Swan Song

by Judith K Ivie

  May smiled at our somber expressions. “Why we continue the struggle is a more complicated answer than how we do it. For Isabelle and me and even Lizzie Mulgrew, small publishing is more of a passion than a business, something we do because we love the written word and want to make well-crafted novels available to as many readers as possible. For other small publishers, it’s plain stubbornness, hanging on out of sheer determination not to let the big boys and the self-publishers drive us out of business. As I’ve already said, that’s getting a lot harder to do.”

  Her smile faded as she reached for her tea cup once again. “Stubborn as I am, I’m tired. In fact, having the time to write another Ariadne Merriwether novel this year has reminded me how much more I enjoy writing than publishing. Isabelle is way better than I am at running a business anyway. I believe I’m ready to turn Romantic Nights over to her entirely, assuming she even wants it, and go back to writing my little mysteries full time.”

  She grinned at us, our shocked expressions saying it all as the waitress delivered our steaming dinners. It wasn’t easy to rattle Margo, I knew, but she was clearly nonplussed. She locked eyes with me for a few seconds, and whatever she saw there seemed to steady her.

  “So what do you have to say about that?” May demanded. “Do you think I’m ready to become a woman of relative leisure?”

  “I think you’ve earned the right to do whatever you damned well please from here on out,” Margo told her aunt calmly. “Now let’s eat. I’m about to starve to death.”

  Chapter Two

  Shortly after ten o’clock the next morning, I steered my ancient Jetta sedan carefully down the Spring Street fork that lead to the frozen pond on one side of the street and the spring-fed, running brook that ran off into the marsh on the other. About sixty ducks and half a dozen geese floated in the open brook and eyed us warily as we pulled over to their side of the street. The teenage boys who played hockey on the pond had given the waterfowl a healthy motivation to maintain some space between themselves and human beings, even those bearing cracked corn, and I never encouraged them to do otherwise. It was far safer for them that way.

  “This may be one of the worst ideas I ever had. No good deed goes unpunished and all that,” Duane Starling grumbled from the back seat where he and Becky Lynn Carmichael, our part-time employees and best of pals, were unbuckling their seatbelts. Duane’s best friend was Charlie Putnam, our third partner Strutter’s son, who was attending UConn in Storrs. Duane had extended a summer job with us by making himself an invaluable employee of Mack Realty and Romantic Nights, May’s publishing company, which shared his time.

  Becky slapped his arm lightly. “Stop groaning. We offered to help Kate feed the hurt and stranded birds while Emma’s visiting her boyfriend, so get on with it. How does this work, Kate?”

  I was glad I’d invited the two young people to help feed the feathered ones this morning. It had been a tough winter so far, and my daughter Emma deserved the break she was taking in Oregon. Every morning from November through mid-April, she and I made the trek to the Spring Street Pond to feed the halt and the lame. Then I circled back to where Old Main Street crossed over the marsh to do the same for the little birds that wintered there, and she went over the Putnam Bridge to her job in Glastonbury as a real estate paralegal.

  Summoning up an enthusiasm I didn’t really feel, I unsnapped my own seatbelt and popped open the car trunk as I climbed out. “Just follow me,” I instructed.

  An icy wind made the 20-degree temperature feel more like 20 below as we huddled in the shelter of the trunk. I handed each of the young people a large plastic pitcher and pulled the tab from a 40-pound sack of cracked corn, which rested beside a bin of birdseed. That was for our next stop.

  I used my teeth to pull off a glove, opened the sack and dipped my plastic pitcher deeply into the cracked corn, then gestured for Duane and Becky to follow suit. Carrying the pitchers close to our bodies, we made our way gingerly through the piled-up snow and icy patches along the narrow street as we looked for an appropriate flat spot in which to spread out the corn.

  “This looks okay,” Duane said. “It just needs the snow packed down so the kernels don’t sink in.” He handed Becky his pitcher and proceeded to jump up and down on a shallow drift, causing the ducks and geese to rise, squawking in protest, and flap or swim deeper into the marsh. Duane promptly lost his footing and fell on his backside in the snow. Becky hooted.

  “That’s what you get for showing off. You’re lucky you didn’t break a leg, fool,” she chided him, but she set the pitchers down to offer him a hand.

  Duane didn’t seem to take offense and accepted her helping hand without blustering, as so many other young men might have done in his place, I thought. Perhaps it had to do with his being gay—nothing testosterone-related to prove. I removed the cover from my own pitcher as Becky dusted the snow from Duane’s jeans and collected theirs.

  “The important thing is to spread the corn out in several long rows so the birds don’t have to fight each other to get at it. They’re only going to get a few mouthfuls each, so we don’t want to make it any more difficult for them.” I emptied my pitcher carefully in a long row, and the two young people did the same, leaving several inches of space between the rows. We retreated to the relative comfort of the car, glad to get out of the wind even after our brief exposure. Within seconds, the onslaught began in a whirlwind of flapping wings as the hungry birds fell upon our offering. Duane and Becky gaped as a dozen ducks became fifty, jostling for position along the rows of corn as they attempted to snatch what few kernels they could.

  Bringing up the rear and off to the side a bit came the ones who could not fly for one reason or another. Not wanting to make pets out of these wild creatures, more for my sake than theirs, I’d avoided naming most of them, but three of the geese had been regulars for several years, and I hadn’t been able to help myself. Droopy’s right wing sagged against his body, obviously badly broken at some point years ago. Gimpy limped heavily on a twisted foot, still bearing a metal band around one leg. My heart went out to both injured males, even as I searched for my favorite, a female I’d dubbed Fray. Instead of being covered with feathers, her right wing stuck out from her body like the slats of a denuded umbrella, rendering her totally unable to fly. I searched the bank and was rewarded by the sight of her clambering awkwardly up the slippery snow bank to where I’d put a small stash of cracked corn off to the side. Despite her clumsy gait coming out of the water, Fray easily inserted herself into the throng and hissed her way to an advantageous position. She may have been injured, but she was feisty. I’d known her for years.

  “Awww, look at that poor thing,” Becky commiserated, pointing Fray out to Duane. “What happened to it, do you know?”

  “It’s called angel wing,” I told her, “and it is a she. The deformity is caused by people misguidedly feeding the young ones junk like bread when their wings are growing. Geese can’t digest that stuff. They’re mostly vegetarians, and if they have open water, they can usually find enough food to sustain themselves. That’s why the hurt ones hang out here. The underground springs that supply the pond keep the water moving.” I pointed out the spillway at the edge of the pond, which directed a steady stream of water under the road through a culvert and out into the marsh on the other side.

  Duane looked thoughtful. “Can her wing be fixed? What about catching her and taking her to the nature center on Prospect Street?”

  I smiled at his eagerness to do something constructive. “It’s too late, I’m afraid. Once the geese are adults, angel wing can’t be fixed. But Fray seems happy here. I’ve known her for years, and she always has company. This year, it looks like a little too much company, but I’ve never had the heart to chase off the birds that can fly. They all need open water to survive.”

  “How do you know Fray is a girl? I can’t tell them apart,” Becky said after another minute.

  “There’s very little difference between male and female
Canada geese,” I agreed, “but as I said, I’ve been feeding Fray for many winters now. I wean myself from them in the spring, but every now and then Armando and I will drive by the pond to check out the babies. A couple of years ago, we happened to come by at afternoon nap time, and Fray was on the bank, covered in snoozing goslings, with a male standing guard nearby. It reminded me of the swans that used to summer here.”

  Becky’s mouth formed an O. “I love swans! They’re so beautiful. Did they raise babies here?”

  “Indeed they did for many years. George and Laura, we called them. They were excellent parents, and they managed to keep a few of their cygnets from becoming lunch for the snapping turtles each year. Once they managed to get seven to adulthood. Then in November, the kids would leave in twos and threes, and after a few more weeks of rest, George and Laura would take off for open water, too. Usually, they go to the Connecticut River. One year, though, the earthen dam at the far end of the pond had to be repaired, and State officials relocated the swan family to another pond. After that, George and Laura—and we think a few of the kids—stopped nesting here. They prefer the other place, but they cruise through in the spring and fall for a day or two.”

  The feeding frenzy continued as I eased the car away from the bank and turned up to Spring Street and the waiting songbirds at the other end of the marsh. Minutes later, I introduced Duane and Becky to the little cadre of chickadees, titmice, nuthatches, finches and my special favorite, a cardinal I called Pip, that came to my whistle and feasted on the sunflower seeds and cracked nuts we poured at the edge of the plowed sidewalk. We backed off a few yards to give the birds space.

  “Why do you feed the birds here, Kate? Can’t you just put out bird feeders at The Birches? Seems as if it would be a lot simpler,” Becky asked, clutching the collar of her hooded parka around her cheeks to cut the icy wind.

  “It would be,” I agreed, “but the condo association has a ban on bird feeding. I can’t blame them, because the seeds attract rodents. So I picked out this spot. It’s on my way to work, and when pedestrians and dog walkers come down the sidewalk, the birds can just hop up onto the fence and into the bushes.” I indicated the split rail fencing and the shrubs on the marsh side of the walk.

  Duane pointed to a large, globular nest hanging low over the fence. “Which bird lives in that?”

  I laughed as a plump gray squirrel hopped along the top rail of the fence and dropped among the birds on the ground to stuff his cheeks with nuts. “No bird. It’s the winter residence of that outrageous fur ball over there. He’s figured out how to stay warm, sleep late, and get room service courtesy of Emma and me. The birds don’t seem bothered, so what the heck. Everybody’s got to make a living.”

  “I guess he had a good realtor,” Duane joked. “Location, location, location, right?”

  I nodded and looked at my watch. “Time to get moving. I really appreciate your helping me today. It makes it less of a chore when I have company. I don’t know about you, but this wind is making me hope May has the coffee brewing at the office.”

  “Yeah,” Duane agreed. “Some hot chocolate will really hit the spot this morning.” Reluctantly, he and Becky turned their backs on the feeding birds and headed back up the sidewalk to where my car sat idling in the handy parking lot of a local insurance agency. Becky couldn’t resist trying to stuff a handful of snow down Duane’s collar, and he retaliated with a soft snowball, both of them laughing like the kids they still were from my distinctly middle-aged perspective.

  By the time we’d made our way to the Law Barn on Old Main Street, which housed Mack Realty and Romantic Nights Publishing on separate floors, we were more than ready for the hot beverages May had prepared for us.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing Duane and Becky their hot chocolate, “and hot coffee is coming right up.”

  After murmuring hasty but heartfelt thanks, the two young people scurried to their respective desks, Becky’s in the main floor lobby and Duane’s in the Romantic Nights loft at the top of the stairs, to check messages and see what the day had in store. May and I watched them fondly as we waited for the coffee brewer to do its thing.

  “It’s nice to have some young blood around,” May commented. “I got used to Charlie’s and Duane’s energy and high jinks over the summer, and I was afraid we’d have to go back to being grown-ups all the time when the fall semester started. But even with Charlie gone back to school, Duane and Becky have settled in nicely together, haven’t they?”

  I nodded my agreement as I added Truvia and nonfat creamer to my coffee. “It’s a relief not to have to worry about one of them developing a crush on the other, too, don’t you think? From the first day, Becky and Duane have been like two puppies, totally enjoying each other without any romantic drama. My best friend in college was gay,” I added wistfully. No matter how many years passed, I still missed Danny. He’d been a better friend and a closer confidante than any of the girls with whom I’d hung out, perhaps because there had been no element of competition between us. It must be the same with Duane and Becky.

  May chuckled. “From what you’ve told me, there’s already been enough drama in that young man’s life.”

  I had to agree. Charlie Putnam and Duane Starling had been best friends right through high school, but Charlie hadn’t been certain about Duane’s sexual orientation until the night of the New Year’s Eve dance at the school when Duane had chosen to come out publicly by asking Charlie to dance. Not a good move, but the ensuing flap led to some good things for the boys, their friends and the community as a whole. A group of their schoolmates and several teachers joined together to make a public service video offering advice on less dramatic ways for gay youngsters to come out to their friends and families. The video went viral on YouTube. Not only did the boys’ friendship survive the trauma of New Year’s Eve, they became local, then national, celebrities in the youth community and thoroughly enjoyed their fifteen minutes of fame.

  “Duane’s an interesting guy. He seems content enough to work here for a while, but has he ever talked to you about what he wants to do with his life? Being a gofer and computer geek, however competent, in a small town office like this one can’t be all he has in mind,” May opined.

  “Strutter would probably know, but I don’t. Strutter and J.D. have done more real parenting with that boy over the years than Mr. and Mrs. Starling ever did. Not only did they not know what was going on with him, they didn’t want to know, and as far as we can see, they still don’t,” I told May sadly. “Thank goodness for best friends and their parents, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t Duane go to UConn with Charlie?” May wanted to know. “Didn’t he have the grades to get in?”

  I had to laugh at that one. “Not only did he have the grades, he was salutatorian of the Wethersfield High School graduating class. He loves to tell people he has brains as well as beauty, usually with a big wink. No, he didn’t go to UConn because he didn’t want to waste his parents’ money until he figures out what he wants to pursue as a career, which I think is surprisingly responsible for a guy his age. I mean, how many people really have a clue about their life’s work at age 18? So he’s giving it a year or two and trying out different things while he takes some basic courses at Manchester Community College. That’s where he and Becky met. His parents set him up with a small apartment and a good used car and said they’d pay his tuition as long as he takes at least two courses a semester and works 20 hours a week. I think they wanted him out of the house as much as anything else, since they obviously consider him an embarrassment or a bad reflection on their child rearing abilities or something; but the arrangement works fine for Duane, so it’s all good.”

  A shriek from the lobby told us that Duane was tormenting Becky, as usual, by waving the Have-A-Heart trap containing the night’s catch at Becky on his way to release the mouse or squirrel or whatever it was this time into the back yard of the Law Barn. Rodents were a fact of life in such an old building, and my partners
and I had made peace with them, as had May. Wildlife was a particular passion of hers, as it happened, but so far Becky had resisted all of our efforts to desensitize her. Maybe helping to feed the ducks and geese would improve that, I mused.

  “What does your day look like?” I asked May as we moved toward our respective offices, Romantic Nights up one flight and Mack Realty down six steps, sipping our coffee.

  She made a face. “I had planned to do a little writing this afternoon and let Isabelle hold the fort upstairs, but I’ve decided to go to the convention luncheon. Lizzie’s giving the keynote speech, as you heard from her last night, and I confess, she really piqued my curiosity. It was probably the alcohol talking, but I’m interested to hear what she really does say when the time comes. Then there’s the awards dinner to get through tomorrow night.” She sighed heavily.

  “You don’t sound too thrilled about being up for the Mystery of the Year Award.”

  “It doesn’t mean a whole heck of a lot,” May confided. “It’s one of those things that the convention sponsors dream up to make writers more interested in spending a fortune to participate in their organizations and attend their annual gatherings. They pick a few titles and appoint a committee to judge which one is the best. Sometimes they even let members vote. It encourages a few sales among Mysteries USA members; but in the end, the award is just an ego boost to the nominees and winners. The reading public never heard of it, and it certainly doesn’t motivate anyone outside the association to buy. Still, one does one’s duty and shows up for the presentation—unless one can think up a suitably airtight excuse, of course. That was tough to do this year, what with the convention being right down the road in Hartford.” She took another sip of coffee. “How about you? Are you and Margo able to keep things going with Strutter on vacation?”