The Apprentice

by Jana Barkley

  “Not at all.” He smiled back at her. “You can exercise, even swim.”

  Good. His reassurance was all she needed to feel comfortable with it. She’d have to force herself to forget it was there. Pulling the examination gown back over her chest, she arranged it like a shirt collar. No one would be any wiser unless she wore…a bikini? Sam sighed. As far as she was concerned, her bikini-wearing days were over.

  Dr. Franco left so she could get dressed. When she’d had the surgery a week ago, Jason had been there to take her to the procedure and home again. Even though she was on her own reconnaissance today, she found herself thinking of him. As much as she loved her son and wanted to spare him any pain, part of her disliked it when he came home from college on the weekends. Suffering and concern were all he seemed to exude, and it was getting maudlin. Yet she wondered if Jason saw her as abandoned and vulnerable in this new situation and unable to handle life without his father around. Perhaps she should be thankful he cared, but hell, she didn’t need to be reminded of this disease every time she turned around. Living with it was enough.

  Her divorce from his father had been sudden. As she took an awkward step down from the examination table in the scant hospital gown, unwanted memories of her and Mark rushed back.

  The end had started with a dog, one October afternoon two and a half years ago when they were driving to one of his firm’s numerous social events. Sam had come to feel like an accessory perched on his arm when he needed her, then abandoned to dull conversations with the other wives until she was summoned to leave. The fancy dinners, expensive gifts, and corporate gossip had been titillating at first when her husband had started up the corporate ladder, and they had been good at working the game together. Later as her own career developed in the radio marketing field, she became a pro at fielding social and work events between the two of them, much to her husband’s approval as he often profited from her media connections.

  But lately she’d been waking up each morning to a stirring of something familiar which had begun groping its way down a long-forgotten dark passage inside her. Her head had been consumed with this when Mark swore and slammed down hard on the brakes, skidding them sideways to avoid hitting the car in front. The other car had struck a dog, which was limping badly and stuck in the middle of oncoming traffic.

  “Oh Mark, we have to do something!” she cried as the car ahead sped off, almost striking the dog again.

  “What the hell do you want me to do, Sam?” he yelled, incredulous. “We’re going to be late,” and he started to pull away.

  She’d never understand what happened then, but perhaps it was the saving of her. She threw open the passenger door, eliciting strains of profanity from her husband as he stopped hard to avoid tossing her to the side of the road. Sam ran into the road to wave down oncoming traffic and then coaxed a terrified and bleeding border collie to come to her.

  Another driver pulled over and helped her carry the injured dog to the car where Mark sat fuming in the driver’s seat.

  “Open the back door,” she called, but he refused to budge, turning several shades of red in a few seconds. “Mark, please!”

  The good Samaritan who had helped her carry the dog did it and Sam, injured dog in her arms, crawled into the back seat.

  “It’s got tags,” she said. “The name’s worn off but there’s an address—2530 Magnolia Drive. That’s not too far from here.”

  “Get that Goddam dog out of my car,” he gritted through clenched teeth.

  She was used to backing down, especially in her role as Mark’s accessory, dressed to the hilt in a silk party dress—a dress now smeared with blood from the border collie.

  She leveled a warning as their eyes met in the rear view mirror. “Mark, either you take us to the owner’s house or I’m going to get that guy to take me.” This unusual outburst backed him down for the moment and he drove them to the address on the collar. Thankfully, the owners were home and took control of getting the dog to the vet.

  Mark screamed at her all the way home, telling her to burn her filthy dress and get changed fast—she was making him look bad by arriving late. He railed for what felt like hours about how he’d never be able to get the dog hair out of his car, assaulting her verbally in every way he could imagine. She stared at the madman berating her—this was not the man she had married. The 22-year-old Stanford grad who’d charmed her and her family at a back yard barbecue where they met. That Mark had taken everything in stride, including Toby, her father’s boisterous terrier. He’d known she’d grown up with all sorts of animals.

  When had he changed, and when had she fallen out of love with him? She wondered at herself, caught in this sterile existence with no room for dog hair or cuts, or even tears. All the while the din of his tirade buzzed like white noise as background to her thoughts. He hadn’t changed—she had—by giving up the things she loved. The so-called successful life she was living felt empty and isolated. Was there some spark of tenderness left inside her, or any affection for this angry-faced man driving erratically? She came up empty. Nothing.

  Then something snapped. The part of Sam that had been sleeping for years woke up and fought back. She gave as good as she got and ended up watching him spin tires out of the driveway to speed to his social function without her. The end had come quickly then. Heated, exhaustive battles over the next few months wore themselves out into legal details—the house and a sizeable alimony and child support went to Sam, and Mark soon remarried and transferred to the Chicago-based branch of his company. She no longer fit into his 20-year plan, and she could pick up any and all injured animals she wanted to and no one would give a damn. Some nights she woke up and still wondered what happened to that dog.

  Now, trying to justify to her son the presence of a red-tailed hawk in the family room made her furious. Being his father’s son, of course, he thought she was making a great mistake embarking on a lifestyle as demanding as falconry.

  “It’s filthy,” he said. “And you just let it shit on a sheet in the house?”

  “Slice, honey. It’s called a ‘slice.’”

  “You’re sick, mom. It’s going to give you an infection or something bad. Can’t you keep it outside?”

  “Not until he’s flying free.”

  “Not in the house, right?”

  “No, dear. Outside.”

  He shook his head, looking more like his father than ever.

  “You really shouldn’t be so quick to judge something you know nothing about,” she scolded, still wanting to keep the conversation light.

  “Dad would never have stood for this,” he said, starting to walk away.

  “Your father has nothing to do with this,” she snapped. “What do you want me to do, Jase? Crawl off into a corner and give up? Will it make you more comfortable?” Stifling the anguish always threatening to overwhelm her, she took a firmer hold of herself and dropped her voice. “There are no promises. Not for you. Not for me.”

  It was enough to hurt him and make him angry. The hurt would ease over time because he knew she loved him. The anger was good. It would protect him.

  “I just need some time—” she said to her reflection in the wall mirror. Time to get her legs up underneath her with these new routines. Chemotherapy and falconry. She breathed deeply and got dressed.

  So far so good. Now, she had to deal with the actual chemo side effects, if they occurred. She’d have to hide those from Hank and the others, too, if she was going to be able to do this her way. She was on her own against the rest of them. Jason couldn’t be trusted to act like an adult, and most of her friends had been close to Mark or work-related acquaintances from the radio station. There was no confidante or friend to lean on or pour out her heart to when her resolve wavered, which it would, no doubt, in the days to come. It was the most terrifying part of all, having to be one’s own sole source of strength.

  But then, no. There was Chance, wasn’t there? The idea of her and a red-tailed hawk against the world f
elt crazy, but oh, so right. She threw herself a grim expression in the mirror before she turned away. She’d do it.

  Out Back and Return: The reconnaissance flight of a hawk away and back to the glove

  while looking for game

  Chapter Fourteen

  “He won’t do it.” Sam groaned and fell back next to Mary Kate on the sofa.

  She watched Mary Kate’s green eyes narrow as she scrutinized the hawk on his floor perch in front of them. “You’ve been feeding him on the glove?”

  “Yes. And he’ll put his head down to eat in front of me, too.”

  “Well, it’s time he jumped to the fist.” Mary Kate sat back with her arms crossed.

  “I know. You see how he is? I hold the tidbit out a foot away from him while he’s on the perch, and he strains and stretches for it. But he won’t jump to me. Finally, I just let him have it.”

  Mary Kate laughed.

  “What?”

  “He’s got you well trained. May I?” Mary Kate crawled down onto the floor in front of Chance, picked up Sam’s glove, and lifted the red tail up before he knew to bate. It was amazing to see how well he did in experienced hands. Mary Kate talked nonsense to him in her sweet, singsong, Irish way until she managed to work her other hand up to the hawk’s chest and feel under the feathers.

  “Ahhhh. He’s plenty fat. How much are you feeding him a day?”

  “I think we’re down to 30 grams.”

  Mary Kate snorted as she kneeled down and backed him up onto his perch, and then returned to the sofa.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “Darlin’ girl, the most common mistake most apprentices make is not bringing the hawk’s weight down fast enough. At the rate you’re going, he might jump to the fist by, oh…January?”

  “Oh, no.” Sam slumped as if weighed down by two hundred pounds. “It’s so hard to tell. The last thing I want to do is starve my bird.”

  Mary Kate turned to her. “Remember, in the wild, these birds can go for days without food if they have to. Look, you’re not going to starve him. You’re simply getting him to the point where he’s hungry enough to get his attention. That’s the way it is in the wild. They don’t consider searching for food, let alone hunting it, until they’re hungry. And they don’t wait until they’re starving, either.”

  Sam thought about this for a moment.

  “The first hurdle you had to cross with him was a psychological one. He had to learn it was safe for him to drop his head down to eat the food you put on the glove. Doing that exposes the vulnerable back of his head. That is so not what they are wired to do in the wild in front of a possible threat.”

  Sam nodded, comprehending.

  “The next step is a psychological one, too, and probably the biggest. He has to jump from his perch and come toward you in order to get his meal, now. In other words, he’s jumping toward the big scary thing—you.”

  “And if he won’t jump?”

  “Fine. Don’t feed him.”

  Sam raised her eyebrows.

  Mary Kate laughed again. “He won’t starve. I promise. When he starts to get hungry, he’s gonna suck it up and jump. Red tails are the most adaptive and opportunistic feeders on the planet. He’ll learn to come to you sooner than you think, but you can’t give in.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said when she’d stopped laughing. “It’ll happen. Hasn’t old Sour Puss talked with you about this?”

  “Oh, him.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Please. Yes, we’ve talked about it. When I call, he asks me how much I’m feeding the hawk and how much he weighs. But this morning, when I told him Chance still won’t jump to the fist, he made some nasty comment about having to try a little harder.”

  Mary Kate leaned back into the couch with a knowing look. “Well, he could have told you what I did. Hell, he gave me the same lecture years ago when I was having trouble with my sponsor, who lived halfway across the state and wasn’t returning my phone calls. He will help, Sam. It’s—”

  “What?”

  Mary Kate studied her hard for a few seconds. “If you ever tell him I told you this, I’ll deny it to high heaven.” She paused again then sighed. “Hank was involved with a woman, another falconer. This all happened, Lord, maybe eight years ago or so. She was his apprentice, and the two of them got involved, even lived together. Hank fell hard. In fact, Tasha is the only woman I’ve ever seen him react to in the years I’ve known him. But she left and broke his heart to pieces. He acts tough as nails, but she still ties him up in knots. She and her new husband have had some issues from time to time, and whenever her marriage falls apart, she shows up on Hank’s doorstep. It’s not fair to him, and the old lug can’t seem to keep her away.”

  Sam’s annoyance melted away at the more human side of the man she’d wanted to strangle.

  Mary Kate sighed and continued. “I only mention this because Hank is fine to get along with, but every once in a while, Tasha comes calling, and he turns into the surliest son of a bitch. I was talking to one of the Southern Cal long wingers on the phone yesterday, and he mentioned Tasha was up here for the week looking for fields for the sky trails at the field meet this January.”

  “I see.” Sam didn’t know what else to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Mary Kate gave her a sad smile. “Because the fella isn’t as bad as he may seem. He has his demons and his secret trials, like we all do.”

  For a second, Sam flushed hot and turned away. Of course Mary Kate didn’t know about her secret. She rose and walked toward the kitchen, throwing her comments over her shoulder to give her face a moment to cool down. “I promise not to be too hard on him, then. I’m thirsty. How about you?”

  “Sure, some water would be great.”

  Mary Kate followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as Sam poured.

  “You know, your boy in there’s too fat to jump this morning. Why don’t you throw on your hunting boots and come with me?”

  Sam beamed. “Where are we going?”

  “Farley’s probably at weight now, so he should be flown. I thought you and I could scope out some fields in your area. You’re gonna need them sooner than you think.”

  Sam didn’t bother to hide her doubt.

  “No, really,” said Mary Kate, “Once your red tail jumps to the glove, the process speeds up. I mean it flies. If you do it right, you’ll have him out flying free in a couple of weeks.”

  “I wish you were my sponsor.”

  “Naw, you’re good for each other.”

  “We’ll either bring out the best or the worst in each other.”

  “Same thing.” Mary Kate said, heading for the door.

  Sam wondered how close to the truth she was.

  They drove for about an hour, Mary Kate heading her green van north and east to the marshes. Sam would have sought something in the foothills, but Mary Kate’s trained sense of huntable fields was sharp.

  “It becomes a sickness,” she said, laughing as they sped along the highway. “Remember when you first realized you loved raptors, and then wherever you drove you saw them everywhere? You know you’ve got it bad when you catch yourself swerving on the freeway to get a better glimpse of a soaring red tail.”

  Sam grinned. She knew what Mary Kate was talking about.

  “Same thing with fields. You’ll never be able to drive down the highway without trying to read the land, searching for signs of brush you’d swear jackrabbits are hiding in.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, you’re doomed. Say goodbye to long leisurely drives. You can wear yourself out scoping for new fields.”

  “So, why not the hills?”

  “Nothing but field mice and squirrels. Squirrels can sever toes and cripple your bird for life. Your little guy would not do well with them. It takes a female red tail with big feet that can withstand bites to hawk squirrel, like the guys back east have.”

  S
am grimaced at the thought.

  “And mice may fill up a red tail fine in the wild,” she continued, “but what’s the sport in that?”

  Leaving the bustle of suburbia behind was more refreshing than Sam had expected. But green hills cut deep with gashes for future housing developments pained her now, reminding her of her own surgeries: first, the lymph biopsy, then the port-a-cath placement. The sense of violation from these procedures still made her gullet rise to the point she had to force herself not to think of it. The nurse who counseled her before her biopsy spoke of surgery as a form of trauma. She could believe it.

  The freeway curved east into flat, rural surroundings. Ranch after ranch with rich, water-laden fields sped by, sporting egrets standing on tall spindly legs, hunting for their meals. Red-winged blackbirds zipped back and forth across the marshes, and once in a while the carcass of an owl or jackrabbit that had met its end at the front of a motor vehicle lay moldering on the side of the road. A wide saltwater strait lay to their right, and in the middle of it sat a huge distilling factory. Steam rose in billowing streams from its giant stacks. Sam wondered what kind of game they could find out here.

  Mary Kate pulled off the freeway and onto a frontage road leading deeper into the marshes, toward the distillery. A mile or so out, they passed an entrance to the plant, but Mary Kate pressed on farther east, turning with the now-gravel path that came to a dead end in the middle of the marsh. Trash lay strewn along the cyclone fence bordering the plant, reflecting obvious disregard for the resident wildlife. Sam would never have thought to come here.

  “Let’s get out.” Mary Kate jumped out and Sam followed. After scanning the surrounding field, she stepped off into the heart of it, moving straight ahead. Sam joined her, glad she had put on her dry-brush gaiters, as Mary Kate had advised before they left the house. Yellow star thistle, foxtails, and some patches of sodden pickle weed growing in depressions filled with stagnant water sometimes a foot deep made leg protection and waterproof boots a must.

  Mary Kate pointed at the ground. “Look, jackrabbit scat.”

  Sam saw it and took a mental picture.