Wingspan

by Karis Walsh

  Ken clicked a mechanical pencil until the lead appeared. She opened a notepad and started to sketch. Her osprey floundering in the grass and later resting on the surgical table while Bailey’s hands stretched and set his injured wing. She was drawing him as he had been yesterday, regal and composed even as he perched on a little stump in a cage, when Dougie stopped by her desk. He was wearing new and stiff-looking dark denim jeans and a T-shirt with an alien from Space Invaders on it. She closed the notepad before he had a chance to comment on her drawing.

  “We’re having a team meeting in the conference room in ten,” he said.

  “I’ll be there.” As if she had a choice. Teams, group projects. So different from her accustomed way of working, where architects and executives looked interchangeable, but worked on their own. Here, the people looked like individuals, but the emphasis was on collaboration. She preferred to appear like everyone else while keeping her insides and her work private.

  She sat at her desk, her drawings pushed to one side, for nine and a half minutes, and then she went to the conference room. Four desks had been arranged in a square. Ken sat in the empty chair, between Dougie and Angela, the interior designer. Randy, the landscape architect, waved in greeting from his seat facing hers. Ken had been dreading this meeting because she still wasn’t sure what to expect, even after she had been to two already. She had gotten up before sunrise this morning and had driven to her property, sliding down the bluff in the semi-darkness and jogging a few miles down the beach. The sand had shifted underfoot, and the waves kept a rhythm with her breath as she ran to connect herself with the place and to chase away her nagging doubts about this project. She had been successful in the first case, not so much in the second. Except for the fantasy worlds she and Steve had created together, she had never worked on a team like this, with all aspects of the house coming together at once. In her old job, she had designed a basic floor plan on her own. Later, well after she had moved on to other projects, the house would be built, painted inside and out in neutrals, and decorated with a simple yard and handful of bushes. Now, her every suggestion and every drawing would be scrutinized by the group. Failure would be public, not private.

  Dougie tossed a deck of cards to each person. “Let’s start with a little contest,” he said. “Ten minutes to build a house of cards. Winner gets a candy bar, and time starts now.”

  Oh, goody. A game. Dougie must have read some new-age project management book. Even as Ken was sneering at his ridiculous idea, she started to carefully build a foundation for her card house. What the hell. She hadn’t packed any dessert in her lunch, so a candy bar would be a nice treat. She glanced around the room and saw the other three seemed to be concentrating on wide bases. Dougie hadn’t said what the criterion was for winning, so she decided to go for height instead. Her house might be more precarious, but she’d risk it.

  She held her breath as she added a fifth story to her narrow tower. She checked the clock and managed to balance two cards together to create a little lean-to on the sixth level before Dougie called time. She looked at the other houses. Randy’s was low and sprawling, taking up most of the table in front of him. Dougie and Angela had both finished three levels, twice as wide as Ken’s.

  “The winner took the most chances.” Dougie tossed a Milky Way toward Ken, and she knocked over her flimsy construction when she caught it. “Hmm. I think there’s a lesson to be learned there,” he said with a laugh as she gathered up the cards and tapped them into a neat pile.

  Ken set the candy bar aside and took out her notebook, ready for Dougie to start the informational part of the meeting. Playing with cards was fine—admittedly fun—and Ken felt inordinately pleased with her win, but she was ready to get to the details of the project. No such luck.

  “Ken, what does home mean to you?” Dougie asked.

  Ken stifled a sigh. She wasn’t ready to work with these people, let alone share her feelings with them. What would be next? A group hug? She was about to throw out some ordinary definition, maybe security or family, but she hesitated. Her house of cards hadn’t been formed by those words, and her unbuilt future home certainly didn’t offer either at the moment. She thought of Ginny’s car as it drove away from her and onto the ferry. She thought of sack lunches and Impetus, with its uncomfortable meetings like this one, of Bailey and her inexplicable obstinance.

  “Choice,” she said. She had been about to say sacrifice, but the word was too revealing.

  “Excellent,” Dougie said. He got out of his chair and came around to the front of his desk, so he was standing in the center of their square. “When you built your house of cards, you made the choice to go high instead of wide. To go in a different direction. As architects, we make choices that are in accord with our clients’ needs and desires when we create our designs. What about you, Randy? What does home mean to you?”

  Ken tuned out the rest of the discussion. Dougie’s question had been meant to get her thinking about the project and the client, but she was still focused on her own home and the sacrifices she was making for it. She was confident in them at the moment, and willing to continue with the commute and the unsuitable work environment for as long as it took to build her house. She had always believed in the importance of making sacrifices for home and family, but now she was making choices between the two. She had made the decision to be alone since she couldn’t compromise enough to satisfy Ginny, or any girlfriend who had come before. How long would she be content living on her own? Working toward an empty home and an empty life?

  Bailey seemed satisfied with that kind of existence. In fact, she was fighting to keep everyone out of her life. Ken remembered Bailey’s laughter when she was transforming Bailey’s home into a castle. Laughter, but with a hint of longing, as if she really wanted the stone walls and deep moat around her aviancentric world. But Ken had felt a little of Bailey’s loneliness, too. She didn’t want the dean and his interns taking control of her center, but she also had the drawn and weary look of someone who worked unwaveringly for a cause without giving much thought to her own needs. And without someone to take care of those needs for her.

  When Dougie finally got down to business, Ken clicked her pencil several times and concentrated on copying down the long list of requests the client had given him. Halfway through, her too-long lead snapped off and left a trail of black powder on her notepad. She blew on the paper to clean it. She and Bailey had something in common—the unwelcome presence of people making demands on their lives under the guise of helping them. Joe was giving Ken a chance to prove herself with the raptor center project. Dougie, although he had made light of recommending her for Impetus, had most likely staked his reputation on her unconfirmed talent. Both put unwelcome pressure on Ken, just like the university was doing to Bailey.

  Yes, Ken was making the right choices. Even if she had to live alone, she’d be free on her own property. No need to be what her circle of friends or her employer wanted. And she’d try to have more respect and understanding for Bailey’s reluctance to work with WSU. They’d both be better off living their lives without interference. Ken wondered briefly who she’d be once she escaped all the expectations and demands of other people. Right now, she wasn’t sure, but she’d find out soon enough. She exposed a more reasonable amount of lead and started taking notes again, forcing her attention onto the meeting’s agenda.

  Chapter Ten

  Ken maneuvered through the obstacle course of potholes and berry bushes on Bailey’s driveway before six the next morning. She was going to need a beat-up old commuter car so she could keep her Corvette in a safe garage. These unkempt roads and the abrasive salt air from regular ferry crossings were going to damage the careful restoration and paintwork she’d done. She needed something more like the ancient Honda parked in Bailey’s yard.

  “Were you trying to pack up and get out of town before I got here?” Ken called out as she climbed out of her car. Bailey was shoving an armful of nets and poles into the back of he
r rusty, dented Civic. “I know you weren’t looking forward to my visit, but this seems a little extreme.”

  “I’m not going…wait, were you joking?” Bailey asked. She shoved one of the poles, but it was too long to fit in the car.

  Ken walked over and rolled down the back window so the pole stuck out about a foot. “Yes, I was joking,” she said. Bailey appeared more harried than usual, and Ken traced her finger along the collar of Bailey’s sweatshirt before she could stifle the urge to touch her. She felt Bailey’s collarbone and the warmth of her skin in the brief contact. Bailey looked as if she’d been recently and jarringly roused from sleep, and the image of her in bed was disconcerting. “Your shirt is inside out.”

  Bailey blinked, snapping out of the trance caused by Ken’s momentary touch. She was unprepared to be awake, and the added stimulus of Ken’s presence was overwhelming. She looked down at her front and saw the matted pile of her blue sweatshirt. “You’re right,” she said. She’d fix her clothes later. “I need to leave a note for Dani, and then we can go.”

  She jogged back to the house with Ken on her heels. “Where are we going?” Ken asked.

  Bailey slowed down as she walked past the osprey’s cage and into the kitchen. “I just got a call from a ranger at Dungeness about a trapped bird. Here, carry this out to the car, will you?”

  Ken took the small pet carrier from Bailey’s hands and went back outside. Bailey hastily scribbled a note for Dani, listing each bird’s meal and dining habits. Dani had been helping her feed for two days, but Bailey didn’t expect her to remember everything. At least she had grudgingly let her intern share the feeding responsibilities, because otherwise she would have had to choose between getting out to Dungeness quickly or feeding her patients on schedule. She had already sent Dani a text asking her to come early, but she felt better with every detail she added to her long list.

  “Are you writing a memo, or a Russian novel?” Ken asked. She stood close behind Bailey and was reading over her shoulder. “Do you really need to tell her to be careful not to let the birds fly out of their cages? I’m sure that was covered in her Birds 101 lecture, These Things Have Wings.”

  Bailey tried to ignore Ken as she skimmed through her note one last time and added a warning about the sticky latch on the smaller flight cage. “There,” she said, satisfied for the moment. She’d send Dani another text if she had forgotten anything. “Come on, we need to go.”

  “Hey, I’ve been ready for ten minutes,” Ken said as they returned through the living room. The osprey watched them go, motionless except for his turning head as he tracked their movements.

  Bailey peered through her car’s rear window and did a quick inventory of her equipment. Nets for catch-up, a carrier for transport, and an emergency kit in case she needed to stabilize the bird before moving it. “I think we have everything,” she said as she and Ken got in the front seat and fastened their seat belts. Plus an assistant. She’d have to wait and see whether having Ken along was an advantage or not. She had never done an emergency callout with a helper—besides the person who called her in the first place. Ken wasn’t trained or knowledgeable about rehabilitation beyond her short experience with the osprey, but she had proved herself to be calm in an emergency and respectful around the wild birds. And if she got in the way, Bailey would make her stay in the car.

  “So, what’s the story?” Ken asked once they were on their way.

  “Mike, one of the rangers at the Dungeness refuge, saw a bird wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, so he called me.”

  “What kind of bird? Why doesn’t he catch it himself?”

  “He couldn’t tell what species,” Bailey said, signaling to merge onto Highway 101. Luckily, the route was familiar, because she was driving on autopilot. Most of her mind was thinking about Dani and imagining all the possible problems she might encounter while feeding alone. The small part of her brain that wasn’t conjuring up visions of Dani chasing injured escapee raptors around the house was debating whether or not she was happy to have Ken sitting next to her. She was oddly comforted by her presence and aware of Ken’s leg only inches from her own, but happy? She wasn’t sure. A third, and very small, part of her mind was longing for the steaming cup of espresso she would normally be brewing about now. “If the bird panics while he’s trying to capture it, it could be seriously injured. I have the proper equipment, so he’s right to wait until I’m there.”

  Ken pulled her brown fleece jacket tighter around her body. The early morning was cool and drizzly, and the open window wasn’t helping. Watching Bailey at work in the field might be interesting, but it wasn’t the reason she had gotten up with the proverbial birds this morning. She was supposed to be observing Bailey at home, so she’d be able to design a building to meet her needs. All she had learned so far was that Bailey needed a bigger car with a better heater. “You’re going to capture him with one of those long poles?”

  “Yes. And then…I’ll see what I can do.”

  The slight catch in Bailey’s voice caught Ken’s attention. She had been thinking of how cold and tired she was, and how this trip would delay her real purpose this weekend. Now she thought of Bailey holding the end of a long pole with a net. What would she find when she lifted it off the bird and did her examination? A wing fractured beyond repair or a neck lacerated by the twisted handle of the bag? Ken put her hand on Bailey’s shoulder and felt the nubby texture of the still inside-out sweatshirt. Bailey flinched slightly at the contact, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she bumped Ken’s hand with her chin, never taking her eyes off the road ahead.

  “I’ll help however I can,” Ken said. A weak promise, since she had no idea what she was doing, but it was all she had to offer. She couldn’t tell Bailey everything would be all right since she didn’t know if it was true.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Once off the highway, they passed through a sleepy farming community with pastures dotted with dozing horses and vegetable gardens filled with neat and lush-looking rows of plants. Cherry blossom trees were bright and vividly pink against the gray, overcast sky. Bailey drove over the speed limit on the unbending country roads and turned into the Dungeness Recreation Center and Wildlife Refuge. Ken had seen the signs for the place, but she hadn’t had a chance to visit yet. She had been looking forward to the miles of hiking trails she had read about, but she hadn’t expected to come here on a bird rescue mission.

  Ken felt as drawn to the rugged scenery as she had been to her property. The refuge looked wild and abandoned, except for the occasional flutter of bird wings in the morning mist. Sea-grass-covered dunes rolled alongside the pavement, and several cutoffs led off the main road and toward the ocean. Ken would be back to explore the side roads another day, but now Bailey drove to the trailhead for Dungeness Spit and parked in the empty lot.

  A golf cart rolled up as soon as they got out of the car. The heavily bearded driver climbed out and helped Bailey unpack her car as if he’d done the job plenty of times before.

  “The name’s Mike,” he said as he passed by Ken with the poles in his arms. Bailey was too busy muttering to herself as she pawed through her first-aid kit to do proper introductions, but Ken didn’t care. Now wasn’t the time for social niceties.

  “I’m Ken. Nice to meet you.” She picked up the carrier and a pair of heavy leather gloves and stowed them in the back of the golf cart. Between the three of them, they had the contents of Bailey’s car transferred in less than a minute. Ken wedged herself into the small space on the backseat beside the carrier and first-aid kit, and she held on to the side of the cart as Mike sped along the packed-dirt path leading to the spit. Mike and Bailey talked about the bird as they careened through the forest, but Ken didn’t pay any attention to them. She concentrated on keeping herself and Bailey’s equipment from being jettisoned as the golf cart slid around corners and down an alarmingly steep slope to the beach. She’d enjoy hiking these trails someday, but she’d have to remember not to accept if Mike
offered her another ride.

  Bailey caught the first-aid kit as it slid out of Ken’s hands and into the front seat when Mike skidded to a stop. She stepped out of the cart and walked over the sand and large, flat rocks to the ridge of the spit. The dense clouds on the strait felt as tangible as a wall, pressing her in this isolated space between the water and the steep ridge behind her. There were islands across the strait and most likely huge tankers and shipping vessels passing by, but Bailey couldn’t hear or see anything beyond the base of the long, narrow arc of land, jutting into the water. She lifted the binoculars she wore around her neck and scanned the inlet between the strip of sand bar and the mainland.

  She saw the plastic bag lying in the shallow water. Too still. She swallowed hard and turned away, grabbing one of the poles with a woven net attached to its end.

  “Hey, it moved,” Ken said. She had ducked under the yellow rope that kept the public away from the fragile inner curve of the spit and was staring at the unnatural splash of white. Bailey heard the relief in Ken’s voice.