Skyward

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Vision. “Eagle vision” or “eyes like a hawk” are human expressions, but they refer to the highly developed visual capacities of raptors. They have binocular vision: the ability to focus both eyes on an object at the same time. Birds of prey can scan the ground or water from hundreds and sometimes thousands of feet in the air, pinpointing their target with the precision of a bombsight.

  14

  HARRIS AND ELLA BEGAN WALKING DOWN THE gravel road with fishing poles and gear in their hands. Ella was keenly aware of several pairs of eyes watching them as they left.

  Earlier that morning, Marion had asked a litany of questions about where she and her daddy were going, why she couldn’t come along, and whether this was a real date. Maggie, who had agreed to baby-sit Marion for the few hours they’d be gone, was curiously silent. Her lack of enthusiasm spoke volumes and Ella vowed to talk to her about it later. When they’d left the house, Lijah stood by his cabin, smoking his pipe and watching them walk off with a faint smile on his face. Even the volunteers hawked them as they went about their chores.

  “What in heaven’s name did you tell them we were doing today?” she asked Harris as they passed by the compound. She reached up to self-consciously smooth back her hair.

  “Oh, nothing much. Just that we were eloping.”

  She laughed and playfully socked his arm. “You’d think we were. For heaven’s sake, we’re just going fishing.”

  “I guess they need to get out more. I don’t know,” he said, dismissing them. He turned his head and his smile was playful. “Let’s not worry about them or what they’re thinking, Ella. Let’s just let today be for us.”

  That silenced her. Her heart was beating a rhythm of its own as she matched his long-legged strides down the gravel road.

  The nesting season was well underway in the Carolinas. The wintering raptors—eagles, owls, ospreys—were already in residence and rearing their young. Now the stage was set to welcome the songbirds and other summertime residents. Early migrants were out claiming territories while grasses and twigs were being piled in nests and boxes. The trees were alive with their chattering.

  When they reached the fork in the road, Harris led her to the right along a grassy truck path that led toward the creek. The farther they marched toward the water, the scrubbier and denser the terrain became. Her booted feet caught in the thick thatches of smilax and jasmine that nearly obscured the path, but he was quick to reach out and steady her.

  The landscape wasn’t as cragged and mountainous as her home state, Vermont. Nor as vivid a green. But the longer she lived here, the more she realized she couldn’t keep comparing the two. It was apples and oranges. The beauty of the Lowcountry was seductive, more sultry than majestic. There were mysteries teeming in the winding creeks and rivers. They snaked through vast greening marshes that breathed in and out with the tidal current like a living creature. It was a land of myths and tall tales told by old men and young boys on docks, aboard boats and around dinner tables throughout the region.

  They made their way through the dense woods and clinging vegetation to where the sky suddenly opened up and a breeze whisked her hair, pungent and cool. She lifted her chin and breathed deeply of moist air that spread through her veins like an elixir. Harris stopped to raise his arm and point.

  “That’s my creek,” he said, pointing to a quick-flowing creek that wound its way through the green cord grass and around ancient, gnarled live oaks, some more than a dozen feet around. His gaze shone with pride of possession. “Not that I own the creek, of course,” he said. “More like it owns me.”

  “It’s a beautiful view. How long ago did you buy this land?”

  “Oh, about twelve or thirteen years ago, back when I was still working for the state. I worked in the Francis Marion forest next door, so when this place came on the market, I came right over to check it out. Hurricane Hugo had just come ripping through here, tearing up houses and trees and sending all the Spanish moss north. Land was cheap then, so I jumped. It’s a good thing, too. Couldn’t afford to buy a parcel of land here these days. Hugo hit the Awendaw and Georgetown areas real hard. Including the birds. That’s what was real eerie. After the hurricane passed, we’d come into the forest and it’d be real quiet. Unnatural. Some birds left before the hurricane came. Thank God for instincts. But a lot got caught and died, too.”

  “Is that what got you interested in rehabilitating birds of prey?”

  “I was interested in them long before. Since I was a kid, actually. My grandfather loved hawks. Taught me how to spot them in the sky. He passed that love on to my mother and she passed it on to me. It’s in the genes, I reckon. Though Mama loved all kinds of birds, not just raptors. We had this list she posted in the kitchen. Every time we spotted a new bird, we had to add it to the list. I guess she was the first one to teach me about categorizing. She tried to help birds that were sick or wounded around the farm, too. Nothing elaborate. She just did what she could. That’s when I began the dream to start a rehab center. I knew we could do better.” He shrugged. “Years later, I did what I could on a bird-by-bird basis. Gradually got a license, some backers…it was pretty rough. It just took a while for the pieces to come together. Life is like that sometimes.”

  He grasped her hand and flashed a smile. “Come on, Ella. The fish are jumping.”

  As his large hand wrapped around her smaller one, she felt as though the pieces of her life were coming together, too.

  He brought her along the sand-and-mud path to the old dock that was here when he’d bought the place and had somehow survived Hurricane Hugo—though just barely. It stretched out a long way into the creek.

  Ella balked at the edge. “It looks pretty rickety. Are you sure it will hold us?”

  “Well it is old and worm-eaten, and it has seen better days, to be sure. But I think it’s sound enough to carry the weight of a man and a little thing like you. Leastwise, I hope it is.”

  “Harris…”

  “Come on, scaredy-cat.”

  They took off their shoes and started to laugh spontaneously, as though they were kids again with toes wiggling, free of constraints. Their spirits shot skyward as they walked to the end of the dock, feeling the scratchy wood on their soles.

  Standing at the end of the dock, he set his hands on his hips and took deep breaths. The sharp and pungent air filled his lungs and nose.

  “Mmm…smell that? Nothin’ else like it in the world. That there’s pure, unadulterated pluff mud. My spring tonic. A good whiff of that does wonders for the soul,” he said in a grand manner. He cast a sidelong glance over at Ella.

  She sniffed, then crinkled her nose in response. “I guess it takes a little getting used to.”

  She seemed a little lost standing at the edge of the dock with her hands behind her back, staring past her toes at the murky waters below. He had to admit it was a heady thing to see the always efficient and competent Ella Elizabeth Majors out of her element. Did she think this place was as special as he did? he wondered. Then wondered why it mattered so much that she did.

  “You ever catch mullet?” he asked her.

  “Catch it? The only mullet I’ve ever heard of is a particular hairstyle some men wear—God love them.”

  “Mullet is a fine fish, the true taste of the Lowcountry,” he said, bending to move the bag of supplies closer to the edge of the dock. “Though some folks might just call it low class. They catch it only for bait. Ask any country boy, though, and he’ll tell you that when you take a bite of the mullet’s moist flesh, you can taste a little bit of the muddy creek it came from. You won’t find it in a store, though. Nope. You have to catch it yourself and eat it fresh. Folks around here have been doing just that for a long, long time. I learned how to catch mullet from my father when I was a boy.”

  He opened the canvas bag, then said in a lower mutter, “About the only thing he ever taught me.”

  Ella looked back at him, perplexed, and he was relieved when she only asked, “Can I do somethi
ng to help?”

  “As a matter of fact, you can.” He bent over the canvas bag of supplies and pulled out some corks, a spool of line, a bag of hooks and a Ziploc bag filled with what looked like soggy bread. This he handed to her. “Your job is to chum the waters. It’ll attract the mullet to the bait.”

  Ella opened the bag, then gagged and held the bag at arm’s length. “Oh, whew! This smells awful! What is this stuff?”

  “Mash for bait. It’s mostly bread, with a few other secret ingredients tossed in that fish find irresistible. It might stink to you, but mullet think it smells like French perfume. Now, the trick is not to put a lot in all at once. You want to spread out just enough to lure them in close, but not too much that they eat their fill and skip the bait.”

  “Right. Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “Just use your best guess. I’m going to set up the poles.”

  If he’d known how much fun it was going to be to watch Ella wrinkle up her nose, pick up small bits of the smelly bait mash with two fingers, then hold her arm out over the creek to drop chunks into the water, he’d have brought her here a lot earlier. Still, he thought, his eyes kindling as the bait fell into the water with graceless plops, she was a good sport about it. She went ahead and did it without complaint. He didn’t know a lot of women who’d do that.

  “Is that enough?” she asked, eyes pleading.

  “Looks good. Here’s your pole,” he said, handing her a stiff cane pole with a light line attached.

  She looked at it blankly. “Thanks. So… I just put the hook into the water and wait for them to bite?”

  “Ella, this is a time-honored sport! Most people use a cast net. Catching mullet with a hook and line is as much luck as anything else, as far as I can tell. A good mullet fisherman makes it looks easy. Ha! Don’t you believe it. These ol’ fish have a real soft bite. When you see the cork wiggle, you’ll want to hook it and haul it, real quick.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” she said with a giggle.

  He shook his head ruefully. “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in all those schools you went to?” He sat down on the edge of the pier, patting the wood at his side. Ella took the cue and settled in beside him. “It’s easy. Just drop your line in,” he said with a drawl. “Then let me know if you see your cork bob.”

  “See the cork bob,” she repeated. “Got it.”

  She was laughing and he chuckled, too, feeling the spring sun begin to soften his bones.

  They sat on the edge of the pier, legs dangling in the cool water, and held on to their fishing poles. As the sun rose higher in the sky, they shed their jackets and rolled up their sleeves, leaning far back on their elbows. Soon, they forgot about their poles dangling in the water.

  “This sure is a beauty spot, as we’d say in Vermont,” she said, showing her face to the sun.

  “Yep. Shore is, as we say in South Carolina.” He grinned at her in a teasing manner. “I grew up on a creek not too different from this one, down in the ACE basin. Maybe that’s why the minute I saw this creek, I knew it would suit.”

  “Look at those egrets clustered in that gnarly old oak across the water. There are one…two…four…six of them. Amazing. They’re so beautiful.”

  “You’ll see a lot of birds out here. Egrets, ibis, herons, and there are osprey nests, too. I’ve put a few orphans in that one right over there.”

  “Where’s the nest?” she asked, squinting.

  “Right over there, along that hammock. Look up in the branches of the dead tree.”

  She sat up and followed the projection of his outstretched hand. “Oh, yes. I see it now. It’s sure a scrappy-looking thing, isn’t it? And big.”

  “Ospreys are pretty creative when it comes to nest building. It’s a big pile of sticks, grass and about anything they can scrounge up. I’ve seen nests with foam cups, plastic food containers, twine, pretty ribbon, even a bicycle tire, though I’d liked to have seen the osprey get that up there. Even saw a Barbie doll in one.” His eyes sparked with humor. “I guess I’ll have to tell Marion to be careful where she leaves Gaudy Lulu, else we’ll be seeing it up in that nest over there.”

  “I’m not sure that’d be such a terrible thing,” Ella said with a laugh.

  “Nope,” he conceded. “They like things that are shiny. I’m sure they’d love that sparkly dress.”

  They laughed again.

  “Once they build their nest, ospreys are site loyal. Like eagles. They’ll keep coming back to the same nest year after year. They’re monogamous, too. I respect that.”

  “Which? That they’re site loyal or monogamous?”

  “Both. It’s not like they’ve taken vows to stay together for ever and ever.” He looked off at the nest and his eyes narrowed. “Not that vows keep couples together, anyway.”

  Ella turned her gaze from the nest to peer into his face at that comment, and he immediately regretted the slip.

  “What they have is a strong instinct for where they’re from and where they’ll stay. A commitment to the nest is a commitment to each other.”

  “That’s quite romantic, when you think about it.”

  He chortled. “Don’t let a biologist hear you say that.”

  “So, this land is your nest, so to speak?”

  “You could say that. Though it won’t be for long if I can’t make a go of the center.” He lifted his shoulders as if to say, Who knows what the future will bring?

  “That’s true for all of us,” she said.

  “Even the ospreys. Sometimes they return to their nest in the spring to find an owl has already taken up residence in it. No matter how they fuss, they’ll never oust the owl.”

  “What do they do then?”

  “They move on. Build another. The ol’ biological imperative.”

  “Fannie lived here with you, didn’t she?”

  His face grew shuttered at the sudden change of subject and he answered warily, “For a while.”

  “Maggie tells me that she used to help you with the birds.”

  He sighed, knowing he couldn’t avoid talking to her about his wife. He’d have to sooner or later, anyway, if he was to be honest and fair with Ella.

  “I’ve known Fannie since she was a young girl. Between my mother and me, she grew up around birds and raptors. So helping me with them came easily.”

  “Does Marion look like her?”

  His eyes glazed as he searched back through the years for the image. “She has her looks, but Fannie’s beauty was…stunning.”

  Ella felt a sting of jealousy for the woman she’d never met but whose memory was her rival. She knew that she was not a beautiful woman. Not even pretty. The most people could say about her own looks was that she was pleasant-looking—a far cry from stunning.

  Harris ran his hand through his hair and blew out a long stream of air. “Fannie,” he said again, and she couldn’t tell whether his tone was resigned or troubled.

  Ella waited, unaware that she was leaning forward, holding her breath.

  “She was about ten years younger than me. I thought of her as a little sister at first. She lived down the road with her mama and her so-called family. They were pretty messed up. Her mother had a lot of men Fannie called uncle come through. They’d stay for a while, then rob her or beat her—sometimes both—before they’d leave. It was a pretty sad situation. Anyway, Fannie just showed up at our house one day. She couldn’t have been more than eleven.” He paused and his gaze turned inward, back to those days along the Edisto.

  “I’ll never forget the way she looked the first time I saw her. All long, thin legs and big eyes that held way too much sadness and experience for a kid so young. She came looking for odd jobs, and she ended up staying at our house more than her own. So when I started working full-time, I hired her to keep an eye on Mama. She cooked her food, brushed her hair, that kind of thing. She wasn’t that great a cook and never cleaned the house, but she was great with my mother. Somet
imes she’d read to her, sometimes they’d just talk. I’d come home and hear them giggling away. My mother adored Fannie. They were a lot alike. Both beautiful and funny. But needy. I didn’t know that about Fannie at the time, of course.”

  He pursed his lips in thought and she urged him in her heart to go on.

  “We spent a lot of time together growing up,” he continued at length. “When my mother died…it just seemed right that we get married.”

  Ella had to struggle to keep the surprise from her face. Did he love Fannie or just feel sorry for her? she wondered. The question lingered on her lips, but she didn’t dare voice it.

  “What was wrong with your mother?” she asked instead.

  He shook his head, then glanced off at the fishing pole. “She was a diabetic.”

  Ella sucked in her breath. “You didn’t tell me that. Harris, you know the genetic link to Marion.”

  He nodded his head. “She was also an alcoholic.”

  “Good Lord, that’s a bad combination. So, that’s what killed her.”

  “No. That was only the means. My father killed her when he left her, years before she ever touched a drop. In fact, she used to say she didn’t like the taste of alcohol. But after my father just up and left, well…” His expression turned cold. “She must have taken a sudden liking to it.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “Because he was an asshole,” he said bitterly. “Why does any man up and leave his family?”

  “There’s usually a reason,” she said softly.

  “If there was a reason, I’d guess it was money. Nothing original there. He was a tomato farmer, like his father before him. For a while the business was really good and he made a lot of money. But when the bottom fell out of the market and the farm went belly-up, I guess he couldn’t stand the pressure. So when the going got tough, rather than see it through, he just went out one night and never came back. No letter, no phone call, no nothing.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry for me. She’s the one to feel sorry for. She used to sit by the window and wait for him, night after night. Left the porch light on for that worthless son of a bitch.” He shook his head. “It was pitiful. Once she finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t going to walk through that door, only Johnny Walker could comfort her. Not that I didn’t try.”