“‘He must be migrating through,’ Rose said. ‘Maybe he’s a little sick, or just all tuckered out and needs to take a break for a while.’
“I’d never been so close to a full-grown goose. He was huge! I spent the remainder of the afternoon watching him. He poked around the garden and yard, and spent long stretches just sitting in the sun. When I got home, I told my mother all about our visitor. The next morning, when I ran down to the bait shop to catch the school bus, my mother tied up a bag of wild rice for the goose. We’d just harvested the rice that fall, so it was unprocessed and quite fresh.
“I didn’t know if he’d still be there, but I hoped so, although it would probably mean he was indeed sick or hurt. Crossing the highway down to the bait shop, I heard his great honking long before I actually saw him. Rosie wasn’t around, so after taking out a handful of rice, I stashed the bag in my backpack and squatted in the driveway near the rabbit hutch. The goose eyed me from his resting spot under the cages.
“With my offering held out in front of me, I spoke softly to the goose. He immediately rose to his feet and honked. Then, making soft, clucking-like noises, he took slow, deliberate steps toward me. I suffered a few moments of apprehension when he drew near, because he stood as tall as me squatting in the gravel driveway. He looked ferocious up close, the thick white bands on the side of his black face like war paint. Then his long neck extended, and soon he scooped mouthfuls of food from my hand. When it was gone, I hastily grabbed my backpack for more while my tall, elegant friend patiently waited.
“He quickly finished off the food, and then followed me to the doorway of the bait shop. He wouldn’t come in, but I retrieved a minnow bucket full of cold water and brought it out to his nesting spot by the rabbits. Coming back outside, I spotted Rosie in her kitchen window watching me. She smiled and waved, and I puffed out my chest with pride as I struggled to haul the heavy pail of water.
“This went on for several days. Before and after school, when I ran up the driveway to the bait shop, the goose waddled out to meet me. I even sat with him under the rabbit hutch, stroking his long wing feathers, and gently mussing the finer feathers along his neck. Occasionally, when a flock of geese passed overhead, following the shoreline south, the goose became uncomfortable, strutting around the driveway while honking like a crabby old man.
“The first weekend after the goose showed up, a boy from school came to the bait shop with his father to buy minnows. He saw me feeding my new friend and wanted to try it himself. As soon as he drew near, however, the goose charged him, scaring him back inside the bait shop. I just laughed and laughed. Of course, he told all the other kids in school, but no one believed him.
“The next week, children got off the bus with me at the bait shop to see my new friend. There were just two or three at first, but by late in the week there were ten or twelve of us hanging out at Rosie’s. Fall was getting on, the nights were cooling off fast, and snow could come any day. I found that by taking turns, the children could feed my friend without him getting too upset. But they had to be with me, because he wouldn’t approach anyone if I wasn’t there. Suddenly, everyone at school wanted to come with me to the bait shop. They sat with me at lunch. I even got invited to a sleepover at the house of one of the girls from school. I overheard one of the children telling the teacher that I had ‘saved a beautiful wild creature.’ Well, of course, I had done no such thing. If anything, that wild creature had saved me.
“Then one day about two weeks after my friend arrived, I ran down the ridge to the bait shop. Snowflakes fell in earnest, swirling through the woods, ushering in a whole new season. I clutched my bag of rice firmly in my hand. Usually I heard the goose honking long before I spotted him, but this day all was quiet. The snow whipped silently around me as I ran up the driveway. My heart began to pound. Approaching the bait shop, I saw Rosie in the open doorway, and my friend standing out front. He made bobbing gestures with his head and neck, and stretched out his wings like an athlete preparing to compete.
“I ran up to him. He stuck that great majestic head inside my open coat, nuzzling me with his face and beak, looking for his snack. I quickly fed him, noticing his distraction. It was easy to see what was happening. Then, from high overhead I heard the strangest noise. It sounded like a group of people laughing hysterically. I looked at Rose, who also heard the cackling laughter, but between the low winter clouds and the swirling fat flakes of snow, we couldn’t see a thing.
“‘Tundra swans,’ Rose explained. ‘Every time I hear them, I have to smile. They sound like a room full of kids laughing. But they’re so beautiful. A swan is even bigger than your friend here, and pure white and so graceful. They fly very high, so against a blue sky they’re almost impossible to see. But you can always identify that laugh.’
“Cupping my friend’s food in my hand next to my stomach, I fed the goose the last of the wild rice. I scratched his head and neck. I knew he was leaving. For some reason I didn’t feel sad. I was happy he felt better, and that maybe I had helped. Rosie stood in the bait shop doorway watching us.
“‘Do you think he’ll fly south with the swans?’ I asked. ‘Will they accept him?’
“‘Of course they will. But he’ll probably meet up with another flock of geese at some point.’
“Suddenly, he strutted away and startled us with several loud honks. He cocked his head to one side as if listening for a reply. Then, with a frightening lack of grace, he ran up the driveway as fast as he could and flung himself into the air. By the time he reached the highway, he was about ten feet off the ground. He swung out in a long loop and flew back. I ran to stand next to Rose. The goose looked down at us as he flew over. He barely cleared the bait shop roof, and we listened to his calls as he slowly gained altitude over the trees behind us.
“We couldn’t see him, but through his regular honks we tracked his progress. Out over Rosie’s boathouse on the shore, and then circling back. Tears pooled up in my eyes, but like I said, I wasn’t actually sad. In fact, I hadn’t been this happy in a long time. I just knew he was going to be okay, and that he would make new friends among the swans. Rosie held me close. He made another pass over us, much higher this time. I heard the rustling of his beating wings, and Rosie pointed at a fleeting glimpse of him, but I never saw him again. We could still hear the wild, crazy laughter from the migrating formation hundreds of feet above us. My friend looped out over the highway again, flew back over us one last time, and then he was gone.”
EIGHT
Marcy Soderstrom
After the service, Marcy insisted that they stick around for the luncheon. Abby worried that her mother would corner her again about coming to Duluth, but Jackie and Randall were kept occupied setting out food and greeting folks. At the rear of the church, a drainfield extended, a narrow open patch in the woods where wildflowers and grasses grew in the summer. Marcy and Abby brought their paper plates here, away from the crowd, out into the sunshine and cool Lake Superior breezes.
“God, I’m just starving,” Marcy said as they took a seat on the back steps of the church.
Abby wasn’t hungry. The warm, communal feeling that had comforted her in church was gone. She knew the reason, and she let her thoughts go with it as she scanned the wide expanse of Lake Superior, extending out to the east beyond the horizon.
Marcy said, “I’ve always thought that cold cuts and cheese slices on dinner rolls are the perfect food. Throw in a couple pickles and olives and you have a complete meal.” She looked at Abby. “Aren’t you hungry?”
The young girl’s thick black braid once again protruded from under her baseball cap. She had the brim pulled low to block some of the glare off the lake. Her meager helping of food sat beside her. She took a drink from her soda and replied sullenly, “Not really.”
Swallowing another bite of her sandwich, Marcy said, “I thought that was a lovely service for Rose. She would’ve liked it, don’t you think?”
Abby nodded.
Marc
y set her plate down and wiped a napkin across her mouth. With a furrowed brow, she followed Abby’s gaze out over Lake Superior. Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “I really liked Arlene’s story. Rose was a wonderful person. She touched a lot of lives around here.”
Abby got up and walked away.
“Abby, wait.” Marcy grabbed a brownie off her plate and went after her young friend. Along the drainfield they walked, silently, Abby distracted by her thoughts and Marcy at a loss for words. The long, domed mound of the drainfield gently sloped into the woods, with the shore of Lake Superior just beyond. Abby picked her way through the trees until she could jump out onto the rugged bedrock shoreline.
Looking out to sea, Abby watched a thousand-foot iron-ore boat angling in toward the taconite plant a couple miles to the north. By tomorrow night the ship would be loaded and gone, returning to the steel-producing plants at the eastern end of the Great Lakes. She exhaled a long sigh. The plant kept milling out taconite pellets and the ore boats continued sailing the inland seas, but Abby felt like her own world had come to a complete stop.
The loud sigh caught Marcy’s attention, and with concern she stole a glance at the girl. Abby wasn’t the type to shed tears in public, so when Marcy saw her lower lip quivering, she stepped in closer. No one could ever accuse Marcy of being the quiet type, but she didn’t know what to say to this young person who was obviously in a lot of emotional pain. Fortunately, Abby helped her out by saying, “Ben should have been here. It’s all my fault.”
That came as enough of a shock to free up Marcy’s paralyzed tongue. “Your fault? Come on, Abby, don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I told him everything would be okay. He believed me when I said I could fix everything. I’m so stupid.” Abby stalked off across the rocks.
“Fix what?” Marcy called after her. She shoved the last of the brownie in her mouth and followed Abby to the water’s edge. “What on Earth are you talking about?”
Abby didn’t reply. Picking up a flat stone, she skipped it over the water. After several moments of silence, Marcy folded her arms across her chest against the cold. Standing next to Lake Superior was like standing in front of an open freezer door. “Jeez, it’s cold down here,” she exclaimed. “I’m not dressed for this, so hurry up and tell me what you’re blaming yourself for.”
After throwing another stone, Abby looked both ways up and down the shoreline. Following her gaze, Marcy identified several points along the coast, including the wayside rest and, farther to the north, the breakwater for the harbor at the taconite plant. To the south, the rock-lined shore continued unimpeded for half a mile or so to the two-hundred-fifty-foot high escarpment known as the Ramparts. Rosie’s bait shop stood out of sight beyond that, about half a mile from Black Otter Bay.
Abby had secured several skipping stones now, and began firing them fast and hard across the water. Marcy stood back, watching, rubbing her bare upper arms for warmth. When the stones were gone, Abby turned and said, “Let’s take the shoreline home. We can hike and climb the rocks. You’ll warm up soon enough.”
Marcy looked down the shore again. After such a long winter, it was a blessing to see bright sunshine glistening off the deep blue water. Seagulls bobbed on the waves and flew in soaring circles overhead. She wasn’t much of an outdoors person, but Marcy had to admit it was beautiful here along the shore. “I’m not climbing over the Ramparts,” she said. “And neither are you.”
“We can get around it at the base. My dad and I did it last year. Even Ben made it.”
To return home the way they’d come would require walking back up to the church, crossing the highway, and climbing the ridge to the Superior Hiking Trail. Marcy could see just a glimpse of the little white church through the trees. It would be warmer up there, but the shoreline offered a straighter shot back to town.
“Come on,” Abby called.
Marcy stepped briskly to catch up to the athletic teenager striding confidently over the rocks. Something weighed heavily on Abby’s mind, and if she wanted to talk about it, well, Marcy intended to be there for her, even if it meant spending the afternoon struggling over this ruggedly beautiful landscape.
The terrain was fairly level for the first twenty minutes. They set a leisurely pace, scaling small ledgerock cliffs and skipping stones over the water.
Marcy gratefully acknowledged that Abby had been right about the walk warming her up. And every time she steadied herself with a hand on a boulder or sat on a bedrock bench, warmth from the sun-drenched stone radiated into her bones. The experience—the fresh air, rolling waves, and indomitable rocks, the hiking, exploring, and stone throwing—elevated her mood like a natural high. Now, if only she could help her young friend.
As they neared the stark heights of the Ramparts, Marcy asked, “Did something happen to you and Ben the day you hid in the café?”
Abby stopped, leaned back, and looked up at the sheer rock wall ahead of them. Marcy got dizzy when she looked up, lost her footing, and almost fell over. She ended up taking a seat on the rocks a little more abruptly than she would have liked.
“Are you okay?” Abby asked, sitting down cross-legged next to her.
“Sure,” Marcy replied, adding a chuckle at her own expense. “I know you’re not supposed to look down if you have a fear of heights, but I didn’t know you could get vertigo from looking up, too.” She lay back on the bedrock to get a better view of the Ramparts. “I sure love these warm rocks, though,” she added, spreading her bare arms out to the sides to capture as much of their radiant heat as possible.
When she sat up again, Marcy studied the jumble of rocks and boulders at the base of the Ramparts. The pile of slag had accumulated over many thousands of years, after being broken off the cliff face by the powers of wind, rain, ice, and a never-ending assault from the temperamental surf. She didn’t see how Abby intended to get them across all that loose rock, penned in on one side by a 250-foot high wall of rock, and on the other side by the frigid, grasping waves of Lake Superior.
“Ben and I saw something that day you found us in the café,” Abby suddenly blurted.
Marcy looked at her. Abby seemed calm, her dark eyes peering out to sea from under the brim of her baseball cap. She told the story then about the man in the big black car and the body rolled up in a blanket. “I know now that it must have been Rosie,” she concluded.
Marcy reached out to her. “I’m so sorry, Abby. Did Ben see it, too? Are you sure it was Rose?”
Abby nodded. “We were fishing in the bay near her minnow seines. It was the only open water on the whole lake. They found her body there shortly after we left.” She directed an intense stare at Marcy, as if willing her to believe what she said. “She was murdered, Marcy. The man wanted to make it look like an accidental drowning. Maybe a heart attack, I don’t know. But the sheriff was right to request an autopsy. I just hope they find something.”
“Who was the man?”
“I have no idea. The car had Illinois plates.”
They sat for a few moments in silence, then, from her sitting position, Abby flung another rock at the lake. She said, “You know, I just remembered, when we ran away there was another vehicle coming down the road. A pickup truck. At the time, I thought it was a local, and maybe he’d confront the man with the body. I didn’t get a good look at the driver. But I haven’t heard anything more about it. It’s almost like the truck never existed.”
“You ran away?”
“Yeah. Ben was scared, but the man actually saw me. I had to get out of there fast.”
Marcy laughed. “So you’re telling me that you weren’t scared, too?”
Abby stood up. “Hey, nobody can catch me in the woods.” She eyed the mess of boulders ahead of them. “Come on, let’s do this.”
With a huff, Marcy pushed herself to her feet. The going was slow, but not particularly difficult. They climbed up and down over piles of rock. Abby set an easy pace, often hanging back to help Marcy over tricky str
etches. A couple times, confronted by slabs of rock the size of small houses, Abby chose to scramble under them, and Marcy followed through the damp, cold, slippery openings. From time to time Abby stopped to scan the rocky escarpment beside them. Marcy had learned her lesson about looking up, but she couldn’t help asking, “Why do you keep glancing up there, Abby? I hope you’re not looking for a place to climb it.”
“No way. At least, not without ropes and pitons. I just get nervous about some idiot up there throwing rocks over the edge. We have to be ready to take cover.”
“Oh, my God,” Marcy muttered, and when they set out again to finish the trek around the Ramparts, she worked even harder to keep up with Abby.
Once they left the trials of the natural obstacle course behind, they walked side by side again across the flat bedrock coastline. Summer cabins, some of them worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, came into view through the trees up on higher ground. They weren’t generally visible from the highway on the other side, so even though she’d lived her whole life in Black Otter Bay, Marcy had never seen many of these homes. From the lakeside, gigantic windows reflected the sunlight, and massive decks provided owners with million-dollar views.
For a while they walked in silence, admiring the natural grandeur of the coast, as well as the stunning architecture. Then Marcy said, “I still don’t get what happened to Ben.”
Abby picked up and threw another skipping stone. Her arm was warmed up now, and she counted eight or nine skips. Then she turned to Marcy. “You have to promise that you won’t say a word to anyone about this.”
“Of course.”
Abby studied her with a skeptical frown. “I mean it, Marcy. Ben’s life may be at risk. You have to swear you won’t say anything to anyone.”
Marcy snapped to attention and held her hand up in a mock Girl Scout pledge. “You got it, Abby. I swear I won’t say a word.” She mimicked zipping her lips closed. “I just want to help if I can.”
Black Otter Bay Page 11
