All around them the benches were occupied; families and couples had set down blankets to watch the harbor. A few kayakers were demonstrating Eskimo rolls—tipping underwater and then upright again, performing as the crowd applauded.
“That’s an old law-school buddie of mine, Derek, showing off,” Rick said.
“Can you do that?” she asked in a flirty way.
“What do you think?” The way he said it reminded her of men at graduate school parties at Berkeley. “You see Maggie and Ephraim yet?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t. I haven’t met Ephraim yet.”
“Just saw them over by the brat stand at Sven and Ollie’s.” Rick laughed. “Ephraim’s quite the character. Fell off the roof last winter trying to shovel it and broke a leg.”
“Shoveling a roof,” she stated in disbelief.
“I keep telling him it’s time for a metal roof rake, but he’s a stubborn cuss. Cheap as the day is long. Calls me from the hospital where they’re pinning his leg back together and asked me to bring his ninety-seven-year-old father, Chester, his ‘staples’—a gallon jug of muscatel, packages of summer sausage, bags of Brach’s dinner mints and a case of Archway oatmeal cookies. The old man still has a place, next property over from them.”
“What an awful diet.” She had no idea what summer sausage was.
“The guy’s pushing ninety-eight; the rest of us should be so lucky.”
“Why didn’t Maggie bring them?”
Rick laughed. “The old geezer grabs her ass every time she’s alone with him.”
Paula looked down at the pebbles, laughing.
“The old guy’s losing it, but you gotta give him credit,” Rick said, setting his beer bottle into the pebbles.
Thank God she had clean clothes and makeup. Her knockoff designer tank and shorts felt loose from days without ice cream.
“Pretty sunset,” she said.
“There’s a big storm front coming in, not till after midnight, though.”
“Is it always gorgeous like this?” she asked, watching a fog bank dreaming in again, slowly, gently like a promise.
“Got me to move here.”
“I can understand why.” She turned and looked at the outline of his profile against the changing colors of the sinking sun.
“Lake’s thirteen hundred and thirty-two feet deep, with two thousand, two hundred and twenty-six miles of shoreline,” he said.
“Not quite the drive from California to New York.”
“And takes one hundred and ninety-one years for all the water to replace itself,” he said. “Hundreds of shipwrecks dating from the seventeen, eighteen hundreds. Fun to dive. Because of the low acidity levels, the wooden hulls are amazingly well preserved. They’re protected historical sites.”
She looked out at the lake, thinking of the depth.
“How’s your wine?” he asked, looking at the lighthouses.
“Great, thanks.” She raised the plastic cup and looked at it. “So, I’m curious,” she asked. “What’s a marais?”
“It’s French for ‘safe harbor.’ This was a stop for fur traders. They hired French voyageurs to transport pelts from Lake Athabasca to Montreal. Have you ever felt a fox pelt?”
She chuckled. “My mother’s worked for a furrier her whole life. She still does,” Paula said. “On Sundays when I was a kid sometimes after church we’d go there. I’d watch her work when there was an important job. She was proud, still is.” Paula thought of Eleni. What other eighty-year-old woman was still working? “I used to put the raw fur pelts on my head as a kid and pretend to be the animal.”
Rick looked at her and she looked out to the lake, feeling her face flush. She’d forgotten that memory.
“The voyageurs used birch bark canoes, May through October, working the waterways until they froze. They needed marais when storms blew in during the fall—like Artist’s Point.” He said the word marais with a French accent.
“You speak French?”
“My mom’s French-Canadian. Spent summers in Montreal. My father was a surgeon in the Cities. They didn’t get along.”
“Fotis speaks Greek.”
“Yes, I’ve heard him.”
She laughed. “I’ve got to teach him English commands.”
“He’s picked them up all right.” Rick then looked at his wristwatch. She liked the fluffy sun-bleached hair on his brown forearms. “I can’t stay too much longer. Got people coming in.”
“More mysterious guests, eh?” The wine made her brave.
She felt his eyes as he turned to look at her. “How are they ‘mysterious’?”
“You’re all so hush-hush.” She pulled up the neckline of her T-shirt in jest to hide her face like a spy.
“We’re working on animal welfare legislation.”
“I know.”
He turned to examine her. “You know.”
“My best friend Tony de la Rosa’s a detective, NYPD,” she admitted. “He checked you out.”
“Well, I ran your plates before you’d even left my driveway that first day.”
She looked at him. There was a wry smile as he sipped his beer.
“Immigrant studies at NYU,” he started. “Paula Makaikis, resides on West Twenty-fifth Street, Manhattan, married to a one Roger xyz, Polish last name I won’t even begin to pronounce, particle physicist, Columbia.”
She started laughing, looking down at the rocks that for some reason made the whole thing seem even funnier. “Got me there.” She wiped her eyes.
“Criminal law,” Rick said. “Prosecutor.”
“Yeah, well, that explains a lot.”
He took another swig of beer.
“Maggie says you think I’m a spy.” It slipped out of Paula’s mouth before she could button it.
She watched his face carefully. He seemed to formulate his thoughts.
“Animal welfare’s a lot more complicated than you’d think,” he said. “Anytime there’s money involved, people get ugly.”
“You still think I’m a spy?” Her voice softened.
“Not competent enough,” he said conclusively but with a smirk. Finishing the last of his beer, he looked around as if deciding whether or not to get up and get another. “Wasn’t sure at first.” He looked out to the horizon and then back at her. It made her feel funny; maybe she was getting drunk. Wine on an empty stomach.
They sat a while longer. She asked him about growing up in Minnesota and he asked about NYC. She told him all about how she’d gotten Fotis from Theo and how worried she was about Eleni. How surprised she was at loving Grand Marais.
“Curious, what made you answer my ad?” he asked.
She thought for a moment. “I don’t know.” She looked at him. “I didn’t even think about it; I just called.” She looked away. For an instant she felt him wanting to kiss her.
“Well,” he said, and stood. “Better go get ready to meet my mysterious guests.” He raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession and held out his hand. He pulled her up as she brushed off her legs. “We’re finishing legislation that’ll outlaw puppy mills.” He pointed west with his empty beer bottle. “Like that bastard up the road.”
“Who’s that?”
“This guy not far from here. Ships to dealers throughout the U.S. He’s moved his operation around. Buys old farms, sets up the barns with hundreds of breeding pairs.”
“That’s a lot of dogs,” she said.
“See ya.” He saluted with two fingers as he walked off toward his truck.
* * *
The festival was winding down just as the wind began to pick up. Napkins blew off the makeshift bar in whirlwinds of white paper. Dealers hurried through transactions; empty soda cans, plastic folding chairs and some of the lighter makeshift tables blew over with each gust. Paula stayed to help a few artists pack up.
By the time she drove home, after midnight, twigs and small branches were strewn on 61; rain blew in torrents across the pavement. Wet leaves covered the road like
papier-mâché.
Turning into Rick’s driveway, she noticed his house lit up, with even more cars parked in front than last time.
As she drove down the grassy path to the guesthouse, a gust from the lake hit the Escape. The car lurched, frightening her. Her headlights flashed on her front door and she noticed a pile of firewood stacked under the porch overhang that hadn’t been there when she’d left. Another pile stacked off to the side was covered by a plastic tarp, its corner whipping in the wind like a flag. A fire in the wood stove sounded wonderful, though the only fire experience she’d had was lighting the pilot light in Roger’s kitchen stove.
She parked and ducked inside. Fotis jumped up, overjoyed to see her. She knelt and hugged him around the middle, shivering from the cold front while water gushed off the metal roof.
“Hi, good boy, sorry I left you.” She climbed the loft stairs and crawled under the down comforter in her damp clothes. Fotis stepped up and settled beside her. The pinging of rain against the window and crashing of waves against the rocks below began to lull her.
Just as she was drifting to sleep, a loud bang made Paula jump up. The ceiling logs groaned; she turned on the lamp next to the bed. Fotis had sat up, too.
“Hope we don’t wake up in the lake.” She reached to pet Fotis. It wasn’t clear who the gesture was meant to comfort. The cabin had seemed sturdy enough, though rattles, creaks and crashes revealed the structure’s vulnerabilities.
Another thud of branches startled her awake.
A loud crash down in the bathroom followed. She sat up. “Shit.” The rain sounded louder. Maybe a screen had blown in; she should have checked the windows. She looked at the clock on the night table. One am. Fotis listened for a few moments but quickly lost interest and groaned in a contented way as he leaned against her hip.
“Damn it.” Paula got up and descended carefully. Each stair felt colder than the next. The noise got louder as she set foot on the main floor. It was so much colder all of a sudden; the intensity of the draft made the hair on her body stand on end. Something was in the bathroom. Then a flash of raw hamburger and a pile of feathers on the couch—like a crime scene—made her scream.
Sigmund looked up and began vying for her attention with his huge wingspan. Feathers scratched the walls. The table lamps went crashing over; photos on the wall thumped off.
“What are you doing here?” she shrieked, her heart pumping madly.
Whipping open the front door, she chased Sigmund around the living room, flapping her arms and yelling until she’d shoved him out the door. Locking it, she put the chain on, too, as if Sigmund could articulate the front latch and pick the lock. She then ran into the bathroom, quickly cranking shut the casement window and locking it. The window screen was on the floor along with a few telltale feathers.
Then, hiding behind one of the living room drapes, she peered out the front window.
The bird had perched on the woodpile just under the eaves by the front door. The slump of his shoulders made her feel sorry for him, but not sorry enough to let him back in. His profile looked haggard, forlorn, in the outdoor light as he looked out into the rain.
“What the hell am I feeling sorry for?” she cried. Reluctantly she climbed back upstairs. She tried but couldn’t fall asleep.
“Crap.” She crept back down after about twenty minutes and peeked out again to see if the bird was still there. Sigmund made eye contact the instant she looked. She exhaled in exasperation and placed her forehead against the door. “Oh shit.”
Finally she opened the front door and Sigmund tottled foot by foot back in.
CHAPTER 11
Two weeks had passed when Eleni called one afternoon.
“Hey, Mom,” Paula said, walking back to the guesthouse with Fotis after her shift. Her head still swirled thinking about the eagle on his first day of rehab in the flight room with Rick. As soon as she’d set the bird down, he’d swooped up in one motion; her heart had taken flight with him. His wings made flicking sounds, and he landed effortlessly on the top rung of the flight cage.
“Impressive,” Rick said, “considering.” She’d been amazed, too. “Bravo,” flew out of her. The eagle had then turned to look down at her, presiding from his new vantage point. Later that day she and Rick had dragged a fresh deer carcass—roadkill dropped off by a construction crew—into the center of the room. The eagle had soared down and landed within inches of her, claiming the carcass. The sudden whoosh of air made her turn. The eagle’s expression seemed to say, Yes, we’re friends, but this is mine.
“What’s up, Mom?” Paula asked immediately. Eleni only called when something was wrong. It always was Paula who called, knowing Eleni lived on such a limited income.
“I don’t know, Paula.” Eleni’s voice was small. Paula looked at her phone, but the signal was strong enough.
“Ma?” Paula stopped walking. She glanced down at the scattering of orange leaves as if they would help sharpen her hearing. “Are you okay?”
“It seems I made a mistake.”
“A mistake,” Paula repeated. “What kind of mistake?” It was a word she’d never heard from her mother. She saw ambulances, critical-care units, thinking the worst. Paula’s heart banged her ribs. “Is everything all right?”
Eleni was quiet.
“Mom?”
She began to explain. It seemed that Slimowitz the cutter had gone on vacation and forgotten to cut the last two coats for Eleni to finish. In a pinch, Eleni had offered to cut the pelts so they could meet the deadline. Even though she’d worked as a cutter for Pappas’ late father twenty years earlier, the current boss had forbidden her from touching the pelts until he could find another cutter. Two days had passed with Eleni sitting around, twiddling her thumbs and obsessing, counting down the hours until the runway show in Milan. After the third day, she defied her boss and cut the pelts.
“I thought I was helping out.” Eleni paused.
“It sounds like you were.” Paula listened, eager for Eleni to wade through the prolonged silences and get to the point.
“Oh, Paula.” Eleni’s tone was upsetting; Paula had never heard her mother sound so beaten.
“So what happened?” Paula fought to stay calm.
“I used the wrong pattern—a different designer’s patterns.”
“So couldn’t you just get more fur from the supplier?” Paula asked.
“It was a special order.”
“Shit.”
“The designer hit the ceiling, Paula. Pappas said my time is over.”
Months ago Eleni had mentioned that Pappas had begun relegating her to the less important jobs, sewing labels, linings, alterations.
“He fired me,” Eleni whispered. “He fired me, Paula.” Eleni’s voice broke. “Told me to get my things and get out. Just like that.” Paula heard Eleni snap her fingers. “He stood over me, Paula, waiting.” Her mother began to cry in spastic gasps. “Like I was a criminal. Almost fifty years working for that family—for his father, God-rest-his-soul, giving my all to them, working weekends, holidays. And then this kid fires me, standing over me like I’m some dirtbag.”
Paula’s fury rose in an instant. She wobbled with rage.
“I’ll call the son of a bitch myself.”
“No,” Eleni almost shouted.
Paula’d always despised the younger Pappas and in fact had hated the entire family since she was a teenager. They acted like Greek royalty. They’d give her mother orders as if she were a scrubwoman and not a highly esteemed tailor and seamstress known throughout the City’s fur industry. As if it were a duchy, the wives and daughters would waft through the workroom in chiffon and pearls while Paula’s mother sewed—still hunched over her work after they’d all left for the evening in their Lincoln Continentals. Young Paula would sit on the showroom floor doing her homework as her mother worked, or she’d fall asleep using a pile of ranch mink for a pillow until Eleni’s nudge that it was time to go home.
Even now Paula’s stomac
h tightened whenever her mother talked about work. The place was a sweatshop. They paid her almost nothing—docked her check if she had a doctor’s appointment. One peep and they’d start to make noises about outsourcing. And what Paula found most revolting was how Eleni would cower in gratitude when talking about the Pappas Fur Empire, as if standing in church before the very icon of Jesus, waiting to make her cross and kiss it.
But the job had made Eleni proud of not being a klossa, or sitting hen. While the women around her had grown fat, idle and mean, Eleni had supported her young daughter and herself well into old age without anyone’s help. And for that she’d greeted each day with a place to go, a job to do and beautiful creations that came to life out of nothing but skins.
Paula closed her eyes. Her heart sank as she pictured Eleni alone in her dimly lit apartment. Vulnerable like the great horned owl who’d helplessly flopped about on the forest floor, yet different in that Paula and Eleni had no mates to protect them. Paula could have cried right there and then, for her mother, for the eagle and for herself—for all the years she’d spent alone and abandoned as a girl, then as a wife.
“Mom,” Paula said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Eh, Akri, Paula, einai akri,” Eleni minimized the depth of hurt, claiming that only the edges of her body were injured, but Paula knew better. Time would drag on forever in Eleni’s darkened apartment with no one to talk with except Stavraikis, who heard practically nothing.
“Mom, listen. Let me fly you out here,” Paula offered. “You can stay with me—like a little vacation. You never take vacations; going to Greece is not a vacation.” Paula lived by the clock in Greece, feeling she’d earned at least a paycheck after enduring days of family visits. “I’ll arrange it all. Just pack a few things—I have a washer/dryer,” Paula encouraged. She started to feel excited. “It’s beautiful out here, Mom. I’ll get you a ticket; you can fly out tomorrow. I’ll arrange for a car to pick you up, take you to the airport.”
Eleni was crying. Humiliation crying, the kind you want to hide, only your shame has become larger than your pride.
“Aww—don’t cry, Mom.” The instant she said it, Paula wished she hadn’t. “It’s a hell of a lot easier flying here than to Greece.” She tried to make a joke. “I’ve got plenty of room.” She looked at the outside of the guesthouse. “It’s a cozy little place.” Eleni could have the bed or the futon if she was too nervous about the stairs. “I’ll meet you at the airport, Mom; you don’t have to worry about a thing. We’ll drive along the shore together to my place. It’s a beautiful drive, Ma. Like nothing you’ve ever seen. We can talk, visit.”
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