The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  I crawled out of bed, opened the front door, and found another carcass waiting for me. I threw on my robe and slippers and proceeded to feed the cat and then the generator. After that I made a cup of coffee and returned to the brisk outdoors to drink it.

  I heard a splashing sound right away, followed by a high-pitched voice shouting ha, like in a karate class. I walked past the clearing and a few feet into the woods. Linny, the young girl I’d seen shouting at Keith a few weeks back, was standing in my pond wearing waders. She gripped a long metal stick and repeatedly stabbed it into the water. The stabbing and the ha were in unison.

  I had no idea what Linny was up to, but I admired her dedication. She didn’t notice me until I spoke.

  “What am I looking at?” I said.

  Linny shifted her hold on the stick so it looked more like a rifle resting against her shoulder.

  “Did I wake you?” she said. “I wasn’t supposed to wake you. I’m here to deliver a message.”

  “Linny, right? What are you doing?”

  “I was spearfishing.”

  “Are there fish worth fishing for in that pond?”

  “I don’t eat fish. I’m practicing against a moving target, that’s all. This isn’t even a proper spear.”

  “I see that. What is it?” I said.

  “It’s a golf club. I cut off the head and sharpened the shaft. Do you want to hear your message?” said Linny.

  “Why not?”

  “Dean Stinson wants you to come to his house. Whenever it’s convenient in the next hour.”

  “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “Dean didn’t say, but there was another old guy with him. I think the other old guy is your father.”

  “What did the other old guy look like?”

  “Gray hair, goatee. Dressed like he’s on a safari.”

  “That’s him,” I said. “I’m going to get dressed. You have five minutes to finish practicing. Then you’ll walk me back to campus and promise not to spearfish unsupervised again.”

  * * *

  —

  After I dressed, I found Linny orbiting my cottage, taking photos of the dirt with her phone. Waders now off, she was wearing military fatigues. I didn’t know they made them in that size.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Have you noticed these footprints?” Linny said.

  I felt a single thump in my chest. I studied the ground as I walked over to Linny. There were footprints surrounding my entire cottage.

  “Do you have exceptionally large feet?” she said.

  “No,” I said. I put my foot next to the print that Linny was studying.

  Linny nodded and then looked up at the sky, like she was doing some kind of internal calculation.

  “I’d say this is the footprint of a male who wears between a size-eight and -eleven shoe,” Linny said.

  I continued around the cottage to the front, where I noticed another set of footprints. The second set was larger, grouped primarily around the front door.

  Linny followed me to the threshold and made a show of studying the larger shoe prints.

  “These shoes are bigger and have deep treads. The smaller prints look like loafers. That’s what the boys wear. Two different individuals, I’d say,” she said.

  I would have been much more amused by the little girl playing detective if two men weren’t casing my home.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  She slung the waders over her shoulder as we headed onto Eliot Trail.

  “You have any theories about the footprints?” Linny said.

  “Someone has been leaving me notes,” I said.

  “Interesting. Where are the notes left?” she asked.

  “Front door,” I said.

  “Hmm,” said Linny. “If he leaves them at the front door, why are his prints all around the cottage?”

  I didn’t want to think too hard about the potential Peeping Tom.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your private PE classes. Wouldn’t joining a team be easier?” I said.

  “Easier, sure. But I’m very dedicated to my independent-study curriculum. Speaking of, I know it’s been asked before, but are you certain you wouldn’t consider teaching a fencing workshop?”

  “I don’t fence.”

  Linny lunged forward and stabbed the air.

  “Keith said it never hurts to ask,” Linny said.

  “Really? He said that?”

  “He did. Is that bad advice?”

  “Not at all. It’s just that I’ve made it abundantly clear to him that I don’t fence,” I said.

  “That’s unfortunate,” Linny said. “It would be nice to be able to wield some kind of weapon, just in case.”

  “In case what?” I said.

  “In case I have to injure, maim, or kill someone. In self-defense, of course,” Linny said.

  “Your beheaded golf club looks like a weapon to me. Be careful with that, will you?”

  “I’m very careful.”

  I realized that Linny might be an excellent source of information if I played my cards right.

  “You don’t know who has been leaving me notes, do you?”

  I could have imagined it, but I think she paused before she answered.

  “I don’t,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “I haven’t seen anyone. But I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” she said, as she continued across Fleming Square with her waders bouncing on her back.

  * * *

  —

  I found Greg and my father sitting on his porch when I arrived. I spun around and started back in the direction I came. Linny had already warned me about my father, so the move was all for show. I was determined to keep my dad at a disadvantage for now. Maybe forever.

  “Alex, please,” Greg said. “Len drove more than two hours. He won’t leave until he speaks to you.”

  Dad was walking the tightrope between irate and terrified.

  “I need your help, Alex. Is it your plan to ignore me for the rest of your life?”

  I turned around and debated whether to stay or go.

  “I have a fresh pot of coffee,” Greg said, retreating inside. “I’ll get you a cup.”

  I pretended the offer of coffee was the tipping point in my decision. I strolled up to the porch, where my dad stood with his arms open for a hug. I wasn’t there yet. I extended my hand. Dad rolled his eyes as we shook hands like business partners.

  “It is wonderful to see you, dear.”

  Dad sat back down on one of Greg’s Adirondack chairs. His manuscript was in a messy stack by his side.

  “How bad is it?” I said, pointing at the manuscript and taking a seat next to my father.

  “You know when you crash your car and it looks like it could be fixed and possibly restored to some semblance of its previous glory, but the cost of repairs is more than the car is worth?” Dad said.

  “Are you saying you totaled your book?”

  “Quite possibly,” Dad said.

  “Sticking with the car analogy, where did you make the wrong turn?”

  “Right after the office is burned to the ground, erasing all evidence of Coburn’s involvement in the ’73 murder. Quinn comes down with the flu. His fever induces visions in which he relives his wife’s death. He realizes she may be alive and he flies to Toledo, still in the throes of a virulent influenza, and he meets a wealthy real estate mogul and his wife. Robert and Marcella Mondavi take Quinn into their home, ostensibly to nurse him back to health. But, of course, they have other motives. Oh yes, and the wife, Marcella, is so beautiful that Quinn begins to doubt that she is real. When Quinn is under their spell, Robert and Marcella convince him that Sanchez is behind his wife’s disappearance. Quinn vows—”
/>   “Stop, Dad. Visions? Fires? Toledo? None of that was in the original plot. Why do you have to Quixote everything?”

  “I love that book. And I hate writing to an outline,” he said, sounding old and deflated.

  It happens with every book. Dad tries to make it on his own (or Cervantes’s) and he goes off the rails. The problem isn’t that he lacks talent; the problem is that he’s never figured out how to make the most of his talent. He has too many ideas and can’t rein them in. He needs round-the-clock editing. That was my mother’s job for many years, even after the divorce. Unfortunately, the longer they worked together, the more hostile the relationship became. Every editorial note was like a razor slice on my dad’s thin skin. At some point, we noticed that Dad’s skin thickens in my company. So now we funnel all of my mother’s notes through me. I am my father’s primary critic in all areas of his life. It’s one of my favorite things about our relationship; I doubt my dad shares that opinion.

  “Send me the file, Dad. I’ll locate the detour and get back to you in a few days,” I said.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  Greg returned to the porch with a cup of coffee.

  I looked at Greg. “You wouldn’t have a to-go cup, would you?”

  “Well, I have a commuter mug you could borrow,” Greg said.

  “That would be awesome,” I said.

  “I wish you would stay,” Dad said.

  “I’m busy fixing your book,” I said.

  While Greg was playing barista, Dad pretended to drink out of an empty mug, just so he’d have something to do. His commitment to the charade was amazing.

  Dad put down his mug and finally met my gaze straight on.

  “I like to think that my flaws helped shape the strong, stubborn woman you are today.”

  Norman Crowley

  Editorial Board Meeting—Minutes

  Present: Mick Devlin (chair), Jack Vandenberg, Adam Westlake, Gabriel Smythe, Norman Crowley (secretary), Jonah Wagman (absent)

  Next meeting: TBD

  Agenda

  New member vote

  Shower terrorist

  Dulcinea status report

  Other business

  There’s a board meeting at least once a month. I have to take the minutes because some knuckle-dragger two years back decided there should be official minutes. The editors never want to see them until they do, and if you don’t have them, all hell breaks loose. I’ve tried everything to get out of the job—the meetings are like a porn-centric think tank—but my resistance is always met with a friendly arm around the shoulder and a veiled threat.

  The first meeting of October had far more agenda points than usual. It began as it always does: Jack lumbered into the lounge and banished all non-board members. Mick sat at his table, with a gavel in hand.

  “Who are we waiting on?” Adam said, knowing the answer already.

  Jack started counting on his fingers. There are five editors, so he was trying to do the math on who was missing. Jack looks like a Viking and can get a keg at the drop of a hat. But he’s not in the Ten for his intellectual gifts.

  “I’ll bet anyone a hundred rubles that Jonah is a no-show once again,” said Gabe.

  Then Gabe began to chuckle, because he’s his own best audience. Sometimes I want to explain to him the basic structure of a joke, how it has to invert the expected. I don’t think he’ll ever get it. When he comes into his inheritance, he can pay people to laugh with him.

  Adam opened the lounge door, where his little brother was parked outside.

  “Smitty,” Adam said. “Go fetch Jonah for me.”

  I can’t remember the sophomore’s name, but it’s not Smitty. Whatever-his-name-is hopped to it. For the next five minutes, as the editors waited for Jonah, we watched Gabe perform a series of impressions that were so inept that it became something of a game, trying to figure out who he was imitating.

  When Jonah finally arrived, he dipped his head into the room and said, “Sorry, guys. Can’t make it. Gotta hit the books.”

  Adam stepped into the hallway and said, “Jonah, my man, this is the third meeting in a row. We’re having a vote tonight.”

  “You can have my proxy,” Jonah said, sinking his hands into his pockets and staring at the ground.

  Adam shook his head, disappointed.

  “You’re not living up to the Bagman rep,” said Adam.

  Jonah’s brother, Jason, was one of the first editors. I think his nickname was Bagman because it rhymed with his last name and he bagged a lot of girls.

  “That’s a tall order. Why even try?” Jonah said. “Later, Adam.”

  Jonah left. I was jealous. It’s ironic that the only thing that could safely extricate me from this exclusive club was status. Mick slammed his gavel and called the meeting to order.

  New Nick, as predicted, was voted onto the board. New guys, the ones sanctioned by the Ten, are typically given only limited Darkroom access until the editors are sure they can be trusted. But I guess Nick was special or something. Only Gabe questioned his meteoric rise in the school hierarchy.

  Earlier that day, I had met with Adam and New Nick and been instructed to create a Darkroom account for VicVega. That’s the username Nick chose. At least he wasn’t yet another numbered Hef. I had to walk Nick through the login process as he created his password. I watched him as he clicked his way through the Darkroom until he found the Dulcinea portal. I was hoping for some kind of reaction—alarm, horror, maybe those cartoon eyes that spring out and retract. But New Nick just looked bored, which was especially annoying for a guy with at least three hot girls vying for his attention.

  The capture of the shower terrorist was next up on the agenda. Adam brought out a stack of red flyers that read WANTED: SHOWER TERRORIST. REWARD: $500. Below that was a black-and-white illustration of a masked man in a striped outfit (like the Hamburglar). He was under a showerhead, framed inside the crosshairs of a rifle scope.

  No one commented on the laughably lousy graphics.

  “I’ve collected three hundred and fifty from the first floor alone,” Adam said. “We’ll start the reward at five hundred and if there’s no action, we’ll collect more.”

  “All in favor,” Mick said.

  Aye, they all said.

  Adam handed off the flyers to “Smitty,” with instructions for where to hang them.

  As aggravating as the shower terrorist was, Dulcinea was the true headliner for the meeting. Apparently, the editors had noticed a decrease in overall Darkroom activity as well as a shortfall of Dulcinea entrants. It was like they were in the video-rental business, struggling to remain relevant.

  “Do we want the Dulcinea tradition to end with the class of 2010?” said Mick.

  “Fuck no,” said Jack.

  “You know what we need,” said Gabe. “A really great ad campaign. What would Don Draper do?”

  “Were you dropped on your head as a child?” Adam said to Gabe.

  “Gabe, I think what Adam is trying to say is that an ad campaign is the last thing we need,” said Mick. “The problem is that our secret society has lost some of the secret part. In the history of Dulcinea, there has always been a select group of girls in the know, and we appreciate their sense of competition. But the competition ultimately relies on the pretense of a traditional courtship.”

  “What?” said Jack.

  Jack often spaces out if communication isn’t limited to a single sentence.

  “Your average girl won’t suck you off if she knows she’s being scored,” said Adam.

  “Riiiiight,” said Jack.

  I went dark for a minute, disappearing into a Bruce Lee fantasy in which I took them all out with my bare hands and feet. They were sprawled on the floor, bloodied and mangled. I felt sick.

  I must have looked ill. Jack as
ked me if I was all right. I forgot I was still in the room. “I’m fine,” I said. Jack told me to hydrate.

  Mick turned to Adam and said, “How do we fix this? We can’t put the genie back in the bottle.”

  “If the problem is the girls are talking to each other, you just have to get them to stop talking,” said Jack.

  “Good luck with that,” said Gabe.

  Adam scribbled something in his notebook, then stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

  “Okay. Well, that’s enough for tonight. Thank you, Norman,” said Adam.

  Jack started to get up but then sat down after Adam made a subtle gesture with his hand.

  “I can go?” I said.

  Adam nodded. It became clear that I was being dispatched while the rest of them remained to strategize against the girls.

  As I walked down the hallway to my room, I could feel the anger coming back. My hands started to shake. I unlocked my door, put the laptop on my desk, and logged onto Blackboard.

  To: Mel Eastman

  From: Bill Haydon

  Re: Darkroom

  Stop trying to scale the walls like a jewel thief. Just fake an invite and get inside like a regular guest. Now. Please.

  Yours,

  Bill

  Gemma Russo

  Saturday morning, Kate sent a text to Mel and me.

  Kate: I’ve found Waffles. Meet @ base. 11:00 a.m.?

  I headed over to my office an hour early. I wanted to be there when my new recruit arrived. Not just because I was anxious to meet her but as a proprietary statement about my space. I unlocked the door to find Linny sprawled out on my couch, in military fatigues, reading some book about poisonous shrubs.

  “Did I leave the door unlocked?” I said.

  “You left the key on your desk. I assumed you made a copy for me.”

  I didn’t. But couldn’t see Linny relinquishing the key without a fight.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I said.

  “I’m doing a survivalist segment in my independent-study PE. In Outward Bound, they drop you off in the wilderness somewhere with a can opener, flint, and salt, and you have to fend for yourself for three days. I’m trying to convince Coach Keith that if I do three full days in the Stonebridge backwoods, then I could cover my PE for the entire year. Or at least this semester.”