The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  “It was there this morning,” he said. “I watched it fly in, after a night of hunting. We could go look for it….”

  “I don’t want to bother you,” she said. “I see you’re really busy. I really just wanted to get some shots before the owl disappeared for good.”

  “You’re a photographer?”

  “Not really,” she said. “But Mickey is so excited about that owl. She loved that book you gave her, by the way. So much so, I thought she’d really like a picture of ‘her’ snowy owl. That’s how she thinks of it…as if it flew down from the Arctic just for her.”

  “Maybe it did,” Tim said, smiling, closing the history book he’d been reading from. “Come on—let’s go find it so you can get a picture.”

  Neve hesitated.

  “Come on. I promise not to say anything about court or lawyers.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I swear. Let’s go get a picture for Mickey.”

  Neve finally nodded, and Tim guessed it was the “for Mickey” that convinced her. Tim grabbed his jacket, and they walked out to his truck. She climbed in, and he handed her the binoculars to hold. Backing out of the sandy lot, he drove southeast, toward the stretch of beach the owl favored.

  They passed the interpretive center, closed for the winter, and Tim glanced over to see Shane West nailing new boards over one of the windows. The last nor’easter had torn the shutters and some shingles off. Cole Landry’s trailer and equipment were parked alongside. As much as Tim had resisted the idea of having the kid assigned for community service to the very area he’d planned to vandalize, it was a big help to have him helping. He was glad he’d reconsidered the idea of having Shane reassigned.

  “What are you researching?” Neve asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Back at your office. Your desk looks just like mine when I’m trying to research paintings for a new catalogue, so I assume it’s a big project.”

  “I’m just trying to come up with ways to stop Cole Landry from going forward with plans to move the U-boat.”

  Neve glanced across the seat. “I’ve read about that in the paper…they can’t possibly do such a thing, can they?”

  “Cole Landry can do just about anything—at least that’s what he’ll tell you. I hear he wants to do it this spring. He has an enormous crane with steel slings to lift the vessel from the sea bottom; he’s got a location picked out on Cape Cod where he plans to put it.”

  “I wasn’t talking about technology,” Neve said quietly. “I mean, it’s just wrong for him to even try.”

  Tim drove in silence. She had no idea of how much he agreed with her, and why. “Why do you think that?” he asked after a minute.

  “At this point, it’s such a part of our lives,” she said. “Part of Rhode Island. I grew up here, and it’s always been part of our legends and lore.”

  He thought of those words, legends and lore. They seemed so magical, out of a fairy tale. But the U-boat was real, a warship that had come across the sea to attack and sink American ships. It had been manned with a top-notch crew, the very best that Dönitz had under his command. They were hunting American ships, and many lives had been at stake. Tensing up, hands on the wheel, Tim stared at the road ahead as his mind spun with how he was going to make his case.

  “Now I’ve said something wrong,” she said, watching him.

  “No,” he said. “I’m just thinking.”

  “About the U-boat?”

  “Yes. It’s not a legend at all. It’s an IXC-class submarine, 252 feet long, 23 feet abeam. She’s made of steel, displaced over a thousand gross tons, carried three antiaircraft guns as well as a deck gun, and has six torpedo tubes, nearly brand-new at the time she was patrolling our coast. She crossed the Atlantic to attack us.”

  “I know that,” Neve said.

  “She’s more than a legend.”

  “It’s just a figure of speech.”

  By the tone of her voice, Tim could tell he’d offended her. He glanced over, wanting to tell her that as tender a subject as divorce was for her, the U-boat was equally sensitive for him. How much would he have to divulge to get her to understand? He tensed up, getting ready to try, when just then they reached a wide-open stretch; the beach and open ocean were visible out the left side. When he turned his head to look, straight out at the old jetty, he saw the owl right there, nestled beside the log.

  “We’re in luck,” he said, pointing.

  “Good,” she said, following his gaze, and she opened the truck door so fast, he could tell how eager she was to get away from him. He didn’t even blame her. He’d heard the bitterness in his own voice, just as he’d heard it the other times he’d met her. First about court, now about the U-boat. The details of each situation were completely distinct, but they blended together in his heart and emotions—because they were so connected. The past and the future colliding right here, right now.

  He followed her to the beach, where she was already snapping pictures. Staying a good thirty yards away from the owl, she used a long telephoto lens. The sun was behind her, and she was a lean, dark silhouette, perfectly still. Somehow he could tell, with just a glance, that she was more than competent—she was an artist. He found himself wanting to see the pictures.

  He stood close beside her, but she worked as if he weren’t even there. A gust of wind blew across the stretch of sugary white sand, furrowing the owl’s feathers. The owl moved slightly, shifting position by just an inch or so. The small movement delighted Neve, and she turned to see if Tim had seen. He nodded that he had, taken off balance by her radiant smile.

  Two minutes ago she’d been upset with him, but right now she was glowing. Her smile relaxed something in his chest, and he stood a little closer. Watching wildlife was a serious, intimate act. You couldn’t do it with just anyone.

  Tim remembered times, early in his marriage, when he’d taken Beth to some of his favorite places: Hanging Rock, the Monninger Ravine, Mount Lovejoy, and right here at Salt Marsh Refuge. He had wanted to share with her his love of not just birds and animals themselves, but the beautiful habitats in which they lived. Even in their charged silence, his father and uncle had instilled it in him—and Tim had wanted to share it with Beth.

  Turned out Beth didn’t like being outdoors much. He’d dug her a garden, and it never really took hold. He hung a bird feeder from the maple tree, but she never seemed to watch the birds. He’d loved her so much it shouldn’t have mattered, but it sort of did. He knew that now, but only after a long struggle with himself. People who don’t like doing things together probably…well, probably shouldn’t be married.

  Gazing at the owl, winter sun in his eyes, he felt his heart pounding in his chest. Caring for nature was his job now—he got paid for it. But standing here beside another human being—inches away from Neve—felt like more than he had signed on for. It felt like too much to figure out, so he did what Beth had always told him he did: shut down. After a few seconds more, he turned and walked back toward the truck.

  His attention was drawn out to sea, and he looked over his shoulder, at the spot where so much of his life had been formed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Neve swivel toward him, heard the camera beep. She’d taken his picture.

  Tim climbed into the frigid cab. Instead of watching Neve and the owl, he turned his gaze seaward again, toward where the breakers were rolling in, over U-823. He knew exactly where it was—he could tell by where the waves broke—where they reared out of the sea in perfect, transparent sheets of water, then curled and smashed in on themselves in a single long, furious streak of white foam.

  The U-boat had been stationed just off the coast, waiting for a convoy of merchant ships heading out of Long Island Sound from New York City. It would have followed them into the deeper Atlantic, joined by other German U-boats, if not for one man. They’d called him the Gray Goose, and even now he had more to do with air and flight than water and submarines. Staring at the surf break, Tim wondered what he wo
uld have to say about all this.

  A few minutes later, he saw Neve cross in front of the truck, climb in on the other side. He’d been sitting in the cold, so the engine wouldn’t disturb either the owl or her in her work, but he turned the key now, fired her up.

  “Looks as if you might have gotten some nice shots,” he said.

  “I did,” she said. “I even got one of you.”

  “That’s one you’ll want to delete.”

  “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  “Well, you said it was for Mickey,” he said.

  She nodded. “It is. You’ve been very nice to her—thank you….”

  Tim started to back out of the sandy lot, but she put her hand on his arm, and he looked at her. The weight of her hand was so light, but he felt electricity running from her fingers into the tendons of his arm.

  “You don’t like me very much,” she said.

  “It’s not that,” he said. “Not that at all.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing,” he said. Then, because it seemed rude to just stop there, he cleared his throat. “Just, did you ever make a mistake that was so bad, you want to keep everyone else from ever doing the same thing?”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “I followed in my father’s footsteps,” he said.

  And then, because there was nothing more to say, he shifted into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. The waves kept crashing in, one line of breakers after another, without beginning, and without end.

  6

  When she got back to the gallery, Neve put the kettle on to boil and stood as close as she could to the space heater, trying to warm up. The cold had gotten right into her bones at the beach; Tim had blasted the heat in the truck on the way back, but her fingertips and toes were still slightly frozen, tingling. Or maybe that had more to do with the way he’d looked at her, long and hard, when she’d said he didn’t like her much. An expression had flashed across his eyes, it had made her shiver, and she couldn’t get that sensation out of her body.

  She tried to concentrate on writing catalogue copy for an upcoming exhibit on a local bird artist who had lived and painted in the area during the late 1930s. He was a single-name artist, from a time when that was unheard of: Berkeley. Born in Newport, Berkeley had grown up in Rhode Island. There were rumors that he’d dropped out of high school to study at the Art Students League in New York, then almost instantly moved to Paris. He’d done fieldwork around Barbizon, Fontainebleau, and Honfleur; notes found in his sketchpad revealed that while overseas, he was filled with longing for his family and the birds of the northeastern United States.

  During his time in France, the world was a powder keg, the fuse of Pearl Harbor about to be lit. Neve read through the scant biographical material available, looking for evidence of the effect the war may have had on his work; did he ever return from Europe? Had he perhaps been killed over there?

  Berkeley’s adopted name was thought to be an homage to the Irish philosopher Bishop George Berkeley, who had lived in Newport and done some of his most inspired thinking on Hanging Rock, overlooking the Atlantic in what was now the Norman Bird Sanctuary. Neve had taken Mickey there for bird walks from the time she was a baby, strolling through the woods and wetlands, enchanted by all the species.

  Now, sitting at her desk, she started to feel warm again. The kettle whistled, and as she got up to make tea, still thinking of Berkeley and the mystery of what had happened to him, the front door opened. A blast of cold air whirled in, scattering papers, and Chris Brody closed the door behind herself.

  “You’re just in time!” Neve called as she entered the tiny kitchen alcove.

  “In time for what?” Chris asked.

  “Tea!”

  “Oh, good,” Chris said, throwing her wool coat over the armchair by Neve’s desk, walking into the back to give her a hug. “I am so ready for spring, it’s not funny. Is it my imagination, or is this winter lasting forever? Don’t we usually see the light at the end of the tunnel by now? Now I hear that snow is forecast for the weekend!”

  “Really?” Neve asked. Maybe that would keep the snowy owl here a little longer. She measured Earl Grey into a silver strainer, filled the china teapot with hot water, and placed some biscuits on a plate, pushing thoughts of Berkeley and the war from her mind.

  “You seem suspiciously happy,” Chris said, peering at Neve. “Since when does more snow make you smile?”

  “Oh, it’s just that Mickey’s been watching a snowy owl down at Refuge Beach, and I want it to stay as long as possible.” She poured two cups of tea, handed one to Chris.

  “You Hallorans and your birds,” Chris said. “I don’t quite get it, but that’s just me.”

  Neve held the thin china teacup in her hands, blowing on it to cool it down, and she shook her head, smiling. Chris was such a good friend, but she was right: she didn’t understand Neve’s love of birds. Over the years, Neve had tried to introduce her to the simple pleasures of watching blue herons stand in shallow coves, hummingbirds dart in and out of red trumpet vines. Lowering her teacup, she reached for her camera.

  “No pictures, please,” Chris said. “I’m a mess!”

  “I’m not taking one of you,” Neve said, scrolling through the digital images she’d shot at the beach. “I want to show you one—of the owl.”

  The two friends stood still, gazing at the one-inch screen on the back of the camera, and Chris acted politely interested when Neve came to the pictures of the snowy owl. Then an image of Tim O’Casey filled the screen, and Chris put her hand on Neve’s wrist.

  “Isn’t that…?” Chris began.

  “It’s Tim O’Casey—the park ranger.”

  “The guy you said was such a jerk at the hospital?”

  “Yes,” Neve said, staring at his picture. She’d surprised herself, snapping the shot. He’d thought she did it by accident, but the fact was she’d framed the picture, focused on his face, clicked the shutter—completely on purpose.

  “Funny,” Chris said, staring more intently at the screen. “I recognize him.”

  “From where?” Neve asked.

  “Oh, a story that was in the Sunday paper a few weeks back. It was about his father—but his picture was in it, the ranger. Didn’t you see it?”

  “If it was a few weeks back, I was probably wrapped up in the court mess and didn’t get to the Sunday paper,” Neve said. She clicked the lens cover closed, heard the camera turn off. “What did it say? What did his father do?”

  “He’s sort of a hermit,” Chris said. “Lives in the woods near Kingston somewhere. He’s got a cabin and an aviary…takes care of wounded hawks, other birds. He’s a wildlife rehabilitator.”

  “He loves nature,” Neve said, thinking of what Tim had said, that he took after his father. She thought of her own mother and wondered what could be so bad about inheriting a love of the outdoors. “Is that what the story was about?”

  “Not really,” Chris said. “I can’t remember the whole thing, but I know it had something to do with the plans Cole Landry has to raise the submarine.”

  “I suppose Tim’s father opposes that for environmental reasons,” Neve said, imagining an old man living in the woods, caring for injured birds.

  “That wasn’t the impression I had,” Chris said, sipping her tea.

  “What then?”

  “Well, they called him the Gray Goose, and the story had more to do with the fact that he was in the Navy during World War II. A commander, or something, aboard the ship that sank the U-boat. Something in the story made me think they’re estranged—father and son.”

  Hearing Chris’s words, Neve felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Almost absently, she turned the camera back on, began to scroll through the pictures. She passed the shots of the snowy owl, each one more magical than the next, but she didn’t stop until she came to the photo of Tim O’Casey.

  He stood halfway between her and the truck, dressed in his kha
ki uniform and thick jacket, and she’d caught him staring out to sea. It had struck her as odd at the time—but only slightly—that with such a rare bird right there on the beach, so white and pure, the park ranger was looking out at the broad and endless ocean—always there, never really changing.

  What had Tim said to her? I followed in my father’s footsteps….

  He said that as if it was a bad thing, the worst in the world. How had an old Navy man come to live in a cabin in the woods, taking care of creatures that fell from the sky? Surely following in such footsteps had led Tim straight to the park service, a career as steward of Rhode Island’s beaches and wildlife. So why would they be estranged?

  “The Gray Goose,” Neve said. “That’s his nickname?”

  “That’s what the reporter called him.”

  “How did he go from the U.S. Navy to where he is now?”

  “I gather there was some bitterness,” Chris said. “The story might have said, but it didn’t stick in my mind.”

  “Why was Tim in the article?”

  “Oh, they were both weighing in on Cole Landry. They’re both completely against raising the sub, but for different reasons. Now it’s coming back to me,” Chris said, picking up the teapot, refilling her cup. “Tim was talking about habitat, how the fish swim around the wreck, and how it serves as a natural breakwater, keeping the beach intact, the sand from washing out in big storms.”

  “And his father?”

  Chris shook her head. “He didn’t say much, and he wouldn’t let anyone take his picture. I gather he’s proud of what he did for the Navy, and he doesn’t want the site to be disturbed. I can certainly understand that!…I remember visiting France on my honeymoon; Jeff and I went to Normandy, to Omaha Beach…you can feel the ghosts of the dead there. Jeff’s father fought there on D-Day, and somehow survived—when I looked up, there were tears rolling down Jeff’s face. My big old baby crying for his dad! Battlefields are pretty much holy ground.”

  Neve nodded. Her thoughts turned back to Berkeley. So many of his French paintings were of shorebirds on the Norman coast; had he been captured by the Germans, or killed by the Allies in massive air strikes before D-Day?