Fly by Night (14 page)

Her two-inch heels sank into snow like augers.

The driver made a face. “It'll run ya forty-five; cash up front.”

“Done.” Amelia fished out enough cash from her wallet; her eyebrows rose in sync with the cash. The warmth of an impish smile spread through her cheekbones. It surprised her how light she felt.

The taxi doors clicked to unlock. The driver didn't budge as Amelia struggled with her bag.

As she opened the back door her toe slipped on a patch of ice and she tumbled faceup onto the backseat, her purse and roller bag banging between her legs like an eager lover attempting to mount. It set her off into a slap-happy laugh that she struggled to squelch.

Amelia fought to sit up as the driver peeled away from the curb.

She pulled off the coat and blazer, flapping her elbows. The back of the beautiful ivory silk blouse she'd selected with so much care was plastered to her sweaty back. The lace collar and embroidered appliqué reminded her of some of the more delicate coral reefs she'd seen in parts of the South China Sea. Though the hair clip still held the bulk of her hair in a French knot, it felt looser than earlier in Providence.

In less than ten minutes the Mall of America's red, white, and blue sign was visible. They queued up in a long line of cars, trolling toward the building.

She looked at her diver's watch. Twenty minutes until the interview. Unbuckling the band, she tucked the watch into her purse like Jen had advised—too clunky with the outfit.

“Is there some kind of special event going on?” she asked.

“Other than the holidays?” He snickered in a way that made her feel foolish.

“Which way's Human Resources?”

The driver motioned over the mall to the other side.

“You're kidding.”

His white-blue eyes in the rearview mirror said he wasn't.

“Think I could walk faster?”

He shrugged.

“Think I'll get out now.” She handed a tip through the space and slipped both arms through the sleeves of her blazer and coat.

*   *   *

Everything was covered with snow. Earlier, as the aircraft had passed Lake Michigan, Amelia noted fields and treetops looking as though they'd been dusted with a powder puff.

The cold air made her gasp. Her ankles and feet shriveled in the thin stockings that now felt baggy. The new “interview” pumps felt large and sloppy.

The roller bag immediately flipped over.

Entering the mall, she tried to imagine where the HR office might be. Often when searching for a reef, she'd close her eyes and imagine, gliding through the water only to open her eyes and find it right in front of her. It was a trick she'd learned from her father that she told no one lest they think she was a kook.

Pulling out the folded map and directions from Kyle, she tried to make sense of it. Crowds of families scooted past; some looked somewhat annoyed at her being in the way. She dialed Kyle and left a message about running late.

The momentum of the crowd sucked her inside and spit her out like an undertow. Groups of teenagers sped past, like schools of blue jack fish syncopated with knifelike precision to dart this way and that to avoid bumping into her roller bag. She hurried past battalions of strollers the size of grocery carts.

Looking up, she counted four levels of stores and restaurants. The ground courtyard was jammed with roller coasters, rides with swinging arms, and families with crying children holding balloons. The ceiling was glass, supported by steel girders. It was a living, breathing centipede, writhing and undulating. Sunlight streamed in to brighten gardens of pink, red, and white flowers.

“Excuse me?” she asked a woman pushing a stroller. “Do you know where Nordstrom is?” Which was the landmark Kyle had given her.
“Take the escalator to the fourth floor by Nordstrom.”

The woman shrugged.

A roller coaster zoomed by close enough that Amelia felt the breeze on her cheek. A full-sized Ferris wheel began turning. The swinging metal arms of a ride with a sign reading S
HELL
S
HOCK
began swooping just above people's heads. Riders were strapped to seats, shrieking. Amelia was the only one who flinched as she raced past stunned, bewildered-looking parents. She'd wanting nothing more than to sit and gather her wits but there wasn't time.

Passing twin towers of SpongeBob and Dora the Explorer that reached the ceiling, she looked for a security guard, an employee, someone to ask directions.

Lines of children wound back and forth, like airport security lines at Boston's Logan Airport. “Huh, look, Dora,” some little kid gushed. The voice was so sweet she smiled, reminding her of Alex at that age.

Full-sized fir trees were interspersed in the courtyard and crowds filled the available floor space. The merry-go-round, the din of voices, and noise made her head swim.

Spotting a mall security guard, she made a beeline, cutting through a crowd of people waiting on line for pizza.

“Excuse me,” she called. “Am I going the right way for Human Resources?”

“Which HR?” he asked.

“Shit.” She could have cried. “There's more than one?”

He nodded. “Facilities? Janitorial? Management.”

She held up the folded paper.

“My interview's in a few minutes.” Her voice was getting louder. “Please help me?”

“You want Nordstrom.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “Can you show me?”

“I can't leave my post.” The guard scanned the area as if it was a test or some sort of entrapment.

She surprised herself by choking up. “Look, I walk fast, I swear. No one'll know you're gone.”

He glanced around, conflicted, and then waved for her to follow.

“Thank you, thank you,” she called after him, keeping sight of his tall-drink-of-water frame slicing through the crowds, crisp white shirt and black security cop–looking hat with the gold-braided trim.

At one point she lost sight of him but then spotted the Nordstrom sign. He then pointed to an elevator and even pushed the up button for her. “Fourth floor, turn to the right,” he said and then hurried off.

“Thank you,” she called after him, out of breath. She'd tip off Jen and Bryce.

Elevator doors opened to the executive suite. Dark and quiet, it was another world. Her ears still hummed with noise. The walls were paneled in cherry wood. A tufted leather couch looked more impressive than comfortable. Glass tables with arcs of yellow orchids flanked it. She touched one just to see if it was real. Celtic harp music played above. The moment Amelia sat down, the door of a conference room opened and a woman stepped out with hair as white as her skin.

“Amelia?” The woman's voice was almost a whisper as if she didn't want to awaken anyone.

“Yes.” She stood.

“Hi, I'm Grace.” The woman extended her hand. “We spoke in the phone interview. Nice to meet you in person.”

“Yes, you too.” Her hands felt airport grimy but she reached to shake anyway. “Sorry I'm late.”

“Almost everyone is.”

Amelia's mouth was dry and sticky, her hairline damp, and the French knot had half fallen, tugging a bit with each step. It wasn't clear if the clip would hold through the presentation but it was too late to redo it. She guessed her eye makeup had either rubbed off or else was smeared beneath her eyes.

“Would you like to take a few minutes to prepare?”

“I'm fine.” She just wanted to get it over with. Afraid that if she paused for even a moment to fix her hair or check her eye makeup in the ladies' room she'd lose the nerve.

She quickly unzipped the front pocket of her suitcase and grabbed notes along with the flash drive for her presentation.

The woman turned and walked toward the double doors, indicating she should follow.

People sat making notes as she walked in. All eight looked up at once. A few smiled. All stood and reached to shake hands across the table.

Sweat had dampened the armpits of her new blouse. She left the blazer on.

A sudden pang hit after plugging in the thumb drive—waiting for her presentation to load. She could have cried right there, but nevertheless turned to smile at the table of judges.

 

12

TJ decided to call after a few weeks of not hearing back from Amelia after mailing the transfer of property documents as well as a cover letter he'd composed, explaining the circumstances of their family.

He'd e-mailed again, inquiring if she'd received the documents but it had bounced back. TJ checked and the address had been correct.

“Huh.” He was puzzled.

“Call her lab,” Charlotte suggested. This time the number automatically switched to the marine biology department, instructing to call back during regular hours.

TJ hung up the phone and looked at Charlotte.

“Maybe it's after hours,” he said and looked at the clock. Something felt wrong. It was 6 p.m. Rhode Island time. But he'd called before on Sundays, Saturdays, late at night, early morning and Amelia's voice mail had always picked up.

His stomach lurched. He touched his lip with his hand as he sat thinking. What if something had happened and he couldn't find her?

“You'll find her, Niinimooshe,” Charlotte said, reading him as she always did.

He felt despondent and blinked back tears. Tears surprised him. There were several calls to return—reports of wolf hunters planning to poach on the more remote reservation lands.

For as long as he'd been following Amelia, the phone number had been the same. He looked out the office window. It had begun snowing. He turned to search the online Whitepages but found a Providence address but no phone number. The Sea Horse Laboratory Web page was still up but the phone number had been deleted.

*   *   *

It was a restless sleep that night. Between Amelia and the opening of hunting season on wolves about to begin Thanksgiving weekend, he'd thrashed about, trying to rid his mind of these worries.

After giving up on sleep, TJ kissed Charlotte and got up. All of their five dogs stood from their beds and shook off hours of sleep, following him into the kitchen.

“Hey, Penny.” He petted the fifteen-year-old who was still excited to see him every morning. The others were mostly strays or pups no one had wanted. The dogs stood at the counter waiting to be fed.

He looked at the clock.

“We're two hours early.” He smiled. They all listened to him, sitting like good dogs, their tails wagging on the kitchen floor like windshield wipers, dispersing dog fur and other debris of the house.

“What the hell.” He opened the cabinet, taking out all their bowls. He began to fix a bowl for each, containing the various concoctions of foods, pills, and whatnot that each required.

“Okay now,” he said. “Places.” At the word, they all scattered to their designated spots that were distributed in the kitchen and breakfast nook and then turned and stood, waiting and watching as he placed down a bowl for each, beginning with the oldest first.

Then TJ sat down at the kitchen table trying not to clock watch, though he knew it was three more hours before the marine biology department's office hours in Rhode Island. He considered calling and leaving a message, but decided against it. What if they didn't check messages or it took a day for someone to call back?

He glanced over the reports of invasive species such as fireweed on the L'Coutere Reservation area; the surge in manoomin that year where the harvest of wild rice had reached record proportions. He glanced at the kitchen clock.

He kept reading the same sentences and not making sense of them.

After the dogs had finished and drank their fair share of water, he then walked over to the coatrack, grabbed his down parka, and slipped on his boots.

“You guys ready?” He opened the front door quietly as the dogs rushed out, their tags jingling as they raced each other to the trail that skirted along the lake. TJ slipped out and shut the door behind him gently, as if not wanting to wake a baby. He first smelled the wind. It was an easterly wind. A chill from the cloud base made him turn.

“Huh.” Wind from that direction always brought a storm, though he'd just checked the radar moments before. He tucked his watch into the inside pocket of his coat and followed the dogs.

It was an inky kind of darkness, so black he almost couldn't see the trail had it not been for the stars. They served as guiding landmarks, shadowing the outline of the cliff's edge into the huge negative space that was Lake Superior. The place his people had been directed to more than a thousand years ago by a holy man who'd instructed them to leave the Place of the Large Salt Waters, or the Waabanakiing, and follow a trail of the miigis shells and to stop at the place where food grows on water. Gloria had chosen the lake or the Stopping Place over his father. His father had chosen the Waabanakiing, along with other things. He'd wondered about choosing place over person, which it seemed that both of his parents had done.

Nervousness fueled his pace. Walking faster than usual his breath frosted up his glasses in the chilly November predawn, though even Penny, the old one, kept up with him. Hands in pockets, his thoughts meandered.

He fought the urge to pull out his watch but did it anyway and pressed the light button. Only fifteen minutes had passed. TJ could have sworn it was at least forty-five and looked forward to the sunrise that would break in a few hours.

Rhode Island was one hour ahead. He'd walk toward the Pow Wow grounds, go past a ways, and then turn around and come back. That would eat up an hour or so.

He whistled. “This way, guys,” he signaled and veered onto the other trail. The dogs paused and then turned, excited at the break with their normal routine; the younger ones sped up to pass him.

*   *   *

“I'm sorry but Dr. Drakos is no longer here.”

He glanced at Charlotte as she sat beside him, her hands quietly clasped together, still in the sweatpants and T-shirt that she slept in.