Up ahead, Robert saw where Dave had tucked their car out of sight from the road. The seats would sting where the sun had been hitting them. His father would start the car and they would drive off, the weapons’ barrels cool with disuse. Robert pulled up, taking his rifle off his shoulder.
They were on a ridge that bordered a pounded cornfield. Surely there must have been a crow nearby. But as he looked all around, nothing moved, until a flick of color caught his eye in its searching revolution.
It was a blue jay on the uppermost strand of a fence fifty yards down the hill running away from the ridge. The bird was just a finger of blue from that distance.
Dave walked back and stood beside Robert. He had not seen the bird, nor did he understand his son’s intent. Seeing the car had reminded Dave of the day’s end, as much as it had his son. He wanted to delay that termination; he felt that for all that had been said, something had failed to be imparted. His son, already taller than his father, taking after his mother, also seemed to have risen above him, borne aloft on a cloud of contempt. Dave felt powerless to speak any words that would bring his son back.
“Can I shoot it, Dad?” Robert asked, eyes on the jay.
Startled, Dave looked around. “Shoot what?”
Robert pointed down the hill. “The bird.”
Dave had to squint to see the blue jay. It had moved two inches down the fence strand. His son had the gun up, his eye to the scope, awaiting the drop of his father’s arm. The eagerness in the boy’s form hurt Dave with a clean stab of dislike for his son. Dave headed for the car. “If you want,” he said, and at his back he heard the crack of the shot.
Robert, on the warm stone beside the record player, remembered that bird’s head enlarged in the scope. Its eye was glossy black, perfectly round, and marked the mouth of the tunnel the bullet opened. Robert clambered eagerly down off the ridge, kicking up a storm of grass, dust, and stones. The bird had not fallen from the fence. The speed of its death had left its talons curled tight on the wire and it hung there as if it had fallen over in its sleep. He heard his father start the car, then tap once on the horn to hurry his son along. Robert left the bird where it hung; it might be hanging there still. He suspected that was why no crows had appeared to help their own; his killer smell was so strong. His father did not say a word all the way home, while Robert prayed for any word at all to free him from his shame.
A point was reached in the late afternoon when it was accepted no crows would appear. They collected the debris from their stand there on the hill. It was getting cold again, the sun fading, it would be dark long before they returned home. Duke held the shotgun.
“There are three shells left,” he said to Robert, who understood where Duke was leading. “We can each fire the gun once.”
“That’s silly,” Robert said. “A waste of money. An affront to nature.”
But Duke already had the gun to his shoulder. He squinted down the blue barrel at some imaginary beast. Robert and Buzzard covered their ears. The kick from the shot wrenched the gun from Duke’s grasp and sent the boy flying backwards off his camouflaged crutches. Robert saw the gun spinning in the air like a deadly baton and turned (in his mind’s eye in slow motion) his back to where it would hit, expecting the blast that would kill him or one of the boys. But Buzz knew there was no danger; the next shell had not been pumped into the chamber. He laughed at Robert’s hunched fearfulness.
Again the air reshaped itself. Duke had an egg growing on the back of his head to match the soft, sore mound on Robert’s forehead. A mark like a burn flamed on Duke’s jaw where the gun stock had scraped.
Buzz emptied the gun without firing it and they headed for home.
THEY STOPPED AT a Good-Ee Freez on the highway for cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes. Robert almost expected to find Olive working there, but they were well north of Mozart. This outlet seemed old, sad, and dominated by litter blown into swirls by the chilly wind. The place lacked the picturesque vacation feel of Oblong Lake. When Robert paid for their food the counterman said they were likely the last customers of the summer, that he would close soon for the day and the winter.
Robert and the boys noticed the crows waiting on the power line above the parking lot.
“Just one shot,” Buzz whispered. But he was smiling and took it graciously when Robert refused him.
“They’d see the gun before you had it loaded,” he said, “and be gone.”
In the morning the crows would move on themselves to look for winter food, a place to stay. It took no memory to understand winter.
Driving home they saw crows everywhere, in the road, on fences, on signs.
“Did your dad ever tell you about crow trials?” Robert asked. He looked over at Buzz, who would not meet his eyes; Duke was silent in the shadows of the backseat.
“It seems this crow was charged—”
“Dad told you this?” Buzz interrupted.
“Yes.”
“He wouldn’t spin that sort of bullshit.”
“Shut up, Buzzard. Let him talk,” Duke said.
“It seems this crow was charged with a crime—”
“What crime?” Duke asked.
“Crows have no morals,” Buzz maintained. “So they’d have no sense of right or wrong. So what’s the point of a trial?”
Robert drove for a mile without saying a word. They came to a small town of odd one-way streets that required his concentration to get through. His silence ran on, filling the warm air in the car. Robert needed Ben there to tell the story; Ben had all the answers. He had none of Robert’s doubts that a skeptic could pick at. Robert could hear Ben’s voice as he grew excited telling the tale. In telling the story of the crow trial Ben had said the crime was murder.
“Finish the story,” Duke said. Buzz shifted in his seat, but he did not protest.
“In fact,” Robert said, “crows have a very structured moral sense. They have conscience, guilt, love, devotion, dishonor. A very advanced moral code.”
“Dad told you this?”
“Yes,” Robert said.
Buzz asked softly, “Why didn’t he ever tell us?”
“Maybe he wanted you to get a little older,” Robert said; but he had often wondered the same thing. Why hold these stories from his family?
“What was the crime?” Buzz asked.
“The crow was on trial for murder.”
“What bullshit,” Buzzard murmured; but his head was turned away, frozen in attention.
“This is the story your father told me,” Robert said. This final stamp placed upon what he had to say, Robert continued without interruption into a rapt and sorrowful silence.
“The crow was charged with the murder of another crow. The trial was held in a clearing in the woods. Crows came from miles around to take part. One hundred thousand crows, give or take. They formed a loose, chattering circle around the accused, who had a small circle of clear ground to himself within the larger circle. In the center of this small circle was a tree stump and the accused crow stood atop it. He didn’t try to fly away. That would be useless. Among crows there is a very strong code of honor. Crows aren’t supposed to cheat other crows. They share food. They watch for danger and pass the word. This crow, if he tried to fly away, would be admitting his guilt. It would be hard to outfly one hundred thousand crows.
“Now the trial began. A case was made against the crow. Some crows were present to testify. The rest were there to listen and watch. They would also judge. Crows know they are smart, and they don’t think any one crow is smarter than any other crow” (here Robert thought of the Smarter Crow, who had discovered forgetful sleep, but chose to keep the tale simple) “so crows have no judges, no presidents, no one to govern their lives. They would pass judgment as a group.
“The story told about the crow on trial was basically this: He loved another crow’s mate an
d killed that crow so he could have her. A simple story, not uncommon. He was a large, strong bird, handsome even by crow standards, who consider themselves the most beautiful birds in existence. This crow had no trouble attracting female crows. But he wanted the female who belonged to another crow. He told his friends how badly he wanted this female. His friends testified against him at the trial. They told how they saw the accused chasing the other crow relentlessly, picking at his eyes in mid-air, beating at his wings, the two of them flying far away until even the other crows could not see them. And finally—only the accused returned.
“Witnesses said he took up immediately with the female crow he loved. She loved the missing crow, but little by little she forgot about him. Little by little she fell in love with the crow on trial for murder. The accused told her the other crow had run away.
“Word spread about this crow. In time he was approached and ordered to stand trial for murder. If he refused, he would simply be shut out of the society of crows everywhere.
“At the trial, when it was his turn to speak, he proclaimed that he was not a murderer. He was frightened because the crows who had testified against him had been very convincing and believable. He admitted that he did indeed love the female crow, but he had not murdered her mate. He had only chased the other crow across four states until, exhausted and frightened, he agreed to stay away if only the accused would leave him in peace. He was alive somewhere, living among other crows.
“And that was the end of the trial. It remained for the crows assembled to judge the crow’s guilt or innocence. It took only a moment. What convicted the accused was his assertion that a crow would actually stay away from a loved one out of fear of another crow. This was unthinkable.
“Then like a thunderhead one hundred thousand crows descended on the accused and killed him. With that done, the crows flew away. Soon all who were left in the clearing were the female crow, the witnesses, and the dead crow. His eyes had been picked out so that if he came back as a crow he would be blind.
“But high up in the trees was one more crow. He had been there all along, just watching. He flew down and landed and asked what had happened to his enemy. The female crow began to cry. The witness crows were happy to see him, but they were shaken by the wrong that had been committed. A crow had been executed for murder—and now the crow he was supposed to have murdered had returned. This crow kept silent while it was explained to him the terrible injustice that had taken place. He said he had been so exhausted after being chased by the crow that he had fallen asleep and forgotten where his home was. It had taken him this long to piece his past together and make it back. Then he flew away with the woman.”
They crossed the line back into Mozart. He swung by his parents’ store and it was closed; bust mannequins in T-shirts stared out the window at him. He picked up Oblong Lake and followed it around, past the Good-Ee Freez, past summer cottages shut for the winter. They would be dark and cold inside, with dampness starting to settle, and insect husks on the windowsills. It made Robert shiver. Up and down hills, through the trees close by the road, the darknesses spaced by streetlights, and at last into the driveway of Ben’s house.
“What do you mean,” Buzz asked in a low voice, “he fell asleep and forgot where his home was?”
Robert turned off the engine. He thought Duke was asleep but in the mirror he saw his eyes eager for an answer to Buzzard’s question.
“That’s another crow story,” Robert said. “It’s about something called forgetful sleep. And also about a crow called the Smarter Crow. I’ll tell it to you some other time.”
“And Dad told you that one, too?” Duke asked, his voice raw with disbelief.
Chapter Seven
Leaves
ETHEL BEGAN DRIVING an extra half shift because her children were in school all day and the family needed the money. On her best days she made runs to Madison or Fond du Lac or even Milwaukee. She left for work in darkness and returned home in darkness. She began to look strange to Robert, Olive, and the boys. She was always tired; she had a cranky impatience with her children. Each night before going to bed at 8:30 she apologized for her crossness, her tiredness, and the turn their lives had taken.
Robert was sometimes still awake when her alarm sounded at 4:30 a.m. He would be reading downstairs and the burr from Ethel’s room would startle him. The house dim and quiet, nothing moving outside, time stopped, then Ethel’s alarm to remind him it had not stopped at all.
Ethel was quick to rise. The house’s chilly rooms demanded it. She would glare at Robert from the kitchen as he looked at her across the top of his book; the idea of someone choosing to be awake at that hour was a source of infinite aggravation for her.
“What do you have planned for today?” she asked. “Besides sleeping?”
“There are leaves to rake,” Robert said.
“When will you begin looking for a job?”
“Soon.”
“You passed ‘soon’ months ago—years ago. I can’t afford to have you living here with just an odd contribution now and then.” She walked out of his sight, deeper into the kitchen. He heard the coiling spring sound of the toaster. Steam rose off a coffeepot.
She reappeared. “What happened to you and Olive?”
He thought: it isn’t cold enough, yet. When winter took hold of that leaky house, especially his fourth-floor room, he and Olive would welcome each other into their arms, her bed.
“We’re just friends,” Robert said.
“Why do you stay then?”
“Where have I to go? I like it here.”
She poured coffee, spilling some, burning her fingers. “I never liked you two sleeping together in my house,” she said. She kissed her burned fingers.
Robert lowered his book. The early days of sleeping with Olive had been times of imagined stealth; he could still hear the groaning boards of the floors and stairs as he traversed the dark space between his room and Olive’s. They probably had fooled no one. There never had been an open admission of their affair.
“Why should I have to knock on my daughter’s door to tell some man he has a phone call?” Ethel asked.
Robert laughed. “That never happened.”
“It did. Several times. Nobody calls you anymore—because you’ve moved out of the mainstream of human interaction—but it did happen in the past.”
“Forbid me to see O. I’ll obey your order.”
“You wouldn’t, if I did,” she said. “And she’s old enough to make her own mistakes. I just warn her.”
“Of what?”
“Of biology.”
She sat in the kitchen eating her breakfast. Robert sat down across from her at the table, reading.
“Find a job, Robert,” she said, rising to rinse her plate. “I won’t kick you out yet, but we need money and you’re not in the family, so I won’t stand for you sucking me dry.”
She left for work and he climbed the stairs to bed. When she returned home he was raking leaves by the back-porch light.
“Did you look for work?” she asked, before going into the house.
“Yes,” he lied. He had spent the day reading and raking leaves. There were so many leaves the job was rewarding. The rake rolled up huge, loose waves of leaves. Most of their color was gone: gold to white, red to pink. A billion on the ground and another million on the trees waiting to fall. The hanging leaves had color, though not in that light. The colorless leaves on the ground had bulk and substance, and when removed they left behind a patch of clear ground: his reward. He had worked for three hours and filled seven large plastic garbage bags; they were taut green floats out at the curb. The leaves that remained glowed in the dark.
He worked for another hour after Ethel got home, until he felt his efforts made it safe for him to go inside. He put the rake and the empty bags in the garage. The back door opened. Ethel step
ped out.
“Tell me about the trial of the crow,” she said.
Robert smiled but her look was frosted, skeptical; she might have caught him passing pornography to her sons.
“It’s a story,” he said. “Unverifiably true.”
“It’s nonsense. The boys said you told them Ben had told you that story.”
“He did.”
“Don’t lie,” she said. “Ben would never come up with something so ridiculous.”
“It’s true. He had a million of them. He was fond of crows, he believed in them. I think the reason we saw no crows when we went hunting was that Ben was watching over them and telling them to stay clear. He knew we were murderous.”
He could tell she believed none of this. She angrily pushed him in the chest, rocking him back; he was reminded of being kicked out of the tree. She went quickly inside and locked the door. He ran to the front of the house but she was ahead of him and threw the bolt and chain, glaring at him through the door glass.
“Hey!” Robert shouted. “It’s what he believed.”
For an hour he circled the house. He rapped his knuckles on the doors and windows. He could not believe she had finally put him out, and over a crow story of her late husband’s.
They began dinner without him. He could see a corner of the kitchen table and through this thin slice of vision passed hands bearing bowls of mashed potatoes, string beans, corn, a plate of pork chops layered as thick as sandwiches, a pitcher of tea, salad, bowls of chocolate ice cream. He watched this for nearly an hour and his stomach squeezed. What had he done all day that he should be hungry? The window fogged.
Didn’t any of them miss him?
HE WAITED ONE more hour, then decided to go into town to look for something to eat. The Good-Ee Freez was shut for the season, painted plywood sheets fastened over its glass face.
Crows Page 11
