True Blue (Hubbard's Point) Page 17

  “Stop, Zeb,” Rumer said, shaking her head. “I'm not there yet. I just came to Foley's to find out what you want…I'd almost rather get lost in the drawer than talk about my father crossing the Atlantic in the Clarissa.”

  “Ah, the drawer,” Zeb said, his face darkening.

  “A lot of our old friends are in here,” Rumer said, ruffling the papers and remembering a time when she and Zeb had left each other notes there, too.

  “Look,” Zeb said. “Here are the initials I carved.” He traced the oak surface with his fingertips, going over and over the ZM & RL. Rumer's skin tingled as if he were touching her instead of the table.

  “The kids are still using the drawer,” Rumer said, changing the subject.

  “Still and forever,” Zeb said, reaching into the sea of scrap paper. “Here's one: ‘Want to go to the movie on the beach Tuesday? I'll bring the blanket and bug stuff… you bring you.’ “ They laughed.

  “Smooth operator,” Zeb said.

  “A lot of summer love in this drawer,” Rumer said, feeling that unwelcome shiver again.

  “Summer love is hard,” Zeb said, watching her.

  “Why is that? It seems as if it should be the opposite— sunny, happy….”

  “That's why it's hard, Rumer. The set-up is never like reality. People fall in love at the beach, but they can't take the sea and sand with them into winter. It doesn't travel well. Sometimes it doesn't travel at all.”

  Rumer closed her eyes. Zeb and Elizabeth? Or was he speaking of him and her instead? Ice filled her veins. She wanted to get off this topic and end this visit. She was just about to drink the last of her tea, when she heard the sound of bare feet slapping down the aisle of Foley's wooden floors.

  “Look—it's the vet!”

  “Yeah, that's Dr. Larkin—she takes care of our dog.”

  “Tell her!”

  Looking over her shoulder, Rumer saw a young girl flying toward their table. Wet brown hair streaming behind her, her mouth open and eyes distressed, she was trailed by three other ten-year-old kids. Rumer had seen them around the beach, and recognized one as Jane Lowell's daughter, Alex.

  “Dr. Larkin, there's a hurt sea hawk!”

  “Hurt how, Alex?”

  “I think he swallowed something sharp. He's choking, and there's blood coming from his mouth.”

  “Where?” Rumer asked, already hurrying down the aisle toward the door.

  “In the cemetery. We went there to tell ghost stories in the rain, and we were sitting under the big tree, where it's sort of dry, and we heard this awful sound coming from the graves….”

  “I thought it was a ghost,” one of the other girls said.

  “I have my bike, Larkin,” Zeb said, pulling his slicker off and throwing it around her shoulders. “Climb on.”

  Rumer followed Zeb to the bike rack. The rain was warm and steady. Her feet were tough from walking on the beach and rocks. Zeb pointed the bike toward the road, and she climbed onto the bar. Surrounding her with his arms, he began to pedal, heading for the train bridge. Their faces were close together, his breath warm on her ear. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping her balance.

  Woods grew along the right, and when they came to the dirt road, they turned in. Zeb's wheels whirred beneath them, kicking up sand and pebbles. Tall maples and oaks formed a wide canopy overhead, protecting them from the rain. They reached a clearing—about four acres in size—of small green hills covered with perhaps thirty graves.

  The kids pedaled in behind them.

  “Over here,” Alex Lowell called, heading toward a low hill. A huge dead oak stood at its crest, its branches bare of leaves. Rumer climbed off, and Zeb dropped his bike in the grass.

  Rumer and Zeb ran up the rise, and she gasped at the heart-wrenching sight. An adult osprey was lying on its side, blood streaming from its mouth and a gash on the side of its neck. At first Rumer thought it was dead, but suddenly it thrashed, squawking, trying to rid itself of whatever had lodged in its throat.

  Great wings, black and brown with white underneath, beat the air. The bird choked, cawing like a raven, then lay still again, its breast rising and falling.

  “Can you save it?” Alex asked, crying.

  “What happened to it?” another girl asked, her voice strained and thin. “Something cut its neck.”

  “Stand back, okay?” Rumer asked, patting the girls on their shoulders. She knew how traumatic it was for them watching the bird suffer. Stiff and shaking, they went to stand underneath the tree.

  Rumer looked at Zeb. He was staring at the osprey, helpless, with a sort of horror in his eyes; she remembered that as a child he had hated the sight of blood. Blinking, he took a breath and glanced down at Rumer.

  “Tell me what to do,” he said.

  “Maybe you should stand with the girls,” she said. “Or take them back to Foley's—keep them from watching.”

  He shook his head. “You need help with this, don't you? I'll be your assistant, okay?”

  Rumer nodded. She knew there wasn't time to argue. Peeling off his slicker, she handed it back to him. “We'll need to hold him steady. If you can get this around his body, keep him from beating his wings, trying to fly away—otherwise he'll injure himself. Or us.”

  “Okay,” he said, gathering the slicker into his hands, holding it out toward the bird.

  Rumer held his arm, making him wait. She inched forward, trying to see what they were dealing with. The hawk's eyes were yellow and wild; his curved beak was sharp as a blade. Blood had stained his white feathers rusty-red, still pumping out scarlet and wet. A silvery filament emerged from the side of his mouth. Her gaze ran down his neck, and then she saw it: the shiny metal protruding through the feathers and skin from inside his throat.

  “He swallowed a fish,” she said softly. “That had swallowed a hook.”

  “I see it,” Zeb said, staring at the glinting metal.

  Rumer held her breath. She had never tried to do anything like this without first sedating the animal, but there wasn't time. He was killing himself, ripping the fishhook inch by inch down his own throat, trying to get it out.

  “This won't be easy,” she said in a low voice, watching as the osprey went through another wrenching round of convulsion. “Do you have a toolkit on your bike?”

  “Better than that,” Zeb said, pulling his Leatherman tool from his pocket.

  “Does it have a wire cutter on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, taking the tool from him. She licked her lips; her mouth was dry.

  “Talk to me, Larkin,” he said. “What is it?”

  “I don't want to hurt him worse than he is now.”

  “You're a surgeon, right? Have you ever operated in the field?”

  “Yes, but never without anesthesia…” She gazed at the bird; were his eyes more cloudy than before? “If I don't do this, I'm afraid he'll die.”

  “Rumer, you became a vet because you love animals. Of course you don't want to see him die—so let's save him. Okay?”

  Rumer looked up at the dead tree. She knew this was a favorite spot of ospreys; they would catch fish in the tidal creek, then fly into this dead tree to devour the prey. The ground surrounding the trunk attested to it: fish bones, crab claws, and skate tails lay scattered around. Then she looked down at the injured bird and nodded.

  “Okay,” she said.

  Zeb opened the slicker as if he were spreading wings. Crouching behind the osprey, he made one swift move to wrap the bird in the coat. Rumer's heart was racing—although the bird was weak, he reacted with terror and began to beat his massive wings. Zeb tried to hold him steady, turning the body toward Rumer so she could get to the hook.

  The osprey was snapping, twisting his neck from side to side, losing more blood as he did so. Rumer's hands darted in; the hawk's bill was rapier sharp, and she knew he could take off a finger with one snap.

  It happened so fast, she could hardly believe it: She grabbe
d his neck, opened the wire cutters, snipped the hook's barbed end; pulling the fishing line, she withdrew the smooth shaft from his throat. Up close, she could see the cut: about a half-inch long, the left anterior of his neck.

  Her ministrations had enraged the hawk. Zeb was holding him tight, but with the hook gone, the bird was gathering strength and fighting hard. He twisted his head from side to side, trying to gouge Rumer's eyes.

  He was a tornado in Zeb's arms, a wild animal wrapped in a bloody yellow rain slicker.

  “Let him go,” Rumer said, jumping back.

  Zeb dropped the osprey, who seemed to ripple every feather in his body and rise—weaving at first, then straight as an arrow—toward the tidal creek. The girls squealed and cheered in the background, then ran for their bikes to try to follow him.

  Rumer's heart was pounding. She had never saved an animal's life in so difficult or dramatic a way before. She looked up at Zeb, facing skyward, watching the hawk disappear over the tree line. He put his arms around her, pulling her close to his body. She tilted her head back, feeling wild pleasure. He stroked her back, his lips brushed across the side of her face. She felt his breath hot on her skin, the most incredible celebration of life.

  “You did it, Larkin,” he whispered. “You saved his life.”

  “We did,” she corrected him.

  “I can't believe it! That was amazing! How he flew away…” Zeb said.

  “Did you see? Wasn't it great?”

  “I thought he was too badly cut; I thought you'd have to stitch him up.”

  “I would have if I'd had my bag—he'll heal on his own. Wld animals survive terrible things.”

  “They do?” Zeb asked, holding her tightly again so she could see straight into his blue eyes. He looked injured himself, as if he had survived something she couldn't begin to imagine. His gaze held her for a moment, and she stayed in his arms, holding her breath.

  “They do,” she said quietly. Then, feeling the blood rushing through her body, she forced herself to breathe and took a large step backward, leaving plenty of space between them. She fought the feeling as if it were a fever, as if she had to cling to every bit of strength she had. “Let's go, okay?”

  “Rumer…”

  “I have to get home,” she said shakily.

  “Five more minutes, okay?”

  “I really have to—”

  “Look, I just helped you, right? We saved an os-prey's life—you'll be known far and wide, among veterinarians and bird lovers everywhere. You owe me this, Larkin. Take a quick walk with me.”

  Hesitating, Rumer shrugged and followed. This was the Hubbard's Point cemetery, with headstones dating back to the Revolutionary War. As children, she and Zeb had come here to visit the dead—although they didn't know many of them, they knew that they were their predecessors at the Point, that they should be loved for that reason.

  As teenagers, Point kids had held seances here, played touch football in the clearing, lost virginities behind the bushes. As Rumer walked along beside Zeb, flushed, out of breath, she felt the history they shared uniting them.

  Up the rise, Mrs. Williams lay beside her husband under a stone carved with angels and seagulls.

  “Don't blame Rumer—it wasn't her idea,” Zeb called to the woman whose paper he had defaced.

  “I could have stopped Zeb from doing it though,” Rumer said softly, acknowledging Mrs. Williams's grave.

  “Think she forgives us?”

  “I hope so,” Rumer said.

  “I want to be forgiven,” Zeb said huskily, taking Rumer's hand. She knew, suddenly, that his words had nothing to do with Mrs. Williams. Continuing along, they paused at Zeb's parents’ graves. Rumer said a silent prayer, and she saw Zeb doing the same.

  They stopped for a moment at Rumer's mother's grave. It was on the outer edge of a circle radiating out from her ancestor Isaiah Randall, and her headstone was carved with the Wickland Rock Light and the words “Clarissa Larkin, beloved wife and mother, may her light continue to shine.”

  Rumer was always struck by those words, because they were so true: Her mother's light would shine forever. Remembering the voyage her father was about to take, she said a prayer for her mother to guide him. Zeb bowed his head. Rumer wondered what all the parents would think to see her and Zeb there together.

  When they got back to his bike, the rain had nearly stopped. A few big drops fell down from the trees, but overhead, patches of blue gleamed behind the clouds. Zeb wheeled the bike down the path onto the paved road. It was ancient—black, dented, with the old baskets they'd filled with papers on either side of the back wheel.

  There on the narrow road, Zeb stood aside, and Rumer climbed on again. She eased onto the bar in front, balancing her weight so the bike wouldn't topple. Zeb held the handlebars, his chin resting on the top of her head. And then, as they had done so many mornings so long ago, Zeb and Rumer rode through Hub-bard's Point, past all the houses waiting for their papers.

  Rumer watched the sky for the osprey She didn't see him. Perhaps he was already fishing again; or perhaps his injury was too serious for him to survive. One of the hardest parts of being a vet was not being able to guarantee, or even know, the outcome.

  Feeling Zeb's arms around her, she closed her eyes and almost wanted the ride to go on forever. Not knowing the outcome: It was one of the hardest parts of life. Twenty years ago she had taken for granted the idea that she and Zeb would grow old riding bikes together.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For saving the osprey”

  “Do you think he'll be okay?”

  “I don't know. I hope so.”

  Zeb's eyes narrowed. They clouded slightly, or was that a film of tears? He stared at Rumer without looking away, and she felt that her heartbeat must be showing through her skin. The truck keys felt hot in the palm of her hand. Zeb touched her arm with one finger, and it felt like fire.

  “I want him to be okay,” Zeb said.

  “So do I.”

  “And I want us to be okay—friends again,” he said. “More than anything. Keep watching, Rumer. When you least expect it, I'm going to prove to you what I mean.”

  “It doesn't matter,” she said.

  “Yes, it does,” he said. “Just watch, okay? You'll know it when you see it!”

  Rumer nodded, her hands shaking. She got into the truck. Overhead, the sky was clearing. Zeb held his bloody slicker. He stared at her, his eyes as intense as she'd ever seen them. Trembling, she backed out of Foley's lot.

  When she looked into her rearview mirror, Zeb was just standing there, not watching her truck, but gazing at the sky, as if he hoped to see the injured sea hawk fly across the clearing blue.

  THE FIRST MOVIE of the summer was How the West Was Won. It was the same every year: With all the great new movies available at the video stores, they always dragged out the archaic reel-to-reel projector with films such as The Moon-Spinners, The Guns of Navarone, Flubber, and Mary Poppins.

  Mr. Phelan, the beach cop, would set up the screen: a huge white sheet hung between what looked like football goalposts on the beach. They would set the projector on the boardwalk and wait for dark. Mrs. Lowell of the Women's Club would sit at one end, selling tickets for fifty cents.

  Most of Quinn's friends considered themselves too old for movies on the beach, but not Quinn. Movies on the beach helped her to unwind—especially tonight. A letter had arrived, hitting her with the news that she had to go to summer school. A big fat drag, to put it mildly.

  She got to the beach early to dig her pit: Scooping out sand, she dug a big hole for her butt with a sandy backrest to lean on. Then she spread out one blanket underneath with a second to pull over her for warmth. Allie had gone to buy Good Humors, and now she ran over with them and snuggled under the blanket with her.

  “What'd you get me?”

  “Toasted almond.”

  “You're the best!” Quinn said, ripping open the paper. “What're you having?”

  “Pink lemonad
e.”

  Quinn savored the ice cream, considering how Good Humors were like people. You were what you ate: She was crunchy and nutty, like a toasted almond, and Allie was smooth and pink, like pink lemonade.

  “You hear about the osprey?” Allie asked.

  “Yeah, Rumer and Mr. Mayhew saved its life,” Quinn said.

  “Well, here comes Mr. Mayhew's son,” Allie said, gesturing toward the footbridge. “Maybe we could all celebrate together.”

  “Oh, great,” Quinn said. “I just lost my appetite.”

  Michael Mayhew was striding down the ramp, his long hair held back by the red bandanna. In spite of herself, Quinn's heart skipped a beat. She tried to concentrate on eating her ice cream, but all she could think about was what a jerk she'd been the last time they'd been together, out in her boat.

  “He's nice,” Allie said. “He talked to me while I was picking flowers. I wonder if he knows about his dad helping Rumer save the osprey.”

  “I'm sure he'd be thrilled.”

  “He likes nature,” Allie said. “I can tell.”

  “Maybe you should go out with him,” Quinn said. “Then you can have a Point wedding.”

  “Quinn, you're turning red.”

  “Shut up—I am not.”

  “Quinny…” Allie said, laughing. “It's okay if you like him. I can tell you do.”

  “That's bullshit. But how?”

  “Well, by how mad you get every time he walks by. You act like you hate him.”

  “Which I do.”

  “I don't believe you. It's like that January, when Steven Baird made you take your coat off and he threw it up in the tree.”

  “He hated me!”

  “No, Quinn. That meant he liked you—you're so dumb about boys.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?”

  Allie shrugged, daintily eating her pink lemonade. “I'm not sure. I just do. There he goes…”

  Together the sisters watched Michael Mayhew walk down the sands, away from the movies, toward the dinghy beach. Allie's words had sent all the joy flying out of Quinn's toasted almond. She ate it anyway; it tasted like sand.

  Quinn had punk and Off! to keep the mosquitoes away. Although no food except Good Humors was allowed on the beach, she had smuggled in a few Slim Jims and a bag of red licorice. She offered some to her sister, but Allie was still slowly licking her pink lemonade.