One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow: A Novel

by Olivia Hawker

  I found the river high and vigorous, as I had expected, with the water encroaching on the cottonwoods, seeping up in wide puddles beside the trail and gleaming mirrorlike between small stones pressed into the soil. I wondered if we’d see enough autumn rains that the river would escape its banks entirely, and wash away the bones of the man buried so close to its shore. Maybe Substance would prefer that, I thought. Since he still insisted on remaining whole, stubbornly maintaining himself in defiance of death’s natural order, he might at least enjoy a change of scenery.

  When I reached his resting place, I saw that the wind and rain had put some of my gifts out of order. Many of the feathers had come dislodged from their stones and had blown into the nearby grasses, where they clung bedraggled and sodden. Some were gone altogether. The crow’s skull had toppled down the shallow curve of the mound. I righted it, placing it on one end of the grave, where I thought Substance’s head probably lay. Then I slipped the straw bracelet over my hand and set it among the other offerings.

  You won’t believe all that’s happened, I told Substance. My ma actually went up into the hills alone. Can you imagine her doing such a thing?

  His only response was a general feeling of contempt.

  You needn’t try to scorch me, I said. However little regard you held for my mother, she thought you ten times worse. She was only amusing herself, same as you were, but she’s alive and you ain’t.

  Substance had no answer for that. I let the stillness exist between us for a while, blank and monotonous like the sound of the river running. I thought it might be good for him, to know that stillness. I thought it might inspire him to go. But after a time, I could tell he was still there, waiting for me to say something, hungry for the sound of a human voice.

  I can tell you’ve got something more to say, I told Substance. But you’ll have to say it without insulting my ma, for I won’t hear a word against her. She’s a good woman—just lonesome and sad, for she thinks she’s isolated here on the farm.

  I didn’t expect the answer I received. I felt what Substance had been feeling, those long days of rain when he’d lain there, immobile in the tight fist of earth while the new wild coldness of rainwater pressed down from above.

  The grave is cold, he seemed to say. It’s colder than I can bear.

  Then don’t bear it. All you need to do is unbecome.

  And then such a mournful misery swept over me that I fell to my knees beside his cold, green-blanketed bed. He was waiting, Substance told me. He must remain where he was because he didn’t know. He couldn’t see what his son would become—whether Clyde would be safe, whether Clyde could survive without him.

  I left my boy too soon, Substance told me. Though it was none of my doing, none of my choice to die when I did. My boy, my only son, the last child left to me. What will he become without me? And if he is to die—if he’s too small to manage on his own—then I must shepherd him in death, for I failed to shepherd him in life.

  My mind went blank and flat then, a slate wiped clean. I reached out into the world with every sense I had—sight and smell, the feel of rainwater soaking through my skirt to my bare knees. And all the senses besides, the ones for which there are no names, the ones that guide the birds in migration and tell the frogs to wake in spring and tell me all the things I need to know. I reached and waited and opened myself to the knowing. And then I saw Clyde as Substance saw him: a small boy, no taller than the prairie grass, wide eyed and quiet with fear. Clyde had always been this fragile, precious thing in Substance’s reckoning, a child as easily lost as the rest had been. The final refrain in a litany of sorrow.

  So that’s why you were always so mean and hard, I said to Substance. That’s why you hurt Clyde, and Nettie Mae, too. You wanted to make him stronger. You wanted them both to be strong. But you know now, don’t you? You know you treated them rotten all those years. You were afraid for them, Substance—afraid you would lose them both and be left with nothing, no family at all. So you hardened yourself and hoped the fear couldn’t touch you. But once you’ve turned yourself to stone, love can’t reach you, either.

  Substance had no answer save for a terrible, writhing pain that sickened my stomach and loosened my bowels. There was a taste in my mouth like ash, dry and grim, yet strangely compelling. I had to take slow breaths and press my hand to my middle so I wouldn’t be sick, and through the waves of nausea and shame I came to understand that I was feeling Substance’s love. Or at least, I felt his regret over never having shown love properly before.

  That’s why you won’t leave, I said. That’s why you won’t let go. You’re hanging on till you know Clyde and Nettie Mae are safe. Or is it forgiveness you want? If it’s forgiveness you’re after, then I ain’t sure you’re entitled to it. The way you treated your son and your wife—was that what you called love? Darkening your hearth, making your family live in fear of your anger? And never allowing a kind word, nor any smallest affection?

  He was angry with me. He didn’t like to have it all laid bare—his weakness, his failings. Especially not now, when he couldn’t get away.

  I said, It ain’t love to rage and lash out like a rabid dog. You didn’t really love your wife, nor Clyde, either. You made them to worship you, same as they worship God, with fear and trembling. What love you had was all for yourself, not for anyone else. Not Nettie Mae, not your son, and not my mother, either. My good, kindly ma—you wanted her to love you, too. You wanted her to give and give of herself for your gratification, because you thought you deserved everything, all the time and attention and tenderness of everyone within your sight. But now here you are, caught like a pebble under the ground. Now you see you’re as small and insignificant as any other man. Now you see how ordinary you always were.

  Substance met my tirade with silence, but there was a calmness to it, a peace I’d never thought to find beside his grave. I was right, and he knew it. The coldness of the earth, its undeniable weight, had humbled him at last. He would make no more argument—at least not that day.

  Help me, he seemed to say. Or if you won’t help me, then help Clyde. He’s but a young thing. He hasn’t had his life yet. And now that I’m gone, and he’s got a real chance for happiness, it’d be an injustice for him to die so soon, to fall prey to this wilderness. Help him, please, girl. I can do nothing.

  I will, I said. The memory of autumn rain still surrounded Substance and chilled him, made him eager to hear my words. If I can be of any help to Clyde, in anything, you can rest assured I will. But not for your sake. I’ll do it for him, and for me—for the sake of what we will become.

  I could see it then, what we would become. Not only Clyde and me, but everyone, everything—all that lived and breathed and grew on our two farms, reaching roots and branches across the boundary lines, merging into one. The fragmented parts we once had been could fit so easily together.

  CLYDE

  Roots and branches and chips of pine, roughly split from the log—Clyde took every stick, every sliver George Crowder had for sale.

  “It isn’t the prettiest load of firewood I’ve ever hauled down from the foothills,” George said, pulling the felt cap from his balding head. He mopped the sweat from his pate with a grimy rag that he extracted from a trouser pocket. “By rights, I ought to have cut sounder pieces. But it’s bitterly cold up there in the hills already. I feared if I drove any higher up the trail, I would run into snow, what with all the rain we’ve seen of late.”

  “Doesn’t matter what it looks like.” Clyde tossed another armful of wood into his wagon. “Only matters that it’ll burn.”

  “As to that, this wood must be seasoned, or it won’t burn at all. Or at least, not much.”

  Clyde grunted, nodded, and went on stacking the jumble of branches and gnarled pine roots as best he could. One piece tumbled from the top of the pile and rolled down the side. Clyde paused, cautious, waiting to see whether the heap of pine would hold or whether another cascade would break loose. He had lost count of ho
w many times those uneven scraps of wood had clattered and rolled along the wagon bed already. Clean, well-cut logs would have stacked much more securely, tight and sound against the long miles that lay between Paintrock and the Bemis homestead. But George Crowder was the only fellow Clyde had found who had plenty of fuel for sale. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, as his mother often said.

  “Do you have a good spot for seasoning wood?” George asked. He passed another bundle of pine up to the wagon bed, and Clyde did his best to position the pieces. “Someplace dry, and out of the wind?”

  “Yessir. There’s plenty of space in the barn. I’ve seasoned wood every year since I was knee high to a frog. Don’t you worry about me none, Mr. Crowder.”

  George flushed. “Of course you have. Look at you; a big, strapping . . . er . . .”

  The man turned away for another load of wood before Clyde could see his blush deepen. He had very nearly called Clyde a boy. That’s how he sees me. Too young for common sense, and helpless now that I’ve lost my father.

  Clyde’s first impulse was to make some smart retort, but he thought better and let Mr. Crowder’s comment pass. He wasn’t likely to find another source of wood today—and with the weather taking such a quick and decisive turn, he might not have a chance to return to Paintrock till the spring thaw came. And anyway, Clyde thought, I guess every fella who ever lived has been where I am now. No longer a boy, but not exactly a man. There was no sense in getting sore.

  “I sure am grateful to you,” Clyde said, by way of smoothing over the rough patch between them. “This wood might not be the prettiest a fella ever cut, but it’ll keep a fire going in the hearth all winter long.”

  George straightened from his woodpile with a sheepish grin. The smile faded when he met Clyde’s eye.

  “Say, Clyde. You’re looking peaky. Are you well?”

  “Had a bit of a fever, few days past. I’m dandy now, though.”

  Clyde still felt hollowed out by that dreadful illness. His legs trembled; every load of wood he accepted from George Crowder’s arms seemed to weigh twice what the last had. He had found his chores slow going since rising from his sickbed but had comforted himself with the knowledge that strength and vigor would soon return. Now, however, Clyde’s certainty was fading. The quiver in his limbs and the strange void in his middle had lingered unabated. He feared he might remain as useless as a toddler all the rest of his days.

  George and Clyde wedged the final pieces of wood in the wagon bed. The load filled all but the last few feet of space, and Clyde felt he had packed the ill-fitting pieces tightly enough that the weight wouldn’t shift on the long drive home. George helped him stretch a piece of oiled canvas across the bed, from wall to wall, and secure it with a few frayed pieces of rope. Then Clyde reached into his pocket.

  “How much did you say, again?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Clyde wouldn’t allow himself to wince. The price was high—especially for branches and poorly cut pieces. But the Bemises couldn’t hope to survive the winter without that supply. There was nothing for it but to pay. He counted thirteen dollars into Crowder’s palm, then shook the man’s hand and climbed up into the seat. The sooner he made for home, the better. The sky was a patchwork of blue and gray; God alone could tell whether the rain would come drifting back that afternoon, catching Clyde cold and exposed on the lonesome road.

  At least the two bay fillies would pay no heed to the rain, if foul weather caught them on the homeward journey. Clyde had spent the summer training the pair and breaking them to the harness—and now, on their first drive to Paintrock, he felt certain he had chosen the fillies well. They had already proved both sensible and biddable, for Clyde had put them through the most rigorous of paces since recovering from his fever. True, the fillies were still young, so Clyde kept a sharp eye out for signs of flightiness. But even driving rain hadn’t upset them. The bays had worked eagerly around both farms, despite the pall of weather that had dulled recent days, and he took no small amount of pride in them. If his strength—his very worth as a man—remained a matter of question, at least no one could say that his reputation as a horseman had suffered from the fever.

  Clyde put George Crowder’s acreage to his back. The road broadened, revealing Paintrock just ahead. The bays stepped out smartly when Clyde flicked the reins and clucked for a little speed, though their ears turned and their tails lashed in protest at the new weight of the laden wagon. Clyde soothed his fillies with sweet words, and they settled at once, trusting to his voice and his hands. He would hate to part with them someday, when they were fully trained, broke to the saddle and tested in their mettle. But what a fine price they might bring. With two households to care for—at least till Ernest Bemis was let out of jail—Clyde would need every penny he could get.

  Wind rippled over the prairie, bending sage and spent grasses, moving in arrowhead waves of silver and palest green. A band of cloud stretched overhead, shadowy and ash gray, and a scatter of stray raindrops fell across the road. Each drop seemed to hang in isolation, golden and luminous, struck by a sideways slant of light. The rain drummed on the brim of Clyde’s hat. A few drops ran around its edge, gathering in a fat globe that hung for a moment at the corner of his vision, glinting and blue. Then the drop broke under its own weight, spattering on the wagon seat beside him.

  He looked at the place where the drop had fallen, a circle of darkness on aged wood, the edges splayed and reaching. Like the soil darkened and wet under his father’s body.

  Clyde swallowed hard, willing his heart to steadiness within his hollow chest. All that morning, well before dawn, as he’d hitched the bay fillies to the wagon and taken to the road, Clyde had felt thick and stupid, burdened by more than the weakness that trailed in the fever’s wake. Fear had followed him then. It trailed after him still. A terrible, stark certainty that now, at last, grief or anger over his father’s death would overtake him and he would weep. But out there, below a patchwork of cloud, Clyde found nothing more terrible waiting for him than a blunt, easy acceptance. His father was dead. Substance was as gone now, as absent from the world, as the cicadas were absent from the wet sagebrush, as the birds from the weeping sky. And in the suddenness of Substance’s departure, Clyde had done what needed doing. There was no reason to grieve, no reason to rail. The sun rose farther to the south each day. The year, like life, carried on.

  One of the fillies tossed her head, shying at a rut in the road. Clyde steadied both horses with the reins, but the wagon lurched and bumped, striking the rut at a shallow angle. Something rattled around Clyde’s boots, jumping and scooting with the vibrations of the road. He glanced down. A corn seed shivered between his heels. The seed must have fallen into a crack and wedged itself there . . . and all at once it was Beulah, not Substance, who sprang up in his mind. The girl appeared as if she were really there before him, as if she sat astride the near filly, backward, watching Clyde with those solemn, knowing, inescapable eyes. He blinked and told himself not to be a fool. He was still under the grip of fever. He stared hard at the bay filly’s back—naked save for the harness, no rider, no girl, hide dappled by the light rain—and he wished he were at home instead, breaking his back over double chores with no time to stop and think, no time to dwell in the undergrowth of his mind.

  But Clyde wasn’t at home. He was twenty miles away, and his team didn’t offer much in the way of distracting conversation. Soon he could see Beulah’s wrists again—couldn’t escape the memory—then the curve of her back as she stooped, picking up cornstalks. Her back was like a sapling bent toward the earth: lively with all its young strength, quick to spring up when you let go your hold. He shouldn’t be thinking of Beulah that way, not after what her father had done. And his mother would never forgive him if she found out he’d taken a shine to the Bemis girl. But he had taken a shine; there was little sense denying it now. That odd girl with her dreamy habits, her way of seeming half cut loose from reality. Beulah had taken up residence in Clyde’s
imagination. There seemed no point in telling her to leave.

  I guess it’s only natural, he told himself. He was a young fellow, and didn’t young fellows always go staring and mooning after girls about their age? The corn seed skittered from one side of the toeboard to the other. Clyde kicked it away and sent it flying out into the grass.

  There was more to this business with Beulah than mooning and staring, though. Clyde could admit that much. Something about the girl both haunted and compelled him, something beyond the mere fact of her femaleness. She had a way. With the farm, the animals, with Clyde himself. Beulah’s calm demeanor didn’t seem quite natural—her unflappable acceptance of all things. Men and women alike struggled through life, struggled for life. Wasn’t the fight life itself? The force you needed, the sudden bearing down, to sink a plow into hard soil. The sweat and the strain as you held a ewe for shearing. Even in winter, when the land hid itself beneath snow, a body was obliged to fight against the chill and the dark. There was the daily toil of rising from your cold bed to a colder morning, then a march through snow, knee deep or waist deep, to tend your shivering animals. There was the soreness in your hips at the end of every winter day, that tight, particular pain from lifting and placing each foot among the deep drifts, left then right, left then right, every day a drawn-out agony, nights never restful enough. That was the way of life. That was the struggle.