Fly by Night

by Andrea Thalasinos

  “Oh yeah, like Juney.” The words scorched as they came out.

  Diane reached over and pressed her hand. “Be angry for a few days but don’t get stuck, Amelia.”

  Easy for you to say.

  And while it was true that the Sea Life Conservation Fund was a major contributor to her work, Amelia had relied on their Habitat Action Grants and those of Ocean Watch to support many of their dives throughout the world and her breeding of sea horses in the lab.

  Diane motioned to stacks of material on the floor.

  “You’re so good with those kids in your Teen Summers by the Sea program. It’s a serious position, Amelia,” Diane said, shaking her head. “Hell, you could be my boss for Christ’s sake.” Diane looked around as if it were obvious to everyone including the squid eyeball just above her head.

  She could have laughed. Then her stomach rumbled.

  “Did you know the NSF thing was coming?” Amelia asked.

  Diane smiled in a sad way and paused as if carefully choosing her words.

  “Let’s say, Alfred heard things,” Diane said. “I’d kept hoping he’d heard wrong.”

  It made her stomach flip yet there’d been nothing Diane could have done. Nothing anyone could have done.

  “Think about Minneapolis,” Diane said and pushed the brochure toward Amelia. “Here.” She then pulled it back, grabbed a pen and jotted down a number on a yellow Post-it Note and pressed it to the brochure cover.

  “It’s a great city. Met Alfred there.” The woman smiled. Amelia felt her reading her reluctance.

  “That’s her number.” The woman moved it farther toward her. “I mentioned you to her this morning,” Diane said.

  Amelia smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I know you,” Diane said. “Before you say ‘no,’ hop on their Web site, give it a look,” Diane said. “I told her you might call.”

  Amelia’s chest burned. Don’t get stuck. Maybe it was too late. She felt mired.

  Diane tilted her head to catch Amelia’s eye.

  “There is life after this, Amelia, I promise you.”

  Diane came out from behind the desk, motioning for Amelia to stand up for a hug.

  She stood and leaned in as Diane hugged her. Amelia rested her head on the woman’s shoulder. Tears rolled out with no effort.

  “Thanks, Di,” she said into the fabric of Diane’s sweater. “You’re a good friend.” She tried to imagine standing before a hiring committee after thirty years. Whatever would she wear? She had no understanding of clothing.

  * * *

  How she wished for the super powers of a cephalopod or octopus that through complete command of its central nervous system could change from purple to orange when afraid or stressed. If only she had the power to reconfigure the National Science Foundation’s decision that had been meted out in black laser marks on the white skin of paper. But no one had those powers in topside life.

  Yet maybe Diane was right.

  Walking out to her Jeep in the parking lot, the cold air felt clean. Maybe this was the sharp knife needed to slice through the moorings that had kept her feeling bogged down for months, even years. In a strange way it was a relief.

  Popping open the Jeep’s back gate, she set her gear down and shut the door and then climbed in to start the engine.

  “Come on.” She pressed the gas pedal, racing it to warm up faster as her fingers felt the air vents.

  Her breath formed an icy skin inside the windshield; evidence of Rhode Island’s advancing autumn. The defroster was fighting a losing battle. Her breath frosted up the inside windows and she wiped it with the side of her hand, hearing Alex’s words scolding her, “Don’t, Mom, you only make it worse.” Ah yes, little Einstein.

  Resting her forehead on the steering wheel she imagined her father. She was a good ten years older now than he was when he’d died, yet she still thought of him as having been an old man.

  While driving away from the Biomes she heard her mother’s voice, “Any job’s better than no job.” Penelope’s words churned in her stomach like a bad meal though she’d eaten nothing.

  9

  The next morning while sitting at his desk at GLIFWC’s office in Bad River, TJ anguished while composing an e-mail before he lost the nerve. He’d erased to a blank screen several times. The first draft he’d explained what had happened during his childhood and that he had known about her but she not about him and then thought it creepy and deleted the whole thing.

  The second version was much shorter but he lost his nerve before hitting the send key.

  By the third time, his cell phone began ringing from one of the field biologists—a call that he needed to take, but such distraction had given him the strength to hit the send button without a second thought. He’d later sent a second with his personal phone number.

  He’d waited a few days before telling Charlotte, but then after they’d gotten into bed one night, his arms slipping around her in the familiar way they had for more than thirty years, he’d said, “I did it.”

  She turned to him. The sheets made swishing noises.

  “Really?”

  She turned to face him, searching his eyes in the darkness. “Did you hear back?”

  “She says she has no idea what I’m talking about.”

  “Of course not, call her.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Charlotte kissed his neck and slipped beside him in the space that was hers.

  “I don’t want to sound like some creep.”

  “But you are a creep,” she said as he laughed. “But you’re her brother too.”

  He pushed her back and looked at her as if she was nuts.

  “Uh—at best I’m nobody to her.”

  “E-mail her again.” Charlotte ignored the comment. “Maybe you didn’t explain it well.”

  Of course he hadn’t. Who just up and writes a letter like that after a lifetime to someone?

  “TJ…”

  He didn’t answer. It was his characteristic “I’ll think about it.” Not a “no” but not a “yes” either. And while Amelia had blown him off, there was something exciting about returning the volley. The smart thing was to let the attorney contact her, but he’d wanted to. Yet the intensity of his desire to do so worried him. He’d hidden such eagerness from Charlotte, feeling in part that it was unnatural. Maybe nothing good would come of it and yet when flipping the situation to imagine what he’d have done, TJ knew he’d have jumped at the chance, jumped at being found, reached back to whomever was reaching toward him. But he wasn’t her. He was desperate, maybe she wasn’t. He hadn’t a clue as to what Amelia’s personal life had been like, which was why he’d hang up halfway through her recorded message before the beep. Pressing *69 to hide his number, hide his existence just as his father had kept him hidden until now. He was so keen on her knowing about him yet so chicken about taking the first step. Just like all those years ago when as a child he’d pretend and imagine that he knew her from the photos his father would bring. Sometimes setting one up on his desk and talking to it when Gloria was working the late shift at the hospital, and he missed his father, wishing he could reach through the printed images and have her know of him just as he knew of her. As a child walking to school, pretending she was walking beside him.

  There were so many things he couldn’t tell his wife, so many feelings, confusions, and compulsions that weighed so heavily.

  As he turned back to hold her he felt Charlotte’s eyes on him even though the room was dark.

  10

  A month had passed since Amelia was last underwater, the longest stretch of topside life since the weeks following Alex’s birth.

  It had also been a month since the closing of the lab and as Amelia came home from the grocery store she stepped up onto the stoop. Balancing the bag on her hip, she grabbed the mail and bit into the two letters, holding them as she fumbled for the house key in her purse.

  “Where the hell?” She finally felt the outline of her k
ey and fished it out of her purse.

  She paused to look at the letters, a perfect mold of her bite impression in half-moon shape.

  On top was a letter from the mortgage company. She gulped down a breath. No. A foreclosure notice after only one missed payment? The second payment bordered on being late though she’d spoken with a rep and pending approval they’d worked out a repayment schedule. If you’re losing money, then do it as slowly as possible.

  The other envelope bulged with folded papers, sporting a return address from Wisconsin and Ted Drakos Jr.

  “Uck.” She leaned over the stoop’s railing where the garbage can stood and let go of the letter.

  Then she closed her eyes and took several breaths to stave off hyperventilation.

  “Maybe it’s okay.” Maybe just the repayment schedule they’d discussed.

  Pushing open the front door, it yawned, her house smelled like coffee and leather.

  What if it wasn’t? The thought made her seize up. All the positive self-talk Jen practiced wasn’t working.

  Shit. They were coming for the Revolution House.

  She staggered to the breakfast bar and set down the grocery bag and the mortgage company’s letter. Stepping out of her clogs, Amelia ambled over to the couch and sat up straight on the edge of the cushion. How she wished Jen was home. Her friend had moved in earlier that week. Jen’s pay from a part-time job in a doggie day care was not enough to make rent.

  “I don’t know what to do.” Jen had called, explaining the situation in high-register sounds that Amelia identified with being close to tears. Her mobile phone was cut off; she’d missed two rent cycles, sounds of barking dogs in the background.

  “For crying out loud, just move into Alex’s bedroom,” Amelia said, thinking of Jen’s junky rusted-out Toyota that refused to start when the woman was running late, and burning through a cushion of overdraft protection just about the time she’d managed to pay it off. But Amelia wasn’t much better. The barking set Amelia on end. She’d always been afraid of dogs since getting bitten as a child. Bryce and Jen found it amusing since she’d faced down many a shark and moray eel, but dogs made her nervous.

  “Thank you, thank you.” Jen began to cry.

  “Aw, don’t cry, Jen.” It always made Amelia sad. “I’ll have dinner ready. Nothing great,” Amelia said. “Give you a key. I still have cable.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Everything’s gonna be okay,” Amelia said, though she was a fine one to talk.

  “I don’t know when I can pay.”

  “Oh stop it—your money’s no good here,” Amelia said as if talking to her son.

  Massaging her scalp, Amelia tried to disperse the dull beginnings of a headache. Would her shoulders ever relax? Would she ever get a full night’s sleep again or spend a full day awake?

  No more bad news, things taken, people leaving. She flashed on Bryce’s eyes as he’d opened the NSF envelope.

  Grabbing her cheapie reading glasses from the coffee table, she mustered the courage to walk over and open the letter.

  Money for October’s house payment had been spent on relocating pair-bonded sea horses to facilities throughout the country that had promised to keep the lifelong mates together. Tossing and turning for nights, Amelia had walked the floors like the ghost of Revolution House past. She’d never missed a house payment. And while there were nightly news reports of people walking away from homes, she promised the Revolution House, “This will not be your fate.”

  Perching the glasses on the end of her nose, Amelia eased down onto the bar stool. Thumb in the flap, she snagged it open and read. Ninety days to become current or the account would be transferred to a foreclosure agency.

  Panic-stricken at the sight of those words, she thought of Diane, of Christmas shopping at the Mall of America. Maybe the job was still open. Earlier that month she’d mentioned Diane’s tip about the job openings to both Jen and Bryce, who’d just stared back deadpan, like “Really.”

  Then, she looked around for her laptop.

  “Where the hell is it?” her voice grinded out as she got up, spotting it by the fireplace.

  Carrying it into the kitchen, she plugged it into the wall by the toaster and searched. Sea Life Minnesota came up in an instant.

  “Now where’d I put…” She looked around at the paper clutter on the counter. Where was the brochure and phone number Diane had given her? Maybe she could fast-track her way into the place.

  “Damn.” Amelia riffled through receipts and letters from aquariums acknowledging the lab’s “Gift” of the animals, cursing herself for not having put the Sea Life brochure in a safe place. She looked at her watch. Diane was out of town visiting her husband’s mother.

  You’re on your own. Amelia turned back to the screen.

  Sitting up straight, she focused on the Web page—blond child models oohing and ahhing as they ran through a ferny jungle trail walled in by fish tanks, turtles, and sea horses as tall as a man. It seemed there were more Sea Life Aquariums in Europe and in over thirty countries and only five in the U.S. She had no idea that such an extensive shopping mall–based network of aquariums existed. More than eight million visitors a year in the Minneapolis site alone, like having the entire population of New York City trickling through each year. In Sea Life’s Minneapolis location they housed over ten thousand marine animals.

  “A bad job’s better than no job.” Thanks, Penelope.

  She clicked on their employment opportunities. The animal care curator and two associate positions were still listed.

  “Oh, thank God, thank God.” She bowed in relief. They had time. The deadline was the end of next week.

  Minnesota: mosquitoes, freshwater-lake ecosystems, and Garrison Keillor. Too bad it wasn’t closer.

  Amelia skipped over the job description, nodding in furious agreement, anything to save the Revolution House.

  “Whatever.” She hit the To Apply link. “I can play Dolphin Girl,” she muttered a quid pro quo.

  After typing in her first name, Amelia read it over a few times. The spelling suddenly looked strange; cursor blinking at the end of the last letter.

  She picked up her phone and texted Bryce and Jen, pasting the link. “Filling out application for Sea Life Minnesota. All three jobs still open!!! DO IT.” She hit send.

  Leaning on her elbows, her mind raced as she thought ahead.

  Rent the Revolution House, work in Minnesota until new grants came through. If Jen and Bryce came along maybe it would feel more like being on location for an extended period of time than being landlocked on the prairies. The Revolution House would rent in seconds being so close to campus. How crazy to move fourteen hundred miles to save it, but hell, she’d done crazier things.

  Clarity arose out of a burst of energy fueled by terror. Enough to compose a personal statement, cover letter, look up references, and complete the online form. Amelia imagined herself like some aging Mary Tyler Moore in a snowy Minneapolis apartment.

  “I can do this,” she affirmed against her better judgment, looking around at the kitchen cabinets for support. Funny how cavalier it felt: just apply for a job, rent the house, and move to Minnesota like it was no big deal. And maybe it wasn’t. Or maybe it was but would hit much later in the middle of a deep sleep in the form of bolting upright in a panic when after, as she and Bryce used to say, “The drugs wore off.” Or maybe the job had already been filled, she was off the hook and could bemoan about “having tri-i-ied.”

  She hit the send key, the screen blackened.

  “No!” she yelled. Had it gone through? The battery on her laptop had dislodged. One of the tabs to secure it was broken and when juggled in the slightest would dislodge. She’d repeatedly proofed her statement and cover letter, rooting out sounds of desperation. “Everyone’s desperate,” Bryce would say. “Some of us just hide it better.”

  She shoved the battery in and rebooted. Getting back onto their main Web site, again she hit the To Apply link. Nothing
happened. She checked her e-mail, there was no confirmation of her application.

  “Damn it,” she yelled.

  Slumping over in defeat, Amelia rested her head on the edge of the breakfast bar.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” She wanted to cry but couldn’t. Maybe it was a sign. Of what?

  Peeking over at the stove clock she counted down on her fingers—11 a.m. in Minneapolis. Saturday at the mall, people were working.

  “Okay.” She spotted the Web site’s For More Information Call and dialed. A recording answered.

  Then she dialed the number for Party and Event Reservations, thinking a live person might answer. Everyone wants money.

  “Hello, Sea Life.” A youngish woman’s voice. “Planning a party? I’m Marissa. How may I help you?”

  “Hi.” Amelia explained the situation. “I’m having trouble getting the HR link to work—I think it lost my application.” She began to explain but then stopped, realizing how crazy she sounded.

  “Oh,” the youngish woman chuckled. “Some of those positions are already filled maybe that’s why.”

  Shit. “Do you know if the director and curator position is filled?” As the words sailed out Amelia knew she was asking the wrong person. But the mix of adrenaline, the beauty of the sun shining through the 230-year-old windowpanes of her house made her want that job more than anything.

  “Let me put you on hold,” the young woman said.

  “But—” Michael Jackson’s “Free Willy” was playing. Strange choice. Amelia closed her eyes and chewed on her knuckles.

  “Hi.” The person was back. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Try it again. Someone said the system’s been down.”

  “Thanks,” Amelia said, hoping that was the case and not her laptop shutting down before transmission. “If I it doesn’t work can I call you back?”

  “Sure.” The young woman chuckled with no conviction. A child was crying in the background. “Well, good luck,” the woman said. “You scared of the shark, honey? It can’t bite you.” Her voice trailed off as the call ended.