he said. “Noise from the machines’ll disturb him. Just stay with your buddy tonight.”

He plopped down again in his chair, popped his glasses back on and resumed reading.

They sat in silence until later when he looked at his watch and stood. “Let’s tube-feed him.”

“Even when he’s this sick?”

“Especially when he’s this sick, with muscle wasting and the danger of his organs shutting down. Get those deer hearts from the fridge,” Rick said. “They’re in a black plastic bag. I’ll show you how to section and weigh them before we put ’em into the blender. Always weigh everything like I showed you and record the amount he actually eats, not the amount you prepare, on the laptop. We have to know what’s going in. This guy should be eating between three and six hundred grams.”

She headed to the refrigerator and pulled out the bag. The hearts weighed heavy in her palm.

Rick handed her a pair of latex gloves. “Remember, always wear gloves,” he said, and put a pair on, too, and then began to show how to section out certain parts for specific nutrients. She placed the meat on the scale and then scurried over to enter the amount, date, time into the eagle’s file. She tossed the pieces into the blender, whirling it to a puree fine enough to pass through the feeding tube.

“This time you hold him, I’ll feed,” he said.

She lifted the eagle as Rick watched. The bird was practically inert and offered no resistance; she had to hold up his head.

Rick gently placed the tube down the eagle’s throat and dispensed the contents.

“We’ll do this about every hour or so until dawn and then assess how he’s doing.” He motioned for her to place the bird back down. She stroked his feathers as Rick listened to the eagle’s heart. She waited for an update, but he gave none.

Paula moved over to clean up the counter, put the remaining meat back into the refrigerator and washed the tube-feeding equipment in hot soapy water.

She stayed, leaning over the eagle, until late in the night. They awoke several more times to treat him, getting up to check his vitals, give more antibiotics as the eagle panted, gasping for air. Each time Rick would shake his head. “Done all we can for now.” He collapsed into the chair, rubbing his face. She saw how despondent he was.

*   *   *

Paula woke to clicking noises. She didn’t remember falling asleep on the cot beside the table, much less sitting down. More noises. She opened her eyes toward the sound. On the edge of the metal table, the eagle stood, the midsection beneath his wings still wrapped like a mummy. The outline of his shoulders and wings shadowed her like those of an archangel. His talons clicked as he moved along the edge, staring intently as if willing her to awaken. Standing straight and tall, he was alert, seemingly amused by her.

“Rick.” She sat up. “Rick?”

A rustle from the chair.

“Rick, look.”

They stood slowly.

“Hey, buddy,” he said, his voice light in a way she’d not heard.

“Ti kanis?” she asked, as if the bird would answer and tell her how he was feeling.

“It’s always amazing when they bounce back like this,” Rick said, and moved toward the table. “So often you awaken to a dead bird.”

“But you’re not, are you?” she said in a goofy voice.

The eagle spread his wings. With an eight-foot whoosh, his wingtips swept everything off the table. Stethoscope and syringes pinged as they hit the floor. Even his pink blanket whooshed off the table and onto the floor as his wingtips grazed the walls of the crammed examinination room.

“Easy, big guy,” Rick said. “No showing off just yet.” But in defiance, the eagle spread his wings again. “You’ve got a
long ways
to go.” Rick drew out the last few words in a tone-deaf singsong.

“How long?”

“Two, three months, maybe four. Till he’s well enough for release. Providing he has no long-term neurological damage from the lead poisoning. This was a pretty severe case.” He nodded at the bird.

“Could he get sick again?”

Rick looked at her with relief. “Let’s hope not.”

She wondered how Rick held up doing this kind of work.

“Let’s check his levels,” he said.

In one motion, she reached for the eagle and lifted him, grabbing hold of his legs, grasping his ankles and gently securing the bird against her chest, restraining his wings with her arms.

“That was pretty damn good.” Rick nodded, crouching and leaning toward the bird to draw blood, the cap of the syringe between his teeth. “You’re getting better.”

“Thanks.” Even Rick’s scalp was tan in the spots where his hair was thin.

“Hang on.” He stepped to the lead analyzer and deposited a few drops of blood. The machine hummed. “Now one more dose of antibiotic.” She watched as he drew another syringe and injected the bird. He then pinched the eagle’s skin.

“How is it?”

He nodded and lifted his eyebrows. “Feels okay.” The machine beeped and he went for the reading. “Huh.” Rick sounded surprised.

“What?”

“Still high, but it fell several points overnight.” He adjusted the dosage of anti-toxin and injected the bird again. “How much you wanna bet he’ll eat solid food. Set him down and go get that fresh fish in the fridge.”

She set the eagle down to stand on the table. “Now stay.” She pointed at the bird as if talking to a dog.

Rick rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“This fridge?” she said, hurrying back toward the flight room, thinking she’d cut the fish into small pieces. Something made her look back.

He nodded, looking at her with something she hadn’t seen since she’d arrived: trust.

After they’d treated the eagle and fed him, Rick insisted she take the morning off. She was too elated to sleep. Instead she changed into her sandals, grabbed her fleece jacket and loaded Fotis into the car. She’d wanted to walk out onto Artist’s Point, a local tourist attraction, to watch the early sunrise. People raved about the hikes along the jetties, out to a lighthouse in the center of the harbor.

She parked downtown, realizing she hadn’t brushed her teeth or looked in a mirror since the previous day but didn’t care. She felt jubilant about the eagle. It felt like a miracle.

As they walked past the IGA Paula glanced inside, mindful not to press her oily forehead against the window, but there were no store lights indicating that Maggie might be there. They crossed onto Broadway and walked until it ended at the Coast Guard parking lot. Evergreen bushes lined the grounds for several yards and smelled like Christmas trees. A sign marked the trailhead, noting that the trail was “for Coast Guard navigational purposes” and that people traveled at their own risk. It stated that a small boreal forest overlooked the East Bay and Lake Superior. Homeland Security Border Patrol boats were docked like a tiny fleet along the pier.

A few people sat out on the rocks, watching the horizon as the sun rose. The lake was perfectly still. The sky was clear except for high, thin layers of clouds and the sunrise was promising. She breathed a rush of cold air as she neared the shore. Fotis pulled and hopped up onto the first boulders; he practically dragged her over the strange ancient lava formations that made up the shoreline. It had eroded into strange three-dimensional rectangular towers that looked like clumps of massive crystals. Boulders, rocks, all broken into the same shapes like some gnome had sat for centuries tapping with a hammer and chisel to form each one. The flatter rocks were piled up into various formations along the beach, a watery field of them.

In places people had stacked up the broken rocks into
inukshuks,
or cairns, marking the fact that they’d been there, the ecotourist’s graffiti.

Slabs of lava rock looked like paved walkways, having been smoothed by the melting glacial waters and hundred of years of pounding by Superior’s waves. The stone was mottled with bright orange and green lichens that looked as if someone had randomly walked through and splattered bright-colored paint. In spots the flat rock shoreline was hollowed out into perfect concentric whirlpools. Seagulls swooped wildly as the sun rose, diving for fish. Mist from the harbor illuminated by the rise of the sun gave everything a pink cast. In the distance she saw elevated cement walkways, three or four feet tall, some with rope railings, some without. They looked terrifying. She headed out to Artist’s Point, thinking she’d sit on the concrete base of the lighthouse.

Up farther she stepped up onto the break wall. In some places the wall was so narrow that only one could pass. She wondered what people did when it was crowded with tourist traffic. Either backtrack several yards to let someone pass or else jump off into the pools of waist-high frigid water of Lake Superior. Some sections had rusted iron handrails, others loosely strung rusty cables or nothing at all.

Fotis didn’t seem to be bothered by any of this. Once they’d reached the lighthouse, she sat down on the concrete slab and wondered how deep the water was. It was so clear she could see down to huge boulders and rocks in the frigid teal-colored water. It was so hushed and peaceful she wanted to call Roger, tell him how lovely it was, but she remembered she’d left her phone in the guesthouse. It would have been nice to share the events of the night before, but he was probably underground in the collider by now.

As she walked back the town started coming alive. In the parking lot across from the Escape, people were setting up tables, opening tailgates to boxes packed with merchandise, some holding art-glass vases and dishes, others wooden sculptures, boxes and burled bowls.

“What’s this?” Paula asked a blond woman unpacking and setting handblown glass vases on a table.

“Craft Market,” she said. “We started a day early. Tonight begins the Fall Harvest Festival. Today, tomorrow, winds down on Sunday.”

“Sounds like fun. What time does it start?” Paula asked.

The woman looked around at the other people and gave a laugh. “I guess as soon as we all set up. It’s going on all day until about midnight. Music starts about noon, out of respect for the tourists. But look around; people are starting to set up on the sidewalks,” she said. Paula noticed trucks unloading, kiosks and booths being erected.

“Just holler if there’s something you want to see,” the woman said. On one table Paula watched a man with a beard like Andrew Weil’s setting out finely carved wooden bowls, wine stops and puzzles.

Paula approached a table being set up out of the back of a white van. A woman with blond hair began unpacking boxes that her husband had unloaded onto the table, carefully unwrapping painted wooden plates. “Nice-looking dog you got there,” the husband said over his shoulder as he placed another box on the table. His hair was the same color as his wife’s. There was not one ounce of tension as they worked together.

“Thanks.” Paula picked up two plates and looked at a large box. “These are the most beautiful things.” The woman paused; Paula’s comment seemed to surprise her.

“It’s Norwegian,” the woman said. “Haven’t you seen rosemaling before?”

Paula shook her head.

“Learned it from my mother and grandmother. You see hundreds-years-old steamer trunks with dates on them. Plates, bowls all painted with these designs, some have sayings, some dates and people’s names. The designs are based on techniques from differing parts of Norway. Families pass them along.”

Paula was enchanted. She picked out a few plates and the large box. “Can you hold these? I have to run and get my wallet from the car.”

“You on vacation?” the woman asked.

“Actually I’m working for Rick Gunnarsson on Sixty-One—Nothern Lights Wildlife Rehabiliation.”

The woman turned to her husband. “She’s working for Rick.” She turned back. “We know Rick. His house is filled with our stuff.” The woman chuckled, gesturing to the other dealers. “She’s working for Rick,” she announced to the other dealers.

“I’m Paula.” She extended her hand.

“I’m Karin. Didn’t Rick mention the festival?”

“No.”

“That’s surprising,” the woman said. “He’s usually a fixture. His whole staff, too.”

Paula didn’t know what to say.

“The whole downtown turns into one big party,” the woman said. “Restaurants open their doors; everyone gathers on the beach; there’s live music; it’s the biggest hoopla of the year,” the woman said as she laughed. “Sort of a good-bye-to-summer party.”

Paula bought a wooden plate for herself, one for Celeste and a few carved wooden wine stops for Roger and Tony. Roger was impossible to buy for, but she thought he’d appreciate the fine wood craftsmanship. She bought Eleni a matching glass pendant and earrings in the Santorini blue colored glass (the hue of the Aegean Sea) that her mother loved.