The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  Finn: u okay?

  Claude: No.

  I drove straight to her house. I knocked a few times and rang the bell. I tried the door; it was open.

  The house had been trashed, ransacked like in a police search. Every cabinet ajar, drawers on the floor, clothes, knickknacks, the detritus of life spilling out everywhere. There was hardly a path to walk from the entry through the hallway to the kitchen without stepping on a garment or a toppled piece of furniture. The kitchen stank of trash and open bottles of booze. The rotting hors d’oeuvres trays from the wake rested on the island.

  I called out her name. She didn’t answer. I walked down the hallway, peering in bedrooms that were in comparable states of disarray. I briefly checked Claude’s bedroom, even though I knew she would take ownership of the master as soon as she could. I continued down the hall. I didn’t bother to knock. The door was open.

  The room was dark, but the moon shone a bright light through the wall-to-wall windows. Claude lay under the gold duvet of that absurd bed. Her eyes were open with a disturbingly fixed gaze on the night sky. I don’t think she blinked once. If it weren’t for the soft billow of the bedding, I might have thought she was dead.

  I sat down next to her.

  “Claude?” I said.

  She began to cry.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  The words came slowly, between sobs and hiccups, weighed down by whatever drugs or booze she had recently consumed.

  “She…gave…me…nothing. Nothing.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, stroking her hair, trying to calm her.

  I knew she had been counting on the house. But her reaction felt intemperate.

  “No. No. You don’t understand,” she said.

  “What don’t I understand?”

  “This house was mine,” she said. “My stepfather would have wanted me to have it.”

  She cried and then let out a terrifying wail.

  “Claude, stop,” I shouted.

  “You don’t understand,” she repeated. “I earned this house. I worked for this house. I was more of a wife to him than my mother ever was.”

  I knew Claude was fucked up. I had no idea how fucked up. Even as I felt the cold chill of her confession, I wondered if I still had time to get this detail into my book.

  I was fucked up too.

  Norman Crowley

  Jonah had a bunch of stale weed his brother had given him. He decided that the perfect time to smoke it was an hour before the dean’s Thanksgiving dinner. He was certain it would make the food taste good or at least better. I still don’t understand why we went to the dean’s house. The orphans usually eat separately in Dahl. I figured it had something to do with Gemma’s weird thing with Stinson, but I didn’t ask. I had other problems.

  I was jacked up on nerves. We had given Gemma and Mel the keys to the depraved kingdom. One false step and they could destroy us. No, not us, not Jonah; he’d somehow make it through. But I’d be finished, filleted like a fresh sardine and spread on a cracker. I don’t like sardines, but I suddenly wanted to have one. Jonah told me to chill out when I couldn’t stop biting my nails. I smoked more weed, forgetting that weed makes me paranoid and hyperaware.

  On the way to Byron Manor, I could have sworn this bird was following us. I kept looking over my shoulder. I think I told it to shut up.

  “Who are you talking to, Norman?”

  “The bird,” I said.

  I couldn’t believe how calm Jonah was.

  “Talk as little as possible in there, okay?” he said.

  Dean Stinson shook my hand extra hard. And Ms. Witt kept glancing at me with this weird look, like she knew everything written in the Darkroom and thought I was a disgusting pervert. The refrigerator was making a gurgling sound. First I thought it was Jonah’s stomach. Then I thought it was the oven, and I went into the kitchen to investigate.

  I was thirsty. I filled a glass with tap water. I drank it and then another. It seemed impossible to consume enough water to quench my thirst. Coach Keith came up behind me, carrying a bunch of pies. He put them on the counter and looked my way.

  “Relax, Norman,” he said. “No one knows.”

  No one knows what? I thought.

  Ms. Witt’s parents were there. I don’t know why. Her mom’s name was Nastya. Her dad was that famous writer who had two names and I couldn’t remember which one was real. I heard a really weird conversation between Witt’s mom and dad. It was just a few whispers as Nastya left the sitting room.

  “How are things working out with your new assistant?” Nastya said.

  “You are a deeply cruel woman,” the dad said.

  “Not so good, I take it.”

  Then Ford showed up, and all I could think about was Rachel Rose’s scarf on his coat rack. Then Mel and Gemma arrived, giddy and intoxicated on something. Oh yeah: power. They looked like they owned the world. Mel was wearing a deep-purple dress and black boots that laced up to her knees. She had on a lot of eyeliner. She looked like a beautiful villain. Gemma was Gemma, with lipstick on. Jonah told her she looked pretty. She told him to shut up. Gemma looked at me and nodded, saying, “Norman.”

  I think I said hello. I said something. And then she told me to chill out.

  I walked across the room, where there was some kind of appetizer. A ball of something with bread and a wet, crunchy item inside. Celery? I don’t know.

  Dean Stinson gave Gemma something to drink, and he had his hand on her back and she called him Greg. Nobody calls him Greg. It looked wrong.

  I heard someone say something about Ms. Shepherd. It was Mr. Ford. Why was he there? He said she was shattered. Yes, that was the word he used. I tried to push it out of my head. Who cares what Ford thinks about anything? Ms. Shepherd was tough. She was fine.

  The food was weird, not like at my mom’s house. The turkey was shaped all wrong and didn’t taste like turkey. I didn’t know how to describe the taste. People kept saying it was gamey. The word came up a lot. Gamey. Game. It sounds weird if you say it a lot. Maybe all words sound weird if you say them over and over again.

  Dean Stinson got really annoyed with all of the game talk.

  He said, “It tastes gamey because it is game. Would you eat beef and say it tastes beefy?”

  Everything but the mashed potatoes tasted gamey. But there was only one tiny bowl of mashed potatoes and all I wanted to do was eat the whole thing myself. When I asked Jonah to pass me the dish, he took a giant helping first. There were almost no mashed potatoes left for me.

  I went into the kitchen to get water and look for more mashed potatoes. Mel showed up as I was drinking. Water cascaded down my chin. I bet I looked like a crazy person.

  “You okay, Norman?”

  “No. No. I’m not okay. Not okay at all.”

  “You’re really baked, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Relax,” Mel said. “Focus on your breathing.”

  My breathing was so loud, it sounded like I was scuba diving.

  “They know. They all know,” I said.

  Even I didn’t know what I was talking about just then.

  “Norman, try to say something normal.”

  It took me a long time to understand Mel’s instructions.

  “I can’t let you back in the dining room unless you say something normal.”

  “I like your outfit,” I said, maybe five minutes later.

  “Good job, Norman.”

  I searched the countertops for more mashed potatoes, lifted the lids on a few pots and pans. It was disappointing. Someone should have made enough mashed potatoes.

  “What are you looking for?” Mel said.

  “More mashed potatoes.”

  Mel told me to save room for the pies. I asked her if they would be gamey. She
said they would not. She took my glass and filled it in the sink. We returned to the dining room. Witt’s father was talking.

  “I only read the first few pages, but I thought they were charming,” he said.

  Finn looked sour or paranoid or both. I thought maybe he’d also gotten high before coming here. I was really sad that Ms. Shepherd wasn’t there.

  Then Dean Stinson was talking: “I, for one, am ecstatic. Another published novel from our esteemed staff is always good for business. So glad you could make it tonight, Finn.”

  Coach Keith asked what the novel was about.

  “An elite boarding school,” Ford said.

  I really wished that my head was straight so I could follow the conversation. My senior-thesis thing was like a parody of Ford’s novel, even though I wasn’t completely sure what his novel was about. But I was pretty sure. It would have been good information to have, is my point.

  “You can do better than that,” said Witt’s dad.

  Wait, his name is Leonard Witt; his fake name is Len Wilde. Witt/Wilde was drinking a lot. At least, every time I looked at him he was refilling his glass with red wine. I wasn’t judging him.

  “There’s nothing more narcissistic than talking about your work in progress,” Ford said.

  “Do you agree with that assertion?” the dean said to Witt/Wilde.

  “Are you fucking my wife?” Witt/Wilde said.

  “Your ex-wife,” Dean Stinson said. “And, no, I am not, and may I ask you to refrain from using such language in front of my students.”

  “We don’t mind,” Gemma said.

  “They’ve heard it all,” Witt/Wilde said.

  Ms. Witt told her father to chill out, which I think Gemma thought was hilarious. Gemma pretended to look for her napkin under the table, because she couldn’t stop laughing.

  “I just want to know what the book is about,” Coach Keith said.

  I don’t think he wanted to know at all. He just wanted to change the conversation.

  “Yeah,” said Witt. “I wouldn’t mind hearing a little more about the story.”

  “The venison is wonderful,” said Ford.

  Somebody whispered, “Bambi.” Maybe it was me.

  I thought I was eating turkey. I was so confused.

  “I hunted it myself, in the true tradition of an American Thanksgiving,” said Dean Stinson.

  “Did you murder a few Indians while you were at it?” said Witt/Wilde.

  “Indigenous people,” I said.

  My mashed potatoes had vanished again and my glass was empty. Everyone in the room was staring at me.

  Ms. Witt

  I couldn’t begin to unpack the layers of dysfunction at that Thanksgiving dinner. I wish I could claim it was the worst one of my life, but that’s far from the truth.

  I arrived, got a drink, ate an appetizer that I have never had before and hope never to have again. Greg gave me a glass of mulled wine. Keith approached and offered to switch glasses with me.

  “Not mulled,” Keith said.

  “I think I love you,” I said.

  “Drink it first,” he said.

  I took a sip. It was the wine you use to make mulled wine.

  “I like you,” I said.

  My father turned up soon after. Uninvited, of course.

  “Why are you here?” I said, cornering Dad in the foyer.

  “The post office isn’t open today,” Dad said.

  He opened his satchel and delivered a thick manuscript. I glanced at the title page. Mr. Finch by Finn Ford.

  “And I wanted to see my daughter on Thanksgiving,” said Dad.

  “Did you read it?”

  “About fifty pages,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “I was hoping it was awful.”

  “Well?”

  “No. It’s a competent piece of fiction. A little too scandalous if you ask me. Kids today are screwed up, no doubt. They’re not that screwed up.”

  I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. There was a knock. I shoved the manuscript back in my father’s bag and opened the door. Finn was standing there. He appeared confused when he noticed my father.

  “I believe you two have met,” I said.

  They shook hands.

  Finn started to tell me something about Claude, but then my father interrupted us to congratulate Finn on his brilliant novel. My father tosses that word around like birdseed. Then Dad asked Finn if he wanted a drink, because Dad really wanted a drink.

  We sat down for dinner. Greg took the seat right between my parents.

  Norman was so baked he could barely lift his fork to his mouth without getting lost along the way. Jonah kept whispering instructions to him. Mel was complaining to Gemma about the silverware. At least I think that’s what she was talking about.

  “Why not three or five? It’s always four,” Mel said.

  The dinner conversation got weird when my Dad inquired about sexual relations between Greg and my mother. The main course was horrendous. And, no matter how much Greg didn’t want to hear it, gamey. Keith’s pies were excellent, and the bottomless pot of mashed potatoes was prescient.

  Once the desserts were consumed, I told everyone under the age of twenty-five to get out while the going was good. Greg invited all of the “adults” into the sitting room, where we sipped sweet vermouth on top of vodka and mulled wine. We were grown-ups and we still didn’t see how that was a bad idea.

  Keith asked Finn again what the book was about.

  “It’s about a teacher at a private school, navigating the tumultuous terrain of adolescent angst,” Finn said, his nostrils flaring.

  My father poured another glass of sweet vermouth and interrupted.

  “Son, you’ll never get anywhere if you can’t do a proper elevator pitch. You’re burying the lead. It’s a twisted noir about a bizarre sexual competition that has become the backbone of the social hierarchy at a long-standing boarding school.”

  I choked on the vermouth and had a coughing fit. It sure sounded like Finn’s book was a novelization of Stonebridge life. I must have been giving him some weird looks. Finn quickly made his excuses and left.

  Keith headed into the kitchen to do the dishes. I followed him and offered to dry. The task gave me the opportunity to check in on the sitting room and make sure no one was saying anything that couldn’t be unsaid.

  “Did you hear that?” I said.

  “What?” Keith said.

  “Finn’s book. It sounds just like Stonebridge.”

  “Write what you know,” Keith said.

  “Are there any men who can come up with an original plot?” I said.

  Keith shrugged. “Dunno. Don’t write.”

  “You’re growing on me,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, Keith helped me relocate my deeply inebriated father to my apartment. Then we did rounds, confirming all of the orphans were safely tucked in their dorms.

  Keith said he had to put some equipment away in the gym and asked for my assistance. I followed him back across the desolate campus into Beckett Gym. As we walked along the first-floor corridor, I spotted a blowchart on the wall. It was ripped and wrinkled, like it had been taken down and put back up. Keith removed a pushpin and smoothed it out again.

  “Found that in the trash. Martha was on a tear that day,” Keith said.

  “You put that back up?”

  “It seems like sound advice,” he said. “And I’m not even your target audience.”

  Other than the bathhouse, the gym was foreign territory for me. Keith led me into a large echo chamber with a slick wooden floor and clean white walls, where they held basketball, wrestling, dance practice, and independent-study Ping-Pong. The space was immaculate. I didn’t see a single piece of equipment out of place. I f
ollowed Keith to the supply closet. He opened the door and turned on the light. Again, all of the supplies—basketballs, baseball bats, mitts, and lacrosse sticks—were neatly tucked away.

  “Catch,” Keith said, as a fencing foil swirled in the air above me.

  I caught the handle mid-flight, my left foot instinctually stepped back, and my right arm froze into position. I caught myself en garde before I let my fighting arm drop to my side.

  “I knew it,” Keith said, shaking his head.

  “Not a word,” I said.

  “Sure,” Keith said. “How good are you?”

  “Just okay,” I said.

  It’s all relative, I suppose. I went to college on a fencing scholarship. I didn’t win a bronze medal.

  Gemma Russo

  Mel began to get paranoid about leaks. The talk of swallows and spies made her think she actually was a spy and, overnight, she became consumed by notions of every double-cross scenario she could imagine. Mel’s brain fixated on moles, double agents, stool pigeons, poisoned umbrella tips.

  Kate returned to campus Friday night. I told her that we’d gotten into the Dulcinea portal, and she couldn’t wait until the end of break to see it. Mel, in her paranoid state, found Kate’s early return highly suspicious. Mel began to wonder whether Kate was a mole, even though we had no evidence to suggest there was one. Kate, sensing Mel’s distrust, offered to take a blood oath and pulled a safety pin from her skirt. I spat on my hand and suggested that saliva was as good and unsanitary a contract as anything.

  After we solidified our spit sisterhood, we got back to work.

  Now that we had the intelligence to destroy our enemy, we needed to design a strategy. Mel wanted to go “full nuclear,” as she called it, which involved lifting the curtain on the Darkroom, door thirteen, and every voting grid in the Dulcinea contest. Kate favored the idea of gaslighting the editors—she wanted to destroy their sanity long before we razed the Darkroom and everything it fed. I liked both ideas; each course of action could present different levels of satisfaction.