By one that afternoon they’d returned from Darryl’s vet clinic. She’d stood for almost two hours watching as Rick and Darryl removed pellets from the owl. Luckily they’d been only superficial wounds. The break in the wing hadn’t needed to be surgically pinned, so his treatment of Scotch tape would hold as a splint until she healed. Paula held the owl, talking softly to her in Greek as Darryl and Rick washed her wounds with antiseptic fluid in the sink.
At the end of Paula’s shift she and Rick walked toward the house. She veered off toward the back fence to get Fotis. Once their eyes met, Fotis squealed and rubbed his flank against the chain link in anticipation.
Her heart rushed—to feel so wanted, so found.
“Ella, micro mou,” she clapped her hands and called in Greek. Fotis started wiggling.
Rick looked at her, puzzled. “So what brought you out here?” Sam took off for the back of the yard toward a small grove of trees, still shy of Paula.
“Oh, just wanted to visit some friends.” She knew it sounded flaky.
“You know people here?”
“Up in Thunder Bay.” It reminded her that she needed to call Bernie, explain as best she could and maybe drive up to visit next weekend.
“Family?”
“Friends.”
“So how long you plan to stick around?”
“For a while.” She grabbed the leash draped over the fence and snapped it on Fotis and then guided him out of the gate.
“Where’d Sam go?” She looked around.
“Probably hiding in the trees.”
She looked toward the wooded area but didn’t see him.
“So you worked with birds in New York?”
“Yeah.” She wondered how much to fudge the truth.
“Where in New York?”
“Mostly the City.”
“You grow up there?”
She nodded. “Pretty much.” She didn’t want to get into parsing boroughs.
“And where was it you’ve worked?”
“Uhh … at NYU.”
“You worked with birds there?”
“Jeez.” She turned and looked at him laughingly. “I feel like I’m being cross-examined.”
His face had a strange look, but he backed off, folded his arms and became quiet. “Just trying to figure out where you materialized from. Out of nowhere,” he said without a smile. “As an employer.”
“Not much to find out.” She shrugged, realizing how sketchy it sounded. “How do most people end up here?”
They stood at the fence. It became an awkward silence. Paula didn’t like the way he peered at her, like the eagle examining her, looking into the pores of her skin for answers and information.
“So,” he said, and stepped back, tucking his fingertips into his jeans pockets. “You still looking for a place?”
“Sure, if the offer’s still good.”
“How ’bout an even swap?” he said. “My guesthouse in exchange for labor.”
“Deal.” She held her hand out to shake.
He nodded and looked down at Fotis.
“Tomorrow I’ll have you fill out some paperwork.”
“Like what?”
“Application form, waiver of liability, W-2.”
“Thought we were doing an even swap.”
“Tax purposes.”
On one hand she could understand the formality, but it felt like a tether.
“Okay.”
He turned sideways, pointing. “Drive down this road.” He pointed. “It’s at the end by the lake.”
“Do I need a key?”
“Nope.”
“All righteee then.” She smiled and thumbed toward her car. “Tell you what,” she said, stepping backward toward the Escape. “I’m going to go check the place out.”
He watched carefully and she thought a bit too long.
“Guess maybe I’ll see you later,” she said.
It was a relief to get away. But the more questions he asked the more evasive she became. It felt like prying; she was used to living in hiding, an undercover human of sorts.
The driveway was a grassy path through more groves of birch trees; she spotted what he’d called his guesthouse. It was like a miniature log cabin version of his home. A small satellite dish was attached at the peak of the roof. Fotis led the way to the front door. Inside was one large room with stairs leading up to a tiny loft. The staircase was made of irregular planks. She climbed the stairs and peeked into the loft: a bed, an overhead light, nothing remarkable.
The interior was sparsely furnished—a rough-hewn couch that looked like it was also a futon, flanked by two matching end tables with wrought-iron lamps. The shades sported alternating images of moose and bear.
It had a small efficiency-sized kitchen with an RV-sized fridge, stove/oven and microwave. A small, round bistro-sized table with two chairs was placed in front of a large picture window that looked on to Lake Superior. Paula sat down and set her keys on the slate tile surface. The lake was hypnotic. She could have sat there for years. Fatigue washed over her: good tired, not the mental weariness she felt on the subway ride home.
Fotis sniffed around but paid extra attention to places Paula assumed there must have been a dog.
“You have fun with Sam today?” she asked in Greek. “I’m gonna have to enroll you in ESL classes.”
A TV was perched on a stand across from the couch and a tiny bathroom was located just off the living room area. A wood-burning stove was tucked into the corner of the room, standing on a platform of flagstone. Photos of raptors in birch bark frames and scenes of rocky outcroppings from downtown Grand Marais were hanging on the walls.
Fotis lay down next to her on the wood floor. She took out her phone to call Bernie. No reception. How could anywhere in America not have cell-phone reception?
She looked at the clock over the TV. It was only two, but it felt more like six. The sun was lower or at a different angle, making the shadows cast oddly. But it was too early to sit around. Standing, she clipped the leash back on Fotis and headed out to the car.
They were in Grand Marais before she needed to shift into fifth gear. She pulled in front of the IGA and saw Maggie through the front window at the cash register.
“Be right back.” Paula petted Fotis and flipped him his bone.
Maggie was handing someone their change when Paula walked in the door.
“How’s the new job?”
“Amazing,” Paula said. “I hope I don’t get you in trouble for talking.”
Maggie laughed.
“Don’t know if your boss’ll ride your ass.”
“It’s nice of you to worry, but my husband and I own the store. I ride my own ass.” She laughed.
“Oh, sorry,” Paula said, embarrassed.
She started telling Maggie about the eagle, owl, porcupine and abandoned otter pups.
“I have to buy boots, some clothes, for work.”
“Ben Franklin’s a few doors down.” Maggie looked out from behind the register. The store was empty. “You got time for coffee?”
“I’d love some.” They walked toward the coffeemaker next to the rotisserie chicken oven. “It’s quiet in here.”
“Mid-afternoon lull,” Maggie explained. “Folks out on the water, hiking.” She paused. “Screwing,” she said, and sighed. “God bless them.”
They both laughed.
“Here.” Maggie pulled an Avon brochure out of the pocket in her smock. “Flameless candles are scented this year,” she said with added significance. The cover was decked with jack-o’-lanterns and stalks of corn. “Circle what you want on the order form; I send it in on the computer.” She raised her eyebrows. “Takes about five business days, sometimes less. Something to spruce up that guest cabin.” Maggie winked.
Paula hadn’t mentioned Rick’s guesthouse.
Maggie handed Paula a Styrofoam cup and pulled out two display camping chairs, each with armrests and cup holders. They dragged the chairs into the center
aisle, turning to face the half-moon beach. Sales tags and instruction booklets dangled from each frame. Firewood was bundled and stacked beneath the front windowsill.
“Jeez, it feels good to sit.” Maggie plopped down, the cup in her hand, exhaling as if she’d been on her feet for months. “I’m getting too old for this crap.”
“Comfortable chair,” Paula remarked, looking out to the Escape parked on the street.
“Last two,” Maggie said, looking at the dangling tags. “Everyone sits here. Kids, old ladies like me with swollen ankles—”
“Well, I’m right behind you.”
“Probably can’t sell ’em,” she said, picking off something that looked like hardened chewing gum.
Paula thought of the merchants on Canal Street, taking in the early-morning sun before the day began, and the Chinese woman she’d seen smoking a cigar.
“For the love of Pete, will you look at that?” Maggie looked as if there’d been an egregious assault on reason. “Forehead prints. From people looking in to see if we’re open.”
Paula would have never thought the oily splotches were from foreheads.
“Jesus Christ, you’d think if the damn lights are off we’re closed. Now I’ve got to get Bobby Ray; he’s my bagger; you’ll meet him”—she made a little motion toward her head—“to wipe them off when he comes in. Poor guy’s got some problems, sort of slow. He’s Marvelline’s nephew from Gotebo, Oklahoma; he’s a kind soul.” Maggie said, shaking her head. “So we’re shorthanded and I’m doing all the stocking right now.”
“Well, the coffee’s good,” Paula said after she took a sip and started leafing through the Avon catalog. “Thanks.”
“Ephraim says it’s turpentine.”
“God bless turpentine.” Paula raised her cup in a salute.
Maggie laughed. “Sort of torques up your innards, don’t it, though?” Maggie said, and they both began to chuckle
“So what’s the story with Rick?” Paula asked.
Maggie turned in her chair. “Funny thing, he asked the same thing about you last night on the phone.”
Paula touched a bundle of firewood with her toe, playing with the clear shrink-wrapped wood, embarrassed. Maggie had her loyalties and Paula had overstepped her bounds.
“So what’d you tell him?”
“Told him I knew what he knew. Says you got a way with the birds.” Maggie got up to put more cream in her coffee.
“Says you’re picking things up fast, got that inner calm he looks for in a rehab person.”
Paula felt Maggie studying her.
“He said that?” Paula glanced up, hoping it was true and that Maggie wasn’t just being nice.
Maggie nodded and shrugged.
Paula looked into her lap, trying to hide how pleased she felt. “Thanks.” Paula felt herself beaming.
“Don’t thank me. Rick said it.”
“But you passed it on.”
Paula looked down at the brochure with the candle selections. “Don’t think I’ll go for the flameless candles,” Paula said. “I mean, what’s the point.”
“I’m with you, but you’d be surprised how many people burn down their own damn houses.”
“You got a point.”
They sat sipping the piping-hot coffee as they thumbed through the catalog. The sun had shifted direction, shining onto Paula’s knees, and the warmth felt good.
“You see,” Paula started. “I’m on a leave of absence from my job in New York.” It was a good place to start. “Was driving to Thunder Bay to visit friends when I stopped here to get some coffee, let Fotis out. I picked up a newspaper for something to read,” she explained. “And saw Rick’s ad. I’ve always loved birds, so I figured what the hell?” She left Roger out of it.
“What kind of work you do in New York?”
“Uhh … I’m in education.”
“A teacher?”
“Yeah, among other things.” She was reluctant. Some people found professors intimidating and she didn’t want it to distance her from Maggie. So often they’d clam up or shy away, thinking they were not in Paula’s league, whatever league they thought that to be. The moment she felt that distance, it hurt. “Oh, you’re a professor?” Some would squint, reassess her features, scrutinize her as if looking for signs of assumed superiority. But in her heart she worked alongside Eleni, cutting out furs, and cleared tables with Vassili. Paula could suddenly see herself pitching in if Maggie was busy, learning to work the second register, walking the aisles with a red pencil to mark down day-old bread and aging vegetables before they were too wilted to sell. She’d felt more at home in the past forty-eight hours than she had in twenty years.
“Hope you don’t think this is totally stupid,” she qualified, “but it felt like fate.” Paula hoped Maggie didn’t think she was foolish. “Fate’s a big deal in Greek culture,” she added, thinking of Eleni.
“I love this work.” Paula looked up at Maggie, feeling like she’d cry. “I’ve never loved anything so much.” They turned to look out on the lake. She could feel Maggie waiting for her to go on.
Paula shifted the camping chair a bit to face her. “I’ve worked in the same place for almost twenty years, Maggie.” She struggled to gain composure. Another word and it might all come tumbling out.
She felt Maggie studying her.
“So who’s the somebody you left behind in New York?”
“Damn, you’re good,” Paula said, and they both laughed. “He’s in France for six weeks.”
“Think you’ll go back?”
Paula looked at her knees. “At some point,” she said, and tried to relax, but a dark mood seeped in on the heels of her happiness. Memories and obligations pecked at her. No one walks away unencumbered.
Paula wanted to be enveloped by the smell of old linoleum in Maggie’s store, the cluttered shelves of beauty products, potato chips, breakfast cereals, refrigerated shelves of smoked fish and the fun of thumbing through Avon catalogs.
“Sounds like you and Rick are good friends,” Paula said.
“More coffee?” Maggie offered, raising her cup as she stood to refill her own.
“No thanks.”
“Rick blew into town ten years ago. Sort of like you,” the woman said, looking at Paula in a funny way. “Unhappily married, not that you are, though I suspect most folks are.” Maggie raised her eyebrows.
Paula looked at her naked ring finger.
“—unrewarding career,” Maggie started to explain. “Came here with some buddies for a fishing weekend and basically never went back.”
“He never went back?” Paula looked at Maggie.
“In a manner of speaking,” she clarified. “Never looked back—of course he went back, bowed out of his partnership, settled his affairs, sold his house and bought the new one.”
“What partnership?” Paula asked.
“His law firm. Rick’s an attorney. From the Cities.”
“Oh.”
“Apparently had done quite well for himself,” Maggie explained. “He turned sixty last month; we’ve got the same birthday.”
“Kids?”
“Nope, but that’s another story.” Maggie glanced sideways at her in a way that said there was a whole hell of a lot more to it. “You know.” Maggie turned to face Paula. “Sometimes there’s no starting over because the stuff that you’re working with is just plain bad. Rearranging bad never turns it good unless you develop a taste for bad. Some of us gotta start fresh, walk away. Alcohol, bad love, shitty life, whatever. No one faults a person for that. And the ones that do are bitter ’cause they don’t have the guts to do it themselves.”
“Oh.” Paula couldn’t move, as if she’d gotten hit by a blunt object. As if Clotho, one of the three Fates, and the spinner of the thread of life, had borrowed Maggie’s mouth to cite line and verse from a page of Paula’s fate. It was so clean, so pointed, she felt as though Maggie knew everything.
It took Paula a few moments to recover.
; “I don’t have kids,” Paula said. “You?”
“Four of ’em. All grown. Some days I say, ‘Thank God they’re grown’; others I miss their sweet baby smells so bad it kills me,” she said, and looked down at her knees. “All of ’em moved away—Chicago, the Cities.”
“You must miss them.”
“Every day.” Maggie looked at her hands. “Ephraim wants to remodel the store, ‘update.’ Says it’s ratty.”
“Doesn’t seem to bother customers any.” Paula looked around at the shelves that looked to be in need of perpetual restocking.
Maggie sighed. “I’m ready to retire. Ephraim says retiring kills ya.”
Paula thought of Vassili, who’d never lived to find out, and Eleni, who said the same thing. The IGA was a gold mine. The only grocery store in a tourist town aside from a few health-food stores that sold meat, real toilet paper, plastic forks and spoons, Campbell’s soup, Coke, Pepsi, hair dye and ibuprofen.
Maggie sat quietly, thinking. “Maybe in the next few years. Travel, maybe move back to Red Cliff where we’re from, see the grandkids.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Ephraim inherited the store thirty years ago.”
“Would one of your kids take over?”
Maggie laughed in a dark way. “Hon, that conversation’s long dead.”
“Does Rick still practice law?”
Maggie gave her a look. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing—just curious. He seems like a smart guy.” She shrugged, wondering what the big deal was.
“Well, hon, I’d say you’re no slouch yourself,” Maggie countered. “Let’s just say he works on special projects.”
“Oh.” Paula got the sense she’d entered forbidden territory.
Just then a family with four giggling adolescent girls entered the store.
“Well, break’s over.” Maggie stood and began shoving the chairs back against the front window to clear the aisle.
“Well, thanks for the coffee.” Paula tossed the empty cup into a wastebasket by the door. “I’ll fill this out and bring it back.” She held up the Avon order form in her hand.
Maggie smiled and nodded back as the mother asked about mosquito repellant.
Paula walked out to the street. She could see the top of Fotis’ head. He was either napping or busy with the bone. Walking down two doors, she found the Ben Franklin and waltzed in.
Traveling Light Page 17
