Traveling Light (39 page)

She squatted in the moist sand of the streambed to touch the purple, green and speckled rocks, along with a few oval stones shaped like eggs. Then eye level along the bank—growing out of a mossy, rotting log—Paula saw the most beautiful white flower. Her mouth dropped open in awe; it looked like an orchid, perfect as if someone had bought it potted from a Park Avenue florist. She scanned the banks looking for others but saw none. She crept barefoot over to it, crouched silently, afraid she might scare the flower away. The delicacy of the edges, the blooms as long as a finger. There was a faint scent like clean powder.

“You’re so pretty,” she said, her fingers cradling the blossoms, wanting to press the beauty of it in her mind. It made her think of Roger; this was the first time all afternoon she’d thought of him. How could she describe the flower, the ravines, the sound of Fotis running on the ridges like a phantom, reveling in his freedom? The sight of an eagle foster dad soaring in the flight room or the grateful smile of the mother husky Paula was caring for at Rick’s house, her puppies pushing about blindly as they sought her out for food? She wanted to tell Roger how disgusting Sigmund was but how she’d grown to love him nonetheless, how the lead-poisoned eagle had fought his way back and was now healing. She wanted Roger to come here, share her newfound joys, discoveries, and yet she didn’t.

“Hey, you,” she called as Fotis came running back, splashing through the water, his belly fur dripping with wet strings. He ran over to her and shook off. She held up a hand and laughed, then circled his neck with her arm, kissing him on the muzzle. After she let him go, he gently sniffed the orchid, too, as if knowing it was something fragile and rare.

Through the trees was the vast blue expanse of Superior. Paula walked to where the river met the lake, watching as pools and currents swirled and collided.

She sat down on the sandy beach; the sun was setting west over the horizon. Fotis sniffed and bit at the water. The last ten years felt like a chronic illness. A reluctant husband, a married bachelor—she cringed at her own shame. She could barely feel what it had been like sitting behind her desk at NYU for all those years. Ten years she’d never get back, but maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Maybe time had stopped the moment Theo said her name.

She looked at Fotis.

“So, what do you say? Wanna walk back along the beach?” she asked, and stood, brushing sand off her damp shorts. He started trotting back down the shore toward the guesthouse. Tomorrow she’d be in New York. There was nothing to lose because, in a way, she’d already gained everything by having lost it all.

CHAPTER 17

Rick and Eleni drove Paula to the Duluth airport long before there was even a hint of dawn. Though Eleni tried to make small talk, Paula was so engrossed in her own silence that, after only a few miles, her mother had given up. Even Rick was more silent than usual.

The neon moose sculpture suspended over the Duluth airport escalator seemed even more surreal than the day Eleni had arrived. Like it might come to life, break free of its cable moorings, crash through the glass walls and gallop out onto the tarmac and back to the electric woods of its dreams. But maybe that’s what you get when you stay up all night, tossing and turning, looking at the clock every hour. Paula’s stomach was a pit of hot coals as she cuddled up to Fotis, holding on to him for dear life.

Paula was leaving with only her purse and the clothes on her back, since her things were in New York. Once through airport security she bought a book, hoping to get lost in a story, but instead gave up after reading the first page twelve times. She gave up and sat quietly at the gate, the book in her lap, waiting to board the aircraft.

She sat dazed during the short flight to Minneapolis before changing planes to New York. On the three-hour flight to La Guardia she tried to sleep, shifting her legs so many times in unsuccessful bids to find a comfortable position that the person in front of her finally turned and glared with irritation.

As the minutes ticked down, she pictured Roger waiting at the airport, big smile and arms open wide with a bouquet of flowers—though he already said he’d be tied up at Columbia all afternoon. But she didn’t believe him, convinced he was setting her up for a surprise but also hoping he wasn’t. Mixed feelings swirled together like contents in a blender; the reunion was far more complex than hugs and flowers and she knew it. And while she’d meet him at the airport after each summer in France, she doubted Roger would drop everything to reciprocate, even with all the talk about starting married life over again.

Though she was excited to see Heavenly and Tony and share her experiences, it was equally impossible to explain them. In trying Paula ran the risk of hurting the couple’s feelings by insinuating that they’d failed as friends. But how real, basic and alive she’d been in Grand Marais—could that be translated into her life in New York? Plus it would be impossible to explain why Eleni had stayed behind, sleeping with a puppy, a wolf-dog and a wild turkey vulture. They’d never believe it; Paula barely believed it herself.

Paula looked down at her knees—so strange how a whole little life had generated all because she’d stopped at a roadside café. What if she’d sat at a different table and missed the Cook County newspaper with Rick’s ad sitting atop the bee-swarmed garbage can? The whole thing smacked of a page out of the Book of Fate—the Moirai, Clotho in particular. “You can never miss your fate,” Eleni would always say. “Even if it feels like it, it only means that your fate isn’t what you thought.”

The plane landed with a thump, skidding a bit as the engines reversed, thrusting her back against the seat. Paula sighed in relief and looked at her watch. It was 10:00 am, gray and raining in New York. What a surprise. Puddles and the steady patter of raindrops were a dreary reminder that she didn’t have an umbrella. She hit the call button on her phone and Roger answered.

“I’m here.”

“Oh good, you landed,” he said. “Everything go smoothly?”

“Pretty much. I’m heading toward the baggage claim area now. Are you here?”

“No, sweetie,” he said. “I told you I’m tied up all day.”

“Yeah, I know,” she said with disappointment and relief. “I was just hoping you were lying.” She was half-lying herself.

“I’m in the middle of something, Paula,” he said gently. “I’ll see you tonight; I can’t wait—I’ve got a whole dinner planned.”

“How sweet,” she commented, still partly convinced he was downstairs in the baggage claim area hiding behind one of the pillars. Even though Roger didn’t do surprises, her stomach flew with butterflies.

“Love you,” he said, and ended the call.

As she crested the top of the escalator to street level, she scanned the gathering of faces, some eager, others bored and chewing gum as they held up signs scrawled with people’s names. Roger’s polar bear face was not among them.

She stepped off the escalator and searched for several moments. Again she phoned. “Sure you’re not here?”

“I told you I can’t,” he said in a muffled voice as if he was in a meeting.

“Yeah. I know, but I wondered if you were just saying that.” She exited the automatic doors and stepped under the awning of the taxi stand to get in line for a cab.

“I’ll be home later this afternoon.” The call ended. He hadn’t sounded annoyed but indifferent—his work voice.

Then her mind started playing with her again as rain pattered on the awning over the taxi stand. Maybe he was at the brownstone waiting. She stopped herself in the middle of that thought.

After the four people queued up ahead of her rode away in taxis, she was up next. Cabs streamed in like the rainwater rushing down the streets into the sewers. The dispatcher pointed to the next cab and opened the back door for her.

“Twenty-fifth and Seventh,” she rattled off, and sank back, turning off the obnoxious promotional TV screen that now threatens the serenity of cab rides in New York. The last time she’d been in a cab was with Fotis. She thought about their hike yesterday, remorseful she hadn’t taken him on more during the weeks she’d been in Grand Marais.

The cab sped west on the Long Island Expressway approaching the Midtown Tunnel. Resting her head back, she watched the lights of the tunnel blare by with a mix of dread and curiosity as to what had become of the brownstone. The conference on immigrant adaptation had ended last week. No one had called her. Not even a peep out of Guillermo or Christoff, but then again she hadn’t called to ask how it went. Fumes of guilt filled her rib cage, but she ignored them.

After exiting the tunnel, the cab turned left toward downtown. The streets were as shiny as an expensive pair of black patent-leather shoes. She was surprised at how nothing seemed to have changed as much as she had over the past five weeks.

Turning down her street, she spoke through the divider. “Here is fine,” she instructed the driver, and flipped him far more cash than the fare. The Indian-looking man turned quickly to look at her.

“Keep it.” She pushed open the door and climbed out, glancing across the street at the brownstone. Two large black planters with topiary trees and fall mums were stationed on either side of the front door. The chipped and beaten wrought-iron fence and gate were now a shiny black. Even the brownstone’s reddish-brown edifice looked crisper, not as dingy. The rain began to pick up. As Paula unlatched the gate it made the same familiar squeak. She pulled out her keys and, hurrying up the front steps, she ducked under the overhang of the doorway. It was a chilly autumn rain, the kind that makes your bones ache; it didn’t help that she didn’t have a coat.

The front door looked as if it had been stripped down to the wood and then freshly coated with black lacquer. The once indistinguishable brown-tarnished brass knocker and door latch were polished to a bright mirror shine. Paula could see her face. The dead bolt and corresponding brass plate looked new.

Her key didn’t even partially insert. She flipped it over and tried again. Still, it was the wrong key to the wrong lock.

She stood there looking at the door, confused. “Well, what the fuck?” Then she used the knocker. “Roger?” It made a deep thunk that reminded her of Dorothy knocking at the palace of the Wizard of Oz. A brass-framed doorbell was attached to the molding surrounding the doorway. The brownstone had never had a doorbell. She pressed it and heard a chime inside, hoping Roger would answer. “Roger, it’s me.” She rang it several times and then began jabbing it like an obnoxious teenager, but she was met with only silence.

Funny Roger hadn’t mentioned replacing the dead bolt. Paula sighed and rubbed her brow; she was tired and didn’t need this.

Looking for an obvious place to hide a key, she felt around in the dirt of the new planters. She searched under the welcome mat and along the window ledges. She tried tipping up one of the planters to see underneath, but there was nothing. “Shit.” Turning around, she checked the alignment of the gargoyle on the building across the street, just to ensure she was at the right address, and did a double take. She’d never noticed it was an eagle, its wings arched and mouth open as if calling. She’d lived here ten years and had never noticed it was a bird and not a griffin.

What to do. She phoned Roger and it immediately went to voice mail. Figured he’d turn off his phone; she’d used up her call allotment. Sighing in frustration, she left a message, one hand covering her face. “Hi, it’s me,” she huffed. “I’m at the brownstone, locked out; call me.” She couldn’t mask her irritation.

Paula walked out of the gate and around to the side of the building, holding her purse over her head to block the rain as she looked for signs of homeless Sophie. Everything had been removed. The bags Paula would leave, even the Dumpster was gone. Sophie had probably moved on to another little camp somewhere else in the City.

Paula crossed the street and stood under the eagle, turning to get a better view of the brownstone. Sheer drapes uniformly covered the front windows. Daylight streamed in from the side and back; you could actually see inside—it was shocking. “Holy shit,” she muttered. That meant the place
was
cleared out.

She sat down on the bottom step of the place across the street and phoned Celeste.

“You’re back?” Heavenly gushed.

“Yep,” Paula said. “Looks like the place is redone; only he forgot to mention the fucking door hardware’s been replaced, so I’m locked out.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“So where’s Einstein?”

“Who the hell knows. At work, in a meeting, taking a shit, what do I know?” she raised her voice.

“I’d come get you, but I can’t right now.”

“Nah,” Paula said. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll think of something.”

Then she called Eleni’s new number, a cell-phone number Rick had given her.

“Kukla!” her mother exclaimed. “How was the flight?”

“Fine, Ma, but I’m locked out of my own house.”

“You’re what?”

“He’s got new locks on the door; my key doesn’t fit.”

“He didn’t meet you at the airport?”

“Ma, don’t even start,” she raised her voice. It was annoying enough without getting egged on even more.

“Can’t you get a key?”

“From whom?”

“From him!” her mother hollered.

“No!” she hollered back. “He’s in a goddamned meeting and won’t pick up his phone.”

“So when’s Mr. Important coming home?”

“Nice, Ma. Sometime later.” She felt herself getting angry at Eleni for echoing her very thoughts and sentiments.

“Go home to Queens, Paula,” Eleni said. “Screw him. Do you have your key to my apartment?”

Paula looked down at her key ring. “Yeah.”

“Just take the subway.”

“Okay.” It felt good to be told what to do.

*   *   *

As crowded as New York was, it felt empty. Fotis was gone, Theo and Eleni, too. As Paula sat on the subway, her skin prickled with emotion; it took all she had not to cry. As the subway rocked her, she remembered leaving her first marriage at age eighteen, all her belongings loaded into a paper grocery bag, going home in defeat to Eleni’s. And here she was again, this time empty-handed.