Skyward

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “You tell me what it’s about.”

  “Some girl? She’s nothin’. You and me, we go way back, Brady.”

  “I know it,” Brady said. “You’re a Manigault and I’m a Simmons and our families have been here since before the war, and we both been raised to treat a nice girl better than that. She’s going to college. To Stanford. In California.”

  “Really?” Manny replied, impressed. Then with a smirk, “Well, you know why she—”

  “Don’t say it, ’cause you’ll be wrong,” Brady interrupted him.

  Nate was getting bored over by the truck. “You coming or what?”

  “Coming where?” Brady wanted to know.

  “We drove all the way here lookin’ for our good friend,” Manny began with a sorry shake of his head. “Thinking for sure you had a good reason for ditching us like you did. Did you forget we was supposed to go hunting tonight?”

  “Hunting? Tonight? Man, you know I can’t go. I got to work here this afternoon and the SATs are tomorrow.”

  “Who the hell cares about the damn SATs?”

  Brady pursed his lips.

  “Come on,” Manny whined, dipping his knees. “We got us some beer and some of Nate’s mama’s homemade jerky and a bunch of us are meetin’ up at the Willard place. It’ll be great.”

  “We have to show up at school tomorrow for the test. It’s required.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  The thing was, Brady wanted to go with them. It’d been a long time since he’d hung out with his friends, going fishing or hunting. Or just talking and goofing around, knocking back a few.

  “I can’t. Not tonight. Next time.”

  “Goddamn, Brady. What’s going on with you? You’re not the same no more.”

  “I got things to do.”

  That ended it. Brady saw in Manny’s face the bitter realization that the things he had to do no longer included them.

  Later, when his friends got back in the truck and drove off in a huff, Brady felt an odd loneliness inside, like they were driving off for good this time.

  You’re not the same no more.

  He walked to the gate under the watchful gaze of Buh Rooster and came to a stop before it. The rooster cocked its head, shaking the bright red wattle, studying him with his shiny black eyes.

  “You are one strange rooster, you know that, don’t you?” he said with affection. “You just sit there and watch everything. A regular bump on a log.” His smile wavered and he tightened his lips, pained by the confusion swirling inside his chest. “But I wish to God you could talk. Maybe you could tell me just what you’re seeing when you look at me.”

  Courtship. Birds of prey have elaborate courtship behaviors. Most common are remarkable aerial displays of sky dancing, flutter-gliding and power flying. The male will also deliver food to the female, a symbol of his ability to provide through the long, arduous nesting cycle. Courtship behavior creates a bond between the male and female that concludes in mating. Some raptors, such as eagles and ospreys, form an exclusive bond and mate for life.

  16

  THE EARLY MORNING COLORS WERE HAZY IN the soft mist. Harris stepped outdoors and immediately the heat and moisture enveloped him. The scent of spring blossoms was so cloyingly sweet he could almost taste them. The screen door swooshed behind him as he made his way down the wooden steps, still damp from the dawn’s dew. As he did his habitual morning walk through the mews, he felt the lassitude of what would be a hot and humid May day seep into his bones.

  The smattering of gray clouds in the dawning sky disturbed him. The forecasts had called for a mostly clear day, so he and Ella had planned to release a pair of great horned owls up along the Santee River. Rain could pose a problem.

  The grass dampened his boots as he walked. Most of the resident birds were huddled on their perches waiting for the warmth of the sun to dry their wings. He was walking along the bird pens, pondering the road trip, when he heard Marion’s voice call out in a seductive tone, “Hi, Crow!”

  His step faltered. He turned toward the crow’s pen where Little Crow sat perched close to the screening.

  “Marion?” he called. No response.

  But this was crazy. Marion had gone to Maggie’s house to spend the night with Annie. He ran his hand through his hair, wondering if he’d imagined the voice. Unnerved, he began walking away.

  He heard her voice again. “Hi, Crow!”

  He spun on his heel and stared at Little Crow. This time he was sure he’d heard it. Damn, if that bird wasn’t talking—and in Marion’s voice!

  “Well I’ll be—” he muttered as understanding dawned. He hadn’t thought it possible when Marion had gone on about how she was teaching Little Crow to talk. He’d tried to gently tell her not to get her hopes up. And she’d told him, with a scold that sounded remarkably like Ella’s, that if Lijah said she could, then she would. And damn if she didn’t do it, he thought, bursting with pride.

  He walked back to the house, still grinning ear to ear. Ella was waiting for him on the front porch. It was a welcoming sight and his spirits rose even higher. Her long hair was pulled back in a braid that trailed down her back and her face was scrubbed and glowing. Climbing the stairs and stepping near, he caught the lingering scent of sweet soap from her morning shower. There was a natural quality about her that he found uniquely pretty. When she looked up at him and smiled, however, her whole face lit up and he was struck breathless with the same awe and wonder he’d felt when he’d watched the sun rise that morning.

  “Morning,” she said, her voice still husky with sleep.

  “Brought you coffee.”

  She handed him a thermos and he took it gratefully.

  “Feels like rain,” she said, worrying at the sky.

  “I know. I feel it, too. Might pass over, though. Forecasts are iffy.”

  “Do you still want to go?”

  He took a sip of the coffee and thought about it. They’d carefully picked a day with a good forecast and a light workload so they could take a canoe trip down the Santee River after they’d released the owls. For the past several nights, after Marion was tucked into bed, they’d had great fun checking maps and working out the details of the day trip. The canoe had been scrubbed, the supplies were ready, and Maggie had come by the night before to take Marion to her home for a few nights. She was the only woman with whom they felt comfortable leaving the diabetic child. Their ducks were in a row and who knew when they’d get everything to come together again.

  “Let’s do it,” he decided.

  Her smile broadened with pleasure. “I was hoping you’d say that. Shall we load up? The day’s not getting any younger and I know two owls that are eager to find a new home.”

  They loaded Harris’s pickup truck with the canoe and stuffed their gear in the shining silver toolbox. The owls they placed securely in transport boxes inside the truck’s cab. They worked in a companionable silence, each feeling the excitement of a day’s outing singing in their veins.

  It was one of those days that couldn’t make up its mind if it would be sunny or rainy. Clouds came and went across the pale blue sky as they drove north toward the Santee River. They didn’t talk much. It was too early for conversation and they were satisfied just being together, sipping their coffees and listening to the radio.

  The day was theirs. Ella had packed a lunch, plenty of cool drinks and a supply of bug spray and suntan lotion. She looked at Harris across the cab. He was wearing a baseball cap and tapped his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the music. She smiled at seeing him so relaxed. It was going to be a great day.

  An hour later they turned off the highway and traveled along a road lined by cragged, dark-barked trees with halos of spring green arched over the pavement like the ribs of a whale. They slowly made their way along the winding road, keeping their eyes peeled for open fields that might be a suitable release spot for the owls. At last they reached the river’s landing and the truck rolled to a stop. Ella swung open the
door and jumped from the close air of the truck. The vista called her closer, drawing her to the water’s edge. There she stood, arms dropped to her sides, in a quiet awe of the incredible beauty of black water against blue sky. Some of the trees were partially submerged by water the color of tea.

  Harris came to stand by her side.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she told him. There were no better words to describe how she felt.

  “The water levels are high from all the rain we’ve had. We won’t have to worry about scraping the bottom on the rocks.” He winked. “But it’ll be lively.”

  Ella turned her head. “Lively?”

  “You do know how to paddle, right?”

  “Well, yes, sure. I’ve done some canoeing in Vermont, but that was years back.”

  “It’s like riding a bicycle. You’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure? This is different.”

  “How so?”

  “This water’s black, not white, for starters. And there aren’t any alligators in Vermont waters.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about them. They’re very people shy. It’s the water moccasins I’d be worried about.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks for telling me.”

  He chuckled, enjoying the banter, and surprised her by wrapping an arm around her in what she told herself was a friendly, jostling kind of hug.

  “Don’t worry, Ella. We’re going to have a great time. Just you, me and the river.”

  He dropped his hand and she stepped back, flustered by his spontaneity. It was an affectionate gesture, like several he’d offered since their day at the creek. It was as though they’d crossed some barrier that day that allowed him to feel more at ease with her. She couldn’t deny that they’d been closer in so many ways. In fact, if she didn’t know better, she’d say serious flirtation was going on between them. Things like glances across a room, shoulders brushing, hands held during walks.

  She watched him march up to the truck with a heady gait. He was positively boyish with excitement to get unloaded and hit the water. He even looked like a little boy with wisps of hair curling at the edges of the cap. He was dressed for the river in tan army-style shorts, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a rain jacket. She wore the same with the exception of a cotton scarf instead of a baseball cap.

  “Ella! Let’s get these birds out while the morning is still cool. They’ll need time to settle before the sun gets high.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  They brought the two transport boxes out from the rear cab of the truck and gently carried them deeper into the woods to a clearing they’d selected. Harris had explained earlier that they were returning the nestlings to this forest because it was where they’d been found. The hope was that they’d settle into a habitat that could support two more hungry owls.

  They set the boxes on the soft layer of mulched leaves and moss that covered the ground. Then, after putting on gloves, Ella slowly opened the folded top halves of the cardboard box. Immediately the young owl began clacking its beak in warning. Peeking in, she saw the two enormous yellow eyes staring back at her with glassy disdain.

  “It’s okay,” she crooned softly as she carefully reached into the box and secured the owl in her hands. It jerked its body and pecked viciously at her glove. She was always surprised at the incredible power of the great horned.

  “Ow!” she yelped as the beak pinched through the thick padding of the glove. “This one’s got the right attitude.”

  “Good. He’ll need it,” he replied, opening up the second transport box.

  Immediately more beak clacking began as Harris smoothly lifted the great horned owl from the box. They stood for a while, each with an owl in hand, as the owls turned their heads. This was Ella’s first release and she felt a soul-stirring anticipation. It was probably her imagination, but she couldn’t help but think the owls felt the same in these precious few seconds before freedom. They were alert yet quiet as their incredible lamp-lit eyes oriented them to the new surroundings. The woods slipped into an expectant hush as local birds checked out the unwelcome visitors.

  Harris nodded his head and stretched out his arms. “Godspeed,” he said, and then with a lift, he opened his hands. The great horned owl spread its broad wings, fluttering in an uncharacteristic manner as he took a rough start into the sky. But the owl quickly got its bearings and flew straight off toward the river with whispered wing beats. Soon, the brown speck disappeared from view.

  This was a little disappointing, as Harris’s owl was the older of the two and they’d hoped the two owls would stay close at first. She looked down at the hatch-year owl and felt a momentary pang of worry.

  “I guess you’re on your own now. Good luck,” Ella said to her owl, and followed Harris’s example, lifting her arms and opening her hands. She felt the separation as wing beats of air against her face as the young owl spread its wings. Hers was younger and clumsier than the first but took off, eager to escape the human hands that held him captive. No long flights for this novice, however. He flew straight up into the nearest oak tree to land on a thick branch. The owl just sat there, its eyes wide and its throat feathers bobbing like a nervous teenager on his first night out.

  “Is he going to be all right?” she asked, feeling a sudden maternal instinct for the young owl she’d helped care for since it was first brought into the clinic as a nestling. She’d helped him through his cute, downy feather phase to see his handsome flight feathers come in and his natural aggressive attitude develop. She’d helped him past the phase of hand-feeding cut-up meat with a puppet and forceps all the way through “mouse school,” where he learned to hunt live mice in flight cages. He’d graduated with the rest of his class of orphans and now it was time for him to make his own way in the world.

  From nearby branches, two jays began chattering loudly in warning. Soon after, she could hear responses from deeper in the woods. The owl didn’t move. This made the jays even madder because they began dive-bombing the young owl, one after the other. The owl ducked its head with each assault as it clung to the branch.

  “Harris! He looks so confused and afraid,” she said.

  “That’s to be expected. The jays see the owl as a predator. After all, he eats rats, mice, rabbits and birds. He’s not welcome and they’re trying to scare him off. But don’t worry, he’ll get the idea soon enough and defend himself. He’ll probably sit tight for the day and start looking around for food come nightfall. He is nocturnal, after all.”

  “If you’re sure,” she said, still watching the owl.

  “I’m not,” he answered honestly. “Be careful not to give him human emotions. Nature is indifferent to us all, Ella. To pretend that it cares one way or the other is just being romantic.”

  It sounded a bit like a scold and she felt deflated. “I can’t help but become attached to the orphans I’ve helped raise, even if it isn’t scientific,” she said in a huff. “In fact, I’ve had enough unemotional observation in my lifetime and I’ve come to the decision that I prefer romanticism—if that’s what you must call it, thank you very much.”

  He turned and looked down at her, then took her hand and squeezed it, telling her with the gesture that he understood what she was feeling. They’d all done what they could for the owls. Release to the wild was the goal for all the birds they rehabilitated.

  “Our work here is done. But we’ll check on him before we leave, okay? Let’s get on down to the river. The day’s a-wastin’.”

  They walked hand in hand to the truck and together they lifted the canoe, then carried it to the shore and slipped it into the black water. While she held the canoe steady, he made trips to load it with paddles and gear, making sure the load was balanced and tied securely in. Finally he carried out the elaborate picnic that she’d prepared.

  “What all have you got packed in here?” he asked, grunting as he hoisted the cooler in the canoe. “We’re only going to be gone for a few hours.”

  “Just the things you need for a proper picnic,�
�� she said a bit defensively. “That’s a thermos of hot soup,” she said when he held it up with a questioning look.

  “Hot soup? The weathermen said it’s supposed to be near eighty today.”

  “They’re never right. It’s been pretty cool the past few days with all this rain. Besides, I just know that whenever we went on an expedition in Vermont in the spring or the fall, we never knew if the weather would turn and it would get chilly and damp. Call it insurance.” She gazed up at the smattering of gray clouds with speculation.

  “We shall see what we shall see,” she said with a sigh, neatly putting the worry of rain aside. “Other than soup there are a few thick ham-and-cheddar sandwiches on crusty bread, a green bean salad and some Granny Smith apples. And for dessert, I made chocolate walnut brownies.” She looked up mischievously. “I thought we could cheat today since Marion isn’t here. That’s not too much food, is it? It’s the bottled water that feels so heavy. I brought plenty. Oh, and a bottle of wine.”

  “Wine?” he asked incredulously.

  “Why are you looking at me like that? It wouldn’t be a picnic without some reinforcements. We may have to work against the current to get back, but at least we’ll be smiling.”

  “Hasn’t anyone ever told you boating and alcohol don’t mix?” he asked, reaching in and pulling out the bottle of wine.

  “Oh, Harris. Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me. Sometimes I think you need to loosen up a bit.”

  “Me loosen up? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “What? You think I’m a stuffed shirt?”

  “You stuff your shirt quite nicely, Miss Majors, but those buttons can be a little tight.”

  She sputtered with indignation, then seeing the tease sparkling in his eyes, erupted into a laugh. He joined her and, with a shrug, put the bottle of wine back into the picnic.

  “Only for medicinal purposes,” she declared.

  “How about a bite of that ham sandwich now?”