by Luanne Rice
“Yes, it is,” Tim said. “I’m surprised I’ve never seen you down at the beach. I’ve been working there a long time—I thought I knew all the winter regulars.”
Neve shook her head. “No,” she said. “We have our own spots…even more remote than the places you patrol.”
Tim nodded. He thought of Neve and Mickey exploring the beach, just as he and Frank had done. They had walked the tide line too many times to count, every year, until the summer Frank left. Memories of Frank were intense, made him feel he was passing through the sound barrier and shook him to the core. He felt himself frowning, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said. He tried to hold the words in—this was none of his business, no two families were the same. But he cared about this woman and Mickey—he’d bonded with the child on the spot, there on the frozen beach road, seeing her broken wrist and hearing her talk about the snowy owl.
“Is it about the beach?” she asked. “You’re the ranger there—are there places we shouldn’t go?”
“It’s not the beach,” he said. He squinted. “Stay out of court. Whatever differences you and your husband are having, work them out on your own—for Mickey’s sake. There’s so much to lose….”
Her face changed in an instant. He watched her cheeks turn bright red—she looked embarrassed first, then furious, and he knew he’d done it again. He wanted to touch her arm, tell what had happened, return that gentle look to her eyes. But she was too angry; clutching the package, she backed away.
“I’ll see Mickey gets this,” she said, starting to close the door in his face. He stepped forward, stopping her.
“I…” he began. The next words stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t get them out.
“This is the second time you’ve tried to tell me what to do regarding my ‘husband,’ as you call him. He’s my ex-husband, Mr. O’Casey, and he’s abandoning my daughter. She’s called him twenty times, to tell him she has a broken wrist, and he hasn’t called her back once. Okay? Do you understand now?” Her eyes were wild, staring straight into his. “I don’t know what makes you think you know what I should do, I don’t know if all divorced men stick together, but I’m telling you—leave me alone. Leave us alone.”
The door slammed in his face.
Tim O’Casey stood on the step for a long time, staring at his own reflection in the small window. He saw an old man—face lined, hair gray. But staring deeper into the shadowy reflection, he saw Frank. His son standing there, staring at him with cold, judgmental eyes.
Tim touched the glass. He stood there for a few seconds as the cold traveled through his fingertips, straight into his core. The curtain moved, as if Neve Halloran had checked to see if he was still there. In case she was watching, he nodded—full of regret and apology—and then he left.
4
By the time Neve got to the Dominic di Tibor Gallery, she was still boiling over Tim O’Casey’s comment. She tried to calm down, concentrate on everything she’d let build up during the last few days. Her desk was piled high with slides, sent in by artists hoping to be considered for the gallery’s big summer show. There was a stack of phone messages from collectors and artists, all needing to be called back.
The gallery was located in a beautiful restored boathouse on Front Street, overlooking the protected harbor. It specialized in contemporary and nineteenth-century American art, with a focus on marine and wildlife paintings. Neve’s job was doing research, primarily on the many older works done by illustrious bird artists from the last two centuries.
Although the gallery owner, Dominic di Tibor, was very wealthy, and stinted at nothing in terms of the space—climate control, security, enormous thermopane windows, highly polished pumpkin-pine floors—Neve’s position wasn’t very high paying. She loved her work, felt really lucky to have such an interesting job, but it always came back to money.
Sitting at her desk, she felt anger starting to simmer again. How dare Tim O’Casey tell her to stay out of court? Did he think she wanted to be there? He had no idea what her life was like. She had married Richard thinking it was forever. She’d fallen in love with him…well, at a low ebb in his life. While he built a career in real estate, she had gotten a master’s degree in art history. She had dreamed of becoming a conservator—the person who restores old paintings and other works of art, gently repairing the damage done by time, weather, or, sometimes, violence.
Her expertise was in paintings of wildlife. Having grown up loving birds so much, she’d transferred that passion to an interest in paintings by the great bird artists John James Audubon and Louis Agassiz Fuertes. When Neve was a child, her mother had taken her into Manhattan to see the Audubon prints at the New York Historical Society. She had attended Cornell because of its collection of Fuertes’ papers, as well as the famous Cornell Lab of Ornithology.
So here she was, pursuing her dream of researching bird artists, getting paid next to nothing, fighting her ex-husband in court. Trembling, she thought of Tim O’Casey. Would he have her quit doing work that mattered to her, get a higher-paying job—maybe selling real estate, like Richard? That way she could pay her bills by selling her soul.
Just then the phone rang, and she reached for it.
“Dominic di Tibor Gallery,” she said.
“Neve.”
“Richard?” she asked, shocked to hear his voice. “Where are you?”
“Never mind that. How’s Mickey?”
“She has a broken wrist—didn’t you get our messages?”
“Yes, I got them,” he said. “I’ve been going crazy, worried about her.”
“Then why didn’t you call?” Neve asked.
“Because of you,” he said. “And this insanity—I told you, I’ll pay you when I can. Jesus, Neve. I’m strapped right now. The market is tight, I’ve got more going out than coming in, and you’ve got the goddamn court all over my ass.”
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, trying to stay calm. “You say you’ll pay me when you can…but when will that be? I’m not trying to make things hard on you—I just want you to take care of your share. You agreed to the terms of the divorce—it’s not as if I was unreasonable….”
“But you’re being unreasonable now!” he exploded. “My lawyer says there’s a warrant out for my arrest!”
“Because you didn’t show up in court,” Neve said, wondering how it was possible he was making her feel guilty for this.
“So, tell them we’re working it out—get the judge to call it off. Christ sakes!”
“How can I get him to call it off when Mickey’s health insurance has lapsed? Richard, I have to pay all her hospital costs out-of-pocket now. X-rays, exams, medication, the doctor. I need your help with that…and I want you to start paying the premium again. It was part of the agreement!”
“Well, I don’t have it,” he said. “I don’t have the money, okay? To hell with the agreement. You don’t understand, you never did. Alyssa, I swear…”
Had he just called her by his girlfriend’s name? “This is Neve,” she said.
“I know that,” he said. “Christ, you think I don’t know my own wife?”
“Your own…” she started, and then she knew. Suddenly everything fell into place. His erratic behavior, his irresponsibility, letting the insurance payments drop, his refusal to see Mickey: Richard was drinking again.
They first dated when she was in college and he had just dropped out. His father had died, and Richard was in a tailspin. He didn’t call it that; he loved bars and parties, wanted people to think he was outrageous and fun. Neve, who loved wildlife and studied nature, saw him more like a wounded bird. Grounded, unable to fly, finding it hard to survive. He had found a job, selling cars to make money—and making a lot of it. But Neve knew that the most important things in life weren’t things, and she saw a young man who was dying inside.
Still, he had an undeniably attractive charm,
a sense of fun and adventure, and a tendency to take life right to the edge. More comfortable in libraries or standing quietly with binoculars, watching birds, Neve sometimes felt overwhelmed by the excitement of being with Richard. They went to parties, enjoyed spur-of-the-moment trips to New York or Boston, drives to Vermont, sails to Block Island. He’d take her skinny-dipping in the moonlight after romantic picnics on the beach.
Often those nights were fueled with wine, or scotch, or after-dinner drinks. Richard claimed to love the finer things in life; he told her that drinking was just part of it. But after a few too many, he’d plunge into despair. He’d start missing his father. He’d talk about missed opportunities—dropping out of school, the law career he could have had, the chances other guys got instead of him.
By the time Neve was pregnant with Mickey, the fun was gone, and desperation was a way of life. Richard would drink until he passed out on the sofa, in front of the TV, leaving Neve to cover him with a blanket and go to bed alone. Or he wouldn’t come home at all—he’d stay out all night, stumbling in the next morning, bleary-eyed, reeking of scotch, telling her “nothing happened,” even when his shirt smelled of another woman’s perfume.
What was supposed to be the happiest time of their lives, awaiting the birth of their first child, had become a nightmare. One night, coming upon her sobbing in bed, Richard had fallen to his knees, taken her hand.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said, starting to cry himself.
“What is it?” she’d asked. “Why are you doing this? Don’t you love me anymore? Aren’t you happy about the baby?”
“I’m scared,” he’d whispered. She could still remember how strangled his voice had sounded, how terrified his eyes had looked.
“Scared of what?” she’d asked.
“Of screwing up. Of not being able to take care of you both—of being a bad father.”
“But you’ll be a wonderful father,” she’d said, thinking of his incredible zest for life, his spontaneity, wanting that for their child, wanting everything to go back to the way it was.
“How do you know?” he’d implored, searching her eyes.
“Because you’re a good man,” she’d said, gazing right back at him, steadily and with all the love she had, believing with all her heart that she was telling the truth, that all they had to do was believe in each other to make it all right again. “With a good heart.”
“My father died too young,” he said. “I don’t have any role models.”
“Then you have to be a role model for yourself,” she’d said sternly. “We have a baby coming, Richard—and she needs a father.”
“I know. I’ll try to be a good one,” he’d promised. “I swear to you, Neve. I’ll really try.”
And he had. He’d stopped drinking that same night, and she’d never seen him have another drop, not even one. No beer at baseball games, no wine at dinner, nothing…Until eight years ago. He’d started up on his thirty-eighth birthday. It was as if the crush of middle age, of approaching forty, had added up to more than he could handle, and he’d begun having a cocktail before dinner again—“just to smooth out the rough edges,” he would say.
The rough edges must have included Neve and Mickey, because soon he stopped coming home. Or, he’d come home when he felt like it. Mickey’s schoolwork and soccer games and birthdays lost their appeal for him; instead he gravitated more toward the bars and his own social life.
Finally Neve kicked him out, and he moved into a condo with Alyssa—a woman he’d met showing her houses after her divorce. Mickey would see him on weekends, and she reported back that he’d stopped drinking. He was working out; he and Alyssa went running every morning, and she was getting him into yoga. He was eating health food. Suddenly he started paying more attention to Mickey. It had hurt Neve, but she’d never let on to Mickey: that Richard had become a better father to their child when he was living with someone else.
But now Alyssa was expecting a baby, and the pattern was repeating itself. Richard drank when he was stressed, when he couldn’t handle the intensity and surprises of everyday life.
“Richard,” Neve said now, “come back from wherever you are. We’ll work it out, okay? For Mickey’s sake?”
“Everything’s going down the drain,” he said, his voice hollow, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“It doesn’t have to,” she said. “We can figure something—”
But he hung up. She heard the fumbled click, then the sound of a dial tone. Cradling the phone, she felt her heart pounding. Richard wasn’t her husband—wasn’t her problem—anymore. But he was, and always would be, Mickey’s father.
She found herself wondering what was in the package Tim O’Casey had brought by. In spite of what Neve felt about him, she knew that Mickey would be happy to know he’d thought of her.
Mickey knew, as soon as her mother came home from work, that something was up. It might have been that her smile was too bright, or the way she went straight to the kitchen to begin cooking—without even sitting down to talk for a few minutes.
“What is it?” Mickey asked.
Her mother looked over, and Mickey saw her face instantly fall. Mickey and her mother could always read each other. They had the hardest time keeping secrets. From the time she was little, Mickey knew she could ask her mother anything and get the truth. The problem was, sometimes Mickey didn’t want to know.
“Is it Dad?”
“Yes, honey,” her mother said. “I talked to him today….”
“Why hasn’t he called me?”
“Mickey, he’s drinking.”
It felt like a punch in the stomach. Mickey walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. She stared at the salt and pepper shakers, standing together next to the napkin holder. Her eyes burned, scalding with tears. Why did it have to be this way? Other fathers could drink, and they stayed the same. When Mickey’s did, the whole world fell apart.
“He doesn’t care about me anymore,” she said.
“That’s not true,” her mother said.
“He has a new baby coming, and I just don’t matter.”
“Oh, Mickey—you matter more than anything.”
How could her mother say that? Didn’t she see? Mickey bowed her head so her mother couldn’t look into her eyes and see how lost she felt. Her father was with Alyssa now, and they were starting a new family. Both Mickey and her mother had been thrown out—he had walked out their door, out of their lives, and he really wasn’t coming back.
“What he’s doing has nothing to do with you….”
“How can you say that?” she asked, looking down at her cast. She remembered other times she’d gotten hurt, and her father had been right there—when she’d fallen and cut her chin and he’d taken her for stitches, when she’d skinned her knee and he’d so tenderly cleaned and bandaged it himself.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she waited for her mother to reply. The silence ticked on, and no words came out of her mother’s mouth—as if she herself were bewildered, unable to understand how it could be like this. Instead of replying, her mother came around the table, put her arms around Mickey.
“I love you,” her mother said.
“I love you, too,” Mickey said, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.
“Someone brought you a present,” her mother said after a minute.
Mickey looked up, watched as her mother went to the sideboard, came back with a package wrapped in pretty paper. Tearing it open, Mickey found a big book of photographs: White Night: Snowy Owls in Flight. She paged through, and the photographs were sharp, brilliant, almost magic. Someone had written on the title page, and she leaned closer to see:
To Mickey,
Thanks for loving birds so much.
Ranger Timothy O’Casey
“Wow,” Mickey said. “That’s so nice.”
“He dropped it off this morning, just after you left for school. It’s giving me an idea….”
“Mom,” Mickey said, looking out
the kitchen window, starting to smile. The weather had warmed up a little today; the icicles hanging from the gutters had melted, and more of the snow was gone. How much longer would the snowy owl be here on the beach before flying home, north to the tundra?
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” her mother asked.
“Beach picnic?” Mickey said.
“I really want to see that owl,” her mother said, grinning. They put everything together: her mother heated up tomato soup, poured it into a thermos. Mickey grabbed bread, and with one hand managed to make two cheese and tomato sandwiches. Her mother threw in apples and cookies, they put on their warmest coats and hats, and hurried out to the station wagon.
Although their house was just a five-minute walk from the town beach, the snowy owl was all the way at the end of Salt Marsh Refuge, and they had to drive quite a ways along the deserted coast road.
The days were getting longer. The setting sun hovered, a red ball trapped in drifts of cloud. Pink light spread over the dunes, across the slate-colored sea. Waves broke just offshore, and Mickey imagined the U-boat down below, causing the spectacular wave break. She had always wondered about the men on board, at war so far from home, trapped underwater forever.
It made her think of her own father—sometimes it seemed that he was caught underwater, unable to swim up or away, at the mercy of whatever currents or waves held him down. Her throat choked up, and she opened the car window, just to breathe in the sea air. It felt cold, but smelled of salt and beach pines, and made her feel that things would be okay.
They passed the ranger station—there was Mr. O’Casey’s big truck parked in the lot. Lights were on, and Mickey was tempted to ask her mother to stop so they could thank him for the book and for coming to the emergency room, maybe invite him to join their picnic. But when she turned to look, the expression in her mother’s eyes was so faraway, Mickey decided not to say anything.
Once they drove past the heavy machinery—still there, in spite of Shane’s trying to chase it away—Mickey signaled for her mother to pull over. They grabbed the food and two heavy blankets from the back seat, hurried through the thicket toward the beach. They passed the high-bush blueberries, silvery bayberry, gnarled red cedar, and scrub oaks. Crossing the small wooden bridge over the creek, they came out just behind the dunes.
