When Eagles Fall (Fesler-Lampert Minnesota Heritage) Page 2

  “Shhh,” Maya said. “Not so loud. Listen, you can’t give up on her, Russ. She—”

  “Sometimes,” her father cut in, “I honestly think we do better when we’re thousands of miles apart.”

  A loon’s song drifted up from the lake, filling the air like the saddest song played on a violin. Alex let the haunting sound float over her, through her. If she still had her violin, she’d try composing a loon song, something that matched this northern bird’s melancholy cry. The first night she’d heard it, it made her shiver. Now she swallowed back feelings of aching sadness. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so lonely.

  “Maybe this week is just what the two of you need,” Ned said.

  “I admit—I had hopes that we’d get along, but looks like we’re off to a pretty shaky start.” There was a pause. “Okay, okay. End of subject. Here’s to two successful days of banding eagles on beautiful Rainy Lake. As they say in Sweden, skol!”

  “Nastrovia!” Ned said. “As they say in Russia.”

  “How about a good old-fashioned ‘cheers!’?” Maya added.

  A clinking of glass followed.

  Alex wriggled deeper into her sleeping bag until it covered her head. When her father had been in Sweden the year before, at least he had acted happy to talk with her on the phone. Maybe his enthusiasm was just that he loved being halfway around the world, as far away from her as possible. He’d sent her a small carved horse, hand painted red, that she kept on her windowsill. Now she wished she could pick it up and throw it.

  When she finally slept, she dreamed of tubes in her arms, tubes down her throat, tubes attached to a hundred IVs around her hospital bed. Red horses trampled her violin, the violin she’d sold at the pawnshop a city bus ride away from her house. An eaglet was falling from its nest, and in her dream, she became the eaglet … falling … falling … falling. …

  Gray light surrounded her when she awoke.

  Her father was at her side, a tall shadow. “Alexis? Alexis?”

  She tried to open her eyes wider, but they shut again. “Alex,” she mumbled. “My friends call me Alex.”

  “Time to get up,” he said. “We’re heading out soon. Breakfast at Grandma’s Pantry, remember?”

  She moaned and pulled the edge of the sleeping bag over her head. His feet shifted on the wooden floorboards.

  “Want to take the day off?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she answered, and instantly fell back to sleep.

  By the time she stirred again, sun flickered on aspen leaves and fell in golden prisms across the porch. Outside the screen, a brown sparrow sat on a cedar branch, warbling, as if to say, “Finally get up-up-up-up-up!”

  Alex slipped into her leather sandals, stepped out the porch door, and trudged along the path behind the cabin. Knee-high ferns tickled her legs as she headed to the outhouse. The Naatucks had apologized that they hadn’t switched their log cabin over to civilized living yet with a fully plumbed bathroom, but they promised one was coming before the year 3000. An outhouse. “You expect me to use that?” she’d said to her father. “Sure,” he’d answered, as if it were no big deal. Maybe she had overreacted. This morning, the outhouse with its carved crescent moon looked plush compared to squatting in the woods again. She held her breath and headed in, trying not to study its dark corners for spiders, then made her way back outside again, gulping fresh air.

  Below, the lake was dappled with silver coins of sunlight. The runabout was gone. She’d never heard the Naatucks and her father leave. An unexpected pang filled her. She hadn’t been alone—completely alone—since she could remember. A hollow, tickling sensation filled her. She almost wished she had gone with them. Yet all she’d wanted since she’d arrived was to be left alone. She couldn’t figure out what she wanted anymore.

  Just beyond the canoe, a mallard and half a dozen ducklings scuttled in the bay, dipping up and down, tiny tails pointing skyward. The mother kept her head high, alert for danger.

  The eaglets on Skipper Rock were in danger, and their parents probably didn’t have a clue. They might be keeping watch for a hungry bear that could scale their nesting tree or working hard to find enough food for their young, but the lure in their nest was an immediate threat. Perhaps the bald eagles would do some housecleaning as her dad had said, but what if they didn’t?

  The island couldn’t be far, a few minutes’ paddle, at most. She eyed the canoe. If she left now, she could be back before long. When her dad returned, she’d hold out the lure and he’d say, “Hey, where’d you get that?”

  “The eagles’ nest,” she’d reply. Not haughtily, just matter-of-factly. He liked matter-of-fact best. Keep the emotion out of it, that’s what he always said. “Somebody had to do it,” she’d say. “I couldn’t just let those eaglets live in peril.” She smiled to herself and glanced at the fire pit.

  No smoldering ashes, no scattered beer bottles. She remembered the night before, how her father had talked about her behind her back, probably told Maya and Ned everything. More than they needed to know. Now they’d look at her differently, as if she belonged in a juvenile detention home, certainly not at their cabin. Most definitely not to stay with them permanently, as her father had joked. Real funny. Maybe she’d toss the lure at his feet instead. “There,” she’d say, arms crossed, “if you really cared about eagles, you would have gotten the lure out of the nest!”

  She headed to the boat shed. Dank and dark, it was filled with boat motors, gas cans, and tools. In one corner stood a branch with an abandoned hornets’ nest, and to her left hung fishing rods and life jackets. Alex pulled a blue-and-yellow life jacket off a peg and zipped it over her tank top; then she grabbed a wooden paddle.

  She could do this. Maybe her dad thought she had her head in the clouds, but she’d prove him wrong. How hard could it be to paddle a canoe or climb a tree? Part of her didn’t even know why helping the eaglets had suddenly become so important, so deep-down urgent. But it had. She knew—more clearly than she’d known anything in a long, long time—she had to try.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On a Mission

  Alex dropped the paddle on the sandy beach, ran to the cabin, packed herself a lunch, refilled her water bottle, and grabbed her long-sleeved cotton shirt, jeans, a wind-breaker, and a box of Band-Aids—just in case. She rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, ate a bowl of Cheerios, and downed a glass of tangerine-orange juice. Then, backpack over her shoulder, she ran down the steps before she changed her mind.

  One thing was certain. She had to get to Skipper Rock Island before her father returned, and she wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone or how many nests he was going to climb on the last day of banding. If he saw her climbing the nest, he’d be more than a little angry. After all, he had permits to climb; she didn’t. But if someone else asked what she was doing, she’d just say, “I’m with the eagle-banding project with Dr. Russell Reed, from the U of M.” She’d sound official enough to keep anybody from stopping her.

  Buoyed by a sense of mission, she pushed the canoe into the lake, climbed over the bow, and settled into the stern seat. The canoe wobbled and threatened to tip. How in the world was a person supposed to get anywhere in one of these? Finally she settled herself, lifted the paddle, and started off.

  At first, the canoe swerved wildly, a sidewinder snake, S-ing its way across water. Gradually she learned to dip the paddle straight alongside the canoe, not in a wide arc, and the canoe moved ahead more easily. She paddled left, then right, water dripping down the length of the wooden paddle onto her bare thighs and sandaled feet. But that was okay. The water was cool, the air was warm, even though the billowy clouds were piling up, threatening to cover up the sun.

  A breeze skittered over the bay. Just beyond the point, a loon popped up, a sprinkling of white confetti across its black back. It studied her with its red eye. Alex waited for the loon to sing, but it was silent. In an arcing motion, it dove. For a few moments, Alex waited, watching for it to surface. She had nearly given up when it popped up beyond the point to the east. In the direction of the nest. A sign.

  She laughed to herself. If her mom sold a blue house, it meant God was giving her a sign to buy that new midnight-blue Volkswagen Bug. If her mother came down with a sore throat and fever, it was a sign that God was trying to teach her something: slow down. Alex liked to tease her. They’d been standing at a stoplight in San Jose and she’d said, “Hey, Mom, it’s green. Must be a sign that we should cross, huh?”

  That time her mom had been pretty quick. She stood, silver hoops in her ears, dark hair falling to her shoulders, and silk shirt shimmering in the sun, and pointed as the light changed to red. “See that?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, that’s a sign that you should stop being so sarcastic.”

  Alex had only meant it as a joke, and her mom had taken it the wrong way. But lately, barbed words seemed to slip regularly from her tongue. Sarcastic. That was probably the word for it. For a time, she’d worked really hard at being her parents’ “dream child.” The more they fought, the harder she had tried to be good, to fill the growing gap between them. She maintained straight As, barely taking time to see her best friend, Mercedes, after school or on weekends; kept her bedroom spotless, with everything on a shelf or in a drawer, not stuffed under the bed or strewn across the floor; set her alarm extra early so she wouldn’t be late in the morning. For a while, she’d nearly killed herself trying. She should be first chair in South Penning’s junior-high orchestra. But the day Sky-Li approached Alex at her locker, everything changed. Sky-Li had asked with her sweet, high-pitched voice, “So, do you ever have any time to have fun?” That was the same day Alex’s parents announced at dinner that they were separating. That evening Alex decided that if they could quit, then so could
she.

  With each dip of the paddle, Alex felt better, the tightness in her chest easing. She breathed the crisp air. No hint of gas fumes, only the smell of cedar, pine, lake water, and yesterday’s bug spray. She followed the shoreline, leaving behind people—civilization. The Naatucks’ was the last cabin on the main island; to the east it was miles of water and national park.

  Along the shore, a fallen pine tree stretched out into the lake, limbless and bare. Upon it, a line of sharp-headed ducks—mergansers—rested in a row. As the canoe neared, the brown birds dropped into the water, dove and surfaced, then scuttled away from the canoe.

  Dip, stroke, dip, stroke. Change sides. Dip, stroke, dip, stroke. Change sides. She developed a pattern. Now she understood why voyageurs sang when they paddled; it helped them keep a rhythm. The first place her father had taken her when she arrived was to the park’s visitor’s center, as if it were a beacon of teaching that could guide her in ways he could not. She had groaned and plopped down in the minitheater on a padded chair and watched the slide show. French music of the voyageurs. A narrator hyping up the Park’s natural beauties. The nation’s only water-access national park. Endless pristine wilderness. Hype, hype, hype, hype. Slides of the park in all seasons. She’d laughed out loud at the tent in the snow. Really, you’d have to be insane to think camping in the winter in below-freezing temps was a good time. What was the word they’d used in the slide show? Exhilarating, that was it. Well, the most exhilarating thing she could think of would be to get back on the plane in three days and fly home. Home to her new friends. Home to her life.

  She paddled on, lifted along by a breeze at her stern. At least she knew a few nautical words: stern, bow, starboard, port. In the past months, her mom had been seeing a guy named Oscar Inness, who owned a sailboat at the marina near Abuela Elena’s apartment. Mom had been throwing boating words around in the past few months as if she were the first mate.

  “Mom,” Alex had asked. “Why would someone name their boat something as geeky as Dream Wings?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Her mom tipped her brass watering can into the potted orange tree in the living room. “I think that it’s a … well, a hopeful name.” Then she spoke to the plant. “I’m sorry I let you get bone-dry. You must be thirsty.” She stood up and smoothed her floral silk skirt, her eyes brighter than Alex had seen them in a long time. For months, ashen semimoons had rested permanently beneath her mom’s eyes; anything could set her crying. “Honey,” she said. “Oscar’s really very kind—a sweet man. I hope you’ll get a chance to meet him soon. And who knows, you might even like him.”

  Alex huffed. “Don’t hold your breath. I mean, how long did you say he’s owned the sailboat and hasn’t taken it out of the harbor yet?”

  Her mom paused and refastened her ponytail. “Two years,” she finally answered.

  “See? My point exactly. I mean, where’s the guy’s sense of adventure and all that?”

  “Alex.” Her mom was firm. “He’s not your father.”

  “That’s not what I—” Alex stopped short. She hadn’t meant to point to her dad. She felt herself bristle like a cornered dog. Some topics were better left alone.

  “Alex, I know that my seeing someone else isn’t easy for—”

  “Oh, whatever,” Alex said sourly. “I don’t care anymore. It’s your life.” She let the screen door slam behind her.

  That Saturday morning, Alex had padded from her bed to the kitchen, looking forward to her mom’s traditional school’s-out breakfast of sausage, omelettes, granola-cranberry muffins, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The breakfast had been a tradition since kindergarten. But then she remembered. Her mom had chosen instead to leave early that morning for Pismo Beach. For Oscar Inness. The note read: Help yourself to frozen waffles and pizza. Have fun at the Mertonsons’. Be back tomorrow night. Love, Mom. And a phone number.

  Alex had begged to stay at Janelle’s, but her mom hadn’t approved, because she didn’t know Alex’s new friends. So instead she’d arranged for Alex to stay with a couple who had no kids of their own, two realtors who worked with Alex’s mom. That morning, feeling angry—and wandering around in a house that echoed like a conch shell—she decided to make her own plans. Janelle was having a party. And Alex was going.

  She rested the paddle across her lap, and let the wind blow her toward the farthest point of Dryweed Island. Other islands dotted the south shore, and a steady stream of boats followed a charted course: red buoys on your right, green on your left, at least when you were heading in one direction. Mostly the boats followed the channels. Outside the channels, you’d have to follow a nautical map; rocks hid dangerously beneath the lake’s surface. At least with a canoe, you couldn’t destroy your motor, or as Ned put it, “take out your lower unit.”

  The canoe turned sideways to the wind and began to rock heavily, back and forth. Alex carved the paddle through the waves and turned the bow downwind. The last thing she needed was to tip over before she even got to Skipper Rock Island. Her biceps began to ache, and she was certain a rock had lodged itself between her shoulder blades.

  The sun had rounded its midpoint in the sky and was moving to the west. At the rate the canoe was going, Alex would get there just as fast if she swam to the island. But now the waves were building, pushing her more quickly toward the islands beyond Dryweed.

  Alex kept paddling, trying to ignore the hot pain she felt in her arms. If she paddled every day, she’d grow stronger and her arms wouldn’t hurt so much. She knew that. It was the same principle as going out for the swim team. The first day in the chlorine left her arms like putty, but within two weeks, she’d built muscle and could swim farther and faster than she’d thought possible. She might have been good if she hadn’t quit at the end of week number three.

  Then she spotted a flash of white. At the western edge of Skipper Rock, on the same dead tree stump, a bald eagle was keeping watch. With eyesight six times stronger than a human’s, the eagle was certainly watching her every move.

  The eagle lifted from its perch and swooped down across her path, its talons tucked beneath its massive body, its beak yellowish-gold. Alex flinched. Was she going to climb the tree—really? And if the eagle decided to defend the nest? Her father had climbed countless times and never once been attacked—even though he said an eagle in Montana had raked one climber’s shoulders. Alex was probably safe from the adults. It was the eaglets she was afraid of. They weren’t as predictable.

  She cleared the distance from Dryweed to Skipper Rock. Beyond the shelter of the large island, wind whistled in her ears and pushed the canoe forward. If the wind kept up, would her father return early? She’d have to hurry. She stopped paddling and studied the nest.

  Ahead in the treetop, a clump of branches jutted against the graying sky. Her eagles’ nest. She had it planned. She’d head to the sheltered side of the island, out of the wind, and pull the canoe up onshore. Like her father, she’d be decisive, quick, and levelheaded. And she wouldn’t talk. If it was better for the birds to have no talking, then she wouldn’t say a word. She wouldn’t be like her dad, who made rules and then broke them.

  As she cleared the edge of the island, the wind grabbed the canoe and pulled it off course. Alex leaned forward, straining her back muscles, and reached deeper into the water with the paddle, doubling her pace, to stay close to the island’s shore. The lake beyond, as she’d learned from the slide show, stretched eighty miles from end to end. She didn’t want to think about being blown that far off course.

  She aimed toward the brown Park Service sign planted on the sheltered shore. ISLAND SITE CLOSED, the sign read. NESTING EAGLES. DO NOT DISTURB.

  Alex paused. She would be breaking the rules, but she needed to help the eaglets. And her father had refused to remove the lure. He gave her no other choice. She dipped the paddle, pulled hard, and floated closer.

  Heart quickening, she looked up. A bald eagle circled, wings flat against the sky, crying its alarm.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Climb

  A boat motor hummed somewhere behind her.

  “Oh no,” Alex groaned, certain her father had spotted her. She turned her head as the canoe bumped rocks, jolting her from her seat, and fell onto her knees on the floor of the canoe.