by Luanne Rice
Backing away, Neve picked up her bag and jacket. She took one last look at Tim, but he didn’t turn around. Opening the kitchen door, she let herself out.
The air that had felt so full of spring and promise before, now felt cold and damp. Mist was rising from the sea, wrapping Neve in shame and grief. She had never meant to cause Tim and his family pain. But she had, and she couldn’t think of any way to undo it. She climbed into her station wagon, started it up, backed out of the sandy lot. She had to wipe her eyes to see through the tears.
Some broken hearts really couldn’t be fixed, she thought.
Especially because she’d just broken Tim’s heart a little bit more.
19
One day the harbor was empty, and the next day the crane had arrived. Mickey saw it with a shock, coming around the corner on the school bus. The driver exclaimed, pointing it out to all the kids. He pulled the bus over, idling at the curb, so everyone could look.
The crane was bright yellow, gleaming in the sunlight, reflecting in the harbor’s still water. It stood on the deck of a barge so enormous, it dominated the entire outer harbor, just inside the breakwater. Looming just offshore, it was a reminder of the job it had come to do, of the loss about to occur. As the bus driver pulled away, all the kids started buzzing, turning to stare. Only Mickey refused to look, huddled in her seat; the sight of the crane had made her stomach ache.
People drove from all over the state to see it. Cole Landry’s announcement had piqued everyone’s interest, because suddenly the process seemed unstoppable. Shops and restaurants in town were doing great business—better than on summer days, when crowds flocked to the beach. The local paper ran an editorial about how Landry’s plan was good for the Secret Harbor economy in the short run—but what would happen after the wreck was gone for good? What about the divers who came to see it? And the World War II buffs?
Mickey had read that editorial thinking about the folder of material she and Shane had given Ranger O’Casey and the letters she was starting to receive in response to the ones she had sent out—fifty-five to Germany. She wondered whether more would come in time. The crane was a reminder that time was flying; they had less than four weeks. Would she and Shane be able to do everything they had to do before the crane went into action and the U-boat was taken away? And would Mr. O’Casey still want to help?
Her mother had been getting close to Mr. O’Casey, but ever since she’d gone down to the beach to have dinner with him, they hadn’t even spoken. Mickey knew, because of how keyed in she and her mother were to each other. It wasn’t that Mickey was trying to spy; it’s just that she couldn’t help noticing that her mother was spending all her time reading, avoiding the telephone—not even picking up when Chris called.
Her mother had always taught Mickey to be enthusiastic about work, to be eager to do a good job. But every morning, while Mickey was getting ready for school, she’d see her mother lagging behind—getting dressed slowly, drinking coffee and staring out at the bare trees, lost in thought, acting as if she didn’t want to go to work.
“Mom, look—an eastern phoebe!” Mickey had said yesterday morning, looking out the kitchen window at their favorite harbinger of spring.
Her mother had nodded, saying nothing. She’d tried to smile, to drum up a tiny bit of enthusiasm for their first sight of that most reliable early migrant—and right on schedule, too, the middle of March.
“We saw it together!” Mickey had said.
“I’m glad, honey,” her mother had said, but had gone back to sipping her coffee and looking as if she was plotting a way—any way—to avoid going to work.
Mickey wanted to ask her what was wrong, what had happened between her and Mr. O’Casey. After dreading any connection her mother might make with a man who didn’t happen to be Mickey’s father, Mickey had actually felt pretty good about Mr. O’Casey. Beyond good; she had felt content and easy and happy.
But Mickey couldn’t really ask, because she knew her mother might then turn things around and ask what was going on between her and Shane. And Mickey couldn’t really answer that, because she didn’t exactly know. Ever since the whole Washington trip had arisen, he just seemed so quiet and withdrawn. He surfed every day, and hardly ever asked Mickey to come with him. Mickey knew that he felt left out; she wanted to reassure him that she didn’t care whether he had the money for Washington or not.
But she knew how tender it was for him, especially with Josh flaunting his family’s wealth, continually pointing out the crane to anyone who would listen, telling him that it was just one of his father’s toys. Mickey could see Shane tensing up nearly every time Josh opened his mouth. The thing was, Josh could be useful. He was so busy bragging and showing off, but Mickey had figured out a way she could get him to help—without him knowing. Why couldn’t Shane see that?
At least her father had called her again. He’d left another message—didn’t say where he was calling from, but told her he was on the road. He said he had a business opportunity out west, in the Sunbelt, in Arizona—a really big deal that was going to bring in lots of money. He’d be flush, on easy street. He went on about how he was going to rent a great condo with a pool and a waterslide, and how he hoped Mickey would come visit him.
He didn’t mention Alyssa or the baby.
One way Mickey knew that she was growing up was that this time she didn’t believe her father. It made her sad to realize that he was probably just making something up to keep her from being mad. She used to be so special to him, but now he was treating her just like anyone else: his creditors, her mother, Alyssa…the people who wanted something from him.
So Mickey focused on her projects. She called the raptor rehab, to ask about the snowy owl, and old Mr. O’Casey gave her updates. She heard sadness in his voice, and realized it had something to do with what her mother had told Chris and Mr. di Tibor. That just made Mickey know she had to keep going—work on Josh, write the letters, get them out, wait for replies.
If only Josh or his father could pull strings in Washington—that would be amazing. They’d be doing good whether they meant to or not. If he could really use his father’s connections to introduce Mickey to their senator, maybe she could really accomplish something. She was getting her cast off soon, before the trip. And that was good, because she was going to need her left hand, to hold the letters while she shook hands with the senators.
Life was changing. She had once heard that if a butterfly flutters its wings in the Amazon, it could affect an entire weather system in the United States. That’s how she felt about the events of the last few days, right here in Rhode Island. Perhaps because it was such a tiny state, everything seemed to affect everything else. Maybe there were a lot of butterflies flapping—or at least two.
Mickey and Shane. Changing the world.
“So,” Josh said, walking over to Shane’s locker. “I hear Mickey paid her money in time for Washington. Also, and I couldn’t be sorrier about this, I hear you’re not coming on the trip. What a pity.”
Shane ignored him. He was rummaging around inside, looking for his history assignment. A poetry book by Thomas Hardy tumbled out—Mickey had given it to him when they’d really started their campaign to save the U-boat. Shane picked it up, shoved it under his arm.
“Your girlfriend seems pretty excited about the trip,” Josh continued.
Shane frowned, trying not to let that register. The inside of his locker’s gray metal door was plastered with surf decals and pages torn from Surfing Magazine: endless blue waves about to break. He tried to think of his last strenuous session, riding sets of massive breakers over the conning tower, ultra-thick double-ups, feeling the ocean’s majesty and knowing he was surfing in his father’s footsteps.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Josh asked.
“I heard you,” Shane said.
“She’s hot to meet Senator Sheridan, that’s for sure. Actually, she said Senator House would be cool, too—but my dad’s really closer to Sheridan. They
belong to a few of the same clubs, you know?”
Shane burrowed through piles of stuff at the bottom of his locker. He’d had the paper just before last class. What was wrong with him? He was totally losing his shit right now. He knew what Mickey was doing; all he had to do was stay focused on not letting Josh get to him.
“Burning Tree, Manassas, Briar Hill…”
“Any of them in Rhode Island?” Shane asked.
“No. The Washington area, why?”
Shane just shook his head. Family of idiot carpetbaggers, coming to Rhode Island to take what they could, make money off the state’s heritage, and then move on. Coast into some other unsuspecting community, take its treasures, and split—a whole lot richer.
“Anyway, Mickey’s really going to enjoy some quality time with Senator Sheridan. He’s going to meet and greet our whole class, but I’ll make sure she gets to really talk to him. Because she asked, and that matters to me.”
Shane was determined not to react. If only Josh knew what Mickey was really planning, he wouldn’t be acting so pumped. Shane kept searching for his history paper; he’d written it over the weekend, late at night, after surfing was done for the day. With his mother back and forth to North Carolina so much, he could do homework in his own way, without her on his case to get to bed early. Up before dawn, surf a few sets, school, back to the beach, then homework. Priorities…
Mickey was in there, too. As in, he thought of her all the time. When he was on his board, when the drop was steep over the wreck, when the water was as blue as the sky, when a fifteen-foot rogue wave came out of nowhere, breaking out behind him and smashing him under—or when the wave lifted him up, curled over, turned into a tube, and spit him out on the beach—the whole time he’d be thinking of Mickey.
“She’s growing up, our little Mickey,” Josh said now. “Started the year off into birds and saving the world, and now she’s coming around.”
“What’s wrong with saving the world?” Shane asked.
Josh laughed. “It’s just…not possible.”
“What do you know about it?”
“You sound like a little kid, you know that? My dad says all the do-gooders are just people who haven’t grown up yet. ‘Saving the world’—listen to yourself!”
Shane shrugged. “Better than listening to you,” he said.
Josh’s eyes turned mean. “At least Mickey’s figured it out. She’s finally given up on fighting a losing battle—she’s joined the winning team.”
“The what?”
“I’m talking about the U-boat. It is going to be a museum.”
“Don’t be so sure. It isn’t yet.”
“It was cute of her to want to keep it here, for whatever sentimental reasons, but she’s a realist—a smart girl. She knows my dad has pulled all the strings necessary, and it’s heading to Cape Cod. This summer. She’s figuring out that power’s what gets things done.”
Shane found his paper. He stuffed it into his knapsack, still holding on to the book of poems.
“You want something done,” Josh said, right in Shane’s face, “you have to go for it. That’s why we know senators—and that’s why I’m going to make sure Mickey meets Sheridan. Hope you don’t mind.”
“If it makes her happy, I don’t mind,” Shane said.
Josh smiled. He had really, really white teeth. Also, he had a tan. Shane knew his family had a private jet, and kids talked about how the Landrys flew to St. Bart’s just for the weekend whenever they wanted. They skied in Vail all winter—leaving after school on Friday, returning before class Monday morning.
“Yeah, I think it makes her happy,” Josh said.
“That’s good, then,” Shane said, fighting the urge to knock out Josh’s very white teeth. Dude was annoying. He was short—the top of his head came to the bottom of Shane’s chin. He had skinny shoulders and a pathetically narrow chest.
“You know,” Josh said, “she talked about cherry blossoms, and how we might see a black-throated blue warbler or some bullshit. It’s kind of cute—she’s holding on to those childish ways. But what really turns her on, and I can tell, is that I’ve promised we’ll go to the Russell Office Building. Ever been there? The seat of power, man. It’s where the senators run the country. Yeah, Mickey wants to meet them. Sorry you won’t be able to make it.”
“Have fun,” Shane said. It was all he could do to walk away. His right hand was itching to punch Josh’s lights out. Not because he’d gloated about the trip, or because Shane couldn’t afford to go—not at all because Josh’s father knew senators and was going to introduce Mickey to them.
It was the part about the black-throated blue warbler that got to him. Josh didn’t deserve to know how she felt about birds. Shane thought of their times on the beach—when he’d come out of the water, she’d be standing there in her green boots, standing on the jetty, all excited because she’d just seen some kind of bird—a ruddy duck in the shallows, or some cedar waxwings in the thicket. She’d put her arms around his neck and he’d lift her down, feeling her strong body in his cold, wet hands. And she’d talk about the birds she’d seen, and he’d know how much she loved them, and that made him love them, too.
Walking down the hall, he wished Mickey would walk by; he wanted to talk to her, tell her what Josh had just said. He knew her schedule—she had biology for the next hour, and the science rooms were on a different floor. He was a few minutes early for history, so he put his paper on the teacher’s desk, then took his seat. While the classroom started filling up, he pulled out the book Mickey had given him.
Josh had no idea who Mickey was; it made Shane feel solid, holding the book. He felt her steadiness, strength flowing into him, right from the pages. Still, it stung to think of her talking to Josh. Even for such a good cause.
Opening the book, he realized that his hands were shaking a little. Mickey had read this poem in her English class, and it had seemed so perfect for what they were trying to do, she had made Shane read it. They’d copied it, stuck it in the folder they’d given to O’Casey.
The folder, filled with their most persuasive arguments. With thoughts about the war, about the battle that had taken place right here on the Rhode Island shore, about men who had died far from home, buried in a common grave.
That’s what U-823 was, Shane and Mickey knew: a common grave. Shane had kept the book, and the Hardy poem, because it meant more to him than Mickey had even known. Staring down, he read it now:
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the Drummer never knew—
Fresh from his Wessex home—
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
By the time Shane finished reading the poem through again, the teacher had walked in. Shane had to keep his head down, to hide the fact his cheeks were burning hot. Mickey had told him it was a war poem, that Drummer Hodge had been buried on the battlefield, under foreign constellations.
She had held Shane’s hand on the beach, and together they’d stared out over the water. Before Mickey, he had valued the U-boat only because it created such a magnificent surf break. Since her, he cared about the men who were buried inside. They might have come here as German sailors to attack America, but now they were just the skeletons of men. That’s all that mattered, that’s all that lasted.
Mickey had taught him that.
Shane closed the book and looked up
at the teacher. She was talking about tomorrow’s quiz, but he was thinking of all those German sailors, buried in the Atlantic Ocean’s unmarked grave, beneath the strange-eyed constellations. Shane stared at the teacher, thinking of Mickey.
He wished he could go to Washington with her, and he wished that she didn’t have to talk to Josh anymore. Josh could never understand Mickey the way Shane could; and he closed his eyes, knowing that she was helping him understand himself.
20
Joe O’Casey made the rounds, feeding the birds. Spring had officially arrived, and the owls felt it. They all did, actually. Winter plumage molted, and mating behavior commenced. The air was warm, and the barn filled with mating calls. Joe opened the baffles and flight corridors between cages, to encourage bonding.
He hung back, watching the male snowy owl. This guy had made remarkable progress, but Joe could see that he was permanently damaged; it would be irresponsible to consider releasing him.
Staring at his gleaming white head, his piercing yellow eyes, his shattered beak, Joe saw a great warrior. This owl had made countless migrations—probably had a wife somewhere out in the wild; it was almost inconceivable to imagine that such a fine bird would lack a mate.
Joe thought of Damien’s wife and daughters. That was a subject almost more painful than Damien alone. The news about Berkeley had seemed the perfect opportunity for Joe to reach out—but Genevieve had gently declined. And Joe’s nieces remained strangers to the uncle who had adored them as children.
Watching the male owl crane his neck, communicating with his female neighbor, Joe was grateful to have observed her flight last night; she’d flown up, through the corridors, swooping down to visit. He’d called to her, and she’d responded. It was happening again right now—the male vocalizing, and the female reacting. Joe almost held his breath—examples of bonding between middle-aged owls had taken place over the years, but none more astonishing than this.
