As the Crow Flies

by Rysa Walker

  “Baby not sleeping?”

  “Nah, Aali’s fine. Just…other stuff. What’s up with you?”

  Ben digs the lottery stub out of his pocket and holds it up so that Luke can see the black dot. Luke winces.

  “Yeah,” Ben says. “Lucky me. I’m heading to the store to buy the damn pumpkin now. Maybe MB will help me carve it before I go off to face my untimely death.”

  “Man, don’t even joke about that place,” Luke says. “I’d offer to go with you, but we all know that brothers don’t make it out of haunted houses. Just…get in and out quick, okay? I’ve heard some stories about that place.”

  Ben, who has also heard stories, waves it off. “Not planning on hanging around. Gonna drop the jack-o’-lantern on the porch, take a photo, and head back down to the party.”

  “Speaking of,” Luke begins.

  “No way! You’re kidding. Carly’s letting you out for the bonfire?”

  “Uh, no. Actually, Carly appears to have gone to visit her sister. Unannounced. Her car’s still under the shed, but she and Aali are gone. Didn’t even leave a damn note. But it’s not the first time. You know Carly. She does what she wants.”

  “Yeah. So then I’ll see you at—” Ben cuts himself off as he catches the gist. “Ah. Got it. I won’t see you there, but if anyone happens to ask…”

  “Exactly,” Luke says. “Like I said, she’s gone, but if she comes back and I’m not around, I may need cover.”

  Ben shakes his head. “You know I’ll cover for you, man, but why not just end it now? If you don’t love each other, you’re not doing that baby any favors in the long run.”

  “And never see my kid again? Not happening.”

  “You don’t know that for certain. If you pay child support, Carly won’t have a choice, right?”

  Luke’s mouth twists. “She’d find a way. You know Carly.”

  Ben does know Carly. And he also knows Luke well enough to suspect that there’s one thing that might weigh in Carly’s favor with some of the bass-ackward judges in the state. They tend to favor moms over dads in custody battles on general principle. That would go double if there was even the slightest suspicion that dad was gay. So he just claps Luke on the shoulder again and says, “Consider it done. If anyone asks, I’ll say we split a six-pack and talked football. I’ll even mention your name to a few people. Say they just missed you. Give you a little extra cover.”

  “Thanks, man. I just need some time away. Today has been…crazy.”

  They both pause, and Ben gets the sense that Luke is on the verge of saying more. But given how weird Ben’s own day has been, he’s not sure he could be properly sympathetic. And he doesn’t have time, anyway. He’s got to pick out a pumpkin and smooth things over with MB, and he’s already late picking up Chase.

  “Tell me about it,” he says in a tone that means the exact opposite as he slides behind the wheel. “Have a good time, man. We need to go fishing again soon and catch up. Assuming I make it down from Grimshaw in one piece, that is.”

  Luke nods, giving Ben a look that’s an odd mix of worry and relief. “Sure thing. Be careful up there tonight, okay?”

  When Ben gets to Blaine’s Grocery, he picks out a small, pathetic-looking pumpkin from the dwindling stack outside the store. It’s the last of the five-dollar pumpkins, and he can barely afford it, let alone one of the ten-buck monstrosities that are still plentiful. Sure, there are a few soft spots on the smaller one, but that could be a mixed blessing since he thinks there’s a decent chance Marybeth will shove the thing into his face.

  When he pulls into the Jenkins’ driveway ten minutes later, MB is reading on the porch swing. She doesn’t look up from her book, even though his truck is far too noisy for her not to have heard him arrive. Operation Cold Shoulder has begun. With a sigh, Ben gets out of the truck and crosses the front lawn toward her, dinky little pumpkin in hand.

  “Hey, babe.”

  She holds up a finger, and he’s actually relieved, since it wasn’t the finger he was expecting. He places the pumpkin on the top step and waits patiently until she closes the paperback—I’m Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid.

  Well, that’s not at all what he wanted to see. He smiles grimly. “Good book?”

  She looks down at the cover—a car buried in snow next to a glowing streetlamp—and shrugs. “Yeah. A little unnerving, though.”

  He reaches for it, relieved when she doesn’t snatch it out of his hands. She can’t be too mad. Tapping the title, he says, “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  MB doesn’t crack a smile. “Not everything is about you, Ben. Sometimes a book is just a book.”

  And sometimes it isn’t, he thinks. But he’s smart enough not to push it.

  Ben reaches down and takes her hand, pulling her to her feet. The paperback slides from her lap, landing on the porch with a soft thud. He wraps his arms around her body, and for a moment he can feel the old MB there. The one who laughed at his stupid-ass jokes. The one whose superpower was long kisses in a dark movie theater or the back of his truck. As she relaxes into him, Ben feels time rolling back, all those years tumbling like dominos until they are back when love was everything, and the only thing MB wanted was him.

  Years? Wait…where did that come from? They’ve been together thirteen months. Almost exactly thirteen months.

  Marybeth stiffens and pulls away. Maybe she picked up on his confusion, but probably not. This is their pattern now. A short hug, a chaste kiss. Occasionally something more if she’s in the mood or—Ben hates this but knows it’s true—simply in the mood to spite her father. But it’s always quick and perfunctory. Almost impersonal, like he’s not even there.

  “What’s with the pumpkin?” she asks.

  “Well,” Ben says, picking it up from the step, “I know you’re still pissed at me for this morning. I’m really sorry I was late. And I was thinking it might be therapeutic for you—and safer for me—if you take out your anger on this guy instead.”

  She raises an amused eyebrow. “This is your idea of a peace offering? I haven’t carved a jack-o’-lantern since I was a kid.”

  Ben frowns. They carved a pumpkin last Halloween with Chase. It was one of the first things they’d ever done with him after they became a couple. He’s pretty sure she said they should make it a tradition.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he says, giving her his best smile. “Just a bit achy from practice.”

  Marybeth looks at the pumpkin doubtfully. “It looks a little…rotten. What if we cut into it and spiders and snakes crawl out?”

  “Spiders and snakes? Inside a pumpkin?”

  “Like that Halloween movie. I don’t know which number. The one with the masks but without Michael Myers. When the kids put the masks on, they turned their brains to mush.” She gives a playful shudder.

  “Didn’t see that one—and I’m actually glad I missed it. Since we aren’t planning to wear the pumpkin, I think it’ll be okay, but…I probably do need to let you know we can’t actually keep it.” He pulls the slip of paper from his pocket and shows her the black dot.

  Her reaction surprises him. He was expecting her to be at least a little pissed that the pumpkin wasn’t entirely an apology gift, but her eyes light up instead. “We’re going up to the Grimshaw place?”

  Ben thinks back to Chad’s face when they were talking in the hallway. The guy wasn’t the type that he’d have thought of as superstitious, but something up there had frightened him. And even though he’d love the company, especially her company, he’s not sure taking Marybeth is a good idea.

  Her eyes narrow. “Oh no you do not, Benjamin Rey. This pumpkin doesn’t make up for you ditching me this morning.”

  “I didn’t ditch you. Really. I was just running a few minutes—”

  “But,” she continues, “taking me with you to a haunted house…might. It’s totally unfair that this tradition is just guys, and we’re going to fix that. Tonight.” She gives
him a smug smile. “I’ll run and grab a knife and something to catch all of those spiders and snakes when they come wriggling out.”

  The door has barely banged shut behind her when a car pulls up. Marybeth’s father, Scott, revs the engine of his newish black BMW, then screeches to a halt in front of the mailbox. Ben gives him a half-hearted wave, which Scott doesn’t return.

  “Nothing I love better than parking on the street in front of my own house.”

  “Sorry about that, sir.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Ben clears his throat. This is the standard ritual. He’s been dating the man’s daughter for over a year, and not once has there been a congenial word. Scott Jenkins always looks at Ben like he’s something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “I brought Marybeth a pumpkin. Thought we could carve it together. For Halloween.” Ben doesn’t mention the Grimshaw house. He’s guessing that MB, who is now standing in the doorway, won’t mention it either. Or at least not until the deed is over and done, when she decides to brag about it to her father to show that he doesn’t control her, and she will do whatever she pleases, thank you very much.

  Right now, however, she has on her best little-girl smile. “Daddy! What are you doing home so early?”

  Scott returns the smile. “I was under the impression that I live here. Although”—he casts a sideways look at Ben—“you’d never know that from where I was forced to park.”

  “I thought you had a meeting at the church.”

  “It was canceled. I’ve been over at Barb Starrett’s house. Just awful.” He glances at MB. “I take it you haven’t heard, then. Suicide. Two in one day, actually. And both of them women who know it’s a sin against God to take your own life.”

  Jenkins pauses for dramatic effect, clearly waiting for one of them to ask the obvious question.

  MB obliges. “Oh my!” she says in her prim daddy’s-girl voice. “But who was the other person?”

  Scott sighs. “Miss Martha. Today was her ninety-third birthday, but I guess she thought she knew better than the Lord. Stuck her head in the oven and turned on the gas.”

  “Oh, no. Daisy was just there this morning interviewing her for the paper,” MB says. “Ms. Starrett lives on that same street. Was she in the house with her?”

  “No,” Scott says. “The other incident happened at the library. Starrett snatched that Vance kid’s gun out of his belt and shot herself. Reverend Kennedy tried to say she might not have—”

  “Do you know if my brother was with her?” Ben interrupts, certain that it will piss off both MB and her father. But he has to know.

  “Oh, yes,” Jenkins says. “He was there.”

  A knot of guilt twists Ben’s stomach, and he sends up a silent prayer, hoping Chase didn’t actually see the woman kill herself. That he hadn’t been in danger. Damn it, he should never, never have left him there.

  “That’s why I was doing the lion’s share of ministering to a grieving family today,” Scott continues, “even though I’m not the one who gets the paycheck. The good Reverend was too busy—”

  Ben interrupts again. “MB, I have to pick up Chase. Is it okay if I bring him back to help us carve the pumpkin?”

  Marybeth’s mouth twists. “I guess you’re planning to bring him with us to the…party, too? At Sidney’s house?”

  There’s no party at Sidney’s house. Ben doesn’t even know a Sidney, so this must be some cover story MB concocted to get out of the house tonight.

  “No. I…um…”

  But he can’t really say what he’s going to do. Not until he sees Chase to be sure that he’s okay. And Marybeth knows him well enough to tell what he’s thinking.

  “Don’t worry about the pumpkin,” she says breezily. “Daddy will help me carve it, won’t you, Daddy?”

  Scott beams at her. “Sure, baby. We’ll take it out on the back deck like we used to when you were little.”

  “Perfect!” She flashes Ben a tight smile. “Go, then. Take care of your brother. But don’t be late picking me up. Again.”

  Ben is certain he’ll lose points for not apologizing, for not groveling, but he’s already in his truck by the time the last word leaves her mouth.

  Six

  RAUM

  HEY ZO:

  I know you’re in here. Skulking about in your orange fur, sticking your nose into things that are not your business. We had an agreement that you would observe, not interfere. Your little stunt with Martha has taken us well past trust but verify.

  Consider yourself lucky that I’m rather fond of the cat you’re wearing. She’s been with me since 1.0. Otherwise, you’d have been smashed flat on the sidewalk and would have had to find an ant or an earthworm for transportation. Oh…that’s right. No ants, earthworms, flies, gnats, or even pesky mosquitos in this iteration. Either way, I’m not sure how you’re planning to get back to the portal without the crow you rode in on.

  Except the crow isn’t the only thing you brought in, is it? Ol’ White Eyes was right behind you.

  We had an agreement. This world is MINE.

  I want both of you out. And since you’re the one who apparently left the door cracked, I expect you to deal with the vermin that wandered in.

  If you can’t find a way to fix this, I will. But I don’t think you’ll like my methods.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One

  CHASE

  Something flashes in Chase’s peripheral vision. At first, he thinks it’s the cat again. He turns away from the window looking into Martha Yarn’s kitchen toward the tree in her backyard, even though he’s afraid he’ll see bright-orange sneakers and his body dangling from one of the branches.

  What he sees instead is a pale-pink pulse of light.

  Chase moves to the edge of the tiny deck and sits on the top step. Behind him, Daisy and Tucker are talking about the new message on the fridge. About something called Xyleva. Daisy isn’t exactly lying to Tucker. It is a medication. In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s one that he’s taken himself, back in the other reality. But Daisy isn’t telling Tucker the whole truth. Chase isn’t sure how he knows this, but he does.

  Their conversation exists only as a faint echo in his head, however. It fades away completely as he focuses on the ball of light, which is gradually morphing into the shape of a woman.

  Or, to be more precise, a witch.

  He’s only seen the movie once, back when he was a little kid. Ben thought he would like it, but he really didn’t, although some of the songs were pretty good. Chase can’t remember the witch’s name, only that she’s from either the North or the South. A good witch. The bad witches were East and West. The good witch in Martha’s backyard is wearing the same costume as in the movie, with a tall silvery crown and a skirt so wide that half the population of Munchkinland could easily hide underneath.

  He thinks the woman was in a bubble in the movie. She’s not in a bubble here, but she floats toward Chase nevertheless, hovering a few inches above the ground, blocking his view of the tree. Or at least, his view of where the tree was, because the twilight is rapidly fading to jet black. He blinks, and he’s once again in the void, like he was at school earlier. Daisy, Tucker, and Martha’s house have completely vanished.

  Only this time in the void, he’s holding a tablet computer like the one he owns in the other reality. The tablet his dad gave him for his tenth birthday. He remembers breaking it, but he can’t recall how.

  The witch woman—Glinda, that’s her name—is inside the tablet now, staring back at him. This means he’s not completely alone in the void like he was last time, but Chase isn’t sure that’s a good thing. Glinda the Good Witch creeped him out almost as much as the one with the green face. It was mostly her voice, high and saccharine. He guessed she was supposed to sound kind, but it rang false to him even as a little kid. She seemed like someone who would smile blissfully as she shoved you into Martha Yarn’s oven.

  The witch woman inside his tablet stops, co
cking her blonde head to one side, and then huffs in frustration. Her form changes again, not just once but several times. All of the images are female and vaguely familiar, like he’s seen them in a book or movie, but there’s no one he fully recognizes.

  Finally, the woman takes the shape of someone he does know. The resemblance isn’t perfect, but she looks a bit like Molly Weasley from the Harry Potter movies, and he’s watched those movies more than once. He likes Mrs. Weasley. If he could pick a mom from any fictional world, it would be her. Even when she was yelling at her kids, you could tell she loved them. She was yelling because she loved them. Because she wanted them to be their best. And she’d put a major hurt on anyone who ever tried to harm them. Or anyone who tried to harm Harry, for that matter.

  The woman who resembles Molly Weasley smiles, clearly more confident now that she sees the recognition in his eyes. He thinks she took a gamble with the first one and then cycled through her database of “good witch” images until she found one that made him comfortable. One that he might trust.

  That fact makes him decidedly uncomfortable and untrusting. It feels like he’s being played. The woman’s face falls, and her shape wavers again before settling back on Almost Molly.

  “Please,” she says. “I was just searching for a form that would reassure you.”

  Her mouth moves in time with the words, but he doesn’t hear the words so much as he senses them. It’s like he’s experiencing her thinking the words, but there are also visual elements, too. It’s a strange feeling, and it makes his head throb.

  “Maybe try being honest,” Chase suggests. “Instead of hiding behind a disguise.”

  “No. You would be frightened. Overwhelmed.”

  Chase, who had half expected this answer, says, “Then I can’t trust you. Even if you do look like Mrs. Weasley.”

  “Things that appear frightening are not always evil, Chase Rey. And things that are pleasing to the eye—”