It’s funny, what people think. How real their ideas may seem, how proven and justifiable and true. But take reality. Take this: an image, a scene from right then, Fourth of July, 1988. A postcard, if you will. The New Hampshire Red hen has hatched her clutch of seven chicks, and they’re yellow and new and velvety as pussywillow nubs. It’s evening, then night, and the sky is dark, but with stars. The chicken coop is quiet. On the back porch of a clapboard house atop a steep hill overlooking a ravine, three people sit, intermittently looking up— over the hillside trees and above the beach that stretches far below them—to watch the sapphire sky. The woman sorts seed packets on a squat stump fashioned into a table by her late husband—stupid, but good with a wood saw. The man, bruised up like a scrap-fighter, sits awkwardly, accommodating his injuries, sipping at a can of beer. The boy, one arm bandaged and hung in a sling, is cross-legged on the floor, playing solitaire with his one useful hand, the visor of a lavender baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.
The woman glances up. There is a flash in the dark sky. “Oh!” she says, “Here they go!” and as the first pink and orange and yellow chrysanthemums explode, the boy lays down his cards. With his good hand he takes off his cap, then resettles it backward on his head, so he can see.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Eric Simonoff (for his faith, patience, and support), Jenny Minton (whose insight, guidance, and pep talks were invaluable), Jordan Pavlin (who swooped in, took me under her wing, and did an amazing job), Myra Nissen (my favorite mother/editor/research assistant/publicist in the world), Lee Klein (for raising the bar and cracking the whip), Judy Mitchell (for all her invaluable help, especially The Great Wisconsin Eyes-Like-Papercuts Poll), Peter Orner (to whom I gratefully dedicate the prologue), Lisa Jervis (who is still willing to ask, “What is this story about?” ten years after the workshop that brought us together), Erin Ergenbright (for being there and reading this all the way along), Katie Hubert (for being brilliant!), Allison Amend (for trading monsters with me and for the Pixie Pit Scrabble that sustained us both during trying times), Malena Watrous (for listening to my point-of-view rants over Sunday breakfasts at Lou Henri), Dave Daley (for his support, and for putting “Morey’s Dinghy” in the
THISBE NISSEN
Osprey Island
Thisbe Nissen is a graduate of Oberlin College and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and she is a former James Michener Fellow. A native New Yorker, she now lives, writes, gardens, and collages in Iowa City, Iowa.
ALSO BY THISBE NISSEN
FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JUNE 2005
Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the National Geographic Society for permission to reprint an excerpt from “The Endangered Osprey” by Roger Tory Peterson (
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Knopf edition as follows:
Nissen, Thisbe, [date]
Osprey Island / by Thisbe Nissen. —1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. Custody of children—Fiction.
3. Accident victims—Fiction. 4.Community life—Fiction.
5. Summer resorts—Fiction. 6. Islands—Fiction. 1. Title.
PS3564.179085 2004
813’.54—dc22 2004040843
www.anchorbooks.com
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-42717-5
v3.0