Traveling Light

by Thalasinos, Andrea

  She looked at her watch. “I’ll make a point of it.”

  “Good. I’ll call Darryl. Start him on some antibiotics.”

  Paula loaded up Fotis. After she’d dropped off the tube of blood at Darryl’s she drove a few blocks to the IGA to get another rotisserie chicken and bread. She hoped Maggie was there but was disappointed to see a young woman, maybe high school age, marking down packages of blueberries. The girl looked up as Paula entered.

  “Hi,” Paula said. “Is Maggie here?”

  The girl motioned toward the back with the wax pen she was using.

  Paula found Maggie rearranging the meat shelf in the refrigerator section.

  “Hey, Maggie,” she said.

  The woman turned; she was wearing winter gloves and a sweater.

  “Hi, Paula.” She smiled. “I’m glad you stopped by; did Rick mention the potluck at my place tomorrow evening?”

  “No.”

  Maggie sighed. She sounded frustrated. Paula hadn’t seen her like this before. “I told him to have you give me a call.”

  “Oh, what’s up?”

  “In a couple of weeks the regional rep’s stopping with that vintage jewelry line I told you about. Already told some friends from Two Harbors and Silver Bay. I’ll make dinner; this way you can meet some of the women in the area,” she said. “Tomorrow night it’s just some local friends. You game?”

  “Yep,” Paula said, delighted at the invitation.

  “Good. So you’ll come on over around six?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Remind me to give you directions before you leave.”

  “Want me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself.”

  Paula looked at the winter gloves.

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Damn refrigerator section broke down again.” Maggie looked at the unit as if it were a noncompliant employee she was thinking of firing.

  Paula’d never thought about grocery store equipment before.

  “Was checking out a customer at lunchtime and his bologna was room temp,” Maggie explained. “So I went back and sure enough, the damn thing stopped working.”

  Paula watched as Maggie emptied packages of lunch meat into blue plastic bins.

  “You need some help?” Paula put down her purse and pushed up the sleeves of her long-sleeved T-shirt.

  “Would love some if you’re offering.”

  Paula smiled. “Where’s Bobby Ray?”

  “Oh, he’s not so good,” Maggie said. “Hospitalized in Duluth. Last night he started hallucinating. Took his shirt off in the housewares aisle after he took a box of kitchen matches and started striking them one by one, examining his skin, convinced there were poems written on the surface. He’s worked for me two years. Watched him struggle with this mental illness. So young to struggle like this, but he’ll be back, probably in a couple of weeks. It’s happened before.”

  “Poor guy,” Paula said.

  “So I’m down one person today. We’re moving the lunch meat, the smoked fish, all the ready-to-eats over to the dairy section until Jim gets off of work. Jim’s my fix-it guy,” Maggie explained. “He’ll figure it out.”

  Paula walked up to the shelves, awaiting direction.

  Maggie pointed to an empty plastic bin.

  “Use those plastic bins and just load the packages in there. We’ll store whatever we can fit in the back refrigerators. Don’t worry about the order.” She gestured to what she’d done so far. “We’ll sort it out later.”

  Paula began unloading. Bologna, tiny Oscar Mayer wiener frankfurters, olive loaf: she hadn’t seen this packaged stuff in the grocery stores in New York for years.

  “This damn thing’s probably forty years old,” Maggie said. “It was old when we bought the store. I told Ephraim it needs a new motor, not just Band-Aids.” She sounded aggravated. “But he’s such a cheapskate. He says, ‘Why put a new motor in an old refrigerator?’” She looked at Paula as if to garner her support in a decades-long running argument. “They don’t make parts for it anymore. It’s an antique.” Maggie chuckled. “The damn thing breaks every few weeks. He’ll feel it when we start losing product, that’ll fix his wagon.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  Maggie looked up at her with a wry little smile. “I already talked to Jim. He’s ordering me a new motor on the Q.T. There’s some things, hon”—she winked—“a husband just don’t need to know.”

  Paula looked at the bin.

  “So Rick didn’t mention to call me?” Maggie seemed steamed about that, too.

  “Nope,” Paula said. “But then he’s been busy with people at his house.”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” Maggie said, and looked at Paula.

  “Looks like they’re having meetings.”

  “His friends from D.C.,” Maggie said as they emptied the last of the pre-packaged lunch meat.

  “Want me to clear some space in the yogurt section?” Paula walked toward the dairy section.

  “You’re reading my mind,” Maggie said.

  “It looks like there’s room to consolidate the flavors.”

  “Good thinking. I wish those high school kids”—she gestured with her chin toward the front register—“would think like you,” she said. “You want to work part-time through Apple Festival for me?”

  “You serious?” They were already through the first week in September, Paula’s second week of working for Rick.

  “Damn straight.” Maggie looked at her. “First two weeks in October are our busiest time of the year. I’ll need someone to keep the shelves stocked when the high school kids are back in school.

  “We’ll pull in the bulk of our revenue—our busiest time.”

  “I’m in,” Paula said. “Thanks, I’d love to.” She beamed. Being part of the store felt so familiar.

  “Just come by when you’re done at Rick’s.”

  “Deal.” Paula extended her hand and shook Maggie’s glove. “So who are these D.C. people?”

  “Part of some legislation he’s working on for animals,” Maggie explained as Paula made room on the yogurt shelf. “He’s trying to put puppy mills out of business. There’s one guy in the area that’s really bad,” Maggie motioned with her chin. “And the breeding of raptors.”

  “Raptors?”

  Maggie looked at her and made a disapproving noise. “You’d be surprised what people want to collect. They think they’re being cool having a wolf or a hawk as a pet.”

  Paula thought of some of the things that Rick had said about people trying to raise chicks in captivity.

  “And the puppy mills are despicable,” Maggie said, shaking her head.

  Paula had never thought about it.

  “I tried to ask Rick,” Paula said. “But he won’t share a thing.”

  Maggie stopped working. She looked at Paula as if deciding whether to say something.

  Paula waited.

  “Okay. I’m done keeping people’s secrets; I’m getting too old,” Maggie said. “He’s suspicious.”

  “Of me?” Paula touched her chest. “For what?”

  “Thinks maybe you’re spying for the other side.”

  “What other side?”

  “The puppy mill lobby,” she said. “People who illegally breed wildlife—they’re all bundled together under one fancy name that hides who they are and what they do.”

  “Puppy mill lobby?” She stopped working, her mouth agape.

  “He’s not sure who you are,” Maggie went on. “Here you show up out of the blue, no luggage, New York plates, he’s got no idea of where you came from, what your agenda is.”

  She looked back at Maggie, realizing that she wasn’t sure either.

  “My agenda?” She laughed at the preposterousness of it. She thought of the birds on the ledge in her office in New York. She thought of the downstairs couch, how scratchy the mohair upholstery had been all these years and how some mornings she’d awaken with an imprint of the piping
from one of the cushions embedded across her cheek.

  “He thinks maybe,” Maggie paused and looked down at her gloves, “you’re working for a lobby.”

  “He thinks I’m working for a lobby?”

  Maggie said nothing.

  Paula felt the woman gauging her reaction.

  “Then why did he hire me?”

  “Maybe ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”

  Paula was stunned. She looked at the bin of Lunchables that she’d just unpacked from the shelf. She thought of Tony, of Heavenly. Thought of her friends who loved her, trusted her; it was odd to feel misunderstood. Her stomach turned. The smell of the refrigerator made her nauseous. She wanted to go back to the cabin, load up Fotis, her things, and drive to Thunder Bay that evening. Bernie knew her, knew that she wasn’t a spy. This was craziness.

  Tears unexpectedly filled Paula’s eyes. “I just love the birds.” She started to cry.

  Maggie set down two packages of smoked whitefish, stepped over and hugged her.

  “Do you think that about me?” Paula asked.

  Maggie shook her head and motioned to follow her into the back room.

  As Paula sat down on a shrink-wrapped box of Campbell soup, she began blubbering about Roger, about Theo and Fotis, NYU and the Center, about everything.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was early afternoon when she got back to Rick’s. The cars were gone. She put Fotis in the yard with Sam and went to check in on the eagle. Rick’s front door was wide open; Sigmund stepped out as she neared.

  “Oh great,” she mumbled. She stopped and looked at the bird, wondering if he’d try to block her entrance.

  Sigmund stayed put. She shuffled around him and into the foyer; the finer hairs on her body prickled as she moved.

  “Rick? You here?” After several moments, she headed out toward the raptor ICU. Sigmund followed, grunting.

  “Get lost,” she muttered. He looked up adoringly.

  Rick’s truck was in the driveway. She saw the raptor ICU door was closed but not latched.

  She pushed it open. “Rick?” she called.

  “In here.” The eagle lay faceup on a towel on the metal table, panting. “Darryl called. His white count’s sky high; something’s going on.”

  She walked up to the table and touched the bird’s shoulder. “That was your hunch.”

  He turned toward her. “Yeah. Glad I started those antibiotics.”

  The bird pivoted his head toward Paula and blinked. She stroked the brown feathers on his chest with her index finger. His eyes closed. “Ella, oraios mou.” With the other hand she began smoothing the feathers on the top of his head. The white head feathers always looked wet. The bird opened his eyes again, too weak to turn his head back. Hard to believe it was the same fierce creature of the other day.

  “Hi,” she said. The bird seemed to like her touch, plus Rick didn’t tell her to stop.

  “Gonna be another long night,” he said, and began to set up a tiny bag of IV fluids. “He’s pretty dehydrated. Tubed him some fluids earlier, but this’ll be more direct.” He moved toward the counter, opened a drawer and took out a tiny needle with what looked like an attached valve. He set the needle into the eagle’s side. The bird didn’t jump.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Not a needle.”

  Rick then wrapped the bird’s torso unwinding a roll of white gauze to stabilize the needle, and then several more times with what looked like an Ace bandage to hold the valve in place. “I’m afraid he’s got pneumonia,” Rick said as he exhaled. “High lead levels can cause respiratory distress.”

  “Will the antibiotics help?”

  He raised his eyebrows, looked at the eagle’s face and sighed. “Hope so.”

  Paula watched the bird, head turned toward her, too weak to protest. How could lead buck shot and sinkers down such a majestic creature?

  “Why don’t hunters and fishermen just switch to nontoxic?”

  Rick looked at her. “You tell me.”

  “They should be forced to watch this bird suffer,” she said angrily, her voice close to a holler.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Shouting upsets him.”

  “Sorry, it just pisses me off.”

  Rick looked sympathetically at the bird.

  “Think he’ll make it?”

  “He’s pretty weak.” Rick pulled up two tall wooden stools. “I’ve seen too many die. Unless we get this secondary infection under control there’s no telling.”

  Paula scooted up the stool, leaning on the metal table to get closer to the bird. As she leaned over, her hair touched his brown feathers. She noticed it was the same color. His feathers were coarser than the owl’s.

  “It’s too bad, too, ’cause his lead toxicity levels were dropping nicely.” Rick connected the IV bag to the needle, elevated the small pouch and handed it to Paula.

  “What else can I do?” she asked.

  “Just do what you’re doing; it’s comforting.” His eyes softened as he handled the animal.

  As she stroked his feathers, the eagle would open his eyes and look at her, blinking a few times before closing them.

  * * *

  It had gotten dark between treatments, Rick settled into a well-worn green armchair off to the side. Under a reading lamp he reviewed what looked like thick legal briefs. Brown tortoiseshell-colored glasses balanced on the end of his nose. Paula remained perched on the stool close to the eagle, wondering what life would be like with a man like this. Long silences. Even longer spaces with nothing to say, no compulsion to fill them with empty chatter as she often did with Roger—deficits in the restaurant menu, critical comments about the wine list, just to make small talk.

  But with Rick there was peacefulness, no anger lying in wait to ambush her. When he had nothing to say, he said nothing. Yet Paula guessed that Rick would never have found her attractive ten years ago for all the reasons that Roger had.

  Rick was real. Had she been grounded, she would never have slept on a couch or let Guillermo push her around. Yet Paula believed the better part of her was real, too—the part that was reaching for liberation or absolution. That she could recognize the real in others gave her hope. Fotis had seen it in her. The eagle had looked inside her, too, holding the truth within his gaze long enough for her to feel it stir.

  She looked around the ICU. For once she was not reduced to her hair, her clothes, her jewelry, her accomplishments or, most important, the woman who thought so little of herself as to allow her husband to shun her.

  “You might as well take off for the night.” Rick’s voice pierced the quiet. “Go tend to Fotis.”

  “But what about this guy?” She wanted to be both places and touched the eagle’s keel again to ensure he was breathing.

  “I’ll be here all night.”

  She looked at the bird; his pinkish-white tongue was visible. If it weren’t for his panting he’d look dead.

  “I wanna stay, too.” She looked at Rick. “I mean, if it’s okay.”

  He nodded; his brows rose slightly. “I’ll go round up Fotis and Sam. Feed ’em and bring ’em into the house for the night.”

  “Thanks.”

  “They can have a pajama party,” he said as he headed toward the door.

  She hadn’t heard that expression in years. What a funny thing to say.

  “Old Sigmund’ll keep ’em entertained.” Rick turned with his hand on the doorknob and looked at her.

  She thought about his “house vulture.” “Will Fotis bother him?” she asked.

  “If he does, Sigmund’ll fly up to the beams.”

  “Or vomit.”

  He smirked. “Or that.” The way he said it made her laugh.

  She imagined Sigmund projectile vomiting on “Mr. Redford’s” couches and tribal rugs and watched the curve of Rick’s back and shoulders as he slipped out the door.

  * * *

  The wall clock said almost five; hard to believe she’d been sittin
g there for over two hours. She’d thought to mention her earlier conversation with Maggie, but somehow it didn’t matter. Let him think whatever he wanted.

  As she pulled the stool closer to lean over, the thought occurred to tiptoe over and peek at what he was reading. She looked at the ceiling. It would be just her luck that he had some sort of camera rigged up to catch her snooping. The cold metal table felt good on her sinuses as she faced eye to eye with the eagle. She continued smoothing his head and stroking his keel. The bird blinked. “Aetos, esai palikari,” she told him to be brave and fight. His yellow feet were curled in the pink blanket. She reached down and held them; they were leathery and rough. Feeling his toes in her hands, she moved her fingers down to feel the curve of his talons, like fishhooks. She covered them with the blanket in case they were cold.

  He opened his eyes to face her. Compassion with ferocity. He had what looked like yellow lips where his beak attached along the side of his head. He blinked a few more times and then seemed to doze. She was dozing, too.

  She awoke with a start as Rick opened the door. For an instant her eyes and the eagle’s opened into each other’s, momentarily free of the awareness of respective species, awake in the aliveness of the other. She sat up, not wanting Rick to think her foolish.

  “Fotis and Sam are fine,” he reported. A rush of chilly air followed him in; a jeans jacket and an oatmeal-colored ragg wool sweater were tucked under his arm. “Getting brisk out. You cold?” He held them up for her to choose.

  “Thanks.” She chose the sweater and slipped it over her head. It smelled like his house.

  “Brought some sandwiches, too,” he said, depositing a plate on the counter, “in case you’re hungry.”

  “Thanks.” She wasn’t but looked anyway. Maybe she should nibble at one as a show of thanks.

  “Egg salad, turkey. Take your pick,” He gestured to the food. They looked like leftover catered sandwiches from his earlier meetings.

  “You gonna eat, too?” she asked.

  “I could have a bite,” he said, walking into a little alcove just off the hall leading to the flight room. She heard the clunking sound of a coffeemaker. “How’s he doing?”

  She was surprised to be asked.

  “I think the same,” she said.