31

Migrations

It is the alteration of daylight hours that often triggers the migratory urge in many birds, including those that migrate the farthest.

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

A wind had arisen in the night and whistled around the corners of the little house. High in the treetops it lowed in a sustained murmur like an invisible train passing endlessly behind the house, car after car rolling along. The wind so dampened the sounds rising off the lake that Frankie didn’t hear Jerry’s boat approaching. Once he landed, the sputtering sound of his motor carried up the hillside. Frankie saw the flash of his yellow float coat from the lookout and went down to the dock. Jerry had only tied up the bow and kept the engine running.

“Hey there, kid! I’m glad you caught me. I’m headed over to the lumber camp to overnight and help them pack everything up. I’ll leave for Mill Three in the morning. I might run back up here tomorrow afternoon with some sheeting for the Condons’ project if the weather holds. If I don’t see you, have a great winter, my dear.”

That was it, then. If Jerry was done, the season really was over. Anne and her family were headed down in a couple of days too, and Frankie would be alone at the lake. That was sobering.

“You too, Jerry. I’ll try to stop by and say hello on my way through town.”

“Getting ready to shove off yourself, then?” he asked her.

He climbed back into the Hewescraft and dug around on the dashboard.

“Oh heck, Frankie. I forgot your mail! I had this box for Tim and walked out without getting yours. There was a pile too. Sorry about that, kid. I’m going in all directions at once today.”

He set a file box on the dock and climbed out.

“I left my lunch at the house too. One of those days. I swear if my head wasn’t screwed on!”

“It’s no problem, Jerry. I was going to run down today anyway.”

She needed to call Patrick—about the money but also because she felt terrible about how they’d left things.

“Do you want me to take that box up to Tim and Anne?”

He shook his head.

“No, thanks. I need to speak to young Tim about closing, so I’ll hop up there myself. Anyway, if you’re headed down today you should go before that weather comes in.”

Frankie glanced up at the mountain and saw the blue glacier had disappeared under snow. Clouds gathered to the north.

“Okay, well, good luck tomorrow. Tell Marilyn I said hello. And tell her—”

She paused when her voice caught.

“Tell her I said thank you for the brownies and the card. Thank you both. It means a lot.”

Jerry’s eyes grew wet, and he looked away and cleared his throat. The silence was uncomfortable but necessary because it was part of the grief. There was her own sorrow and the sadness of others that rose to meet it. Jerry passed a big hand over his eyes and gave a short laugh.

“Well, Jack O’Neill was one of a kind and we miss the old son of a gun, all of us. If you ever need anything, you just ask. You know that, right, Frankie?”

“I do. Thank you, Jerry.”

He hugged her hard and turned away, walking up the dock with the box under one arm.

Frankie ran up to the cottage to get her wallet, then climbed in the boat and cast off. As she motored away, she saw Anne walking down the seawall with Jerry. Anne looked so small, and Aiden was not with her. Frankie realized she hadn’t ever seen Anne without Aiden. Her friend raised a hand, and Frankie waved back and turned the boat south down the lake.

The water was placid and beautiful, so she motored close to the basalt cliffs along the eastern edge of the lake where the Yakama land began. Cottonwood trees grew down close to the water there and were all golden now. She knew that just beyond that line of trees, the Wishram River rushed over the falls where the Yakama Nation members gathered in spring for the salmon feast. Jim Miller had invited Grandpa Ray once and he had taken her with him. She’d spent the afternoon quietly watching the ceremony from her grandfather’s side, feeling shy and fascinated by speeches and songs in a language she didn’t understand. He told her it was important to be quiet and respectful. She thought of her phone call to the agency office and her conversation with Councilman Miller. He wasn’t being unfriendly, she thought. His father probably had lots of fishing buddies on the lake.

At the marina dock, Frankie tied up and pulled her fenders out. She walked across the empty parking lot and felt a cool breeze on the back of her neck. The post office lobby was hot, and she shrugged off her jacket. Donna appeared and pulled a stack of mail out from under the counter and pushed it across to her.

“I tried to catch Jerry, but he was hustling this morning. This is everything I have for you,” she said.

Frankie made change for the pay phone and thanked her. Sifting through the mail, she found a bulky package from OSU, which made her stomach flip over. Probably orientation information. She knew she’d hear from them soon about needing proof of her master’s. Well, she didn’t have it, did she?

She found a letter from Weatherby’s office and a note from Patrick. She opened the note, which said something about their mother wanting to come up for closing. Her anger at Judith about the lawsuit lifted slightly at that. Judith wanted to come up to the cottage? Maybe it was a peace offering.

Crossing the parking lot, she pushed into the phone booth and dialed the law firm, praying Patrick was in. Happily, it was too early for Nancy Gates to be answering the phone, so the call rang straight through to Patrick’s office.

“It’s me,” she said when he answered, and Patrick sighed.

“Nice to know you’re still alive up there, little sister,” he said. “Thought you might have absconded to the wilderness.”

She could hear the tentativeness in his teasing.

“Absconded, hey?” she said. “Learning big words there at the firm, I see.”

“Just trying to keep up with my baby sister the academic.”

Frankie gave a short laugh.

“Well, former academic, is what it looks like.”

Patrick sighed.

“Sorry, Frank. That’s just—I mean, there must be some way to appeal it, right? Some formal process? Otherwise they leave themselves open to legal action.”

“You sound like a lawyer already, Patrick.”

She wanted it to sound like a joke, but she thought she might cry.

“Yes, I think there is a process. But the letter they sent directed me to start my appeal with the chair of my department, and that’s Dr. Grant. Believe me, I’ve seen this before. I won’t get anywhere with it.”

“Well, hell. I’m sorry, Frank,” Patrick said. “So . . . what’s your plan?”

“Well, I might see if OSU would take me in some sort of adjunct position.”

She knew that was unlikely, but she didn’t want him to worry.

“But for the time being, I guess I’ll stay up here for the winter. I know you don’t like the idea, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

The silence hung heavy between them, and Patrick sighed again.

“Frankie, did you pick up your mail?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve got it here. I got your note. Mom wants to come up to help close? That’s weird, isn’t it? But it would be nice. I mean, if I stay, you two could come up for the day. We could go chanterelle picking! I was thinking about Grammy’s soup. It could be fun.”

Patrick didn’t say anything, and she felt embarrassed.

“Or not. I mean, it’s no big deal.”

Her brother sighed down the phone.

“Frankie, you should have a letter from Weatherby’s office,” Patrick said.

“Yeah, I saw that, but I didn’t understand it. It’s about the estate?”

Patrick groaned and she imagined him leaning his face on his hand in a gesture that mirrored their father.

“Mom is getting a survey, Frankie. That’s why she wants to come up. She hired Karl Okari to do the survey. You got a letter from Peter because any major change with the O’Neill Family LLC must be formally registered with Weatherby’s office.”

“A survey? Why does Mom want a survey? What are you talking about, Patrick?” Frankie asked.

He hesitated and then said the most impossible thing.

“Mom’s putting the cottage on the market, Frankie. She wants to sell.”

She heard his words, but what Patrick said didn’t make sense. The world tilted and she grasped the edge of the phone booth.

“But—she wouldn’t . . . She can’t! We, we, we own it. All three of us!” Frankie stammered.

“Yes, but Dad made her executor of his estate and directing member of the LLC. The way it’s structured, it gives her a majority share and decision-making power. It’s . . . I’m sorry, Frankie. The decision is hers to make. Legally, she can do this and doesn’t need our permission.”

“But, but . . . I just. I don’t get it. Why would she . . . It’s . . . It’s all I have left!”

She would not let herself cry. She couldn’t.

“Look, you’re already at the marina. Just come down and we’ll talk about it. I’m meeting her for lunch. Maybe we can reason with her.”

“Okay. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Good. Try not to worry. We’ll figure something out.”

She hung up and looked up at the mountain heavy with snow. She wished she could pray but didn’t know how.

The image of Judith came to her then. Her young mother, up at the lake. Judith with her dark hair pulled back into plaits, looking so happy. Judith sitting next to her in the bird blind with her arms around her knees and her face tipped to the sky. Judith laughing at something Jack said. The sound of her laughter carrying through to the sleeping porch, where Frankie lay in the dark listening to her young parents.

Her heart ached remembering those days, and she longed for her mother. All the way to town, the memories came flashing. Mile after mile she was inundated with one after the other—images of the way it had been before, when the four of them felt like a family.

When she pushed through the door at Bette’s Place, she saw Judith before Judith saw her. She was sitting across from Patrick and looking up at a tall man standing next to the table. Frankie’s heart lifted at the sight of her mother, yearning toward her. She crossed the room and stood awkwardly waiting for the man to move, but he didn’t notice her. Her mother did not acknowledge her, and her hope withered under Judith’s familiar disregard.

Patrick stood, and the man shifted over. Frankie recognized him as Greg Robusto, a Realtor from Judith’s office. He said hello to Frankie and that he hoped to see them all that evening at homecoming. As he left, Judith looked her up and down and Frankie realized her clothes were rumpled and spotted with pine pitch from splitting wood. She sat down next to Patrick feeling self-conscious.

“Hello, Mary Frances. We ordered for you because I’m on a tight schedule,” Judith said and tore open a packet of Sweet’n Low and stirred it into her tea. “We have homecoming tonight. We have to be there before the parade starts, and it is a workday. For some of us anyway.”

Frankie’s body flushed with heat, and she glanced at her brother. She knew she was not part of Judith’s “we.”

“Patrick and I were just going over the plan for the survey up at the cottage,” Judith said without preamble. “Karl and I will be coming up Monday to take care of the preliminaries and you’ll need to pick us up from the marina. I told him nine a.m., so please be prompt.”

Bette arrived with their food and Judith was talking, stirring her tea, gesturing to Bette to put the plates down. Frankie felt like she was watching a movie. Judith was talking about the survey, which was scheduled for Wednesday, weather dependent. They couldn’t show the cottage until spring, of course, but it would be good to get it all in order. She had a few leads she could pursue over the winter in Portland and Seattle. Judith kept talking, explaining market fluctuations and interest rates and demographic changes to the second-home market. Patrick listened attentively, though Frankie was sure he’d heard it all before. She watched Judith’s mouth moving, Patrick agreeably nodding his head, and the pressure she’d felt growing and growing had no more room to grow. She brought her hand down hard on the table, rattling the silverware.

“Mom, please. For God’s sake, just stop talking.”

Her voice was loud enough to momentarily silence other conversations in the diner. Judith looked startled and set her glass down carefully.

“Really, Mary Frances. There’s no need to cause a—”

“Mom. Please,” she said. “You need to listen to me right now.”

Miraculously, Judith remained silent. Frankie gathered herself and told her mother everything. About being fired from the lab and spending the summer jobless in Seattle. About her defense denial, which would now cost her the job offer at OSU. And what a great offer that had been. And in summary, that she had nowhere to go and no idea what to do next.

Judith didn’t speak. Emboldened, Frankie told her how the cottage was a refuge, a haven. The beloved place was so important to her.

“I miss Dad so much. And Grammy and Grandpa Ray. I miss our family. I just want to feel . . .”

She felt overwhelmed and trailed off. Patrick squeezed her arm.

“It’s okay, Frank,” he murmured.

She felt Judith watching her, and for a moment, Frankie saw her young mother there, the laughing, green-eyed beauty who let herself be waltzed around the kitchen standing on her husband’s feet. The woman she’d called Mama, who’d taught her to swim, who’d waded in the cool water of the lake hunting for fool’s gold, who picked berries with her on lazy summer afternoons.

“Well, congratulations, Mary Frances,” Judith said finally.

“For what? They aren’t going to give me my diploma. All that effort was for nothing,” Frankie said, and her voice broke.

“Exactly,” Judith said. “All talk and no follow-through. Just like your father.”

Frankie bolted to her feet, knocking her water glass to the floor. She grasped the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.

“Well, at least I know Dad loved me,” she choked out. She leaned toward her mother, and Judith shrank back.

“Your lack of regard for other people’s feelings is just stunning, Mother.”

She turned to her brother.

“And you, Patrick. Would it kill you to stick up for me for once? You talk a good game when it’s just the two of us, but then Mom shows up, and you’re doormat of the year. Thanks for nothing.”

What else could she say? She’d said it all, she’d offered her very heart in her hands, and it had been summarily declined. Frankie pushed her hair out of her face and looked around. The room was silent, everyone staring, and all the anger drained out of her then. Bette brought out a broom and began to sweep up the broken glass.

“Sorry, Bette,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” Bette said quietly.

Her kindness made Frankie want to weep. She looked at Patrick and Judith, and then she left. Outside, the west wind cut against her back, and she hurried to the truck. Heading toward the bridge, she drove past the tavern. The blinds were drawn, and the old building looked as lonely as Frankie felt. Alone, but at least she knew the score now. She passed the fairgrounds and saw the floats assembling for the afternoon—Toastmasters, Hood River Rotary Club, 4-H, and Hood River County Fruit Growers. Blackstone Realty would be among them preparing a throne for her mother.

Following the parade, everyone would gather at the football field under umbrellas and raincoats for the homecoming game. And after, in the high school gym where the big potluck took place, Judith would bask in the gentle compassion of her neighbors. It would be her official coming-out day as a new widow, her first formal event since Jack’s death nearly six months earlier. She’d insist Patrick accompany her, and no wonder Judith didn’t want Frankie there. People might ask about school or offer condolences about her father. Either would steal the limelight from her mother. Judith needn’t worry. She was leaving and wouldn’t be back.

The wind was wild at the marina and the trees in the little park swayed grandly. Frankie cast off and sped up the main channel. At the halfway mark near Arrow Point, she threw the boat into neutral. She stood at the wheel and her sorrow flooded her. It was all too much to hold in—Jack’s death, Judith’s coldness, Dr. Grant’s betrayal. Even Patrick’s passivity. And now the end of the cottage, her safe haven about to disappear forever. There was no island, no place to regain her footing. Her breath was ragged, and she cried until her throat was raw. The grief came in wave after crashing wave.

She was so lost and so alone. But then she felt a sharp heat in her belly that grew and expanded out to the tips of her fingers. It took her a moment to understand what she was feeling: Fury. How dare he, Davis Grant, dismiss her after all she’d done for him? And Judith, refusing to show any compassion at all. But she was also furious with Jack—her beloved, irresponsible father. How could he go like this and leave the family in such a mess? Everything she’d stifled for these past months, that she’d tried to bury with work, boiled up and poured over. Pain, loss, and heartbreak.

She felt so alone standing there in the boat in the middle of the lake high up in the Washington woods. Everything she loved most had been taken away—her father, her work, and now her beloved place at June Lake. What did she have left? For a moment it seemed easy to believe that her small, inconsequential life did not matter. That nothing mattered.

The air around her blurred with white, and she understood it was snowing. She shivered, realizing she’d left her dad’s jacket at the post office. The snow fell cold on her bare arms, drifting silently across the quiet lake. The world was transformed by the muting snowfall, and the simple beauty of it shocked her out of her grief. Large, perfect flakes hung suspended in the air and then landed on the surface of the water and melted away into the dark green depths. There was no wind, no birdsong. Just the silent beauty of the falling snow.

Frankie wiped her arm across her eyes and felt the tremendous privilege of witnessing this simple splendor. She found her breath and returned to the helm. The water was a sheet of glass as she headed back up the lake. She coasted into the dock as the snow drifted around her.

Up in the house she built a fire, and it quickly warmed the room. The wind whistled over the roof and blustered up into the woods. Frankie changed into dry clothes and bundled up to sit on the bench behind the house with a cup of hot chocolate. She looked up at the trees surrounding the cottage, the golden tamarack and flaming red vine maple dusted with melting snow. Hemlocks and noble fir were scattering their cones on the forest floor and the old ponderosa pines leaned out over the cliff as they had for more than four hundred years. She loved this place with all her heart.

As the wind dropped, bird sounds trickled down out of the forest. She heard the crows yawping at each other. Frankie wished she could see Charlie Crow once more before she left. She wished him a long and healthy life here in the woods above June Lake. Within her sadness, she remained curious about that little crow and what he’d been trying to say to her. What was that strange cry she’d heard from him and from his parents? She thought of what Dr. Wood-Smith had written in her manuscript.

“The strongest inquiries come from the questions we just can’t seem to shake.”

It rang so true to her then, that idea. It didn’t seem to matter that her academic career was over and that her thesis would never see the light of day. She remained interested and curious, with questions to ask. She would entertain this inquiry that had started with Dr. Marzluff and continued with Charlie Crow. Did crows have a specific threat call—in this case a caveman threat call? Could crows have a specific ally call as she imagined she’d heard from Charlie Crow and his parents? She would try to answer those questions. She would write up her research about crows talking. Why not? She had nothing left to lose. It would be her last academic offering and her farewell to this beloved place, the lake and the woods, before she left forever.

Back in the house, she sat down and began. The process of organizing her notes and her data calmed her. The outline seemed to write itself, and she realized that she’d been building toward this idea all along. Dusk dropped, and the sky grew dark. She worked all night without tiring.

When she finished, Frankie pushed herself up from the table and walked to the couch. She sat down, exhausted, but lighter and freer than she’d felt all year. She lay down and closed her eyes. She drifted off and as she did so, she was aware of someone else sitting there with her. And as she fell asleep, she realized who it was. It was seven-year-old Mary Frances O’Neill, lover of birds, ears tuned to the woods, taking notes on the wild world around her.

She was always there. She always had been, and she always would be. Wherever life took her.