The Afterlife of Birds

by Elizabeth Philips

  Rae sinks down to the floor and sits cross-legged with her back pressed up against the wall. She’s wearing black leggings and a loose white T-shirt that Henry remembers seeing Dan in. It has Play Deep written across the chest in flaking yellow letters. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She carefully adjusts her long limbs so she’s sitting very symmetrically.

  “Is he gone?” Henry’s voice is so tight he almost squeaks.

  “He’s taken his clothes, his laptop, his PC, all his CDs, but not his stereo.”

  “He left his stereo?!” Henry scans the room for it.

  “In the boxes,” she waves a hand at them, “along with other stuff he wants you to store for him.”

  “Not the speakers?”

  “He took them.”

  “The speakers but not the stereo,” Henry says stupidly.

  “He didn’t tell you he was moving out, did he?” Rae says this as if the words hurt her mouth.

  “I didn’t have a clue. When did this happen?”

  “Day after his birthday. I came home from work, and there was a note …”

  “God almighty.” Henry sits down hard on the edge of the sofa and they look at each other in silence.

  He forces himself to ask, “How are you?”

  “Well, I’m going to have surgery in ten days — the surgeon’s office just called. I didn’t think anything happened that fast, the papers are always going on about the waiting lists.” She lets her hands drop onto her knees. “They won’t know, really, till the operation is underway, but they think it could be stage three. Which is bad, but not as bad as it could be.”

  They both glance toward the window as the sky brightens for a moment. All day the sun has been in and out of high, racing clouds, the temperature rising to zero and then falling to minus five.

  “He could be gone for good. I have to face that — and I don’t have the energy —”

  “So did he rent an apartment or move in with a friend, or what?”

  “I don’t know where he is,” she says, drawing her knees together, getting up off the floor, and then lowering herself carefully into an armchair. She groans and Henry looks at her in alarm.

  “I just did an hour and a half of yoga,” she says. “Too much, I guess. I don’t usually feel like this afterwards. Marcie says I’m an ‘overdoer.’”

  Henry steeples his fingers, presses them to his mouth; his fingers have the rancid smell of the containers of oil he unpacked just before quitting time. Maybe the surgery will be simple. A little incision, the malignancy excised, the tissue zipped up again, leaving a small scar, the kind of scar you feel affection for, a sort of badge.

  “Do you want me to shovel your walk, Rae?” he speaks from behind his hands. The snow on the sidewalk leading to her door is trampled, uneven, and now it’s dangerously slippery, after thawing and then freezing again.

  “My dad’ll do it. He’s coming over tomorrow. Coming to stay for a few days, I mean.”

  Henry thinks he’ll stop at Mrs. Bogdanov’s on the way home to scrape off whatever ice has accumulated on her walk and shake rock salt onto the concrete to keep it clear. He has a sharp craving for a cup of the thick black tea she makes and the urgent timbre of her voice as another story comes spilling out.

  Henry makes himself sit farther back on the cold green leather, to signal that he’s staying, at least for a while. “When Dan had the flu,” he says, “he told me the running was going to be serious. A really big deal.”

  “Well, I guess he was right.” She massages the crease between her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Frankly, Henry — I mean, he’s your brother, I know, but I don’t get why anyone would want to run constantly and at thirty below — and honestly? — his timing really, really sucks,” and her voice wavers, her eyes leaking tears.

  The times he’s asked Dan about Rae recently, and Dan’s offhand, dismissive replies — did Dan really not know, or did he just not want to know? Rae wasn’t overtired from work, she was sick, and getting sicker all the time, and her partner, his marathon-obsessed brother, just kept running.

  “Henry, I’m ravenous. I was going to make some toast. Want some?”

  “No thanks, Rae, but can I give you a hand?”

  “Making toast?” She laughs from the doorway to the kitchen. “You could have tea. You want tea? I’ve got boxes and boxes of herbal stuff a friend gave me.” She grimaces in irritation. “She’s a smart person, a terrific lawyer, but she really seems to believe that I wouldn’t have cancer if I drank enough of it. Why do people make you feel like you’re sick because you didn’t take the right magic elixir, which of course they are taking? Anyway, I didn’t mean you should drink the stuff. I can offer you several non-cancer-curing teas too.”

  He cracks an achy smile at her joke and says, “No tea, thanks, Rae.”

  While she’s out in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, rattling cutlery, Henry rubs at a stain on his jeans and avoids looking at Dan’s boxes, the unsettling emptiness of the room. The house is so quiet it’s almost eerie. When Dan was here there was always music, and Dan was talking, Rae was talking, they were both talking at once. Often two or three friends were over; sometimes all the available seats were taken and a couple of people were sitting on the hardwood. He wonders where Dan is now. Is he crashing, like Lazenby — or with him — on someone’s not-very-clean floor? In an apartment like the tiny bachelor suite Dan had before he moved in with Rae, which smelled stale, and always had scummy dishes piled on the square of counter that passed for a kitchen. Why would his brother want to go back there?

  Rae returns carrying a tray crowded with several different cheeses, two kinds of crackers, olives, a tin of oysters, and a stack of buttered toast. She places the tray on the coffee table, kneels down, and begins slicing the cheese, the crystal pendant Dan gave to her slipping across her collarbone with every move she makes.

  “I forgot I had this great cheese. Come on, Henry, have something. Really, I shouldn’t be eating alone — it’s probably bad for me or something.”

  And so Henry opens a napkin across his knees, and spreads a soft cheese onto a thin slice of toasted rye.

  “How’s the lawsuit going?” he asks.

  “We’ve been working all the angles, but the other side keeps delaying, as if we’ll give up and go away if they stall for long enough. You should see the stacks of files on my desk, Henry. Only to do with this one case, and all we’re trying to accomplish is to force the oil companies to reveal what is actually in the tailing ponds.”

  “You mean they don’t have to make that public?”

  “Nope. They just have to say what size the ponds are, how much ‘material’ is in them, but they don’t have to reveal what that gunk is actually composed of.”

  “So, do you think you can win this thing?”

  “Maybe. We have a chance, anyway. I really don’t want to miss the next court date.” She wipes her hands on her napkin.

  “When is it?”

  “Three weeks after my surgery.”

  Henry discreetly checks his watch. It’s eight-thirty. He knows Rae goes to bed early most nights, though she doesn’t look sleepy at the moment.

  “What about you, Henry? How’s work?”

  “Same old same old.”

  “Nobody’s come in to offer you another job, then?”

  He smiles. “Not so far, no. I’m still waiting.”

  She fingers the pendant at her throat.

  “Say, Rae, I wanted to thank you for the DVD you recorded for me.” When she looks blank, he adds, “The one about a pair of falcons living in a bell tower?”

  Her mouth softens. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I loved the aerial shots, the parent birds soaring way up and then plummeting down to earth. And then carrying a dead mouse or whatever to the chicks.”

  “The filmmaker must have been really patient, getting all that footage,” Henry says, making himself sit up straight and move to the edge of the couch, so she’ll know he’s not going to keep her up
for too much longer.

  “What happens in the end?” she asks. She clears her throat and says, “I didn’t ever see the whole film because I’ve been so exhausted, I kept falling asleep.”

  “Nothing much. Really, nothing bad happens, not even to the young falcons,” he assures her. “Did you see them learning to fly?”

  “No.” She is fussing with the lid of the olive jar.

  “I’ll drop it off for you. I’ll leave it in your mailbox.” She looks so grateful that Henry has to glance away.

  He pauses in the doorway when he’s leaving, arrested by her sad, tired eyes, and she says, “Don’t worry, Henry. I feel better now.”

  Outside, he doesn’t get into his car until she reaches for the cord and her dark silhouette disappears behind the blinds.

  CROSSING THE BRIDGE, he looks downstream toward the river island and the railway bridge beyond it. The night is colder now, and there’s still a winter’s load of ice out there, a sheet spanning the gap between east and west banks, though a few bergs, like pieces of a broken map, are moving slowly toward the waterfall a quarter mile away. This morning he walked the narrow strip of land near the open water above the weir, just yards from the fenced-off concrete apron that keeps pedestrians away from the treacherous undertow — and saw deer tracks there. A single set of prints. He hopes the deer has found its way downstream again, has made it past the weir and back to the cover of wild brush — the aspen and dogwood and willow — where the rest of the deer will be bedded down for the night.

  Fifteen

  ON THE LAST DAY OF JANUARY, Henry lets himself into the kitchen through the back door, which is unlocked, as Mrs. Bogdanov said it would be. She has a doctor’s appointment around noon, but has instructed him to let himself in, and if she isn’t there, she will be shortly. A few dishes are piled in the draining rack by the sink. A bouquet of oriental lilies — he’s never seen cut flowers in this house — are pink and white and very fragrant in a vase on the kitchen table. Beside them, she’s left out a fresh loaf of bread, sliced, on a cutting board, a knife, and a jar of jam.

  He’s slathering jam on a third slice of bread when he hears a key inserted in the front door. He goes down the hall to meet her, but the person entering is a powerfully built older man.

  “Hello, son.” The man gives him an appraising smile. He’s not very tall, but solid, with a barrel chest. He’s wearing an expensive-looking brown leather coat and holding two bags of groceries loosely in one fist. “I am Michael and you must be Henry,” he says, in a Slavic accent more pronounced than Mrs. Bogdanov’s.

  The man hands both bags of groceries to Henry, then engulfs Henry’s free hand in his very warm grip, and Henry finds himself smiling back at him.

  “You are a fine fellow,” Michael says. “Marusya is right. I can see that she has not exaggerated.”

  Henry ducks his head in a show of modesty and Michael laughs, a deep laugh that echoes in the narrow hall, then takes a harsh, congested breath and coughs, a sound like something heavy falling from a shelf.

  “Here is the good woman now,” Michael says as Mrs. Bogdanov appears at the door. He steps forward to help her out of her coat, his kindly battered face tilted to one side, his expression deferential.

  “Henry, I see you have met Michael,” she says with a pleased nod, and they both follow her into the kitchen, where she directs Henry to set the bags on the counter near the fridge.

  “Mikhail, he was kind enough to drive me downtown when the car wouldn’t start. Again, Henry,” she shakes her head sorrowfully. “Maybe I should sell it, like you said. What is wrong now, I can’t say.”

  Like he said? Henry would never dare suggest that she sell her precious Mercedes, which he’s always assumed was her husband’s and has sentimental value. And Henry’s willing to wager the thing will start as long as it’s been plugged in, which he knows it is because he checked on it not that long ago.

  She commands Michael and Henry to sit, then fills the kettle and puts it on the stove to boil, and takes a tall slim bottle out of one of the bags. Vodka — Russian, by the looks of it.

  “Mikhail,” Mrs. Bogdanov says, rubbing a thumb over the ornate label, “where on earth did you get this?”

  “She should sell that car,” Michael is saying to Henry. “I am here now, I drive her whenever she needs.”

  Mrs. Bogdanov places two shot glass on the table.

  “Yes, Henry, I think Michael is correct. But listen,” and she puts a hand on the back of Henry’s chair, “I am having an operation —”

  Michael interrupts, “You are going ahead with that? When, Maria?” turning sharply toward her.

  “Soon. February.”

  “But it’s so cold. There is no hurry, yes?” He lifts his big palms to the ceiling.

  “Are you saying I don’t need to see?” Mrs. Bogdanov says, her voice rising.

  “You do see, everything is just, you know, what they call ‘soft focus,’” Michael says, conciliatory.

  “Ha! That’s what he always is saying, Henry, that I talk about home like some schmaltzy Hollywood movie,” she says, and Henry can’t tell if she is being coy or is actually offended. “What do you think Henry, is that what I do?”

  Henry clears his throat, “Ah —”

  “You are changing the subject, Marusya,” Michael says with a half-smile. “You know I mean that this cataract, it can wait till spring. When your garden will need looking at.”

  She opens the vodka, splashes a shot into each glass, passes one to Michael, and pushes the other toward Henry.

  “None for you, Maria?” Michael asks.

  “Later,” she says. “I save it.” She plunks the bottle down in front of Michael. He lifts his glass and nods at Henry to do the same.

  “I shouldn’t,” Henry says, “I’ve got to —”

  “There are only two things that matter in life,” Michael says, “friends and vodka. I am a friend and this is only one drink.” He smiles, picks up Henry’s glass, and hands it to him.

  “Vashee zda-ró-vye,” Michael says, and downs the clear liquor in one swift toss.

  Henry sips; the vodka catches in his throat and he coughs.

  “All at once,” Michael says, miming the action. Henry grips the glass — look out, Dan, he thinks, here I come — and pours the stuff down his throat.

  “Whew,” he breathes. Mrs. Bogdanov and Michael laugh, and she sits down between them.

  “I have to go soon, I’ve promised to do something for my mother,” Henry makes himself say. If he doesn’t get down to the river soon, he might miss Dan. He catches Mrs. Bogdanov’s eye. “So what is it you wanted to ask me?”

  “Yes, of course, then you must go. But first let me tell you, I will have bandage on this eye,” she indicates her left eye, the one that tracks a little to the side. “This seemed to me a sign, that I should sell the car, since I won’t be able to drive for a time — oh, not for long, but —” she frowns, “it is for the best.”

  “And Maria will need your help, son,” Michael says, and waits, his hand on the bottle, for Henry to acknowledge this.

  Henry nods. “Sure, of course.”

  “Now, Henry, you must tell me if this arrangement still suits you,” Mrs. Bogdanov says.

  “Arrangement?” he repeats.

  She enumerates, “The getting of the books, the shovelling, the fixing of the car. You do so much for me and now maybe the selling of the car also? Oh, I know everything is easy for you, such a young man, but it takes time.”

  Henry blinks. Is this something she’s asking just because Michael is here? “Definitely,” he says. “I mean — yes. This — this arrangement — is fine.”

  “Very good.” She gives him a rare, unrestrained smile that makes Henry feel as if he’s done something wonderful instead of selfishly agreeing to more spare cash, more bread, more stories.

  “Now, you must go help your mother,” she says.

  Michael stands when Henry does. “Good to meet you, son.” Michae
l surprises Henry by clamping him in a fierce hug, then holding him at arms-length. “And thank you for all you do for our Maria. I hope she is paying you well.”

  Henry stands awkwardly for a moment, as Michael seats himself, tips his refilled glass in Mrs. Bogdanov’s direction, and knocks it back, her eyes trained steadily, almost greedily, on Michael’s face.

  AT THE WEIR, Henry sweeps his binoculars across the churning green water and scans the old wooden trestle bridge, the pedestrian crossing that runs alongside the train tracks spanning the river. A group of joggers is clanging down the metal staircase that connects the bridge to the walking path; a large man follows three women who are followed in turn by two other men, all of them dressed in light jackets, as if for a spring day — and the large man is wearing shorts, even though it’s minus ten or so.

  Henry’s taken the afternoon off work to track down Dan because his mother wants to talk to her eldest son before deciding whether or not to sell the greenhouse. Dan hasn’t seen fit to give Henry his address, if has one, or answer Henry’s emails or phone messages, which is why Henry will be loitering here for god knows how long, hoping to spot the moving target his brother has become. Henry doesn’t know where his brother is but his training route is no secret. Dan always starts upstream, at the Broadway Bridge, runs as far as this bridge, crosses to this side and runs north, then switches back to the east bank again downstream. From there he runs back to where he started and does the whole thing in reverse. Henry’s not sure how many circuits Dan makes, or if this is the right time to be staking out the bridge. He doesn’t know if he’s looking for Dan the solitary runner, or Dan with the ubiquitous Lazenby. Or maybe he’ll be with a group, a neoprene-clad octopus of runners — his running club. Not that it matters. If you’re spending the afternoon spying on the fitness-obsessed, then you’ve got to gawp at all the bodies moving faster than a walk.