Brady looked sharply up at Lijah and his eyes appeared haunted. “Don’t matter,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m just as guilty whether there was buckshot or a plug from a .22 pulled out of that eagle. I pulled the trigger. And I have to live with that.”
He stepped back, putting his hands in his pockets and hunching his shoulders. There was a long silence that followed while Brady stared at the ground and Lijah turned to watch Santee.
At last he faced the boy and said, “You have to decide.”
Brady exhaled a huge sigh of relief and nodded gratefully. He ran his hand through his hair again in a self-conscious manner and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“I don’t know that cleaning up a bunch of kennels or digging a ditch is going to help your Santee heal,” he said. “I mean, I know it’s not much. It’s nothing compared to what Harris does.”
Lijah turned to fix his gaze squarely on him. Brady could feel the force of it clear to his marrow.
“I respect that you come to work on time,” Lijah replied. “I respect that you work without a mumble or whine. You do a good job, too. Ain’t cut no corners. And I respect that you never talk back when certain folks treat you less than kind.”
Brady raised his head and felt his chest expand. He’d been unaware that the old man had noticed any of this.
“I’m going to tell you a story.” Lijah pointed one of his long, gnarled fingers toward the Med 1 pen. “Look over yonder at Buh Buzzard,” he said, pointing to a black vulture. “He likes nothing more than to spread his silver-tipped wings up high in the elements. If you set back and watch him up yonder, it looks like he just floating along real lazy-like on the wind without a worry in this world. But truth be told, Buh Buzzard do work! His job is to clean up the fields. Buh Buzzard likes dead lamb, dead cow, dead horse, snake, alligator—all kind of critters, long as they dead. He do a fine job keeping the roads clean of roadkill, too.
“Now look at my Santee. Buh Eagle is a powerful bird. She don’t just fly. No, sir. She soars. Way up with the high wind, her black wings stretched wide. You never see Buh Eagle wobble in the wind like Buh Buzzard do. Eagles fly straight like an arrow and go way up to the clouds. Looking upon Buh Eagle while she soars sets the soul to singing and makes people want somehow to act right. More strong and true. Guess that’s why so many people want Buh Eagle as a symbol, like we do for this here country.”
Lijah shook his head and put his hand on Brady’s shoulder.
“Folks tend to think Buh Buzzard is a lazy scavenger, good for nothing but trash. They like to point to Buh Eagle as noble and better than other birds. Think a minute about how the world would be without Buh Buzzard. Likewise, Buh Eagle. They both do their own work. They both know their worth. And that’s why they both can stretch their wings, catch the wind and rise high up yonder in the elements, flying and giving praise.”
Brady turned to look at the vultures in Med 1 and the eagle in Med 3. Both were big black birds and he knew that both of them would confront him if he got too close. But he felt he understood them a little better.
“I guess I’d still rather be like an eagle than a buzzard,” he said.
Lijah laughed then, spreading his lips and showing white teeth. “We all would, son. We all would.”
Harriers: The Versatile Hunters. The northern harrier is the only member of this family in North America. This talented hunter is a medium-size bird with narrow wings that is often found cruising low and doggedly over open areas. When flying high, however, the harrier is often mistaken for a peregrine falcon or Cooper’s hawk. Often called a marsh hawk, it is distinguished by a white rump patch.
8
IT WAS VALENTINE’S DAY. OSPREYS WERE RETURNING to the Low country and red-shouldered hawks were courting. Harris could hear their high-pitched “kee-yer” in the sky. There would be a frenzy of nest building soon, he thought as he walked across the compound.
He saw his house framed by the majestic longleaf pines in the distance. Yellow light flowed from the paned windows and a ribbon of gray smoke curled from the chimney to dissipate into the winter sky. It was a handsome house, he thought with pride. Solid, well situated. A good nest.
He stopped to pick a sprig of pine to add to the two bouquets of flowers he carried in his hands. His step quickened. He was eager to be home.
Harris set the flowers on the chair outside the door, then stepped inside. The warm air was redolent with the scent of basil, oregano and bread baking in the oven. He sighed with satisfaction as he stood at the threshold and simply took the sight in. He could hardly believe it was his own home. Yes, there was the same couch, chairs and tables. The same pictures hung on the walls. Yet everything was different. What was it about stepping into one’s home when everything was clean and tidy, when dinner was cooking and the table was set that made a man feel all was right with the world?
It had been a long while since he’d felt the tension in his chest ease when he came home. For so many years, going from the clinic to the house was merely a transition from one place of work to another. Now, for the first time, he understood what it meant when men he’d known talked about the sense of peace they had when they returned home at night and closed the door to the world behind them.
This was all Ella’s doing, he knew. This prim, tidy woman had stepped into the chaos of their world and brought order. Closing the door, he followed the sound of voices in the kitchen. The small dining table was decorated with a red tablecloth, and paper cutout hearts were sprinkled over it.
“Daddy’s home!”
Marion bolted from the kitchen into his arms. He bent to hug her tight against his legs and kiss the top of her head. He heard Ella’s footfall and raised his eyes, smiling at her. She was wearing jeans and a bright red sweater. To her shoulder she’d pinned a paper heart trimmed with a doily on which her name was written in large, clumsy letters, obviously by Marion.
She returned the smile shyly, then brushed past them with a hot serving dish in her hands. “Your timing is perfect. The pizza just came from the oven.”
“Look, Daddy. Ella made a heart pizza.”
“It’s beautiful,” he said, looking at the homemade pizza made into the shape of a heart, bubbling hot and covered with sausage and peppers. His eyes gleamed with admiration.
He knew that she’d done this to make something for Marion that didn’t involve candy, cookies, cakes and other sweets so popular for the holiday. “Very clever. Smells good, too.”
He looked at the pizza with puzzlement. “But why did she make a heart-shaped pizza? Is there something special about today?”
Marion’s face fell. “It’s Valentine’s Day. Did you forget?”
“Valentine’s Day? Today?” He scratched behind his ear.
“Is that the day we get presents under the tree?”
Marion laughed and leaned against his legs. “That’s Christmas, Daddy.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. Then is this the holiday when that bunny comes and brings us baskets?”
“That’s Easter,” Marion said, with a pretend scold. “You know that.”
“Then what’s today?”
“This is the day we give something to the one we love.”
“Well, I love you,” he said, cupping her cheek in his palm.
It amazed him that her little face could still be framed by his hand. “So I guess I’d better have something for you, right?”
She nodded, her eyes hopeful.
Harris turned to wink at Ella, who stood close by, eyes dancing, enjoying the exchange. Then he went to the front porch to retrieve his gifts. The sky had turned dark and somehow the scent of the pizza was more sharp and tantalizing in the cold outdoor air than in the house. Coming back inside, his heart expanded to see his daughter’s face so animated.
“Will these do?”
“Flowers!” she exclaimed. “For me?”
“You did say I should give them to the one I love, didn’t you?”
He
handed a bouquet of pink daisies to Marion, who held them to her chest as though he’d given her the world. Seeing her face was as gratifying as it was humbling. Ella stood by, beaming with pleasure, her hands clasped to the kitchen towel in her hands. He stepped forward and held out a dozen red roses to her. He felt the awkwardness of the moment and said in a rush, “These are for you.”
“For me?” Ella’s eyes rounded as she lifted the slightly faded bouquet from his hands. She lowered her face to the red petals and her cheeks flushed with color as she inhaled deeply. In that moment he thought she looked quite feminine, even pretty—and out of character for the former head nurse who had taken this little house and marshaled it into order. It pleased him to see the transformation.
What a stroke of luck it had been when, earlier today, he’d overheard Maggie and Sherry talking, all amazement, about the fresh flowers they’d seen for sale at Snell’s Market down the road. Snell’s was a tiny corner market along the highway that carried a scarcity of sundries, a bottle of this and a package of that, candy, a large jar of pickled pigs’ feet, tobacco, Coke and horrid sandwiches on white bread wrapped in plastic and kept in an ancient fridge. So to see fresh flowers there sent everyone agog.
Reminded that it was Valentine’s Day, however, he’d hurried to his car and drove down in time to buy one of each of the two types of bouquets, the last in the bucket of water by the door. They weren’t the most glorious selections, but looking at Marion’s and Ella’s faces, that didn’t seem to matter. Their obvious pleasure at receiving the rather sorry-looking flowers from a market bucket was a lesson for him in how small acts of kindness could have meaningful consequences.
Ella fingered the bright green conifer branch with puzzlement. “This is an unusual bit of greens for a bouquet.”
“That was my contribution,” he replied. “It’s kind of symbolic. During incubation, the eagle brings sprigs of conifer to the nest. I’m not sure why. Maybe for shade for the eaglets, or maybe for deodorizing. Or maybe just to say thank-you to the nesting female.”
“What a lovely thought.”
“Daddy must love you, too, Ella,” Marion said innocently.
Ella’s face colored almost as red as the roses as she plucked at a petal.
Harris gulped in dread. He’d meant the roses as a gesture of friendship and gratitude. He hadn’t wanted Ella to feel left out. Seeing the blush deepen on Ella’s cheeks, however, he realized the roses implied a romantic feeling that he’d never intended.
“I, uh, wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done. To let you know I’ve noticed. I—I thought you’d like them,” he stammered. “For your table.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” she replied, a tad too quickly. “For the table. They’re perfect.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll just put them in water.”
Ella couldn’t escape Harris’s sight any quicker. Her blush had betrayed her, and she knew by looking at the utter dread on his face that he was horrified she might interpret his gift in the wrong way.
And she had. What a silly fool she was to think, even for a moment, that his intentions were romantic! She was so embarrassed, yet, she couldn’t help her imagination. She’d never received flowers from a man before. So today, on Valentine’s Day, to receive red roses was the ultimate romantic gesture. And the gesture meant more to her than he could possibly have imagined. Women—lonely women in particular—dreamed of such moments. The way her heart had soared when he’d given them to her, the way he’d smiled in that reluctant way of his…
“Stop!” she scolded herself, feeling her heart rush once again. She was behaving like a silly girl with a crush. It was humiliating. She was angry with herself for allowing such childish notions to creep into her heart and then cloud her mind. What was she thinking? She was here to care for the child, not the man. If she allowed this nonsensical thinking to continue, she’d jeopardize the positive relationship she was building with both Marion and Harris.
She filled the vase with water, added preserver, then snipped off the ends of the roses. As she placed each one into the vase it felt like a thorn prick in her heart. With each rose she told herself that Harris was only being kind, that he was bringing roses for her table, not for her.
“Hurry up, Ella!” Marion called from the table. “The pizza’s getting cold.”
“Coming!” She took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face, then carried the flowers to the table. “Don’t these roses make my table look pretty? Harris, why don’t you start slicing the pizza while I put these daisies in water, too? I’ll only be a minute.”
He hesitated. “I hate to cut it. It looks so nice.”
“It’ll taste nice, too,” she replied. “Maggie helped me with the dough and I used a jar sauce that’s delicious. I think you’re safe.”
He smiled then, too, and she wasn’t blind to the relief on his face that the tense moment had passed and all was well. Carrying the daisies to the kitchen sink, Ella told herself she would guard against such a show of emotion in the future.
They sat together at the table and Harris held out his hand to her for grace, as was the custom for Marion and Harris before the evening meal. Ella took a breath and reached out to take hold—Harris with her left hand, Marion with her right. Ella found the physical contact of this ritual both comforting and disturbing for so many reasons. Holding Harris’s hand—the simple, physical act of touching him—was so rare and so personal that she felt it intensely. It was hard to concentrate on the words of prayer. Ella had grown up serving dinner to guests at her aunts’ Victorian Inn. So the act of sit ting down for an evening meal, much less the formality of praying beforehand, was foreign. The whole scene was too close to the dream of a family she’d harbored all her life, like the one in the Norman Rockwell print that her aunts hung up in the dining room at the inn every Thanksgiving. A father, mother, children, grandparents all gathered around the table for a family dinner.
A family like this one.
She held tight to their hands, whispering a prayer of her own.
“Do you want to say grace tonight?” Harris asked Ella.
“It’s my turn, Daddy.”
Ella tried to stop her smile. “Marion’s learning about taking turns.”
“Ah, I see. Well, then. Marion, would you lead the prayer?”
Marion began dutifully. “Thank you, Lord, for the pizza. Thank you for my flowers. And thank you for Ella’s flowers, too. Right, Ella?”
Ella felt a faint blush renew as she nodded and said a firm “Amen.”
“What did you do today?” Harris asked when they drew their hands back to their laps.
He began each mealtime with the same question. She appreciated his effort at sparking conversation for her sake.
“Well, we spent most of the day cutting out paper hearts,” she replied.
“I practiced my letters,” Marion declared.
Ella pointed to the large paper heart with crooked lettering on her chest, eyes dancing.
“Very impressive.”
“And I called my aunts,” Ella added. “To wish them love. They were so excited to get the call. I forget they’re getting older and worry about me.”
“How old are they?” Marion wanted to know.
“Ancient. But they’ll never tell and they hold on to the family documents with tight grips. They’re the matriarchs of the Majors family. They call themselves The Maidens.”
“Why?” asked Marion.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, honey. Because they’ve never married,” she replied, thinking to herself that maiden-hood seemed to be a genetic trait in the Majors family.
“Never?”
“Never. They’ve been asked. Rumor has it that Aunt Rhoda was left standing at the altar. It caused a great scandal. I’m not sure what the story with Aunt Eudora was. She’ll never tell. It’s all very hush-hush. They’ve lived in that house all their lives, were born in it. They took care of my grandfather, their daddy, after Grandma died.
Then, after he died a few years later, they turned the big old house into an inn. It made sense. They’d spent their life caring for others. Dear Aunt Rhoda and Aunt Eudora… They’re all arsenic and old lace. Their warmth and vitality is infectious and they bring such joy and laughter to the Victorian Inn and all the guests lucky enough to pass through it.”
She chuckled with affection, thinking of her aunts’ flamboyant natures, even though she’d often found them a bit ostentatious and downright silly while growing up. She was as grounded as her aunts were flighty. They lived for the moment, and if they had a fault, it was extravagance. They loved beauty in all its forms. Ella had always secretly felt that in this regard, she was a disappointment to them. When she’d first arrived at their home she wasn’t much older than Marion was now. She’d overheard her aunt Eudora say, “Ella looks a little like a mouse, don’t you think? It’s a pity the dear girl inherited the worst features of both her parents.”
Ella had cried herself to sleep that night, not because she’d thought the statement cruel, rather because she thought it true. She had her father’s large brown eyes, but they were set too far apart and framed by her mother’s lashes, so short and pale they appeared not to be there at all. Her nose was straight but sharp. Her mouth was wide, like her mother’s, but the lips were thin like her father’s. And though her hair wasn’t blond like her mother’s or auburn like her father’s, but a brown referred to as mousy, it nonetheless was her one vanity. It was thick and shiny and grew almost to her waist like a glorious sheath of shimmering silk, a throwback from some ancestor that neither of the aunts could name.
But she did inherit her father’s sharp intelligence and her mother’s New England common sense, and for these gifts she was both proud and grateful.
“What about your mama and daddy?” asked Marion. “Are they old?”
“Oh, no. They died when I was young.”
Marion looked stricken.
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