{"id":6040,"date":"2018-04-07T16:30:18","date_gmt":"2018-04-07T21:30:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=6040"},"modified":"2020-09-04T05:13:29","modified_gmt":"2020-09-04T10:13:29","slug":"grenville-owl-in-flight","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/grenville-owl-in-flight\/","title":{"rendered":"Grenville: Owl In Flight"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/div>\n

Patricia Crisafulli<\/a><\/h2>\n

PART TWO<\/h4>\n

<\/p>\n

\n“Grenville: Owl in Flight” picks up with Evan missing Birgitta, his former girlfriend, now in Guatemala for a global public health project, and the young man\u2019s unexpected friendship with Jimmy Rivers, Grenville\u2019s mail carrier, who shares the story of a long-ago infatuation that changed his life.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n
Read the Complete Grenville Series<\/a><\/div>
<\/div>\n
T<\/span> he picture on Evan\u2019s phone looked carefully composed: great white wings outstretched, reddened sun low in the sky, pine trees darkening to silhouettes. After he\u2019d sent it to her, Birgitta texted back immediately: \u201cSo beautiful! You are quite the photographer!\u201d The first statement was true, he thought now, sitting on the end stool at Dolph\u2019s Diner, the only diner in Grenville open year-round. It was a great shot, worthy of being printed and framed. The second was not true; he was no photographer. His only equipment consisted of his iPhone and the government-issued computer pad he took into the field. And luck\u2014having been in Esther Crocker\u2019s backyard at the precise moment the owl took off. It was his last, and best, photo of the bird.<\/div>\n
\n

What had triggered that departure after two weeks of exhibiting behaviors that had indicated at first the owl was staking out its territory? There was only one conclusion: The owl wouldn\u2019t stay where it couldn\u2019t find a mate. But why had the owl come in the first place? Had the bird been sick or injured in some way undetectable by observation? And what of the choice of the old rowboat upturned on Esther\u2019s back lawn? The gleaming aluminum was highly visible from the air, but why roost on it for so long?<\/p>\n

Evan turned the questions around in his mind, keeping his thoughts in scientific observation-mode instead of drifting into anthropomorphism and thinking of the owl as \u201cOliver, which Esther had named it. This was a wild creature: sophisticated, territorial. Like all birds, it individualized during mating season, then melded into a larger organism known as a flock. A parliament<\/em>. Evan smiled to himself, remembering the name for a group of owls. Brood of hens, siege of herons, cast of hawks, gaggle of geese, parliament of owls.<\/p>\n

His coffee cooled in the heavy ceramic cup, white with a faded red stripe around the rim. The edge of a bun, where the cheddar from his cheeseburger had oozed and burned a little, recalled the lunch he\u2019d just finished after a morning in the field observing nesting bald eagles along the Raquette River.<\/p>\n

Birgitta said she ate mostly rice and beans\u2014cheap and healthy, and in keeping with the local population who could not afford animal protein on a regular basis. Evan thumbed through his phone for the Birgitta folder where he saved all her emails and found the one where she\u2019d mentioned her new dietary habits. \u201cFor me, it\u2019s no bother. But the Americans here miss their burgers\u2026\u201d She\u2019d meant nothing personal; she wasn\u2019t even talking about him. But Evan couldn\u2019t help but feel another divide between them.<\/p>\n

At Dartmouth, six years ago, their differences had seemed exotic, but easily bridged by their shared college experience. Birgitta was smart, funny, beautiful, and Swedish, with an accent he could listen to all day. Birgitta had said she liked his dark eyes and olive complexion that recalled Mediterranean ancestors on his mother\u2019s side, and the broad face and cheekbones that were carved out of eastern European stock on his father\u2019s. \u201cA map of Europe,\u201d she used to tease him.<\/p>\n

But they\u2019d been only twenty when they\u2019d met; theirs was a college romance. When, by chance, they both ended up in Boston a year after graduation, Evan had convinced himself this was it. A year and a half later, Birgitta was practically living in his place. Then Guatemala.<\/p>\n

Evan shook his head, still stung by her willingness to end their relationship just as they (or at least he) and everyone else saw them as a couple. Birgitta\u2019s studies were finishing and working on global public health from Boston felt too distant, ineffectual. The project in Guatemala was perfect for her. But that wasn\u2019t the only reason: she\u2019d pointed to her sister and now-former brother-in-law, her parents\u2014all divorced. \u201cThings are impermanent. People change, move on. If that should happen to us, I would rather leave now, while it\u2019s still good.\u201d She\u2019d said it so matter-of-factly Evans hated her for a moment. The last week had been brutal, constantly together while counting down the days until she left for Guatemala. They\u2019d both cried.<\/p>\n

With Birgitta gone, Evan left Boston and took a job in the Adirondacks doing bird population studies for New York State. Then two months ago, early on a February morning and eight months since he\u2019d last seen Birgitta, Evan sat in the Fish & Wildlife truck, freezing his backside off. He missed Birgitta so badly his ribs ached and emailed a demand to see her, disguised as a request. It carried every bit of desperation he felt, made all the worse when four days went by before she answered. Evan re-read it now on his phone: \u201cWe are so far apart. I think it\u2019s better we don\u2019t try to continue something that cannot happen now. XO Birgitta.\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019d backed off, stopped emailing and texting, accepted the silence and distance. Then the owl.<\/p>\n

Seeing the bird sitting on that old rowboat, he\u2019d taken a picture and texted it to Birgitta with the caption: \u201cMy new colleague. His name is Oliver.\u201d She\u2019d replied twelve minutes later.<\/p>\n

Two weeks of studying Oliver, mostly on his own time, gave him a reason to keep texting Birgitta photos and sending her longer emails about the owl. He told her about Esther Crocker who had called about the owl, and that woman from the motel, Louisa Pherson, whom he regarded as a little crazy. Once, Louisa spotted Evan in a field and nearly got herself run over when she made a mad dash in front of a logging truck to reach him. Louisa had pelted him with questions about the local owl population and what she could do to attract them to her property. It had taken a lot to keep from laughing when she asked with complete sincerity, \u201cShould I buy an old rowboat, like in Esther\u2019s yard? Do they like to sit on them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOwl envy,\u201d he\u2019d written to Birgitta.<\/p>\n

\u201cI would want one, too,\u201d she\u2019d written back. \u201cWho wouldn\u2019t want an owl for company?\u201d<\/p>\n

Re-rereading their exchange now, imagining Birgitta\u2019s voice, Evan leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching the soft patina of the Formica counter.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cYou fallin\u2019 asleep?\u201d a man asked loudly as he sat down on the next stool. It was that mailman; Evan couldn\u2019t remember his name.<\/p>\n

\u201cCoffee, Jimmy?\u201d The waitress held up the pot.<\/p>\n

\u201cMartini, dry\u2014two olives. What\u2019d James Bond say\u2014shaken not stirred?\u201d<\/p>\n

The waitress filled his cup and left two creamers beside the saucer. \u201cYou find a martini like that around here, make sure you order two.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan looked down the long row of stools at a gap of six empty places before the next cluster of people at the other end of the counter. Why did this guy have to sit here?<\/p>\n

\u201cGot a question for you.\u201d The mailman launched into a series of queries about fishing regulations.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a bird population specialist,\u201d Evan said a few times, but fish or fowl didn\u2019t seem to make a difference to Jimmy, who kept talking about perch, trout, and small-mouth bass.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s a question you probably can\u2019t answer\u2014a real stumper.\u201d Jimmy grinned at him. Evan braced himself; this guy was never going to leave.<\/p>\n

\u201cKnow why they call this place Grenville?\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Grenville<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jimmy Rivers loved telling the story from details carefully researched over the years. Two billion years ago, what had been a sea bottom located near the Equator shifted northward and collided with a land mass known as Laurentia. The impact built a long chain of mountains like a backbone running north to south. \u201cThe Grenville Orogeny,\u201d Jimmy said, pronouncing it proudly.<\/p>\n

The original Grenville Mountains wore away with time, and the land masses kept shifting. Then the whole area was covered by a shallow sea. Fossils of trilobites that once inhabited the sea can still be found\u2014Jimmy even had a few specimens embedded in rocks he\u2019d picked up on hikes when he was younger. More upheavals created more mountains, and ice ages carved and gouged the land; melting glaciers turned craters into lakes.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what made the mountains and lakes around here,\u201d Jimmy concluded.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh-huh. I know about the Grenville Orogeny,\u201d Evan said.<\/p>\n

So Mister Fish & Game here had been indulging him, Jimmy thought sourly. But he wasn\u2019t done with his lecture yet. \u201cBut you don\u2019t know why this town is called Grenville.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan shook his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cA misprint,\u201d Jimmy said. \u201cThe oldest maps called the original settlement Grandville, which is \u2018big town\u2019 in French. That\u2019s pretty funny, since there were probably only two cabins and a trading post back then. Somewhere along the line the \u2018d\u2019 got dropped and it was Granville. Then the maps made in the late 1800s changed the \u2018a\u2019 to an \u2018e,\u2019 and it became Grenville. When the town incorporated, that\u2019s was the name. Maybe it was because of the Grenville Orogeny. Or maybe somebody got a grease spot on the old map and copied it wrong. But that\u2019s the story.\u201d Jimmy wrapped his hand around his coffee cup and took a satisfied sip. \u201cI\u2019ll bet they didn\u2019t teach you that at Dartmouth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s interesting,\u201d Evan said.<\/p>\n

Jimmy was about to finish his coffee and leave when Evan leaned over toward him, his smartphone in his hand. \u201cYou remember the owl?\u201d Evan moved his thumb along the bottom of the screen, advancing through a dozen or more photos.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sure got a lot of them. You doing a big report?\u201d Jimmy asked.<\/p>\n

Evan shook his head. \u201cNo. Friend of mine liked to see the owl. She\u2019d never seen one before.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is she?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

No reply, and then. \u201cGuatemala.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan\u2019s pause wasn\u2019t lost on Jimmy. \u201cShe\u2019s a long way away.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jimmy waited, but Evan didn\u2019t say anymore.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jimmy\u2019s little white postal Jeep was parked in a diagonal space outside Dolph\u2019s, empty spaces on either side of it. Come Memorial Day, every spot on the street would be taken with some double-parking besides. The locals grumbled and complained every year. It had always been that way, townies versus summer people who came to the Adirondack Mountains from Memorial Day through Labor Day. A lot of the locals resented the outsiders with their nicer cars and enough money to live one place and play in another. But Jimmy never minded. The town would curl up and die without seasonal tourism, and if that ski resort project ever got going on old Plummer, they\u2019ll have more year-round business, too. Frank Pherson was counting on that, which is why he\u2019s been fixing up Pine Breezes Motel, and he wasn\u2019t the only one.<\/p>\n

Getting in his Jeep, Jimmy started the engine but didn\u2019t move right away. His route was finished, and he was in no hurry. The air from the heater warmed to a blast; Jimmy turned it down but didn\u2019t back out of his space. A little edge of old sadness poked at him and had him hooked before he could escape the barb.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Thirty years ago, Jimmy had graduated from the central high school and gone to work doing construction for his uncle, who built or repaired much of everything around town. Being a nephew, Jimmy had been guaranteed a job, but had to work to keep it. The physical labor hardened his muscles and the sun bleached his brown hair into blond streaks. On Friday nights he and his buddies went to Tootsie\u2019s, the little joint on the edge of town where there was a band on the weekends in summer. The bar was packed, and the crowd spilled out onto the back deck. The townies and summer people rarely mixed except at Tootsie\u2019s, which served fried lake-caught perch and offered decent music and a busy bar. The summer girls usually turned their noses up at the town boys; but the local girls were more than happy to dump their townie boyfriends and chase the out-of-towners with their fancy cars.<\/p>\n

One Friday night, he pulled into Tootsie\u2019s in his beat-up pickup, in a pair of skinny jeans and Ramones t-shirt, his hair long enough to brush his collar. The bar was four deep\u2014old Marge Renders, who owned Tootsie\u2019s must have made a fortune. He threaded his arm through a gap in the crowd to wave a five-dollar bill in the direction of the bartender to snag a Molson. And there she was, Ellen Valerie Frobisher. Ellie was a year older, a junior at Sarah Lawrence, which he hadn\u2019t even known was a college. She was beautiful and, when he asked her to dance, she said yes.<\/p>\n

He still couldn\u2019t believe that they\u2019d actually dated for four weeks. He\u2019d met her parents a couple of times: her father, who\u2019d called him Jim, and her mother, who\u2019d murmured \u201cOh, Ellie\u201d with what sounded like amusement when he was supposed to be out of earshot. He\u2019d been so proud when Ellie held his hand as they walked through Grenville. Ellie did most of the talking, about people he didn\u2019t know and places he\u2019d never heard about. When she\u2019d said, \u201cDaddy loves brunch at the Tavern on the Green,\u201d he\u2019d replied that Dolph\u2019s Diner made great pancakes. He could still see her sun-freckled nose wrinkling as she giggled and explained that it wasn\u2019t really <\/em>about the food\u2014it was the atmosphere. \u201cLike having a plateful of Central Park.\u201d<\/p>\n

Eleven years later, at the age of thirty and on his honeymoon to New York City with Glynda, who\u2019d grown up in Grenville same as him, he\u2019d booked them a table for brunch at Tavern on the Green. As he ate a thirty-dollar plate of fancy eggs, he finally figured it out: bragging rights. That\u2019s why people ate at places like this, so they could tell other people about it.<\/p>\n

But walking down the sidewalk in Grenville, that summer of 1977 when he was a sunburned nineteen-year-old who bore, in Ellie\u2019s eyes, a little resemblance to Jim Morrison from The Doors, he hadn\u2019t known any of that. Back then, he knew how to put up sheetrock and tear off a roof; how to level lintels in a sagging house. He knew how to make things sturdy and good again. But he didn\u2019t know about girls like Ellie.<\/p>\n

Then Ellie was gone, back to college. Two or three letters came, and then none. The following summer, he saw her parents on the street, but Ellie wasn\u2019t with them. \u201cIn Europe this summer,\u201d her mother had said, like it was some kind of secret code.<\/p>\n

The parents\u2019 cottage sold two years later and changed hands a few more times after that, as vacation property in the Adirondacks often did; still, he looked for her. Five years ago, an internet search turned up her father\u2019s obituary in The New York Times<\/em> (the old guy had become quite a big shot), and Ellie was listed among the survivors in the way they mention married daughters: Ellen (James) Cunningham. That had given him an oversized satisfaction, that she\u2019d married someone also named James. Did she ever call her husband Jimmy, perhaps thinking of him, even for a moment?<\/p>\n

Just then a car pulled in beside him, a familiar man gave him a quick wave. Jimmy touched the bill of his cap in salute. He called his wife on his cellphone; Glynda answered on the second ring.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need anything at the IGA?\u201d Jimmy asked his wife.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t think of anything,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m making chicken potpies.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSounds good,\u201d he said, thinking of the flaky crust and the creamy gravy with chunks of chicken and diced vegetables.<\/p>\n

As he backed out of the space, he saw Evan leaving the diner. Jimmy pulled into the space again, lowered the window, and yelled. Halfway up the block, Evan stopped and looked around. Jimmy beeped the horn. Evan walked toward the Jeep.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou like potpie?\u201d Jimmy asked him. \u201cMy wife makes the best. Come for supper tonight. I wanna see some more of those owl pictures.\u201d Jimmy paused, reading the surprise on the young man\u2019s face. \u201cAnd maybe you can tell me a little about that friend of yours in Guatemala.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Evan\u2019s eyebrows drew together, Jimmy knew it was none of his damn business, and that\u2019s probably what Evan was thinking right now. \u201cGotta talk to someone about it,\u201d Jimmy said. \u201cCome about five-thirty. Earlier, if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Grenville<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Evan followed the directions: out the main route through Grenville, then taking the third left, and following that road about four miles to just before the T-stop. The odometer marked the distance and still no T-stop, convincing Evan he was on the wrong road or maybe, as he\u2019d been telling himself, this was a stupid idea. Then the road curved and there was the T-stop. On the left, stood a house with every light on.<\/p>\n

A plump woman in a red turtleneck and dark slacks, wearing a green bibbed apron stamped with \u201cBless the Cook,\u201d introduced herself as Glynda Rivers. She took his jacket, explained that dinner would be in about a half hour, and scurried toward the kitchen for a plate of deviled eggs. She offered Evan beer, wine, or soda.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m good for now, thanks.\u201d Evan stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around the room: dark paneling, bright area rugs. Rustic, but nice.<\/p>\n

Jimmy appeared in the living room and beckoned him to follow. \u201cCome see my project.\u201d Glynda led the way carrying the deviled eggs, and left the plate on an end table before returning to the kitchen.<\/p>\n

A wall of windows showed a darkening silhouette of the Adirondacks. Only after they appreciated the view did Jimmy turn on the lights. Evan sat down slowly in the big armchair that faced a fireplace where a good hardwood blaze crackled and popped.<\/p>\n

\u201cBuilt this room for myself after the kids were grown and out of the house. My son went to MIT. Daughter when to Syracuse U. Smart like their mother. House was so empty after they left, I had to do something. Glynda got a new kitchen and I built this\u2014my sanctuary.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan nodded, relaxing for the first time since he\u2019d arrived. This spacious room was so different from his cramped upstairs apartment in town. He\u2019d rented it because it was cheap, intending to save as much money as possible so he could take a year off and travel\u2014a plan that always included Guatemala.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeer?\u201d Jimmy asked. \u201cOr you a wine guy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEither.\u201d Evan tried to make out the last of the view before it faded.<\/p>\n

Jimmy left momentarily and returned with a beer for each of them. \u201cWatched a family of foxes all last spring. Sometimes I just sit and contemplate the rocks. Plummer is about two miles from here as the crow flies. I got a boulder in the back that I swear rolled down from the peak.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is great,\u201d Evan said. \u201cI always wondered if people paid attention\u2014\u201d He stopped himself, not wanting to sound rude.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou think we can\u2019t see the forest for the trees?\u201d Jimmy grinned. \u201cYeah, there are some like that. Then we get our occasional tree huggers who try to politicize everything. But the rest of us know how good we have it here. Esther\u2019s like that, did you notice? She composts and won\u2019t even spray the aphids on the roses because she\u2019s afraid of hurting something. Not that she\u2019ll talk about it or put it on a bumper sticker.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan sat back, drank from the beer bottle, not bothering with the glass.<\/p>\n

\u201cDidn\u2019t always think like this, of course. Comes with age and perspective. But you spend enough time in these mountains you can\u2019t help but think about the deeper things\u2014who you are, what you want, why you\u2019re here.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan started to speak, but his voice caught. He cleared his throat roughly.<\/p>\n

Jimmy leaned forward from the armchair near his. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you tell me about Guatemala\u2014can\u2019t keep it all in.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

They talked until Glynda called them to dinner, saying she hated to interrupt, but she\u2019d taken the potpies out a half-hour ago and they\u2019d cooled to the perfect temperature. Jimmy kept up the conversation over dinner, filling his wife in with a minimum of details. \u201cEvan here is in love with a girl from college who moved to Guatemala.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, so far away.\u201d Glynda reached over and patted his arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou guys aren\u2019t going to say anything,\u201d Evan protested.<\/p>\n

Jimmy made a face. \u201cThe lip is zipped. Being a mailman, I keep my mouth shut about people\u2019s business\u2014the envelopes that come stamped second and third notice, the big manila ones from out-of-town law firms that mean divorce or bankruptcy. Worst are the \u2018return-to-senders,\u2019 especially when the addressee has the same last name as the sender. That means somebody lost track of a family member. But I never tell nobody nothing, and I ain\u2019t about to start now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan looked down at his lap. \u201cSorry. I\u2019m an outsider\u2014big city guy counting birds in the mountains. People probably get a little curious about me.\u201d He thought of Louisa Pherson; not all her questions were about owls. She wanted to know about him and his job, too.<\/p>\n

\u201cEverybody\u2019s an outsider\u2014that\u2019s the thing you learn when you get older,\u201d Jimmy interjected. \u201cNobody is 100 percent comfortable with where they are. Oh, hell, I suppose some folks are oblivious. But a lot of people wish they were someplace else.\u201d<\/p>\n

In his peripheral vision, Evan saw Glynda shift in her chair. \u201cYou did okay here, Jimmy,\u201d she murmured.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m just saying that feeling out of place isn\u2019t such a bad thing,\u201d Jimmy replied. \u201cIf you feel too comfortable, you don\u2019t grow. You stay the same and then you\u2019re as good as dead.\u201d<\/p>\n

Suddenly tired, his head aching a little, Evan didn\u2019t know what to say other than to agree with Jimmy.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou two want coffee?\u201d Glynda asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll take it in my sanctuary,\u201d Jimmy winked at her. \u201cMake it decaf, though, okay?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d Glynda said. \u201cWhen did I ever make real coffee past four o\u2019clock?\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan gathered a few of the plates and, despite Glynda\u2019s protest, carried them into the kitchen. \u201cGo on, I got this,\u201d she told him.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you should join us,\u201d Evan said.<\/p>\n

Glynda shook her head. \u201cJimmy\u2019s having a real good time. He doesn\u2019t get to talk like this very much.\u201d<\/p>\n

Evan carried two mugs of decaf to where Jimmy sat by the fireplace.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Grenville<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Glynda took her time in the kitchen, knowing Jimmy would hold court for at least another hour. She cut herself a huge wedge of potpie, cooled to lukewarm, but the gravy still runny. She sat at the kitchen table and ate quickly, too fast to really enjoy it. She just wanted the warmth and substance inside her gut, filling up the gnawing hole that had opened up the summer she started dating Jimmy and heard his casual comments about Ellie. When they finally got married in 1988\u2014she\u2019d been twenty-eight and he was thirty\u2014Jimmy insisted on going to New York City for their honeymoon, even though she\u2019d wanted to go to Canada. He\u2019d taken them to Tavern on the Green, probably forgetting that he\u2019d told her the story of how Ellie had said it was her father\u2019s favorite place. She\u2019d eaten like her food was full of gravel, trying not to notice how Jimmy\u2019s eyes swept around the dining room, again and again, looking for her.<\/p>\n

She and Jimmy had thirty years together now, most of them good. Their children were healthy and happy, both successful. But she lived with a ghost who\u2019d changed Jimmy forty years ago, when he was a nineteen-year-old and would have given anything to up and leave Grenville. Jimmy stayed, but Grenville never really fit him anymore.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d been the consolation prize, Glynda told herself yet again, which is why Jimmy had waited so long to propose. Didn\u2019t matter that she\u2019d been pretty when she was young or that she always loved Jimmy. She wasn\u2019t Ellie.<\/p>\n

Glynda ran her fork around the plate, gathering up the last of the crumbs, and licked the tines.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"Grenville<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It was well after eleven when Evan got up, sleepy from the fire, afraid that if he stayed any longer he\u2019d start dozing. Jimmy had done most of the talking after dinner, more stories about growing up in Grenville and the young woman he\u2019d met one summer. \u201cI couldn\u2019t do nothin\u2019 about it. I couldn\u2019t go to New York City any more than I could live on the moon. But you can go anywhere,\u201d Jimmy told him. \u201cDon\u2019t be a damn fool. If you love that girl in Guatemala, tell her how you feel. If she still says you shouldn\u2019t come to see her, then you\u2019ll have your answer. But don\u2019t spend a lifetime wondering what you might have done.\u201d<\/p>\n

As Evan got ready to leave, Glynda came out of the kitchen to say good-bye. He thanked her for dinner and promised twice that he\u2019d come again.<\/p>\n

A light fog rose from the sodden ground. The headlights illuminated only a few feet, forcing Evan to drive the unfamiliar road slowly. Finally back at his apartment, Evan shed his shoes and jeans and fell asleep half-dressed. When he awoke seven hours later, a text from Birgitta awaited him: a photo of an osprey in flight that she\u2019d taken while hiking with colleagues the day before. He noticed the word: colleagues. Not friends or anyone mentioned by name that might hint at a relationship.<\/p>\n

Evan got up, used the bathroom, and brewed a single cup of coffee before sitting on his bed to re-read the text and study the photo. He thought of what Jimmy told him, the urgency in the older man\u2019s voice. Evan thumbed a reply, honest and direct, but without expectation of how Birgitta might react.<\/p>\n

Then he took a shower, letting the water run from hot to lukewarm. When he emerged, he noticed the phone screen illuminated by a rectangle of text. Evan picked it up, read the message, and smiled as he sent a reply. \u201cGreat. I\u2019ll let you know the arrangements. XO\u201d<\/p>\n

Before putting down the phone, Evan looked at the osprey, with its hawk-like features and wide wingspan typical of birds of prey. He thumbed to his last photo of Oliver, on the day the owl took off. He\u2019d get it framed, a gift for Birgitta: owl in flight.<\/p>\n

\"Grenville<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>
<\/i>Read Grenville<\/em> Part Three<\/a><\/div>
<\/div><\/p>\n
\n

Patricia Crisafulli,<\/strong> M.F.A., is an award-winning writer, published author, and founder of FaithHopeandFiction.com<\/em><\/a>. Tricia received her Master\u2019s in Fine Arts (MFA) from Northwestern University, which also honored her with the Distinguished Thesis Award in Creative Writing. She is the recipient of three Write Well Awards for best-of-the-web literary fiction for stories that have appeared on FaithHopeandFiction<\/em>. She is the author of several nonfiction books and a collection of short stories and essays, Inspired Every Day,<\/em> published by Hallmark.<\/p>\n

Image Credit: Copyright Robert Koutny<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Patricia Crisafulli PART TWO<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":6403,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18,1],"tags":[131,201,180,15,16,25],"class_list":["post-6040","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","category-uncategorized","tag-emotion","tag-grenville","tag-introspection","tag-love","tag-romance","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\nGrenville: Owl In Flight | Faith Hope & Fiction<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Part 2, Grenville: Owl in Flight, picks up with Evan missing Birgitta, his former girlfriend, now in Guatemala for a global public health project.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" 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