13

The Congress

Many birds undertake long and arduous annual migrations extending from the northern hemisphere to the southern. Others, however, pass their entire lives within the boundaries of their nesting grounds. These are known as resident birds.

—G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest

The bright tang of autumn air seeped in through the truck window, which Frankie had cracked to clear the foggy windshield. A mist clung to the great fir trees that lined the Old BZ Highway, and the tires hissed over the wet pavement. She spotted a single crow winging its way south over the river where it curved and twisted in a parallel line to the road.

Researchers have long understood the value of seasonal migrations. Of North America’s two thousand species of birds, a significant portion make an autumnal trek from the Northern Hemisphere to the Southern and back. The rewards are clear—increased food supply, warmer temperatures, and the opportunity to mate.

But the American crow, Frankie knew, didn’t migrate. Not in the long-distance fashion traditionally understood as migratory, anyway. Some in the far north would fly slightly south in winter, but most stayed close to their natal grounds. The same was true for its cousins, the fish crow, the Hawaiian crow, the northwestern crow, and the Tamaulipas crow. These close relatives adhered to their own home grounds of the US East Coast and southern coastline, the Big Island of Hawaii, coastal British Columbia, and the Gulf Coast of Mexico, respectively.

Frankie reflected on this commonality and glanced again at the crow. It looked to be a more willing traveler than she, from the easy movement of its wings. Though hardly a migration, her unwelcome journey had been spurred by a letter from the law offices of Schmidt, Whittaker, and Weatherby.

The letter had come in the stack of mail Jerry had brought on his way up to the lumber camp the previous day. He was in a good mood because the Cougars had beat the Huskies. Frankie didn’t care about football, but since she was as close as he was going to get to a Huskies fan, she took the ribbing for his sake.

The pile of mail had included some books on loan from Suzzallo Library and a couple of ornithology publications. When her eye fell on the slim envelope, her heart jumped. Maybe it was from Dr. Grant or from OSU in Corvallis. Her stomach dropped when she realized it was from the law office, and she’d put off opening it. Though she’d expected this missive, seeing it in print was a shock.

Patrick had sent a note too. Sitting on the couch facing the lake, she opened that one first and read her big brother’s cramped left-handed scrawl.

Howdy Frank—

You probably got the letter from Weatherby’s office by now. I know you aren’t going to want to come into town for this, but they need all three of us there. Mom doesn’t want to put it off any longer, and I think it would be best for us to get it over with. I’ll buy you lunch. See you on Friday, little sister.

Patrick

She dropped the note on the table and looked at the books strewn about. Aiden Magnusen had left G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest open to the section on corvids. She pulled the book into her lap and remembered the birthday her father had given it to her. It had all begun then—her love affair with birds. Every time she’d learned something, she couldn’t wait to tell her dad. Those early summers in the woods with the birds and then her college classes and graduate school fieldwork. Her dad loved her bird talk. He would have enjoyed hearing about Charlie Crow. But she hadn’t told him about Charlie Crow, and she knew she wouldn’t ever tell him. There were so many things she hadn’t told him and never would be able to. Because her dad was dead.

A wave of grief washed over her. Jack O’Neill in his rumpled clothes and mussed hair, his corny jokes, the comforting sight of him standing over the stove on a Saturday morning flipping pancakes. Playing poker at Hank’s. His twinkling eyes and his corny songs.

“Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia the tattooed lady!”

She recalled the last time she’d seen him, that Friday after Thanksgiving at the bus stop. He hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. He told her he was so proud of her, so very proud. As she hugged him back, Frankie noticed for the first time that she was slightly taller than he was, and her heart ached. She boarded the bus and Jack raised a hand and turned away, put his hands in his pockets, and walked down the empty sidewalk toward the tavern.

That was the last time she’d ever seen her father. She didn’t go home for Christmas break or Saint Patrick’s Day, which was a big deal at the River City Saloon. She said she had to work, and nobody pressed her. So much to regret—not going home for the holidays. Not staying another day that Thanksgiving weekend. Not asking the driver to stop. She should have climbed off the bus and gone back, told him not to worry about what Judith had said. She’d hug him and tell him how much she loved him one more time.

But she hadn’t done any of those things. She’d gone back to Seattle and buried herself in responsibilities, real and imagined. Fall bled into winter and then spring. And one night last April, her brother called to tell her that Jack O’Neill, their kind, incorrigible, irresponsible, and delightful father, was dead.

She came up against the impossibility of it all then, the finality of his death. Her eyes traveled along the far wall, which was covered with family photos. She paused at the one from 1975, the first summer she could remember. The four of them were crowded together on the little red trolley. Patrick and her father sat on one side and Frankie perched in Judith’s lap on the other. Her parents were so young then. Judith, her dark hair in two braids, looked like a girl, and she was younger than Frankie was now. Patrick was reaching toward whoever held the camera, and her father’s face was split in a laugh. Another wave of grief fell heavy on her body.

Every morning for the past five months had begun with the same realization. Dad is dead. She recalled his funeral. A parade of faces, friends, family, and near strangers. Every condolence fell like a blow on her shattered heart. Now this summons from the offices of Schmidt, Whittaker, and Weatherby for the reading of her father’s will.

She sat on the couch and let the fire die, not caring that the room grew dark and cold. She knew she should eat, but she wasn’t hungry. She just couldn’t move. It was the clamoring of the fledgling that finally roused her. Charlie Crow had grown stronger, and she’d moved him from the sink into the bathroom tub. He had plenty of room to stalk about in there on his strengthening leg. She’d filled one of Grammy Genevieve’s hummingbird feeders with water, which he managed nicely. He was eating on his own too—tuna fish and chopped apples from Grandpa Ray’s tree. Satiated, Charlie fell asleep, and Frankie felt strangely comforted by his quiet sleeping noises.

In the morning she made sure the little bird had food and water to last the day and then headed down to the dock. The sun was just coming over the east ridge as she untied The Peggotty and motored down the lake. As the air warmed above the water, the lake steamed like a bowl of soup. A kingfisher clamored along the shore, and a pair of eagles floated on the thermal overhead. Frankie motored through the mist and watched the snowy face of Mount Adams grow pink in the sunrise. The beauty of it was some ballast against the dread in her heart. When she landed at the marina, she saw the mail boat tethered to the dock but no sign of Jerry.

Now in the truck, she glanced at her watch and reluctantly accelerated. Their appointment was at 11 a.m., and she’d make it on time, but just barely. She drove the curving highway along the White Salmon River and across the Hood River Bridge. The wind was up, and a barge churned through whitecaps in the wide channel. The west wind gusted and buffeted the truck as she paused to pay the toll.

She parked in front of the Hood River County Courthouse and saw Patrick on the front steps. He was wearing a white button-down shirt and a red tie with dark slacks. Patrick had completed his associate’s degree at Mt. Hood Community College and, now clerking for Judge McGuiness, was the first of the O’Neill cousins to land a white-collar job. The sight of his familiar face made her want to cry. But O’Neills didn’t cry; not in front of others, anyway. She tried to make a joke instead.

“Look at you, Dapper Dan!” she said.

Patrick leaned down to hug her.

“Not looking so bad yourself, Lanky Frankie,” he said.

She glanced down at her rumpled pants and nubby cardigan. Patrick was more fastidious about his attire, like their mother. Frankie took after their father, who wore a timeless uniform of khaki and cotton. She folded the cuff of her sweater to hide a hole.

“Thanks for coming,” Patrick said.

“Better than being hunted down by Mom,” Frankie said, trying to keep her voice light.

She saw Judith then, standing inside the open doorway of the courthouse. Frankie thought of that old photo of her family on the trolley, her young mother’s face, Judith’s hands clasped around her own plump baby hands. She felt a surge of longing and moved toward Judith. As she leaned down to embrace her petite mother, she breathed in the smell of her familiar perfume. Judith patted her on the shoulder and stepped away.

“Hello, Mary Frances,” she said. “You’re looking well.”

Frankie’s heart plummeted at the rebuff, familiar though it was. She searched her mother’s face for a trace of that young, smiling girl but did not find one. Her voice left her then, as often happened around Judith.

“Well. Peter is ready for us. Let’s go in,” Judith said, and walked away from them across the foyer.

The meeting felt surreal. Judith sat ramrod straight with her hands in her lap as if Peter Weatherby was reading a new parking regulation and not the contents of her husband’s will. The language was arcane and confusing, and Frankie’s attention wandered. She looked out the window and down Oak Street. She remembered the logging protests there, and the Earth Day celebration where she’d first heard Dr. Davis Grant speak about the interconnectedness of humans and the natural world.

“We are not separate from the environment. We have a responsibility to do less harm. Conservation is on the vanguard!” he’d said.

That was the first she’d ever heard about conservation biology and the beginning of her interest in ornithology. The inkling of an idea that she could have a career in science.

“It’s a matter of pro tempore for the limited liability company Jack created,” Peter was saying as Patrick nudged her. Peter peered over his glasses.

“I take it he discussed this all with you, Judith?”

“Yes. My understanding is that the three of us make up the LLC membership, but I’m the sole directing member,” Judith said.

“That is correct,” Peter said.

He outlined the simplest terms: The house and all its contents went to Judith. So did a small life insurance policy that would pay out $50,000. Jack had left the lake cottage and The Peggotty to the three of them in equal shares of the O’Neill Family LLC. The rest of his assets, such as they were, were also divided among the three of them. It wasn’t much, just a few thousand dollars. But he had not left any debts, Peter was saying.

“As for the matter of the tavern, Judith—” he began.

“Let’s not muddy the waters, Peter,” Judith interrupted. “That’s a conversation for another time.”

“What about the tavern?” Frankie asked.

Patrick elbowed her and shook his head. Judith didn’t acknowledge that she’d spoken. She signed the paper Peter slid toward her as calmly as if she were buying a car. It was like that day at Hennessy Funeral Home. Frankie had been mostly silent and only spoke up once when Dean Anderson was discussing the price of the coffin.

“Didn’t Dad want to be cremated?”

Judith silenced her with a withering look, and Patrick had shaken his head at her then too.

Peter’s secretary made copies of everything, and then it was over. The O’Neills stood together in the weak fall sunshine in front of the courthouse. Frankie looked at her brother and mother, her diminished family. This seemed more momentous somehow than the funeral, the three of them there together alone. She wanted to acknowledge the moment, but then Judith was talking about her clients and a closing she had the next day. As if it were just a regular day. And Frankie’s heart folded closed. Patrick suggested they get lunch. Now that felt impossible. She was relieved when her mother said she didn’t have time.

“Are you heading straight back to the lake, Mary Frances?” Judith asked.

“I was planning to. Why?”

“I could use your help with some things at the house this afternoon,” Judith said.

She looked away and then back at Frankie.

“Some of Dad’s things.”

Frankie nodded slowly.

“Sure, Mom. I can stay and help. I need to go to Patrick’s office, and I’ll be over after.”

Judith thanked her and walked away, raising a hand in farewell.

At his office, Patrick helped her carry his old computer and printer down to the truck. Frankie was grateful for the loan. She’d be able to type up her revisions at the cottage instead of waiting to use the computer lab on the UW campus.

Her brother tipped his face into the autumn sunshine and stretched his arms over his head.

“How are things up at the lake?” he asked. “Getting cold?”

Frankie told him about the windfall she’d been clearing from the trail and about Tim Magnusen’s family.

“Big Tim and Christi too?”

“No, just Tim Junior and his wife and kid,” Frankie said.

“Seems weird they’d be up there after Labor Day,” Patrick said.

Frankie rubbed her chin and leaned against the truck.

“I just hope they don’t need anything. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be up there, you know? I like the quiet.”

Patrick’s face dimmed.

“You shouldn’t be alone so much, Frank. I worry about you,” he said.

She assured him she was fine.

“Makes it easier to write and I’ll be done soon. My thesis is due at the end of the month.”

“Well, it’s nice of you to help Mom today,” he said. “I’ll stop by after work, okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “Or maybe we could meet at the tavern? I haven’t seen Hank in ages.”

If Patrick came to the house, Judith would dominate the conversation. But Judith wouldn’t want to go to the tavern because she never wanted to go to the tavern. But Patrick would feel bad that their mother would feel left out. Frankie read all this in Patrick’s doubtful look, and she waved in surrender.

“Fine. Just meet me at Mom’s.”

“Great. I’ll bring dinner from Grace Su’s,” he said.

As she drove through town, she went a block out of her way to pass the tavern. The familiar face of the River City Saloon looked sad and quiet with the blinds drawn and the “Shut!” sign on the door. The tavern was generally open by noon, and she wondered if Hank was short-staffed. She decided to stop in and say hello before she headed back up to the lake. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral.

The tires crunched over gravel as she pulled in the driveway of her childhood home. The old house sat under the reaching branches of the oak tree, and Frankie felt a surge of familiar feelings. Love and longing, resentment and claustrophobia. Judith was not home yet, so Frankie took the spare key from under a flowerpot and let herself inside.

The house was cool and dark. She flipped on the lights and went into the kitchen. It smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish and toast. She got a glass of water and saw a note from her mother on the counter. Judith had evidently been and gone.

Mary Frances,

1. Box all sweaters, good long-sleeve shirts, and good slacks for the Santa Ana mission.

2. Box everyday wear for St. Vincent de Paul’s in The Dalles.

3. Take all remaining items to the transfer station.

I’ll be home by dinner.

Thank you,

Mom

Judith had left the address for the mission and blank checks made out to USPS and the Hood River transfer station, suggesting that she also expected Frankie to drop off boxes at the post office, St. Vincent de Paul’s, and the dump.

Frankie felt stung and then stupid. She’d assumed that whatever help her mother needed was something they would do together. It might offer some sense of comfort. But Judith clearly had other ideas and business elsewhere. Heartsore, Frankie rose and went into her parents’ bedroom. The room was small and neat with a double bed that Grandpa Ray had built with a matching bureau and bedside tables, all constructed of warm Douglas fir he’d milled from trees up at the lake. Judith had left several large cardboard boxes lined up against the wall.

Frankie took a deep breath and opened the door to the closet. Reaching in with both hands, she pulled out jackets and shirts on their hangers. She tossed them on the bed to sort them, and her breath caught. There on top was her dad’s buffalo plaid jacket. The red-and-black wool was frayed at the cuffs and had been patched along the collar more than once. Her father wore it constantly and even to special occasions—weddings, baptisms, funerals, and formal parties. Judith hated the old coat, which only seemed to increase Jack’s affection for it. Frankie ran her hand down the front of the jacket and tugged a piece of paper from the breast pocket. She stared down at the worn ticket stub from her college graduation ceremony three years ago. She recalled how Jack’s face had shone as he rang the bell at the Blue Moon Tavern, where they’d gone for drinks after she’d walked across the stage with the graduating class of 1995.

“A round for the house! My girl just graduated! The first in the family!”

The room of strangers cheered, and her father raised his glass to her, so proud.

Frankie sat down hard on the bed and pulled the jacket into her lap. Outside a gust of wind blew a confetti of leaves across the yard. It had started to rain, and a small flurry of sparrows alighted on the freshly wet earth.

She ran her hand along the arm of the jacket and was overwhelmed by memories—Jack teaching her to drive the boat, Jack pulling a beer for her at the tavern, and Jack standing with her in that same windswept yard almost a year ago at Thanksgiving. The task now before her was impossible. She rose, hastily rehanging everything, and folded the plaid coat over her arm. In the kitchen she scribbled a note to her mother saying she was sorry she hadn’t had time to help after all and she’d call soon.

She climbed into the old truck and sat for a moment, unable to move. The detritus of her father’s life was strewn about the cab. Ragged receipts, coffee cups, and worn work gloves littered the bench seat. On the dash was a note in her dad’s familiar scrawl. “Pea gravel, 4 x 12s, Judith’s birthday!!” it said. This last was underlined. Frankie leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes. Hank had been the one to go get the old truck after the accident. She yearned to see him now, but she knew she could not. Not in this state.

She drove through town and crossed the bridge over the river. It was so raw, so final. She would never hear his voice, the sound of his laugh. She’d never hear him singing as he swept the tavern floor or hear him say “How’s my girl?” when she walked in the door. Or feel the rough scratch of his morning stubble as he hugged her. Never. And Judith’s coldness made it worse.

It all felt impossible. She couldn’t feel so much all at once. Her mind tilted toward the idea then. Just one drink, a small whiskey. Just to quell the feelings, tamp them down, and get a hold of herself. It was a neat and tidy solution. Two fingers of mind-clearing Bushmills. Then she could get to work and finish her thesis. She could get her life back on track and move on. As she drove north on the highway, the idea settled there and soon it was all she could think of—the bottle in the rafters of the pump house, the one she should have emptied the first day, the one she’d told herself she wouldn’t touch.

The afternoon sky darkened. Brake lights flared in front of her just past the little town of BZ Corner, and a service truck blocked the road. It was changing a flat on a big logging truck, and there was no room to squeeze around. The flagger walked back to Frankie, and she turned off the engine.

“It’s gonna be a while, I’m afraid. Lug nut’s stripped and the som’ bitch won’t come off,” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette. He looked at her then and flushed, having mistaken her for a man.

“Sorry, miss,” he said.

“Can I bum one of those?” she asked.

He shook one out of the pack and lit it for her.

“Get you moving as soon as we can,” he said and walked away.

Frankie smoked fast, waiting. She looked at her watch, calculating how long it would take her to get to the marina and up the lake. On a gloomy fall day, it grew dark long before sunset. By the time the road cleared and she made it to the marina, it was after 6 p.m. She loaded the computer equipment into the boat and cast off without stopping to evaluate the growing strength of the wind. All she could think about was getting to the pump house and feeling that cool bottle in her hand.

By the time she’d reached the main channel, it was clear she had no business being out on the water. The waves increased as the north wind blew down off the mountain and tumbled across the bow. The wind pushed the little boat around like a toy in the lake’s current. Frankie knew if she tried to turn around, she risked being broadsided and swamped. If she could just reach Arrow Point, she could anchor in at the small cove there and wait out the storm.

Rain lashed the windows and Frankie peered past the frantic windshield wipers, straining for any landmark to gauge where she was on the lake. Had she passed Arrow Point or was it ahead of her? She couldn’t recognize any features around her and knew all she could do was push on. She eased the throttle forward, trying to get the old boat to plane, and it crashed over each oncoming wave.

In the fallen gloom, she crept along, trying to maintain a position in what felt like the center of the channel. She’d be safest from deadheads there, those sunken remnants of the timber industry that could resurface unexpectedly. She resisted the temptation to hug the shoreline, that unfamiliar territory where a shallow bottom could be the end of the prop. And if the engine died, the boat could get beaten up along the cliff in the powerful waves. She thought of Fred Timmons and his son caught in a fall storm like this one and their boat capsizing. They’d found the son clinging to a dock that had broken free and washed up against the foot of the cliff. Fred’s body hadn’t been recovered for days.

She stopped looking at her watch because time seemed to have stopped. The Peggotty crashed along, wave after wave, banging down the long channel of June Lake. Frankie heard her pulse in her ears and the sound of what she realized was her own voice.

“Almost there. Almost there,” she chanted. “Good girl, Peggotty.”

Then, in the darkness, she saw the unmistakable mass of the headland outside Beauty Bay and knew she’d almost arrived. The relief she felt sent a spike of adrenaline through her body. A wild laugh escaped her throat just as she felt a great thud against the hull. The engine stalled and the boat bounced as Frankie lost her footing and fell, hitting her chin as she went down. She was back on her feet in a flash and saw the deadhead bouncing madly through the wake, lit by the stern light.

Regret descended on her then in an almost physical weight—all she could have done differently. She could have stayed in Hood River and faced Judith or gone to Patrick’s. She could have slept in the truck at the marina and waited for daylight. She could have turned around as soon as she’d seen the wall of clouds to the north. She’d been thoughtless and stupid and there was nothing to be done now.

A large wave set rocked the stalled boat sideways, and she struggled to keep her feet. The wind shrieked down the channel, and Frankie felt her desperation turn to calm. She remembered her father’s voice that long-ago day learning to drive.

“Gotta be patient with the gal, Frank. She’s older than your old man.”

She took a breath and cranked the key. The engine sputtered to life, and she eased the choke out. Feeling the boat underway, she wrenched the wheel in the direction she sensed the dock was. It was completely dark now and she could discern no difference between the water and the landmass she knew was in front of her. She slowed to a putter, peering into the blackness, looking for any way marker—the outline of the store, the pilings, the log boom.

Suddenly the dock flooded with light, and she could see every inch of Beauty Bay lit up from end to end. She could have cried with relief as she passed into the shelter of the log boom. Two yards in the other direction and she’d have been on the rocks.

In the falling rain, she saw Tim Magnusen striding down the dock. And as a wave set bore her forward, she threw the boat in reverse to slow her momentum. Tim caught the bow and pulled her in. Her hands shook as she tried to toss him the bowline and dropped it on the first try. It wasn’t funny, but she barked a laugh. She climbed shakily over the gunnel and tied the stern, never so grateful to be on dry land.

“Wow! What a ride!” she said, her voice shaking. “Thanks for catching me!”

Adrenaline coursed through her as she looked at Tim Magnusen and saw he was furious.

“Jesus Christ, O’Neill! What the hell were you doing out on the water?” he said.

A wave of cold washed over her scalp. Fear, relief, more fear. Nausea surged through her. She sat down hard and threw up over the side of the dock. She sat up feeling faint and looked up at Tim. He had every right to be angry, because a boat in distress was everyone’s responsibility. She’d have been furious too.

“. . . lucky I saw you out there,” Tim was saying. “I came down to check the cover on the boat.”

He reached down and helped Frankie to her feet. She straightened up and faced him. She was almost as tall as he was now. She remembered that summer he’d left for college. Christi and her bragging.

“My Tim. He’s starting at Yale.”

Frankie took a deep breath and started to laugh. Long, loud peals of uncontrollable laughter. She couldn’t help it, and the harder she tried to stop the more impossible that became. Tim looked irritated and said since she seemed okay, he was going in. He started to walk away and turned back.

“You’re bleeding,” he said over his shoulder. “Your chin. Jesus, O’Neill.”

Frankie, weak with laughter, waved a hand at him. She pressed the cuff of her sweater to her chin and watched him lope up the dock and down the seawall to his house. Then she reached up and turned off the dock lights. The waterfront plunged back into darkness. The only light came from the Magnusens’ house, which looked warm and cheerful in the rainy night. Frankie glanced up toward the cottage, where she could see the faint light of the sleeping porch winking through the trees.

The storm was moving up into the woods, and the wind gusted against her body, damp from the rain. She pulled the canvas cover over The Peggotty and checked to make sure the computer was snug in the freight compartment. Then she climbed up to the house on quaking legs. She stripped outside and stood under the hot water of the shower until she stopped shaking.

Inside she dressed and started a fire. She checked on Charlie Crow, who was asleep on the folded towel she’d placed in the tub. She told herself to get to bed. She told herself to make a cup of hot chocolate. But the other voice was still there, tinny and insistent in her ear. After the day she’d had, she deserved a break, a bit of relief. Just two fingers of whiskey to help settle her mind and help her sleep. She pulled on her Dad’s jacket and went to the pump house. Reaching up into the rafters, she found the bottle—cool and angular against the skin of her hand and the golden liquid glinting in the soft light of the pump house. She cradled it in her elbow and took it in the house.

The bottle promised so much, like always—comfort, ease, relief. And like always, it failed to deliver. One glass became two and then another half. Then better top that off, and once more. Might as well just finish it off now. For a brief time she felt elated, then a familiar numbness descended. Later the room spun, and she was sick. She didn’t know what time it was—no longer night, not quite day. She dragged herself to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. The pounding began in her head, along with the voice again, now telling her what a loser she was for giving in. “Won’t you ever learn?” it asked.

She leaned against the sink and looked around the little house, overwhelmed with a yawning sense of absence. The photos of her kin hanging on the wall showed everyone smiling at her out of the past. Nearly all of them were gone—long dead or otherwise absent. Frankie recognized then the feeling she’d been trying to name that had dogged her since she arrived. It was as familiar as her own name. It was part of her, her invisible companion. It had been with her for as long as she could remember and always would be. It was loneliness—plain, simple, and complete. She crawled into bed and fell asleep as the wind and the rain battered the dark woods behind the house.