Page 8 of No Safe Place

There were three of them this morning. They were standing with their wings spread out at their sides, their hooked beaks down as they stared into the flow of the water. They were cormorants, a species of aquatic bird that knew how to fish so well that samurai warlords of ancient Japan would actually train them to fish for them.

“Hey, guys, not fair!” I called out to them with a laugh. “Save some for the rest of us!”

I smiled as I looked at the birds, at the flowing parade of glittering water along the banks, at the morning sun lighting up the tops of the happy little trees in the distance.

Beyond the cormorants on the opposite bank, I saw there was an abandoned mill from the 1800s maybe and on its faded brick the words LOVE LIFE had been spray-painted in six-foot-high white-and-blue letters by some local teens perhaps.

Oh, believe me, I thought. I’m all over it.

“I’m coming, fish,” I said as I started running again, picking up my pace under the red, yellow and orange boughs of the New England autumn trees.

“Don’t worry, my pretties,” I said. “Right after his coffee, Papa Gannon will be among you very, very soon.”

9

I was staying in an Airbnb in a town called Beckford and for two weeks now my morning routine was a five-mile, crack-of-dawn run on the bike path along the Farmington River to a Starbucks near the college.

And keeping closely with this ritual, it was about an hour from when I’d tightened my sneaker laces that I was pushing out of the Starbucks door with my back.

At the corner of the brick coffee shop was a white painted metal outdoor table where I set down the Venti Blonde in my left hand. In my right hand was the warm brown bag of the sausage, egg and cheese that I’d already scored from the bagel place beside the Starbucks and I set that down as well before I screeched out the metal chair and sat.

After making short work of my breakfast, I put my feet up on another of the chairs and leaned back with my coffee. The sky was almost full light now and it was very pleasant to just sit and chill and take in the autumnal action. The buckshot barrages of passing birds heading south; the morning light pushing away the shadows from the undersides of the slowly passing string of clouds; the fox-red leaves from an old maple tree beside the coffee shop doing summersaults into the parking lot.

What was also great to watch were all the young college kids coming in and out of the coffee shop. Sleepy-eyed, some wearing pajamas and bunny slippers with their Beckford College sweatshirts, they reminded me of my son, Declan.

Speaking of which, I thought as I took out my phone.

“Hey, there,” I said to Declan, who appeared on the FaceTime screen.

“Dad. Hey,” he said with a yawn. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Weather here is awesome. I’m going to fish myself silly today.”

“Are you? Get out of here. Shocker,” Declan said, laughing.

“Did you see that rainbow trout pic I sent you yesterday?” I said.

“Oh, yeah, Dad. Really nice,” he said with a yawn.

“The pink lateral stripe on her? Wasn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Simply stunning, Dad,” he said as he closed his eyes. “I’m having it framed.”

“How’s things with you out there, son? How’s Stephanie?”

“She’s great. What time is it, Dad?” Declan said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Eight or something.”

“Uh, Dad, you have heard of the time zones, right? It’s two hours earlier here in Utah. Little early to shoot the breeze, don’t you think?”

“Up and at ’em, son,” I said. “You’re a ranch hand now. You should be thanking me for the wake-up. You’ll be late for work.”

“Dad, I love you, so don’t take this wrong, but I’m hanging up the phone now.”

“Dec, wait. Before you go,” I said.

“What, Dad?”

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