by Luanne Rice
“That’s why,” he said. “My mother took my bike away, so I wouldn’t stay back again.”
“You stopped looking for him?”
Shane nodded. “I told myself the wave had taken him to California; he always used to talk about moving to Half Moon Bay, surfing Maverick’s.”
“Maverick’s?” she asked.
“A big-wave surfing place,” Shane said. “Named for someone’s dog. I’ve always wanted to get a dog, call him Maverick. My dad would like that.”
Mickey nodded. She thought of her own dad, how he’d always promised they’d get a dog. They’d go to a farm he knew, pick out a puppy from the litter, and it would be their dog. Mickey had imagined father-daughter walks on the beach, their dog running up ahead, exploring the tide line. It had never happened.
Glancing up at Shane, she watched him hold back a shiver.
“The first day of spring,” she said. “It must have still been cold.”
“It was,” he said. “But the sun was out. I remember that, and I still love that combination—a chill in the air when the sun’s shining.”
“You kept me warm that day on the road, when I had my bike accident,” Mickey said. Very gently—completely by instinct, certainly not thinking, because if she was she couldn’t have done it—she slid her arm around him. “You were cold the day your father drowned, but you don’t have to be cold now. You don’t…”
Shane felt stiff, almost as if he wanted to pull away. But he didn’t—he moved closer, turning toward her, putting his arms around her. Mickey felt her heart beating so hard, almost as if it wanted to break out of her chest. She even heard wings and felt the rush of something flying overhead, but when she tilted her head back to look up, all she saw was a white blur, just clearing the jetty.
“Was that…?” she asked
“The snowy owl,” he said.
They held each other, watching the owl’s long, low flight over the beach. Shane clasped fingers with Mickey’s good hand. They sat perfectly still on the dune, watching the owl soar out of sight.
The kids at the party had seen it, too: “Hey, what the fuck?” Josh asked.
“That was a freaking big seagull,” Declan said.
“Seagulls don’t fly at night,” Isabella said.
“It’s a snowy owl,” Tripp laughed. “Sssh—don’t tell Mickey.”
“A snowy owl—no way!” Martine said.
“Hey, it’s coming back,” Josh said, peering down the beach. And he was right; the owl was making another pass along the dunes. Shane and Mickey were sitting so still, huddled into the tall grass, no one saw them there. Everything happened so fast, Mickey couldn’t have moved if she wanted to—watching the owl, pressed against Shane’s body, she was almost paralyzed with happiness.
Josh grabbed a long driftwood log from the fire. One end was unburned; the other was charred and smoldering: it was one of the wet pieces Shane had seen him throw onto the pile. He wound his arm back.
“What are you doing?” Jenna asked.
“It’s just a stupid bird,” Josh said, and he released the driftwood.
Shane let go of Mickey and jumped up, but he was too late: the log clipped the owl’s wing, and the snowy owl fell to earth. Mickey heard a shriek and the rustle of feathers. She felt Shane fly across the dune to where it had landed.
“I’m going to stuff and mount it,” Josh said, striding over. “It’s mine.”
“You idiot,” Shane said.
“What did you do?” Jenna cried.
“Hey, it’ll be like one of his dad’s trophies,” Martine said. “All those big-game heads out in the trophy room. Rhino, lion, snowy owl!”
Shane pushed the others away, went back to the bird. Mickey stared in horror: the owl was on its feet, one wing straight and dragging on the sand, trying to fly. In the darkness, its yellow eyes were like beacons, and in them she saw terrible pain, fear, and intelligence. Josh went straight for the owl, and Mickey jumped onto his back.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Get away!” she screamed. “Leave it alone.”
“Get off my back!” Josh said, slamming her onto the beach in one motion.
“Mickey!” Shane said. He’d been leaning over the owl, trying to figure out how to help it. But at the sight of Mickey on the ground, he took a giant step toward Josh and smashed his fist into his gut. The sound was a thunder crack, and Josh went down, clutching his stomach.
“You freak!” Josh shouted, when he got his wind back. He picked up a rock as he rose to his feet, glaring at both Mickey and Shane, as if unsure of who to attack first. Then he looked at the owl and brought the rock up over his head.
Shane seemed very calm. He stood still, his chest heaving. Without breaking a sweat or seeming to exert much effort, he just reached over and took the rock out of Josh’s hands.
“Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are,” Shane said. He flung the rock across the beach into the water, then turned to Mickey. She was shaking. Her cast was filled with sand, and the irritation chafed her skin raw. Her ribs ached from where Josh had thrown her onto the ground. Shane helped her up. He stroked her face with his bare hand, and the look in his eyes made her tremble. In that flash of an instant, she knew that they had to save the owl, that they had to get away from the beach, that she had fallen in love.
She and Shane crouched by the owl; its golden eyes were less bright, one white wing was flapping madly, the other dead and useless, and it was crying. That’s just how it sounded to Mickey: like human cries of anguish. Her heart, completely in love with Shane, was breaking for the owl.
“What can we do for it?” she asked, holding back tears.
“We’ll take it to the ranger,” Shane said. “He’ll know…”
In that second Mickey saw the log coming down—she tried to pull Shane out of the way, but it hit his head with a thump. Shane tottered and fell, blood flowing from a gash in his temple. Mickey cried out, but just then she felt a blanket come over her head.
“No!” Jenna shrieked. “Let her alone!”
Mickey fought against the blanket. It bundled around her and the owl, sweeping them both up. The owl fought hard: thinking Mickey was its enemy, it attacked her with its claws and beak. She closed her eyes, feeling knives tear at her flesh. The blanket felt harsh and rough, and suddenly she felt herself being lifted—pressed against the owl so tight, neither one could move. She felt the softness of feathers against her cheek; when she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but blackness.
“Stop,” she tried to say. “Please!”
Jenna’s voice sounded right outside the blanket, and so did some of the others. She heard them pleading with Josh, but he didn’t answer. He carried her, thumping across the sand. She could feel his footfalls, hard and full of purpose. The sea air came through the woolen blanket. The owl had stopped moving, but in the pitch dark she saw its eyes gleaming dully yellow, just inches away from her own.
Mickey felt Josh wind up—just as he had done with the driftwood log. Once, twice, and then release—he sent the blanket with Mickey and the owl bundled inside flying into the air. For a moment she thought it would be okay; she would land on her feet, catch the owl, keep them both from crashing onto the sand. Somehow, in that last moment, the owl spread its one good wing and broke free.
Mickey felt an instant of joy—the owl would be all right. But there was no place for her own feet to land: she felt the shock of cold water, more frigid than anything she had ever known. It took her breath away, and suddenly there was no breath to take. She swallowed icy salt water. Her heavy boots filled, dragging her down. She struggled against the blanket weighting her like a sea anchor, dragging her straight down to the sea bottom. She tried to kick her boots off, but they were stuck—the water had formed a seal, a vacuum against her skin, and they were dead weights.
Mickey held her breath. She was dying, plummeting downward. She looked around wildly. The storm out at sea had pushed enormous waves to
ward the shore, and she was caught in them now. The action pounded her deeper and deeper, down into the sand. She looked into the depths, saw the sub—she was sure of it, a dark hulk right there, bright white faces of German sailors peering out of the conning tower, beckoning her closer.
Real faces, each one distinct; she looked from one to the next, praying for help—were they going to attack her? Suddenly she saw a new shape diving toward her—a shark, a black blur. It swam so fast, rocketing down. She felt arms wrap around her—she flailed around, disoriented, trying to find the owl, struggling against the force. Something was trying to drown her faster than the blanket and the sea itself. She fought wildly, and staring into the salty murk, she saw familiar eyes.
They were like Shane’s: they were his father’s! His father had come to be with her now, to help her be less afraid. She shuddered, tried to stop fighting. She could go with him. Her lungs were on fire, ready to explode. This was it. She opened her mouth, letting the last of her air go, bubbles escaping from her mouth.
And suddenly she felt Shane’s lips on hers. Kissing her back to life, giving her strength, making her know she had to hold on. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tight and gently guiding her up to the surface. They broke free, and she gulped water and air. Underwater had been calm compared to this: they were caught in the surf, in the inshore violence of breaking storm waves.
“Hold on,” he said. “Don’t let go of me for anything.”
“The men, down below…” White, advancing toward her, making her remember something else: white, flying, soaring, falling.
“The owl!” she cried, sinking again.
“It’s on land,” he said, boosting her up, stroking through the frigid water. “That’s where we have to get to….”
Mickey coughed, choking on the water she had swallowed.
“Stay with me, Mickey,” Shane shouted.
“He killed it,” she wept, gulping water.
“Mickey,” he said, and his voice was tender even while his grip was pure iron. He let her sob as he swam her into the beach. Her broken wrist was numb, and her legs felt as if they were filled with sand. The waves battered Mickey and Shane, but he swam through them, straight and true. Her lost strength kicked in with a blast of adrenaline, and she began to swim. Her stroke grew stronger, and she felt the spray sting her eyes, but her own tears and a will to live washed it away.
When they got to the shore, kids surrounded them, helping them out of the surf. Tripp placed a blanket around Mickey’s and Shane’s shoulders. She felt Shane holding her, making sure she could make it above the tide line, easing her down because her legs suddenly wouldn’t work anymore.
Mickey heard soft weeping, almost like the sea wind blowing through the thicket at the top of the beach, behind the dunes. She clutched Shane, realized it was coming from him.
“I thought I’d lost you, too,” he said, staring into her eyes, and she knew he was thinking of his father. “I thought you were drowning…”
“I was,” she whispered. “But you saved me.”
They held each other while the other kids stood around. Josh was nowhere to be seen, but Jenna came running over.
“Mickey, thank God you’re okay!” she gasped. “Shane, thank you for saving her.”
Shane just slashed tears from his eyes and kept staring at Mickey. Jenna tapped Mickey’s shoulder, made her look over.
“The owl,” Jenna said. “It’s still alive.”
And then—as if he knew that for Mickey to really be saved, for everything to be all right—Shane nodded once, hard. He stared Mickey straight in the eyes, making sure she was alert, awake, not in shock. German faces swam into her vision—were they here? Had they climbed out of the sea behind her? She shivered, blinked, sent them away. Then she nodded at Shane to let him know she was fine.
“We have to get it to the ranger,” Shane said.
“Mr. O’Casey,” Mickey said, already getting to her feet.
8
Tim was stretched out on the narrow bed, reading. He was fully dressed—in his ranger uniform, right down to his boots—and he had one eye on the clock. It was ten-thirty, and the wind was dying. He’d seen the kids driving through the scrub two hours ago; he’d give them until eleven, then go break up the party. He wondered whether Mickey Halloran was down there; he wondered whether her mother had gone to winter beach parties as a teenager.
It had always been the same: when Tim was young, they’d partied on the beach. Frank and his friends: same thing, the way of the world. When Tim was new to the job, he used to bust up every gathering before it even got started. Now he was too tired—or maybe this was the beginning of wisdom. He was learning to let kids be kids, go their own way. He’d learned the hardest way of all: they would anyway.
Maybe he should call Neve Halloran and talk to her about it, ask what she thought. These thoughts had to do with her, but he wasn’t exactly sure how. They had started that day he’d seen her at the hospital, waiting for Mickey to get out of X-ray. Something to do with family—parents, kids, and tenderness—that had been gone from his life for a long time. Three generations of O’Casey men—Joe, Tim, and Frank—had really missed the boat with each other.
Just then he heard a car heading out of the refuge—maybe the party had ended early. With the wind dropping, so was the mercury. A cold front was moving in, with more snow behind it. The high school kids weren’t as hardy as Tim had been—except for Shane. As much as Tim didn’t want to like the troublemaker, he had to admire his tenacity—he’d seen him out surfing earlier, even as the sun was setting into the pine trees.
The car stopped in Tim’s parking lot—he heard sand crunching under tires, car doors slamming, and then the sound of worried voices. Then he heard the car peeling out. Someone banged on the door, and he heard Shane’s voice: “Hey, open up! Hurry! Shit, I know you’re in there….”
“What the hell now?” Tim asked, pushing himself up from the bed. Just when he’d decided to be a nice guy instead of a ballbuster, Shane was going to make him regret it. Three long strides across the room, and he pulled the door open. What he saw there made him stop dead.
Shane, dripping wet, blood streaming down the side of his face, starting to freeze.
Mickey, soaked through and pure white, water pooling around her feet.
And held between them, the snowy owl, wrapped tightly in a blanket, yellow eyes fierce.
“What’s going on?” Tim asked, pulling them inside.
“There was a party,” Shane said. “A bunch of assholes, down on the beach. Didn’t you see them? Why didn’t you stop it? What kind of ranger are you?”
“What happened to your head?” Tim said, staring at the cut, reaching toward Shane to examine it. But the boy flinched back, shook his head wildly—like a golden retriever who’d just come out of the surf, spraying water all over.
“Never mind that! Mickey’s freezing cold, she’s practically in shock, and we’ve got to help the owl.”
“Mickey, come here,” Tim said, thinking First things first, walking her over to the easy chair beside the radiator. She relinquished her grasp of the owl and let Tim help her down, pull the covers off his bed, press them around her. She was shivering hard, and he gazed into her eyes to see if she was going into shock.
“Shane saved my life,” she said. “Again.”
“You were going to be fine,” Shane said, looking over at her, his gaze matching the owl’s for ferocity. “You’re a strong swimmer—even with your cast.”
“Look, will someone tell me what happened?” Tim asked.
“We will, I promise,” Mickey said, eyes welling up. “But first, can you help us? The owl’s hurt. Please?”
“What’s wrong with it?” Tim asked, standing slightly back from Shane, too concerned about the gash in his head to have really questioned how he came to be holding a snowy owl in his arms.
“Hurt, maybe broken wing, I think,” Shane said. “Someone threw—look, never mind how it happe
ned. It’s just, the owl is badly injured. Can you help or not?” His tone was sharp and rude, but Tim didn’t stop to register that. What he really heard was panic—Shane was holding the snowy owl, and he was aware of Mickey crying in the chair, and he wanted to make everything okay.
Tim took a deep breath. He had grown up with a man who knew how to help injured raptors, who had made a study of it. There was something terrible about a guy who’d rather tend to birds, who’d rather give his love—or what passed for it—to things with wings, than to people. Tim had sworn he’d never make that mistake, and he wasn’t going to make it now.
But the fact was, he did know something of what to do—so he went into action. Rushing out of the room, he headed toward a shed out back, behind the building.
“Where are you going?” Shane yelled behind him.
Tim didn’t reply. His thumb turned the combination lock—0621—June 21, his son’s birthday. The shed door opened, and Tim flipped on the overhead light. The first thing he saw was the scuba equipment; his wetsuit hung on a hanger, right beside Frank’s. The masks and fins were on a shelf, and the air tanks stood in the corner. Seeing them stopped Tim in his tracks.
But Shane was yelling from the house, so Tim just shook his head and moved quickly. There in back—behind the wheelbarrow and bags of topsoil for the small garden out front, under a life ring and spare CPR kit and other summer lifeguard equipment—he saw the big metal cage.
It was standard park issue—for loose dogs, or aggressive raccoons, or any of the other problems that fell under the aegis of “animal control.” Grabbing it, he hauled the cage out of the shed and into the house.
“What’s that?” Shane asked, still holding the owl wrapped in the blanket.
“The main thing we have to do,” Tim said, setting the cage down with a metallic rattle, “is immobilize the owl the best we can. Keep it from moving, injuring itself further.”
“That’s bullshit,” Shane said. “We have to do more than that, man! It has a broken wing! You have to—”
“My first priority isn’t the owl,” Tim said. He opened the cage door, swept out an entire winter’s worth of spider webs. Entwined in the silk were dead flies, moths, wasps, and a few tiny peach-colored balls of unhatched spider eggs.