I’m weaning myself from him. It’s hard—he’s been momentous in my life, the hub around which most of my daily routine rotated. It’s because of him, my fascination with him, that all the terrible events of the past two months happened.
But I’m leaving here, and so must he.
• • •
Buster drives down to see me. We sit in old rockers on the front porch, sweaty Mason jars of iced tea in our hands. It’s muggier than usual today—hopefully, we’ll get showers by nightfall.
Buster looks around. “It’s damn nice down here. You aren’t staying though, are you.”
I shake my head. “Time to move on.”
“You did a good thing, Fritz,” he commends me.
“What the hell are you talking about? People are dead because of me, including my mother. What good is that?”
“Okay, you did the right thing,” he amends. “You saw an injustice committed, and you did something about it.”
“I fucked things up, is what I did.”
He shakes his head. “Not intentionally. I fucked things up, by being asleep at the switch. Roach. And your girlfriend, the Justice Department chick.” (I’d told him about Vanessa—formerly, and always to me, Maureen.) “All of us. We did the expedient thing, the save-your-own-ass thing. You were the only one in this who risked what he didn’t have to. You stood up and were counted.”
“For whatever that’s worth.”
“Plenty, in my book.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but it doesn’t bring those lives back.”
“No,” he agrees somberly, “it doesn’t.”
“What about Roach?” I ask. “Is he going to pay any price at all for his role in this?”
“Oh, yeah,” Buster replies. “To what extent yet, I don’t know. But I will let you in on a secret. He’s leaving the State Department. It’s going to be announced in a few days. The usual ‘to pursue private interests’ crap, which everyone knows is bullshit. They shitcanned the fucker, they can’t get rid of him soon enough, his stink’s contaminated the whole department. And the truth is going to come out, no two ways about it. Bob Woodward and Chris Matthews and all those other media freaks won’t let it lie fallow, it’s too juicy.”
“But what about criminal charges? He’s guilty, Buster. He’s as guilty of those murders as Flaherty was.”
“I don’t know how that’s going to go. It’s a gray area, secondhand, indirect. Will he ever go to trial, or to jail? Maybe, but more likely not.” He leans forward, refills his iced tea jar. “But here’s the important thing, Fritz. The man’s life will end in disgrace. He’s going to be shunned by everyone and everything he cares about. For someone whose ego is his entire life, that’s unbearable.” He pauses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed himself over it.”
“Give me the gun and I’ll spare him the trouble.”
“No, no,” he tells me, smiling. “You’ve done all the killing you’re ever going to do in this lifetime.”
Amen to that, I think.
He stretches his legs out on the old wood planking. “I’ve taken a leave from the firm, so I can figure out whether I want to stay with that den of thieves or not. Right now, my attitude is fuck ’em all.”
That’s a surprise, but not entirely. An incident like what happened to me, and by reflection to Buster, could shake up your world. If it didn’t, you’re brain-dead.
“What do you think you’ll do?” I ask.
“I’ll probably go back—they don’t want to lose me, they’ll pay me a bundle to stay, I’m a valuable commodity. And let’s face it, it’s where the action is. But I’ve got to tell you—a part of me wants to find a situation where I only have to deal with moral ambiguities, not political ones, which come with the territory at a firm like ours.”
“You might be happier. Knowing you, though, you’d miss the action.”
“We’ll see. I’m not in a hurry. What about you? Are you going to be happy?”
I look out onto the great, green expanse of my mother’s front yard, the tall, graceful ashes and birches, at her flower beds that are starting to go to seed because they aren’t being cared for anymore. I can understand why she and my father never left, never wanted to.
“I hope so,” I tell him honestly. “If I can ever figure out how.”
• • •
Sam and I walk the property with the live-wire real estate agent who’s going to sell it for us.
“This is a wonderful place,” she says energetically. “One of the few remaining intact estates.” She makes some notes in her PalmPilot. “Are you insisting on selling it to an individual who will keep it in one parcel, or would you be willing to sell to a developer? I know it has sentimental value, but you could get quite a bit more from a developer.”
“We want the money,” Sam says bluntly. “None of us live here anymore, and with both our parents gone, we won’t be coming back.” He looks over his shoulder at me as he tells her that.
“Get as much as you can,” I agree with him.
“Nothing lasts forever,” she chirps. “The house will have to remain,” she informs us. “It’s historical. If a developer buys this, they’ll use it as their sales office. It’s a charming place. Is anyone living in it now? I’d like to start showing it as soon as possible.”
Sam glances at me. “It’ll be vacated by the end of the week.”
“Great.” She’s all business. “You’re going to make a bundle off this,” she promises us. “This area is becoming increasingly popular with the Washington and Baltimore crowd. In ten years it’s going to be like Solomons Island.”
“It already is too damn popular,” Sam says brusquely, shooting me a meaningful glance that sails right over her head. “That’s why we aren’t hanging on to it.” He checks his watch. “Got to run. Fritz’ll finish the paperwork with you.”
He shakes hands with her, gets into his car, takes off. The agent and I walk up the front steps.
“Busy man,” she notes. “What about you? You seem more laid-back. Are you on vacation?”
“You could put it that way. I’m going back to work in a couple of weeks.”
She takes in the view from the porch. “It must have been a super life when you boys and your sister were growing up. Like Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer.”
“It was idyllic,” I reply, with no irony in my voice. “But that’s in the past.”
“Tell me about it. You can’t live in the past,” she advises sagely. “It’ll drive you nuts if you try.”
• • •
The real Maureen O’Hara’s breath is taken away when she sees Ollie and the sandhills. It’s early morning, the birds have just come to the ground from their roost.
“This is amazing,” she marvels.
The sandhills in and of themselves are exciting to see, but Ollie’s the main attraction, of course. To her he’s the lost tribes of Israel, miraculously found.
“How long have you been observing them?” she asks critically. She isn’t looking at me, her eyes are riveted on Ollie.
“Since the middle of April,” I admit.
“Wow! That’s a long time for them to have gone undetected,” she exclaims. She calculates in her head. “You don’t recall when they arrived, do you?” This is the scientist speaking—she wants to know as much about this phenomenal situation as she can.
I shrug. “No. They’d already settled in when I started coming down here.”
“So from the beginning of spring, would be likely,” she declares. “On their northern migration.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It’s a miracle no one else saw them.”
Someone else did.
“We’re about as isolated here as you can get for hundreds of miles around,” I explain. “A quirk of geography.” And my own stubborn tenacity, which led to so many catastrophes, far beyond the concealing of one endangered bird.
I’d called her a few days ago and invited her to come down to the property. I played it cagey—I did
n’t want to tell her I had a wayward whooping crane living on my property with some equally lost sandhills, because I knew she’d bring the troops in faster than butter melts in a hot skillet, a scenario I wanted to avoid at all costs. I came at her sideways, informing her that through a series of extraordinary circumstances an extremely rare and exotic bird had come to live here, adding that this bird’s being on my property had been the springboard for all the deception regarding her name and position.
I also made her promise that if I delivered the goods she would take no action regarding my special bird for a couple of days—she could look, but neither she nor anyone else could touch. It’s going to be a bitch, all the changes about to come down: moving away, selling the property, letting go of Ollie. I knew I’d need time to adjust, emotionally.
She’d hemmed and hawed, but finally agreed to come down on my terms, as I’d guessed she would; the situation regarding the theft of her identity was weird and unsettling enough to motivate her.
I had a particular reason for calling Ms. O’Hara. I wanted her to be involved in overseeing Ollie’s transfer to wherever it is he’s going to be taken and relocated. Under normal circumstances I would have contacted the people at Patuxent—they’re the experts in the field, and they’re here in my own backyard, so to speak—but it seemed fitting that someone named Maureen O’Hara would do it, even if she’s not the one I’d hoped for.
She’ll work with the Patuxent scientists, of course. They’ll be blown away when they discover that a whooper has been living here in the wild, virtually under their noses. That’s part of the beauty and wonder of nature—that the most bizarre and extreme situations can, and sometimes do, happen.
She’s almost trembling with excitement, she’s so mesmerized by Ollie. “You should have reported this immediately,” she scolds me. “These birds are so extremely fragile. Every one of them is irreplaceable. God forbid if anything had happened to him. You’re lucky nothing did.”
I know that, and I do feel badly about it. But like so much of what’s happened these past couple of months, that’s water under the bridge. The only thing that matters now is Ollie’s safety and survival.
She agrees to honor our arrangement, but only for two days. Then she’ll bring in the team that will capture the cranes. It’ll be an intricate and hairy situation. The specialists will be dressed in crane costumes, playing crane songs on tapes, all that crazy stuff, so as not to imprint humans on the birds as adult leaders. The whole operation will be a complicated and extremely delicate undertaking.
Assuming everything goes okay, the sandhills will most likely be placed with an existing mature sandhill flock. Ollie will be separated from his brothers and sisters, the only family he’s really ever known, and transported separately to the whooping crane flock that winters in Texas, where hopefully he will bond with his own kind. If that proves to be unsuccessful, he’ll be sent to Florida or to the International Crane Foundation in Baraboo, Wisconsin, where captive whooping cranes are also being bred.
Ms. O’Hara hopes Ollie will make it in the wild—he wasn’t raised as a captive bird. But like everything else in life, there are no guarantees.
• • •
The house already feels empty, even though the furniture’s still in it. The real-estate agent didn’t want us to clear it out—it will sell better this way.
I’m done packing. What I’m taking with me is being shipped up to Amherst, Massachusetts. The rest will go into storage. I start teaching at UMass next week. Ted Kelston found a nice apartment for me, near the campus. I’m looking forward to my new job and life, but I’m saddened to be leaving here, too.
Earlier this afternoon I spoke to Maureen/Vanessa over the phone, the first time we had talked at any length since judgment day at Roach’s. She had called me before, but I couldn’t handle hearing her voice for more than a few moments. This time, I was able to.
She was excited about my going back to teaching, although she knew I’d gotten the job, I had managed to tell her that much about what was going on with me. “It’s a great new start for you, Fritz.” I could hear her happiness for me coming over the line. It felt genuine. It felt good, too.
“We’ll see,” I told her cautiously. I’m on my own twelve-step program—I’m taking life a day at a time.
Then she hit me with her own news. “I’m being transferred.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“Boston.”
Boston? Jesus. “Is that a good move for you?” I ask warily.
“We’ll see. I requested it. It’s the closest posting to Amherst I could get. I’ll be there by mid-November.”
“Maureen,” I stammered. “I mean Vanessa . . .”
“It’s okay,” she said. I could almost hear the smile in her voice over my stumbling. “I’ll answer to anything you want to call me.” She paused. “As long as you call me.”
“Ah, look . . .”
“Listen to me, Fritz. What we had . . . what we still have . . . is way too special and important to walk away from. I couldn’t do it, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. And I don’t think you do, either.”
I didn’t answer. What she was saying is true, but dealing with it is another matter.
In the end, we made a date to get together during my Thanksgiving break. “I’ll call you next week after I get situated, give you my address and phone number,” I promised her. “Maybe we’ll do Thanksgiving up there. A Grandma Moses New England Thanksgiving.”
“A New England Thanksgiving sounds wonderful,” she responded eagerly.
That’s three months away. If we still have feeling for each other then, we’ll see if we can make a fresh start. I make no promises, to myself or to her.
Maybe we still have a chance—like she said, when you fall, you fall, and you can’t do a damn thing about it.
• • •
I leave tomorrow at dawn, heading north to my new home. A few hours after I depart, Professor Maureen O’Hara and her team will be on the job. I won’t be with them. What’s done is done, I’m moving on, for real this time.
For the last time, I go down to the island to see the birds.
The sun is about to go down. Most of the birds are preparing to roost for the night, but Ollie and the sandhills are still active, restless. I think they know they’re going to be leaving. I don’t know why I believe that. Wishful thinking, I guess—that I’ve made that strong a psychic connection with them, especially Ollie.
I’ve brought a camera with me. This will be the last film of him I’ll ever shoot here.
I go through most of the roll, saving a few exposures. Then I wade into the middle of the marshy water, where they’re feeding. I’m part of the landscape now. I’m not going to harm them, and they can sense it. I stop when I’m about thirty feet from the cranes—the closest I’ve ever gotten to them.
“Good-bye, Ollie,” I say softly. “I’m going to miss you.”
I know I’m projecting, but I swear his hard marble eye fastens on me. Steady, unblinking. He begins strutting, his wings rising and falling. The others start up, dancing and calling out.
“Gar-oo-oo!” the sandhills trumpet. Ollie responds with his own mighty song. Their dancing becomes faster, more frenzied.
The spirit of their joy and freedom grabs hold of me. I begin dancing around with them, flapping my arms up and down like wings, crying out my own improvised song: “Aye aye aye aye aye!”
The birds seem baffled by my craziness. I don’t care. For the first time in a long time, longer than I can remember, I feel as free as a bird.
Off to the southwest, the sun is falling into the Bay. I stop dancing and bring my camera to my eye, framing on Ollie.
With a great rush of wings, the cranes take flight. I track Ollie through the lens, shooting off the remaining frames on the roll. As I watch reverentially, the birds, Ollie most magnificently, circle overhead, soaring higher and higher, getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
And then they’re
gone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is, as noted at the front of the book, a work of fiction. All of the characters and some of the most important locations exist only in my imagination and on these pages.
In particular, the unique situation regarding the whooping crane, as depicted here, is extraordinarily unusual and unlikely—the odds of this combination of circumstances actually occurring in nature are probably higher than one in a million. But what I have written is technically possible—whooping cranes commonly congregate with sandhills in the wild, and migratory birds are sometimes, for a great many reasons, found in locations far from their natural habitats. That is part of the incredible beauty and variety of nature, and why the events that I have created in this novel are, although highly unlikely, within the realm of possibility.
I am extremely grateful to Robin W. Doughty, Professor of Geography at the University of Texas in Austin, author of Return of the Whooping Crane (University of Texas Press), for his gracious assistance regarding whooping cranes. He has patiently read and critiqued the material about the whooping crane scenario that I created, answered my questions about birds and cranes, no matter how strange or naive, and sent me extensive and sympathetic notes and corrections. Any factual errors are mine, and in no way reflect upon his expertise.
Ernest Willoughby, Ph.D., Professor of Biology (emeritus) at St. Mary’s College of Maryland in St. Mary’s County, Maryland, took me bird-watching in southern Maryland, and was very helpful in matters having to do with birding in that region.
The Websites of Operation Migration, the Patuxent Wildlife Research Center, and The International Crane Foundation were useful in aspects of crane life and migration. The people who work at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, which I have visited and where I observed whooping cranes in the wild, were also helpful.
Sergeants Lyle Long and John Rhodes of the St. Mary’s County, Maryland, Sheriff’s Department, assisted me with local law-enforcement rules, regulations, and methods of operation.
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