by Luanne Rice
“Why?”
“Because where would their spirits go? They were real, Shane.”
What if she was right? he thought. What would happen to his father if the wreck was taken away?
“Don’t give up hope,” she said.
As he stared at his father’s pictures and listened to his mother IM-ing in the kitchen, Shane’s chest ached as if he’d just swallowed a wave, and he wondered how Mickey just held on, always believing in the best, expecting the good.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s there to hope for? It’s a done deal.”
“We can fight,” she said.
“But how?” he asked.
Mickey was silent, but he could almost hear her thoughts turning.
“Fight a rich guy like Cole Landry?” he asked. “Look at Josh—he’s not even going to get in trouble for what he did to you.”
“What he did to you, too,” Mickey said. “They think everything belongs to them, and they think they’re right, even when they’re so wrong. That’s why we have to stop them.”
“Mickey,” Shane said tenderly; she sounded so positive and earnest, and she was so optimistic. He wished he could hold her now, soothe her, because he knew how disappointed she would be.
“I keep thinking of Mr. O’Casey—of how he must feel about Frank. Knowing he’ll never see him again…”
“It’s the worst thing in the world,” Shane said.
“I know.”
“You know what’s weird?” he asked, thinking of the strange day they’d had, visiting the old guy at the raptor rehab. “All those broken birds. Some of them will never fly again, and some of them are winging it around the cages as if they’re in the middle of the woods. But it’s where they all belong; they have their place.”
“They do,” Mickey said.
“What’s our place?” he asked.
“South County, Rhode Island,” she said. “Refuge Beach.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s mine.”
“Mine, too. I’m glad it’s…” she began, but stopped as if she couldn’t quite finish.
But Shane knew what Mickey meant, even without saying the words: the same place for both of them. She didn’t have her father, and Shane didn’t have his.
“We’re going to fight for it,” she whispered.
“How?” he asked, knowing he’d do whatever it took.
She didn’t answer, and he closed his eyes, listening to his mother’s fingertips dance over the computer keys. He pictured Mickey’s green eyes and remembered how she’d felt in his arms. Maybe a place wasn’t so much a spot on a map as it was the people who were there with each other.
People and ghosts.
And Shane and Mickey were going to fight for them.
At school the next day, everyone was talking about the TV broadcast. Many kids from their class had shown up on the beach, standing in the background while Mr. Landry and politicians from both Rhode Island and Massachusetts made the big announcement: April 17. It was such a symbolic date—the day the U.S. had nailed the enemy. Also, it worked in terms of the weather; mid-April marked the time when the danger of winter storms had passed and the threat of hurricanes had not yet begun. It was coming soon. U-823 would be moved to a new location, where it would become a museum for the education and pleasure of millions.
As Mickey walked through the halls, she heard kids talking about it. She tried to block it all out, concentrate on getting to her next class, keeping her eyes open for Shane. But as everyone kept buzzing, she felt the tension build: they were right. April 17 was just around the corner.
After French class, Jenna walked over to find her. Mickey’s heart flipped at the sight of her friend; they’d been inseparable since kindergarten, but lately Mickey had felt she hardly knew her anymore. Their last sight of each other had been when Jenna and Tripp had dropped Mickey, Shane, and the owl off at the ranger station.
“How are you?” Jenna asked.
“I’m fine,” Mickey said.
“You look good,” Jenna said, glancing at Mickey’s short green kilt and navy blue sweater, brown boots and green tights.
Mickey didn’t reply. That was such a high school girl thing to say—“You look good.” It wasn’t the way best friends talked to each other, especially after what had happened. Mickey and Jenna had learned to read together. They had learned to ride bikes, watch birds, and knit together.
“I have to get to the library,” Mickey said.
“No—” Jenna said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t go.”
“How was the big TV announcement?” Mickey asked, her voice shaking.
“It was okay,” Jenna said.
“I guess you must have had fun, getting on TV and all.”
Jenna shook her head. As she did, her eyes filled with tears. She was staring at Mickey as if she wanted to jump into her arms, but was afraid she’d be pushed away.
“It wasn’t fun at all,” she said. “Not without you there. I looked down the beach, and all I could think about was you not being there. I kept seeing you getting thrown into the water that night. It was horrible.”
“It was,” Mickey said.
“Josh—he shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, that’s for sure,” Mickey said, trembling because Jenna sounded like her best friend again.
“It’s just,” Jenna said, grabbing Mickey’s arm, “why are you causing trouble, Mickey?”
“Causing trouble?”
“I know you were upset about the owl and all—but it’s more than that. Josh was out of line—he knows it and feels terrible. He’ll tell you, if you give him a chance. But Mickey—it’s so obvious you’re against Josh’s dad and his plans.”
Mickey closed her eyes. She felt the rush of water all around her, saw the white shapes of German sailors surging out of the wreck.
“You are, aren’t you?” Jenna pressed.
“Of course I am,” Mickey said. “How can I not be? Jenna!”
“He’s doing good—for everybody! Why can’t you see that?” Jenna asked.
Mickey held her books more tightly with her good arm. She stared at her friend, wondering why she sounded like an automaton. When had Jenna lost herself, stopped thinking for herself?
“You haven’t asked about the owl,” Mickey said.
“Will it be all right?”
“I don’t know,” Mickey said. “We took it to an aviary, behind the university in Kingston. There’s this really amazing man who helps wounded birds. The whole barn is full of flight cages. You would have loved it, Jenna….” Or at least the old Jenna would have, Mickey thought.
Mickey remembered when they were young, the time they had found a robin’s nest in the woods behind Mickey’s house—the nest itself was no bigger than a teacup, woven of soft, fragrant pine needles and meadow grass. They’d climbed a tree nearby to look down from a higher branch, and saw three perfect blue eggs inside. Three days later, they heard peeping, climbed the same tree, and saw three tiny chicks.
Soon afterward, they went to the tree and found the nest on the ground, the three baby robins gone. Some predator had gotten to them, and Mickey remembered standing there with Jenna, the two of them holding each other in shock and disbelief. She watched Jenna battling with herself now; she still cared about the old things that had bound her to Mickey, but she was pushing them away. Everything had changed between them.
“Come to Washington,” Jenna said, gripping Mickey’s good hand, making her almost drop her books.
“I can’t,” she said.
“It’s our class trip,” Jenna said. “We’ll stay in a hotel—it’ll be one big party.”
“Who cares?” Mickey asked. “There are things to take care of up here!”
“Like what? The owl? The stupid submarine? Mickey, come with us—see the cherry blossoms, see the Smithsonian—I’m sure there’ll be birds, too. You can see the migration.”
“You still care about the migration?” Mickey asked, feeli
ng love for the old Jenna.
“I don’t know. I guess,” Jenna said. “But the important thing is, we’ll have fun. You need to get away from here—you’re all upset about everything that’s been going on…. And Mick, I don’t think hanging around with Shane is very good for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s just an antisocial misfit.”
Mickey stared at her, remembering the feeling of Shane’s strong arms around her, dragging her out of the surf; the sight of blood pouring from his head after he’d defended her against Josh.
“He’s my friend,” Mickey said.
“I love you, Mick,” Jenna said. “I always will—you know that. But you’ve been changing. Shane West’s a bad influence on you. To be honest with you, I don’t think your dad would approve of you hanging out with a guy like that.”
“A guy like what?” Mickey asked. “A guy who’d stand up to the rest of the school for something he believes in?”
“Tell yourself that, Mickey. But he’s just one step away from being a dropout. Josh was wrong to get so angry that night. But at least he has a future—and parents who care about him. He made a mistake, but he’ll be fine. Shane won’t. He stayed back once. Now he’s just treading water to make it through school, and then he’ll be lost to the beach. I just hope he doesn’t take you with him….” She paused, glaring at Mickey. “You know why Josh got so upset that night?”
“Why?” Mickey asked, shaking.
“Because he wants you to think the U-boat museum is cool.”
“What are you talking about?” Mickey asked.
“Think about it. Josh threw you in, right? You know what it’s like around here—why do boys throw girls into the water?”
“You’re kidding,” Mickey said.
Jenna shook her head. “No, I’m not.”
Glancing across the room, Mickey saw Josh Landry leaning against a desk, giving her a long look. Jenna had asked: Why do boys throw girls into the water? She and Mickey had a lifetime of playing on long, pristine Rhode Island beaches, tussling with boys at the water’s edge, pretending to fight back as the boys dragged them into the surf, and Mickey knew the answer:
Boys threw girls into the water when they liked them.
“That’s ridiculous,” Mickey said softly. “Not in February. It wasn’t just throwing me in; he could have killed me.”
“He didn’t mean to, Mickey. Talk to him.”
Mickey shook her head. “That’ll never happen. If Shane hadn’t been there, I would have drowned.”
“I know what Josh told Tripp; if you showed any interest at all, he’d break up with his girlfriend so fast…”
“I have no interest in him at all, Jenna,” Mickey said. She gazed into her friend’s eyes, and felt that maybe this was the saddest part of what was happening to their friendship: didn’t Jenna know who she was? “After all this time, how can you think I’d like Josh Landry?”
“You should talk to him sometime. You’d find out what he’s really like….”
“He showed me what he’s like that night,” Mickey said quietly. Josh was staring at her right now, as boldly as if she were an object, a car, as if she didn’t have eyes or feelings, as if he didn’t care whether he was making her uncomfortable. He was probably used to getting whatever he wanted. She thought of the arrogance of his father setting a date for taking the U-boat away. Mickey stared back at him, turned to Jenna.
“You can tell him something for me,” Mickey said.
“Sure—what?”
“That he’s a creep,” Mickey said, trembling. “For what he did to me and Shane, and to the owl. And for moving into our town, him and his father…and just thinking that our history doesn’t matter.”
Jenna didn’t reply, and Mickey ran down the hall to leave her to decide whether or not to pass the message on to Josh. Mickey didn’t really care if she did; her words had been more for Jenna, anyway.
When she got to her locker, she found Shane waiting there. He stood still, leaning against the wall, grinning as she approached. Shane had a shy, mysterious smile that he didn’t use very much, so seeing it made her feel special. He was tall, lanky, with that messy brown hair looking windblown even here in the school corridor. His face was tan, windburned, with a track of dark stitches beside his right eye.
“Hi,” she said. “You’re back in school.”
He nodded, gazing down at her. His eyes were dark blue, the color of ocean waves at night. They sparkled with secret light. She wanted to stand on tiptoes, just to get a better look at his eyes.
“You’re shaking,” he said, touching her arm.
“I’m fine,” she said.
People walked by, staring at them. Mickey saw a few kids who’d been at the beach Saturday night—but even those who hadn’t been seemed to have heard about it. She blushed, turning away so they couldn’t see her face.
“Everyone’s whispering,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“I should just walk out,” he said. “Go back to the beach…”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You should stay right here.”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking around.
“There’s something we have to do,” she said, taking his hand.
He looked down at her, surprised. “What is it?”
“Remember I said we have to fight?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
“Come on—let’s go to the library. I know what we’re going to do, and I’ll tell you when we get there.”
13
Tim had a dream of Neve. They were sitting on the beach, right on the driftwood log where they’d been side-by-side two days ago. Tim could feel the frigid cold air swirling around them, blowing off the sea. He put his arm around her, drew her closer, wanting to kiss her. His lips brushed hers, and he felt such hot, imperative yearning, he thought he might melt through his skin into her. Just then, he saw the feather: the white feather he’d given her to hold.
“He flew so far from home,” Neve said.
“From the Arctic,” he said.
“Not the owl,” she said, holding his gaze. “I mean Frank.”
“We don’t say his name,” Tim said.
“Then you must write it,” Neve said. Suddenly, the way things do in dreams, the white feather morphed into a quill. He took it from her, knelt down in the powdery sand, and began to write over and over: Francis Joseph O’Casey, Francis Joseph O’Casey, Francis Joseph O’Casey…
Tim filled the beach with his son’s name. He concentrated on every letter, writing with perfect penmanship. He didn’t want the quill to slip, didn’t want to make a mistake. If he did it right, would it bring Frank back?
He wanted to look up, to ask Neve, but he was afraid that if he did, the wind would blow and erase what he’d written. Then all would be lost. As he continued writing he saw shapes out of the corner of his eyes, behind him, down by the water. The shapes were bright white, but ephemeral, like whitecaps, like sea foam being blown off wave tops by the offshore breeze.
But deep down he knew they were the spirits Mickey had seen. It was broad daylight, and the crew of U-823 were coming out of the water—leaving their grave, advancing toward him. April was approaching, the time was short; they needed his help, but he couldn’t stop writing. If he paused, even for a second, the wind would erase Frank’s name. Just then the sand began to blow, and he heard the music of the beach. Still, he kept writing.
Francis Joseph O’Casey, Francis Joseph O’Casey…
Tim moaned, and woke himself up. He sat bolt upright in bed, sweating. He glanced toward the drawer, couldn’t open it. He covered his eyes—the sun was already up, bouncing off the waves. He climbed out of the bed, ran to the front of the house. He threw open the door, stood on the porch.
The beach spread out, miles in either direction. Tim’s heart was pounding as he ran down onto the sand. It felt ice cold on his bare fe
et, but he didn’t even notice. He looked left and right, up and down the whole length of barrier beach. Frank’s name wasn’t there. He stood there dumbly, knowing it couldn’t have been, feeling shocked all the same. In the dream it had felt as if he could bring Frank back…if he only did the right thing, if he covered the beach with his son’s name…His wonderful boy, the best swimmer Tim had ever known—drowned in his tank, unable to escape.
Walking inside, he felt numb. That was nothing new. Feeling alive these last days, since meeting Neve—that had been strange. This was familiar. He made coffee, took a mug over to the window. Looking out, he saw a fishing boat beating in slow circles over the wreck site. He didn’t recognize the trawler, assumed she wasn’t one of the regulars, had gotten her nets tangled on the periscope, the conning tower, the deck guns. Didn’t fishermen read their charts? Another loss of fishing equipment, adding up to who knew how much: more ammunition for the U-boat museum people to fight the battle they’d already won. Supposedly the big crane was already on the way to Secret Harbor.
What did it matter, anyway? Who cared what happened? How could a great swimmer drown? Tim imagined him trapped, just knowing that if he had been able to get out, he’d have found a way to swim free…. Tim held his coffee mug, felt the heat warming his fingers. They’d gotten so cold—not just now, outside on the beach, but in his dream…holding on to that quill pen, writing in the sand for so long. It was as if his body didn’t know the difference between a dream and reality.
Tim had lost track.
“Mickey, you’re going to miss the bus,” Neve said, calling down the hall, rushing to get ready for work. The catalogue had to go to the printer’s that morning, and she still had a few details to straighten out. She’d been awake until late last night, polishing the text, laying out the photos of Berkeley’s work, noticing that several of his blue heron, sandpiper, and plover paintings looked as if they might have been set in the Salt Marsh Refuge.
“I know,” Mickey said, walking into the kitchen. She wore jeans and a blue sweater, and she carried her ski fleece and winter hat. Neve glanced over, wondering why her daughter looked more ready for a nature walk than school.
