The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  Now, so many years later, he had his father’s water-holding technique down to a science. Still, the owl wouldn’t drink. After a few more minutes, Tim put the dish down on the cage floor. He offered the fresh flounder, but the owl ignored that, too.

  Tim took the opportunity to assess its injuries: last night he’d thought the outer bone of the left wing had been shattered, that he could see the bone’s jagged edge protruding through the skin, narrow and delicate and hollow, like the shaft of a feather. But in fact, that’s what he was seeing—broken feathers. He couldn’t tell whether the bones were intact or not, but its flesh had definitely been cut by the impact. The owl’s plumage was pure white—this was a mature male—its luminous surface streaked with blood.

  And the terrible beak that had killed so many moles and voles and mice and who knew what else—the food necessary to keep this magnificent raptor alive on his transcendent journeys to the north pole and back—was crooked, more hooked than it should have been, separating slightly from the owl’s fierce white face, and this was even worse for Tim to see than the injured wing.

  This time when he heard the knock on the door, he was past knowing what to expect. An injured boy, nearly drowned girl, broken-winged owl—what next? He walked through the kitchen barefoot, opened the door in the T-shirt and sweatpants he’d slept in.

  Four men stood there—three obviously workmen, dressed in jeans and Carhartt jackets, the fourth in a black cashmere topcoat.

  “What the fuck?” asked the topcoat guy.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the park ranger here?”

  “Yeah, and good morning to you, too,” Tim said.

  “I’ve got a film crew arriving at noon. That’s less than four hours from now. Didn’t you get the communication about the shoot?”

  “The what?”

  “The communication about the shoot?”

  “By ‘communication’ are you talking about a letter?”

  “I don’t know how the fuck they told you, but they told you. The network! We’re going live tonight. Don’t say you weren’t aware of it, because I was assured you were told! You were to have your beach in order, looking good, for the camera.”

  The owl squawked behind him, and it sounded so much as if he were laughing at Landry, Tim joined in.

  “What do you think is so funny?”

  Tim stared at the topcoat idiot and knew he’d never understand in a million years. “Get the beach looking good for the camera?” he asked. “You mean, like without any seaweed or driftwood? Would you like the jetty varnished? Maybe you’d like the waves breaking just so…” He made a smooth motion with his right hand. If he straightened out his shoulder fast, he could break the guy’s nose in one quick motion.

  “Don’t think you’re so smart, asshole.”

  “Cole Landry, right?” Tim asked, not attempting to shake his hand.

  “That’s right,” Landry said, with the self-satisfaction of a man who knew his face was known worldwide. Tim stared at him, slightly distracted by the fact that his dark brown hair was immobile. The wind was blowing a good fifteen knots, and the guy’s hair wasn’t moving.

  “So, what’s the problem with the beach?”

  “There’s a huge pile of charred wood—a bonfire from the looks of it. Plus tire tracks everywhere, and a bunch of empty plastic cups blowing all over. I told my people to make sure you had this place looking great today.”

  “There was a party on the beach last night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ask your son,” Tim said.

  “My son? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Did the cops get to your house yet?” Tim asked.

  From the hot anger in Landry’s eyes, Tim knew that he knew exactly what was going on. Just then the owl cried again, and Tim’s anger began to boil.

  “He assaulted two people last night. Here on ‘my’ beach, as you call it. He’s got a mean streak, and I wonder where he got it from.”

  Landry went pure white. His eyes narrowed, and Tim knew he’d just made an enemy. “Shut up about my son,” Landry said. “You don’t know shit.”

  “How was it to have the police visit your house, the night before your big announcement?”

  “That’s between me and them. They knew my son was just having good, clean fun, and that derelict decided to make trouble.”

  “Did they arrest Josh?”

  Landry laughed. “Of course not. Now, I’ll give you two hours to get the beach cleaned up, or I’ll take back my contribution.”

  “What contribution?”

  “Two million dollars to the Refuge Beach Foundation. You really think the board wants to lose that kind of money? You fuck this up, and I can guarantee you’ll be out of a job.”

  Tim took a step outside. The top step felt like ice under his bare feet, and the wind hit his face and bare arms, but he hardly registered the cold. He was over a head taller than Cole Landry, and he stared down and had to hold himself back from lifting the guy up by the collar of his black cashmere coat. He hated the thought of local cops backing down from Landry, but that’s what had happened.

  “You might know about boardrooms and tourist attractions and TV shows,” Tim said, “but you don’t know the beach. If you want to get rid of the tire tracks, either wait for high tide to smooth them down, or go grab a rake and do it yourself.”

  “You’ll regret this conversation,” Landry said.

  “I already do,” Tim said. He leaned back against the porch rail—as if it were a hot August day instead of late winter, with the mercury falling—folded his arms, and watched Cole Landry climb into the back seat of his big black Mercedes. The driver looked to be wearing an identical black coat; he met Tim’s eyes with a paid-for dirty look, and backed out.

  “Don’t let the sand scratch your paint job,” Tim called, thinking of what Frank would think of the sand blowing right now. Beach tunes…

  The three workmen—not locals, but obviously regular guys just the same—climbed into a shiny red truck. They each gave Tim a grin and a thumbs-up. They nearly collided with the Volvo wagon driving into the parking lot.

  Tim stared at who was behind the wheel: Neve Halloran. Mickey sat beside her, and Shane was in the back seat. So he’d slept on the Hallorans’ couch after all.

  “Not even nine o’clock,” he said as the three of them climbed out of the car, “and already I’ve had two sets of visitors.”

  “None of us could sleep,” Neve said.

  “We came to see about the owl,” Mickey said.

  “Yeah,” Shane said, watching the Mercedes drive down the beach road. “What was Landry doing here?”

  “Giving me grief about the beach being a mess for the cameras. I told him he’d be better off worrying about the cops arresting his son.”

  “They didn’t seem too interested in doing that,” Neve said. “Especially after Shane told them he threw the first punch. I called them myself—I know you said they were investigating, but I couldn’t let it go.”

  “Shane was defending the owl, Mom,” Mickey said, and Neve didn’t reply.

  “You know the reason they didn’t arrest Josh had nothing to do with Shane, don’t you?” Tim asked.

  Neve didn’t reply; she just looked down the beach as if she was simmering over what had been done to her daughter.

  “Neve?” he pressed.

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  “How are you two doing today?” Tim asked, looking at Shane’s stitched head, Mickey’s new cast.

  “Never mind us,” Shane said. “How’s the owl?”

  “Still alive,” Tim said, meeting Neve’s eyes. He watched the words register—she had been so worried; he saw it in her eyes and mouth, in the almost imperceptible way tension drifted away when she heard the word “alive.” She glanced over at Mickey, saw her daughter smile widely. Then, as if smiles could be contagious, Neve turned on Tim the most radiant, illuminated, beautif
ul smile he’d ever seen.

  “Can we see?” Mickey asked.

  “Sure,” Tim said, opening the door. The two kids hurried inside, but Neve paused. She was dressed in a navy blue down jacket and hand-knit green hat. The colors reminded him of the winter sea: clear, clean, filled with the currents of life. “I’m glad you came,” he said.

  “Like I said, none of us slept much,” Neve said.

  “Worried about the owl?”

  “And about Shane and Mickey. I’m seeing the danger signs.”

  “Young love,” he said, and he had to force himself from leaning closer, touching her arm, smelling her hair.

  “Love with a dangerous boy,” she said.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said.

  “About which part?” she asked. “The ‘love’ or the ‘dangerous’?”

  He couldn’t answer that. They went together, and both words were as loaded for him as they seemed to be for Neve. In some ways, facing Cole Landry had been a whole lot easier than this: he felt heat in his core, and he felt the winter wind blowing his hair.

  “What are you doing, standing out here in a T-shirt?” she asked, lightly touching his left bicep with one gloved hand.

  “It’s what I slept in,” he said, then wondered why he’d said it.

  She stared at his chest. The shirt was old, faded, fraying at the collar and sleeves. It had once been bright blue, but now was something closer to gray. The white insignia had once said USS James, but it had nearly washed away.

  “You really should keep yourself warmer,” she said softly, making him shiver more than the sea wind had. He nodded, letting her know he would take her words to heart. Then, holding the door for her, he followed her inside.

  Mickey knelt by the cage, eye to eye with the owl. She was so close, it took her breath away. Last night she had held him after he’d plunged, stunned, onto the beach. Today he was locked in a cage. The sight of his injured, dangling wing made her wrist start to throb. She had two long scratches on her face, from where he had attacked her last night. She didn’t care; he was the most beautiful bird she’d ever seen.

  “I was just trying to help you,” she whispered.

  The owl stared back, unblinking.

  A bowl of water and a piece of raw fish sat in one corner of the cage. Mickey glanced back, over her shoulder, at Mr. O’Casey.

  “Has he eaten anything?”

  “No,” he said.

  “He’s not going to get better like this,” Shane said.

  “What do you mean?” Mickey asked. Shane stood right beside her; except for the time he’d spent in the ER, getting stitches in his head, and several hours last night, when he’d slept on their couch, he had stayed so close. Almost as if he was Mickey’s self-appointed bodyguard.

  “He’s badly hurt. Keeping him in a cage won’t magically fix his wing. Or his beak. Look, he’s not eating, probably not even drinking—right?” Shane asked, glaring at Mr. O’Casey.

  “Right,” Mr. O’Casey said.

  Mickey felt hot tears fill her eyes. Terrible things were happening. Last night was both a blur and a collection of super-clear, indelible memories. When she tried to remember the sequence of everything, she couldn’t. But certain moments stood out in stark relief, and she knew she would never be able to wipe them from her mind: the smell and feel of damp scratchy wool as the blanket was thrown around her; the shock of icy seawater; the sight of the U-boat and the white faces; the sound of Shane crying. And still—after all the messages she’d left for him—her father hadn’t called.

  No one spoke for a few seconds. Mickey just kept staring at the owl, and Shane dropped down beside her. It felt so good to have him here. He leaned into her slightly, his side touching hers.

  Last night, after falling asleep, Mickey had had nightmares. She’d dreamed that her bedclothes were the blanket, tangled around her, taking her down to the sea bottom. She’d screamed out, and when she’d woken up, her mother was holding her, and Shane was looking over her shoulder—he’d run up from downstairs, where he’d been sleeping on the couch.

  “I saw it,” she said out loud now.

  “What?” Shane asked.

  “The U-boat. When I was underwater.”

  “Were you that far offshore?” Mr. O’Casey asked. “Because it’s a good hundred yards out.”

  “I couldn’t have been,” she said, drifting back, flashes of memory: she and Shane hadn’t even been out past the surf break. She remembered coming up for air, having a huge wave crash over her head. “But I saw it anyway….”

  “You said you saw the U-boat,” Shane said. “And its crew. When I pulled you out.”

  “I was a little out of my mind, I guess,” she said, her gaze returning to the bird. “Worried about the owl and all.”

  “You had nightmares last night,” Mickey’s mother said quietly.

  “I know,” she said.

  “I went in to check on you,” her mother said. “And I met Shane at the door.”

  “Sorry,” Shane said, and Mickey felt him tensing up, as if he was afraid he was in trouble. “The only reason I went to her room, Mrs. Halloran, was because I heard her yelling.”

  “Mickey has herself a protector,” Mr. O’Casey said. And Mickey could tell from Shane’s quick exhalation of breath that he was surprised to hear the ranger sticking up for him.

  “Well…,” Mickey’s mother started.

  “We all need protectors,” Mr. O’Casey said softly.

  Something was going on between the two adults; Mickey watched tension crackling between them, as palpable as lightning in a summer storm. The funny thing was, it seemed like good tension—not like the fighting that went on between her parents, or the rage she’d felt blazing from Josh last night after Shane had shamed him by taking the rock from his hands.

  No, if she didn’t know any better, Mickey would say that it was electricity very like what she was feeling for Shane at this minute: wildfire pouring off their skin, pushing them apart, pulling them together.

  “What are we going to do about the owl?” her mother asked, still staring at Mr. O’Casey in that crackling sort of way.

  “We’re going to let him rest, and hope that he starts to eat and drink,” he said.

  “Shane says he won’t,” Mickey said quietly. “Not if we don’t do something else to help.”

  “I don’t know what else we can do,” he said.

  “I know something,” Mickey’s mother said.

  “What?” Mr. O’Casey asked.

  Mickey waited for her mother to reply. When she didn’t, and the silence stretched out, Mickey saw that her mother was gazing at Mr. O’Casey with that weird, annoying infinite patience she had—like when she was waiting for Mickey to come up with the answer herself. Right now she was looking at Mr. O’Casey as if she wanted him to realize something he’d known all along.

  “What?” Mr. O’Casey asked again.

  “There’s a wildlife rehab near Kingston,” she said, “that specializes in raptors.”

  “No,” he said. The word sounded like a door shutting hard.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “How do you even know about that?” he asked. “I didn’t say anything. Who told you?”

  Mickey glanced at Shane. He seemed to be as much in the dark as she was. Her mother and Mr. O’Casey were having a completely over-their-heads conversation that neither one of them understood. But it was loaded; Mickey could tell by the way Mr. O’Casey was backing away, out of the circle around the cage, going to stand all by himself near the window.

  “Does it matter who told me?” Mickey’s mother asked. “The point is, the owl needs more help than we can give it.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mr. O’Casey exploded.

  “You said we all need protectors,” Shane said, his tone full of challenge, standing up, leaving Mickey to go stand by Mr. O’Casey.

  “Not him,” Mr. O’Casey said. “He’s not what I had in mind.”

  Mickey met
her mother’s eyes, wanting her to explain what was going on. But her mother looked away, her attention caught by something out the window where Shane and Mr. O’Casey were standing. Mickey stood up, looked for herself.

  A whole crew of people were spread out over the beach near the jetty—from here they looked like small, dark toy figures. But they were raking the tire tracks from last night, removing the remains of the bonfire, setting up cameras and lights and a tent that even from this distance looked as if it might blow away in the steady February wind.

  “Landry’s getting ready to make his announcement about the U-boat,” Shane said.

  “Yeah,” Mr. O’Casey said, glaring out.

  “If you let the owl die, it’s like saying that everything he does is fine,” Shane said. “Him and his son.”

  “I’m doing my best to keep the owl alive,” Mr. O’Casey said, matching Shane’s belligerent tone.

  “Mrs. Halloran just said there’s a better place—a wildlife rehab place. Right?” Shane asked, turning toward Mickey’s mother, who nodded. Mickey’s heart bumped as she watched them turn into allies.

  “Right,” Mickey’s mother said.

  Mr. O’Casey shook his head hard. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not taking the owl there.”

  “I will if I have to ride him there on my bike,” Shane said, leaving no doubt that he was serious.

  “That’s okay, Shane,” Mickey’s mother said. “We’ll use my station wagon.” Mickey noticed the way Mr. O’Casey kept his back turned, just staring out the window. Staring at the blowing sand, as if Mickey, her mother, and Shane had already left, as if he just wanted to be alone with the sandstorm.

  10

  Sometimes it had seemed to Joe O’Casey as if the entire world existed on and under the sea; the only part that mattered, anyway. For his brother, the realm of existence had been the sky. Two such different elements—and two such close brothers.

  But Damien was dead now, and had been for a long time.

  Joe thought of him now, wondered what he would think of the modern technology that was making it possible for one very rich man to raise U-823, haul it to Cape Cod, and turn it into a museum. The man claimed he was doing a public service—removing the rusty old wreck that snagged fishing nets and endangered divers and surfers, opening it so the public could enter and explore a slice of history. But Joe was too old to believe PR; the man was doing it to make a profit, never mind that it was on the bones of drowned German sailors, and on the pride of a dying generation of American veterans.