by Luanne Rice
When they got to the thicket, Mickey motioned for him to stop.
“I can show you where the snowy owl was,” she said. “If you want to see.”
“Sure,” he said.
They got out of the car. Leaning against the door, he managed to light his cigarette. Mickey hated to see him smoke, worried that he’d get lung cancer and die. But it had been almost worse to see him shaking too hard to use his lighter. Everything seemed like a huge conflict, even such a simple, awful thing as her father smoking.
Walking through the brush, Mickey heard birdsong. The migration was under way! She thought back a month ago, when she and Jenna had come through here. The thicket had seemed absolutely dead—almost as if the brambles and branches were lifeless, instead of just dormant. Right now, walking through, she heard the unmistakable song of the white-throated sparrow: peabody, peabody… And there were green shoots coming out of the marshy ground, and tiny white buds on the branches of shadbush, and spring was here, or at least on its way.
Once they got to the other side, they stood at the top of the dunes—stretching up and down the beach like an endless moonscape—and felt the sea wind in their faces. Mickey glanced over at the jetty; her heart skipped, because she knew Shane would be here soon, and that’s where she always stood to watch him surf.
“That’s where the owl was,” she said, pointing toward the gargantuan driftwood log.
“Where’d you say it is now?” he asked.
“At Joseph O’Casey’s raptor rehabilitation center,” she said. “Up near the University of Rhode Island.”
“Funny,” he said, as if he hadn’t been listening, staring over at the big silvery log, just this side of the jetty. “That looks just like the spot where Cole Landry was standing when he cut the ribbon.”
“What ribbon?”
“Oh, it’s just an expression,” her father said. “You know, when someone cuts the ribbon on a new project—it means an announcement, but one you need extra press and attention for. It’s a loudmouth gesture.”
“Well, he’s a loudmouth,” Mickey said.
Her father gave her an odd look.
“You think so?” he asked.
“Um, yeah,” she said. The way he was staring at her made her blush. Had she said the wrong thing? Probably her father loved Cole Landry—he was a huge success in her father’s field; he’d started off in real estate and turned into one of the most famous businessmen in the world. She felt herself panic, wanting to backpedal, to not hurt her father’s feelings. “Why, do you know him?”
“I’ve met him,” her dad said. He stood a little taller, puffed his chest out a little bit more; Mickey was almost glad to see his pride coming back, even over something as sad as having met Cole Landry. “I went to a convention down at the Landry Tower in New York, remember?”
Mickey shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
Her father’s face fell. “I guess your mother didn’t tell you about it,” he said. “Maybe it was after we got separated. I forget, exactly.”
Or maybe Mickey’s mother hadn’t believed him when he’d told her he was in New York. Mickey knew that her father used to lie about things like that; he’d say he was playing golf with the governor, but then they’d be on their way to the grocery store and see his car at the Hitching Post.
He’d say he was having lunch with Ted Turner at the New York Yacht Club in Newport, and someone would tell Mickey’s mother that they’d just seen him in Providence, sitting on a barstool at Buddy’s.
But right now, standing on Refuge Beach, watching the wind blow the white tops off waves breaking so beautifully and elegantly over the conning tower of U-823, Mickey had to know the truth.
“Did you really meet Cole Landry?” she asked.
“Of course I did, sweetheart,” he said. “When I tell you something, you can take it to the bank….”
The riverbank, she thought. The piggy bank.
“Dad,” she said. “Were you really in Arizona?”
“Sweetheart! How can you…” he started. But then, as if the wind were coming at him at sixty knots, hurricane strength, instead of wafting over in cool early-spring gusts, he seemed unable to withstand the force. He sat down hard on the sand, and Mickey sat beside him.
“You weren’t, were you?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Why did you say you were?”
He stared out at the sea as if it were his mortal, avowed enemy. He looked as if he wanted to slaughter the sea. His chin trembled, as if the sea were about to make him cry. Mickey couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t look at her father, but she couldn’t look away.
“Dad?” she asked.
“Because I’m a failure,” he said in a very quiet, very still way.
“No,” she whispered.
He nodded. “You asked if I’d really met Cole Landry.”
“You don’t have to explain,” she said. “So you didn’t go to New York that time—it doesn’t make you…”
“I have met him. I’ve heard him speak. I’ve talked to him personally.”
Was it true? Mickey wondered. And if it was, would her father now defend him, try to explain how progress sometimes bore an emotional price, that in this case the cost of raising the U-boat would be the pain it might cause the locals, but that it’d be worth it in the long run? She’d heard Josh saying all that, and if her father was a Cole Landry fan, he’d probably say it, too.
“I know his son Josh,” Mickey said.
“I saw you talking to him.”
“He…he’s just like his father,” Mickey said.
“Then he’s a fool,” her father said harshly, taking Mickey’s hand.
“Dad,” she said.
“You and your mother have always loved this beach,” he said. “She used to ask me to come down here. I did a few times—but I always had something better to do. A deal I was trying to make, a house I was trying to sell. Your mother loved the peace of this place; I wanted everything but peace.”
“You like excitement,” she said, repeating the phrase he used to say to her when trying to explain why he needed to be out and about so many nights every week.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
She glanced up at him, saw him taking in the beauty: the clouds scudding across the sky, the birds flitting through the thicket, sandpipers running along the hard sand at the water’s edge, the waves breaking, breaking, breaking.
“Why do you say Josh Landry is a fool?” she asked.
“Because I saw him on television with his father,” he said. “They want to haul the U-boat out of here as if it were nothing. And to them, it is nothing.”
“I know,” she said, staring out at the waves. “I hate them for it.”
“You do?” he asked. “They why did I see you walk away from Shane, over to Landry? It looked as if you were friends—as if you were looking up to him.”
She gazed up at him. He was her father, but he barely knew her. Did he really think that could be possible?
“Dad, that’s ridiculous,” she said. “I just want him to introduce me to Senator Sheridan on our class trip to Washington.”
“Really?” her father asked, getting a funny gleam in his eyes. He had seemed weak, almost sick, and she’d been so worried about him since getting in the car. But suddenly, with that one look, he seemed like her old dad—shrewd, smart, a little devilish.
“What, Dad?” she asked.
“I think I can help you with that,” he said. “Or at least put in a good word. Your dad knows a few people, Mickey. You want to see Senator Sheridan, leave it to me.”
Mickey gazed back at the waves. She felt heat rising in her face; her father sounded so sure of himself, but could she believe him? Or was this another of his stories? He had a way of trying to make her feel better—but then, when he couldn’t follow through, she always seemed to feel worse.
“I’ll make a call or two,” he said. “Get someone from his staff on the line. Once he hears that
Richard Halloran’s daughter wants to see him—consider it a done deal! We’re old golf buddies—he’s loyal to his old friends and supporters, especially ones who’ve played a few eighteens with him, know what I mean?”
She swallowed.
“What do you want to see him for, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know,” she said, because she couldn’t bear to tell him the truth. It was too important, and his lies made it seem trivial. “I guess just because it seems like a good thing to do on a class trip to Washington.”
“Well, you can count on it, okay? You’re meeting Sam Sheridan.”
“Thanks, Dad,” she said smiling, giving him a kiss on his cheek. She knew the promise would wash away, just like the tide. It would have been nice to think she could stop being nice to Josh, but she knew that he was a better bet for what she needed to accomplish. Her father took her hand and held it tight, and she felt how badly his was shaking.
“I’m going away,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“Arizona,” he said. “This time for real. There’s opportunity, Mick. I have to get straight with your mother—Alyssa, too. I’m going to head down to the Sunbelt and sell up a storm. I’ll send you a ticket out to visit, as soon as I get settled.”
Mickey’s chest felt tight, and her throat ached as the wind blew off the sea. It blew her hair straight back, made her eyes tear up. He was going away; it didn’t matter whether it was to Arizona or the Hitching Post. They were together for this short time, and then he’d disappear again.
The wind was full of moisture from the waves, the steady, giant waves breaking over the conning tower of U-823. She thought of the men she had seen underwater; they’d died attacking Mickey’s beloved shore. Some of them had been fathers back in Germany; she wondered what their children and grandchildren thought about them. She stared at the sea and understood, just a little, of how it felt to have a father disappear, not know if he was ever coming home.
That made her put her head on her father’s shoulder, breathing in his smell of smoke and gin, and thinking he’s right here, he’s right here, he’s right here, as the tears welled in her eyes, because she knew that soon he’d be going away.
And just then, the police arrived.
23
Getting ready for the Berkeley exhibit took all Neve’s energy and effort. With all the news stories—not just in Rhode Island, but nationally—a large crowd was expected that night. The Dominic di Tibor Gallery was about to have its moment, in just a few hours. As Neve walked around the exhibit, she realized that this brilliant artist was on the verge of finally receiving the widespread acclaim he had so long deserved.
The paintings were all hung, and as she stopped in front of each one, examining the delicate brushstrokes delineating a little blue heron’s feathers, and the sharp edge of an osprey’s beak, she remembered why she had fallen in love with Berkeley in the first place, and she felt a moment of calm, a sense of being absolutely present and still, in the midst of chaos.
He had always made her appreciate the quiet magic of the birds she saw every day. His paintings didn’t elevate or aggrandize any species; to look at Berkeley’s work, one would realize that he loved all birds, loved the environment in which he found them. He depicted quick movement, and there was such joy in life apparent in his paintings, something so tender in the fact that he chose to paint the smallest of all creatures, those closest to pure spirit.
She wondered whether Tim or Joe would come to the opening. She had sent them both invitations, written personal notes on a separate piece of paper. Joe’s had been easy—he’d made her feel so much better when she’d visited the owl. His words about Tim’s “calamitous life” kept ringing in her ears, making the note she had to write to Tim so much harder.
“Please come,” she’d written. “Your uncle’s love of birds inspired my own, and, as you told me, yours. Please come celebrate his beautiful work and spirit with me.” She’d written “I miss you,” but then she’d thrown out that sheet and started all over, leaving out the last line.
There had been no response. What had she expected? Tim had been right that attention would be paid to Frank. The more the story unfolded, the more reporters who’d picked up the thread of Damien O’Casey’s military service—the juxtaposition of the preternatural peace of his paintings and the fact that he’d flown over thirty missions aboard a heavy bomber during World War II.
The stories linked Damien to Joe, revered local war hero, responsible for destroying Rhode Island’s own U-boat. But they really gained traction because of his connection to Frank—one of Rhode Island’s casualties in Iraq. There were stories about “the O’Casey curse,” patterned on the Kennedys; other reporters focused on “one family’s courage.” They all made Neve sad to read, and they all made her wonder how Tim was doing.
She started unpacking the boxes of catalogues, placing them on a long mahogany table against the wall, near the gallery’s front door, reflecting on how her essay—given the recent discovery of Berkeley’s true identity—was already obsolete. Her anger at Dominic was tremendous, undiminished by the fact that she was also furious with herself. He had been studiously avoiding her when others weren’t around, but she expected him any moment. She hoped he’d get here before the crowds so she could tell him what she thought, but just then the phone rang.
“Dominic di Tibor Gallery,” she said, half expecting it to be another reporter asking for background for a story on Berkeley, or requesting directions to the gallery for that night’s opening. But it wasn’t a reporter.
“Mom?” Mickey said, and from her tone Neve knew in less than a second that something was wrong.
“Are you okay?” Neve asked.
“Mom, it’s Dad,” Mickey said, starting to cry. “We’re at the Secret Harbor police station.”
“I’ll be right there,” Neve said, forgetting about Dominic and the exhibition.
She grabbed her jacket and bag, locked the door, and ran outside to her car. Secret Harbor was such a small town, she could practically see the station from here. But she drove anyway, down Main Street, to the plain brick building situated just before the municipal tennis courts.
Mickey was sitting in the waiting room. She jumped up at the sight of her mother, and Neve ran right into her arms. Mickey’s face was streaked with tears, but she seemed calm and strong, pulling her mother over to the corner of the room so they could talk without the desk sergeant listening.
“What happened?” Neve asked.
“Dad came to pick me up at school,” Mickey said. “We went to the beach and talked. It…it was so nice, Mom! Just to be with him, talking like normal people. And then, just out of the blue, a police car pulled up.”
“What did they want?”
“They said they’d had a report about a drunk driver….”
Neve held Mickey’s hand, thinking of how she must have felt. She remembered being in the car with Richard once, getting pulled over, watching as the cops made him walk the line.
“But he wasn’t drunk, Mom. They gave him a Breathalyzer test, and he passed it.”
“But they held him anyway?” Neve asked.
“Because of the child support,” Mickey said, breaking down. “He’s under arrest because the judge issued that warrant.”
Neve tried to breathe. She kissed Mickey and then walked across the room to the desk. She recognized the sergeant sitting there from around town. He sometimes worked at the school, for big events. And she’d seen him at the grocery store, apprehending someone who’d been caught shoplifting. They’d never spoken before, but she knew that he recognized her, too.
“Hi, Sergeant,” she said.
“Hi, Mrs. Halloran,” he said.
“Would it be all right for me to see Richard?”
“He’s in there.” The sergeant gestured toward a closed door. “Being questioned.”
“Does he have his lawyer with him?”
“No,” the sergeant said. He was
in his thirties, compact and trim, with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache. His brown eyes looked apologetic. “He used his phone call to call someone else.”
Neve raised her eyebrows; who could he have called? Alyssa?
“He called Senator Sheridan,” the sergeant said.
“He wanted the senator to get him out of jail?” Neve asked, lowering her voice so Mickey wouldn’t hear, thinking that this took big-shotism to new heights.
“I guess,” the sergeant said. “He made the call from a private booth….”
“Well, I’d like you to stop the interrogation,” Neve said.
“It’s not exactly like that, ma’am. We’re not trying to sweat him, believe me. The judge issued a bench warrant for his arrest, so we have to hold him. That’s just the way it is. He’s going to have to post some hefty bail before—”
“I just said, I want you to stop the interrogation,” Neve said.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Right now,” Neve said. “Stop questioning him until his lawyer gets here.”
“Mrs. Halloran, he hasn’t asked for one.”
“I’m asking for one on his behalf,” Neve said.
The sergeant looked puzzled. “The warrant is for nonpayment of child support. I thought you’d be glad to have him in custody so we can collect it. That’s a pretty nice Lexus he’s driving—we’ll seize it, and the proceeds can—”
“His lawyer is Jim Swenson—I don’t have his number, but his office is in Westerly.”
“Fine,” the sergeant said, shaking his head as if he’d never understand the thinking of ex-wives. He used the intercom to tell whoever was speaking with Richard that an attorney was on the way; then he checked a directory, scrawled a phone number on a scrap of paper, and handed it and the phone to Neve.
She spoke with Jim’s paralegal. At first the young man didn’t want to take Neve’s call—she was the opposing party, after all. But once Neve explained the situation, he thanked her and said he’d tell Jim right away.
