by Cari Noga
The older man nodded gratefully, taking a long drink. Sweat beaded along his brow, Christopher noticed as he tipped his head back. Even with Felk having more than two decades on Christopher, the flat, shady trail shouldn’t have caused that kind of exertion.
“Dr. Felk, are you OK?”
“Fine, fine. Just give me a minute to catch my breath.”
Christopher waited a minute, then two, then three. Gradually Felk’s panting slowed to normal breathing. He turned his head and met Christopher’s eyes, accepting his scrutiny. He seemed about to speak when a high-pitched trill pierced the quiet.
Felk turned his face upward and cupped his ear. The trill sounded again, a repeating staccato. “Tell me.”
“Swamp sparrow,” replied Christopher.
“No doubt,” the older man replied, smiling in satisfaction. “You always had one of my best ears.”
“So don’t I deserve to hear the truth?”
Felk turned to look at him again. He tried to smile, but it wobbled at the corners. “Not much to tell. What you see is what you get. I’m getting old, Christopher. And slowing down.”
“You’re not sick?”
“Not acutely. Oh, I’ve got arthritis and high blood pressure. Had a bad cough last winter that took months to kick. Nothing that taking twenty years off wouldn’t cure.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll be seventy-five this year.”
“Is that why you’re up here now to set up an endowment?” Christopher asked.
“One reason. I wanted to see you, of course.”
“I would have come to New York, you know.”
“I know. But I wanted to see Deborah, too. She’ll meet us for dinner?”
“I hope so. I left her a message. But I haven’t heard back.”
“You left her a message?” Felk’s face turned quizzical. “You couldn’t just mention it over breakfast?”
“I’m afraid not. Deborah and I aren’t living together now,” Christopher said. With the words he felt relief wash over him. Though their separation was old grist for Cornell’s gossip mill, he hadn’t confided in anyone since he requested use of the vacant apartment from Peter. Four months on, keeping up his professional façade as the unruffled, collected scientist while living alone in the apartment was far more draining than he’d expected.
“Christopher. I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”
Felk had never married anything but his work, yet Christopher found himself telling the older man everything, interrupted only by the swamp sparrow. Their years of infertility struggles. Deborah’s plea after the crash. His agreement to try one last round. Helen’s diagnosis. Deborah’s deceit. His departure.
Even the ultrasound picture, which had remained in his wallet since Deborah dropped it on the restaurant table.
When he was finished, Felk drew in a deep breath. He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking off in the distance. Once more the swamp sparrow’s repeating trill resounded through Sapsucker Woods. Felk’s face relaxed and he smiled.
“What are you thinking?” Christopher asked.
Felk turned back. He regarded Christopher for another long moment, then spoke.
“Have you had a chance to review that thumb drive from Robby Palmer?”
Christopher’s mind spun at the change of subject. “The boy from the conference in Michigan?”
Felk nodded.
Christopher hesitated. “Briefly, yes. But I couldn’t make heads or tails of the files. And like I told you before, if he’s going to apply to bird camp next year, it would be a conflict of interest for me to review it.”
Felk nodded, looking unconcerned about ethics. “Would you like to guess what my endowment is going to fund?”
“I assume ornithology research, naturally.”
Felk shook his head.
“Then I’m at a loss.” Christopher felt forlorn, too. Didn’t Felk have anything to say about his story?
“The Benjamin J. Felk Chair in Autism Advocacy will be jointly established and awarded between the law school and the medical school.”
Christopher contemplated his words. “So that’s why you wanted to talk to Deborah.”
“Yes.”
“You’re doing this for your brother.”
Felk smiled again slightly, looking up into the trees. “Most people will think that. But I’m really doing it for me. Call it atonement.”
“Atonement? For what happened to your brother in the institution? You were his—his savior.” The religious word felt awkward on his tongue.
“No, I was too late. Oh, his life was happier after we moved him. But it wasn’t appreciably better. Intervention, therapy has to come early to be effective. But it’s not too late for Robby. Or the millions of kids like him.”
Felk looked straight at him. “Don’t let it become too late for you and Deborah and your child, either, Christopher.”
Deborah stretched and yawned. She had fought off her two o’clock drowsiness, but it was coming back more powerfully now as a three thirty coma. She could duck out early; Phillip was away at a conference. Angela buzzed her line.
“I’m just on my way out, Angela.”
“Sorry. There’s someone here to see you.”
She groaned softly. “Who is it?”
“His name’s Arthur Felk. He says he’s an alumnus, and he wants to set up an endowment.”
Arthur Felk? Christopher’s mentor, the grandfatherly ornithologist from New York?
“He’s here in person?” Deborah frowned to herself. Who drove for four hours without making an appointment first?
“Standing right in front of me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He doesn’t look so good, Deborah.”
She sighed. “All right. I’ll be right out.”
“OK. Sir, can I get you something? Water, or perhaps iced tea?”
“Water, please, young lady.” Deborah heard Felk’s voice faintly before Angela hung up.
Hastily she tidied the papers on her desk, closed her e-mail window, and removed her purse from the spare chair. Good enough.
Angela telegraphed her worry as she passed the reception desk. Deborah sat down quickly, before Dr. Felk could try to get up. His face was chalky, yet he was sweating. The water bottle Angela provided was already almost empty.
“Dr. Felk? Are you all right?”
He smiled and dodged her question. “Deborah. It’s been a long time.”
She nodded. “I’m delighted to see you. But I’m worried. You look exhausted.”
“I could say the same thing about you.” He watched her intently as he drained the last of the water.
Deborah’s cheeks grew hot. She placed her palm over her swollen stomach. “That’s pretty common when you’re pregnant.”
“As it is in your seventies. I’m fine. I may have overdone it a bit with Christopher on the trails just now, but another half hour in this air conditioning and another bottle of water and I’ll be as good as, well, sixty, anyway.” He smiled at his joke.
“You saw Christopher?” Deborah sat up straighter.
“Just came from a hike with him at the sanctuary. Beautiful place. And that new building. Amazing what’s happened around here since my day.” He swallowed the last of the water. “He told me he wasn’t able to reach you about dinner, so I thought I’d just stop by here.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Deborah said, her cheeks flushing again. “I—”
“Perhaps we could go to your office,” Felk suggested. Color was returning to his own cheeks, and he was no longer sweating. On their way down the hall she got another bottle of water.
“So Angela mentioned that you’re interested in setting up an endowment,” she said, closing her door. “I can get you started, but the Lab has its own development staff that will need to get inv
olved. We’re honored that you—” Deborah was warming to her boilerplate donor spiel when Felk laid his hand on hers.
The unexpected gesture froze her words midsentence. Looking into the older man’s kind blue eyes, she repeated herself, trying to resume the rhythm. “We’re honored that you would include Cornell in your estate plans. As you know, of course, Cornell is a world-class—”
“Deborah. May I talk, please?”
“By all means.” She looked at her hand, still covered by his wrinkled one. “First rule of fundraising. The donor always gets to do the talking.”
He smiled, patting her hand before lifting his. “I do want to set up an endowment. But it won’t have anything to do with the Lab.”
“It won’t?”
“I’m interested in endowing a chair that will be jointly overseen by both law and medicine. So you and your office will indeed be involved. But that’s not really why I stopped by.”
“Law and medicine?” Donor whims were nothing new, but for someone who had spent a career in such a specialized field as ornithology, a deviation was unusual. “May I ask why?”
“You may. After I tell you why I did stop by.”
She flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.”
“Well, we’ll be even then. Because this is really none of my business, either. But, Deborah, it upsets me to hear about your situation with Christopher.”
She stiffened. “I don’t have a situation with Christopher anymore. He chose to move out. Out of the house. Out of my life. Our lives,” she added.
“That’s unfortunate. I wish he hadn’t.”
“I think you’re talking to the wrong person, Dr. Felk.”
“Oh, I told Christopher, too. Absolutely.”
“And what did he say?” Deborah laid her hands on her belly. Relax. Breathe.
“He’s still angry. About what he considers your deceit.”
“I see.” Deborah swallowed hard.
“I didn’t come to talk about how you got here, Deborah.” Felk leaned forward and laid his hand on hers again. “You did what you did to protect someone you loved. Someone vulnerable. I understand that. It’s a powerful motivator.”
Gratefully, Deborah nodded.
He sat back and clasped his own hands. “But I do want to talk about where you go from here. I know what it’s like to grow up without a parent, though it was my mother I lost.”
“I’m sorry,” Deborah said softly.
He nodded. “Decades ago now, but I still remember how I felt. How lonely. Scared. Angry. I don’t want your child to feel that way.”
“Again, I think you’re talking to the wrong person, Dr. Felk. I can’t make Christopher forgive and forget. And I apparently can’t convince him that the reward of parenthood is worth the risk of the unknown.”
“But now that’s still abstract. The baby will be real. He showed me the picture, Deborah.”
“He did?”
“Keeps it in his wallet.”
Deborah leaned back, digesting that.
“Have you ever heard that you learn what you need to learn when you need to learn it?” His blue eyes were locked on hers.
Deborah shook her head.
“I forget who said it, but it’s true. When the baby’s born, that’s when Christopher will realize he’s a father. I know it.” Dr. Felk’s face was somehow both fierce and plaintive as he implored her. “What I’m asking you to do is just keep the door open. Don’t shut him out. Please, don’t shut him out.”
Brett heard a car door slam as she carried the garbage bag to the garage. Amanda stepped out of Abby’s car, her hair still wet from the pool. Probably headed to work next. She had her first part-time job this summer, working at the Dairy Queen a couple blocks away. Brett’s news would yank her another step into adulthood. Guilt surged as she slung the bag into the garbage can. It was supposed to be the other way around—the baby bird leaving the nest.
“Have fun at the pool?” Brett walked back across the yard to the picnic table.
“Sure.” Amanda shrugged indifferently, heading for the door.
“Come and sit with me for a minute, OK?” Brett patted the picnic bench. Her hand kept time with her thumping heart.
“I’ve got to get ready for work. I start at five.” Amanda’s hand was on the doorknob.
“This won’t take long. Promise.”
Amanda heaved a sigh, trudged to the picnic table, and sat, dropping her duffel bag between her feet. “Well?”
Brett swallowed. Her rehearsed words had fled. “I have some news.”
“Yeah?”
She wasn’t going to make it easy. Brett took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “You know things have been kind of uncomfortable around here lately.”
Amanda snorted. “The understatement of the year.”
Brett ignored the sarcasm. “I understand you’re angry. Your father, too. And since it was me who brought all this on, we decided”—she paused, swallowing hard—“we decided it would be best if I moved out.”
She peered at her daughter’s face. This was the crucial part to get right. She could live with the guilt if she got it right. Amanda’s well-being was best served by staying in Scranton, believing it was Brett who chose to move, rather than Richard who forced her. Angry as she was at Richard, Brett couldn’t make Amanda choose sides and uproot her from friends and school. Secretly, she hoped some space would allow Amanda to accept her more quickly. But drained of her defensive sarcasm, Amanda’s face made her doubtful already.
“Move out? You’re moving out?”
“Yes.” Brett paused. “I’ve got a new job. I start next month.”
“Next month?” Amanda whispered.
“Yes.”
Amanda looked as pale as the vanilla ice cream she’d soon be serving. And Brett hadn’t yet revealed the most explosive part.
“Wha—what kind of job? Where are you going to work?”
Here goes the rest of my life.
“I’ve been accepted as the director of a food pantry in a city in upstate New York. Ithaca, New York.”
“Oh, my God.” Amanda’s voice cracked the gulf of her guilt wider. “New York. You’re moving out—next month—to take a job in New York?”
Brett nodded mutely.
“What about me?”
“You’ll stay here, with Dad. We talked about it. We think that’s the best thing. Not to uproot you from school, especially from the drama program. Or your friends. And now your job . . .” Brett’s voice trailed off, realizing how ridiculous that part sounded.
“I’ll come visit, of course. And I hope you’ll come visit me. Ithaca’s only about a hundred miles from Scranton. And you’ll be getting your license soon.”
“Come visit you,” Amanda repeated.
“Yes.” Brett nodded eagerly. “I thought maybe we could go apartment-hunting together next week. I won’t be able to afford much, but I’m hoping for at least a two-bedroom. One for you.”
“My own bedroom. Like that’s going to make everything OK?” Amanda exclaimed, jumping up from the table. “You couldn’t get a job here in Scranton?”
“Well, I didn’t really think about that, Amanda.” Don’t mention Richard’s ultimatum. Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it. Don’tmentionit. “This opportunity came up, and it’s a great match for my skills, and—”
“Not such a great match for your family. But no big deal, Amanda will be fine. She’s always fine.” Amanda snatched her duffel bag. “All right. You’ve told me your news. Congratulations. Congratulations, Mom, on your new job. I hope you’ll be very happy in Ithaca.” She stalked into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
Left alone at the picnic table, Brett barely felt the heat of the June day as a chill as raw as the January wind on the Hudson River whipped at her h
eart.
TWENTY-FIVE
Boom.
In his bed in the dark hotel room, Robby stirred, rubbing his eyes. In his dreams, rain cascaded from the clouds like waterfalls. Waves pounded the beach. The plovers scattered, losing each other in the dark. The babies cheeped, seeking their parents. Cheep, cheep, cheep.
Boom.
His eyes fluttered open. Thunder. The storm the man on the hike predicted. For real.
Pushing off the blankets, he swung his feet to the floor and stood. Thud. That was his Sibley’s Guide to Birds that he’d taken into bed, sliding to the floor. He’d been writing a postcard to Paula on top of it, telling her about the eggs. Robby winced and glanced over at the other bed. His mom and dad were indistinct lumps, shrouded under the blankets, both turned away from his bed and the window. He waited a moment, but they didn’t move. The digital clock on the nightstand between the beds read 2:18 a.m.
He parted the heavy draperies. A crack of lightning flashed a zigzag line, and the sky vibrated. One, two, three, four, five. One mile. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Two miles. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen—
Boom.
Less than three miles away, according to the rule he learned in Mrs. Kowalski’s science class. Storms usually moved west to east. So it would have already passed the park. Robby pressed his forehead to the glass. Were they safe? On the morning hike Lake Michigan was calm, but they had pictures in the Visitors Center of waves five feet high, crashing on the beach where they nested. What about the eggs? Ruth said washouts were—
Behind him, he heard a cough. His mom rolled over. Quickly, Robby slid back into bed, his back to her. He didn’t want questions.
The drapes stayed parted an inch. Through the rain-spattered window he watched the sky pulse with lightning, worrying and waiting for dawn and answers.
Outside the SUV’s window, orchards and fields of corn made a blur of green along the highway between Traverse City and the Sleeping Bear Dunes. “Knee high by the Fourth of July,” his mom had remarked yesterday. Robby repeated the line to himself, liking the rhyme even though it was ridiculously meaningless. Whose knee?
The monochromatic view was soothing. He was still worried about the storm last night.