|
It’s the year 20-something—a changed yet still complacent America—and Lorraine Mulderon is mad. She’s mad that dying fish litter the shores of her small Connecticut coastal town. She’s mad birds seem to be dying, possibly indirectly related to fish deaths. She’s still mad about a wave of crow deaths over a decade ago. But, mostly, Lorraine is mad at the lack of madness.
She makes speeches. She phones lazy, and now corrupt, legislators. She is ignored. What has happened to passion? What has happened to our country? To her daughter’s consternation, Lorraine disappears during a protest march. Perhaps Lorraine’s favorite birds—blue jays—can fill in these blanks. Actually, a bird’s eye view reveals certain truths too difficult for all of us immersed, anchored, and egocentric humans to understand. The blue jays know Lorraine’s is a story about our country’s greatest sin—the normalization of tragedy. |
Visit
|
"This book not only has a well-written plot but the concept itself is really good and necessary in its own right. I loved the characters and was able to connect and relate to them. The pacing and tension are apt and compliment the story beautifully. I really enjoyed reading this emotional, at times funny and beautiful read and would definitely recommend it to readers of literary and women’s fiction." — Review, The Reading Bud
"Debbie Ann Ice paints an intriguing picture of an eccentric, caring, well-meaning but rather a dysfunctional personality, who takes the advice of her therapist and acts before she thinks . . . This is an absorbing story of the state of society and its ecological issues, filled with irony and humor." — Reviewed by Leonard William Smuts, Readers' Favorite
“Debbie Ann Ice achieves the impossible with this wildly compelling story about a woman obsessed with saving a collapsing world. Mixing politics and environmental activism, Ice creates a dark but all-too-believable future, managing to infuse it with hope and humor. It’s stunning!” — Ellen Meister, author of Love Sold Separately
“This is a smart and important and wonderfully funny book from the point of view of the daughter of a woman obsessed by the environmental disasters around her. It takes place sometime in the future but I hope all young people read it right now while there’s still time to grow up and do something about it. And on the way, hand the book to your mother and tell her to get busy saving the planet for you.” — Barbara Milton, award-winning author, environmental activist, former Director of Connecticut Audubon in Milford
"Debbie Ann Ice paints an intriguing picture of an eccentric, caring, well-meaning but rather a dysfunctional personality, who takes the advice of her therapist and acts before she thinks . . . This is an absorbing story of the state of society and its ecological issues, filled with irony and humor." — Reviewed by Leonard William Smuts, Readers' Favorite
“Debbie Ann Ice achieves the impossible with this wildly compelling story about a woman obsessed with saving a collapsing world. Mixing politics and environmental activism, Ice creates a dark but all-too-believable future, managing to infuse it with hope and humor. It’s stunning!” — Ellen Meister, author of Love Sold Separately
“This is a smart and important and wonderfully funny book from the point of view of the daughter of a woman obsessed by the environmental disasters around her. It takes place sometime in the future but I hope all young people read it right now while there’s still time to grow up and do something about it. And on the way, hand the book to your mother and tell her to get busy saving the planet for you.” — Barbara Milton, award-winning author, environmental activist, former Director of Connecticut Audubon in Milford
SO, HERE YOU are, with your best friend ready to sneak onto this island in a slightly different way than how Dad and I sneaked onto it many years ago. Lydia was going to join you two but backed out when you mentioned your climbing skills in an answer to questions concerning your experience with this kind of expedition. Sarah didn’t ask the same questions as Lydia.
You park the car down the street from the island causeway. While both of you wear backpacks, yours is twice the size of Sarah’s. When she asks what you’re carrying, you ignore the question because you don’t wish to spend time with all the questions about your ropes, climbing gear, and sheets. Her backpack contains Tupperware containers and small glass tubes.
You walk near the water and Sarah tells you precisely where to approach the corner of the gated entrance to insure invisibility. The cameras are located in two large bronze eagles perched on top of the gate’s two spires. The eagle statues are famous antique relics imported from Mongolia by the original developer of the island. Sarah told you the eagle eyes—which were damaged years ago—are actually small cameras.
You point to the regal birds. “You sure we’re not on a screen now?”
“It’s not live, they record,” Sarah says. “So, no one is watching now. And, no, blind spots are in this area right up against the gate.”
“Great. I’ll make my climb here,” you say.
“Climb?”
This is what Sarah, with her controlled personality and analytical mind, misses about you—those subtle clues that suggest you’re about to make an amazing bad decision.
“What we have to do is toss sheets over the eagles,” you say, ignoring her squinting eyes. “I brought sheets, and if I climb the gate, keeping my body very close to it, they won’t catch me on the screen. Sarah, I see your concern. We need water from one of the lots. Not here. Listen, there’re no security guards sitting at a screen with coffee and newspapers now. Later, much later, they may look. Actually, they may never look at this particular recording unless someone tries to burglarize their homes. Then, they will look at it.” You pause a moment, as if reconsidering. “And when they look, they will see—”
“A sheet thrown over the eagle at precisely,” Sarah interrupts, looking at her phone, “9:42 am.”
That should have provoked more reconsidering, but you retrieve the rope in your backpack and toss it before Sarah can talk. It sails over the gate—which may or may not be in the blind spot—and drops to the ground on the other side. You reach through the spires, grab its end, hand it to Sarah. She looks down at the rope as you harness yourself.
“Why am I holding this?”
“When I begin the climb, hold it tight and lean way out. Don’t worry, I used to be a climber in college. I joined a climbing club, actually won a few competitions.”
Sarah’s not used to this. She generally takes notes, records them in computer files, and, well, OK, hacks computers for you on occasion. But she has never held a rope for a climber. You think this will help her move out of that quiet, methodical state where her mind has been eternally parked since she lost her wife.
“Lorraine, this isn’t wise.” Sarah glances down the street. “I’m not sure how we look here, climbing over a fence.”
You stand with your rope and sheet, annoyed and ready to climb.
“Who looks out their window around here? We’ve got to do this. Blue jays brought me evidence for a reason.”
“Lorraine, about those blue jays . . .”
“Yes, blue jays,” you say. Sarah becomes quiet. “You were doing so well, Sarah. I’m a little disappointed. You and my daughter are alike in so many ways. I am thinking you may have leanings toward the One Party, which, by the way, is the source of your civil rights crisis. But OK. How about this? How about you tie that rope to something, maybe the horizontal bar down at the bottom? Just tie it then step down the road a way so no one will see you.”
Sarah finds this more acceptable, so ties several knots, steps away and watches you grab the rope, lean back and walk up the fence. From a distance, one would see a middle-aged woman horizontal to the ground, holding a rope, and another middle-aged woman in neat linen pants and a black sports shirt standing near the water. And that is precisely what Brit, your lawyer, sees as he drives down Leroy Street and approaches the entrance to Independence Island.
You park the car down the street from the island causeway. While both of you wear backpacks, yours is twice the size of Sarah’s. When she asks what you’re carrying, you ignore the question because you don’t wish to spend time with all the questions about your ropes, climbing gear, and sheets. Her backpack contains Tupperware containers and small glass tubes.
You walk near the water and Sarah tells you precisely where to approach the corner of the gated entrance to insure invisibility. The cameras are located in two large bronze eagles perched on top of the gate’s two spires. The eagle statues are famous antique relics imported from Mongolia by the original developer of the island. Sarah told you the eagle eyes—which were damaged years ago—are actually small cameras.
You point to the regal birds. “You sure we’re not on a screen now?”
“It’s not live, they record,” Sarah says. “So, no one is watching now. And, no, blind spots are in this area right up against the gate.”
“Great. I’ll make my climb here,” you say.
“Climb?”
This is what Sarah, with her controlled personality and analytical mind, misses about you—those subtle clues that suggest you’re about to make an amazing bad decision.
“What we have to do is toss sheets over the eagles,” you say, ignoring her squinting eyes. “I brought sheets, and if I climb the gate, keeping my body very close to it, they won’t catch me on the screen. Sarah, I see your concern. We need water from one of the lots. Not here. Listen, there’re no security guards sitting at a screen with coffee and newspapers now. Later, much later, they may look. Actually, they may never look at this particular recording unless someone tries to burglarize their homes. Then, they will look at it.” You pause a moment, as if reconsidering. “And when they look, they will see—”
“A sheet thrown over the eagle at precisely,” Sarah interrupts, looking at her phone, “9:42 am.”
That should have provoked more reconsidering, but you retrieve the rope in your backpack and toss it before Sarah can talk. It sails over the gate—which may or may not be in the blind spot—and drops to the ground on the other side. You reach through the spires, grab its end, hand it to Sarah. She looks down at the rope as you harness yourself.
“Why am I holding this?”
“When I begin the climb, hold it tight and lean way out. Don’t worry, I used to be a climber in college. I joined a climbing club, actually won a few competitions.”
Sarah’s not used to this. She generally takes notes, records them in computer files, and, well, OK, hacks computers for you on occasion. But she has never held a rope for a climber. You think this will help her move out of that quiet, methodical state where her mind has been eternally parked since she lost her wife.
“Lorraine, this isn’t wise.” Sarah glances down the street. “I’m not sure how we look here, climbing over a fence.”
You stand with your rope and sheet, annoyed and ready to climb.
“Who looks out their window around here? We’ve got to do this. Blue jays brought me evidence for a reason.”
“Lorraine, about those blue jays . . .”
“Yes, blue jays,” you say. Sarah becomes quiet. “You were doing so well, Sarah. I’m a little disappointed. You and my daughter are alike in so many ways. I am thinking you may have leanings toward the One Party, which, by the way, is the source of your civil rights crisis. But OK. How about this? How about you tie that rope to something, maybe the horizontal bar down at the bottom? Just tie it then step down the road a way so no one will see you.”
Sarah finds this more acceptable, so ties several knots, steps away and watches you grab the rope, lean back and walk up the fence. From a distance, one would see a middle-aged woman horizontal to the ground, holding a rope, and another middle-aged woman in neat linen pants and a black sports shirt standing near the water. And that is precisely what Brit, your lawyer, sees as he drives down Leroy Street and approaches the entrance to Independence Island.
Other Books by Debbie Ann Ice
|