A Murder of Magpies

by Sarah Bromley

  Seeing his destruction was like watching Mom again.

  Ward nonchalantly approached us. “I’m ditching class. Join me?”

  I’d skipped school a few times, mostly to sit with my brother until he calmed enough to get his act together, yet Ward was so blasé about it. Jonah couldn’t afford to be caught cutting class. He was on fragile ground with Monsignor, and someone would talk about the fight this morning. Hell, maybe we should disappear. Chloe bobbed between all three of us before finally, not without cringing, nodded that she’d come.

  We grabbed our coats, and a minute later, the double doors to the school flew open as we drew near. They weren’t automatic. Ward paused, brow furrowed. “That was weird.”

  I elbowed Jonah. Not the right time for Mind Games, not that he cared.

  As I stepped outside, I blew on my hands for warmth. Tall evergreens spiked the autumn sky, and snow flurries whipped around the air. Built directly off the church, St. Anthony’s school was red brick covered in ivy. Rows of arched windows stood out like bared teeth, and at the center of the top row was a nook for a statue of St. Anthony of Padua. The church was also red brick with an imposing bell tower below a greened copper steeple. The cross atop the steeple could be seen above the dark forest surrounding all of Black Orchard, and the melancholy drone of its bell tolling Sunday mornings echoed for miles farther.

  Ward bounced, rubbing his hands together. “We should go, get off campus before anyone sees us. Besides, I’m freezing my ass off.”

  “Coffee break, anyone?” Chloe asked and jingled her keys. She led us to the back row of the parking lot when Jonah stopped and scanned the next row, startled.

  A familiar energy caught me. Constant, unwavering.

  Fifty feet away, Dad leaned against the Chevy, a cigarette between his fingers. He’d quit smoking six years ago, mostly to stop Mom’s nagging, and replaced his addiction with nicotine gum. Until that afternoon.

  “Damn.” Jonah steered me between two parked cars, ducking to hide his six-foot frame. Chloe and Ward crammed in beside us, but my vision was pinned on my father. I spied the black dress flutter as Sister Tremblay drifted across the lot. Dad’s spine stiffened, matching the hardness of the nun’s posture. She held out her hand, and he shook it like a good southern gentleman. Yet his stare was cold.

  My jaw flexed, and I shoved my hands in my pockets to stop from spilling out chaotic energy. Nothing hollered, “Notice me” like breaking a row of headlights in a parking lot.

  “Scandalous,” Chloe clucked. “Sister Tremblay and your dad meeting in private. It’s personal. Why else wouldn’t they be in her office? You think nuns take a vow of celibacy?”

  Ward shushed her. “Pipe down, Blondie. You’ll get us busted.”

  Maybe it was Chloe. Maybe it was Ward. It could have been that we were all too nervous about ditching class and making loud mistakes, but Dad’s head snapped up. “Polly, hold on a second.”

  Dad checked the aisle and between the cars. I curled in a ball, heart thundering in my ears, and I looked from Jonah to Ward, mouthing, “What do we do?”

  Ward indicated to weave backward through the cars, but Dad was too fast and stood over us. His voice was stern. “Magpie.”

  Take me to the gallows now.

  Sister Tremblay joined his side, and a dark gloom washed over me, the same sickly grime I felt inside the school. I steadied myself against a car. Sister Tremblay pursed her lips, which were dry and split, a drop of blood rising to the surface.

  The closer she came, the less I could breathe. I had to get away, and I bolted, sprinting across the lot. The wind smacked my face until my cheeks were numb, but my hands burned. I wiped my palms on my skirt as if I could scrape off the skin. I had to get Sister Tremblay’s smile off me.

  Jonah caught up with me, and his arms were warm around my shoulders. “Calm down.”

  “That nun.” I gasped. “There’s something off with her.”

  A shadow formed on his cheeks. What do you mean? You think she knows?

  Before I could answer, Dad reached the sidewalk. “Why’d you run from me?”

  “Not you. Her.” I pointed to Sister Tremblay. “Why are you meeting that woman?”

  He retrieved his cigarettes, lighting a new one as he devised something to say. “Now don’t go jumping off a cliff. The good sister and I are having ourselves a chat. Nothing more.”

  His answer sucked.

  Cardinal rule: Some rules need to be broken. Especially if you’re being jerked around.

  I prodded Dad’s mind. He blocked me by focusing on the glowing cinders on the end of his cigarette.

  Something was up.

  I persisted, “Dati, that woman isn’t right.”

  He tipped his face skyward as he exhaled. “This is not how it looks. Sister Tremblay and I have some issues to work out, all right? Now get to class.”

  “Dati!”

  That hard air about him again. “This isn’t your business.”

  I whipped away, every muscle in my body cramped. He was never this short with me. Jonah? Yes, but never me.

  I tossed my father a wary glance as Ward guided me back inside school and out of the cold morning. My father was smart. I trusted that he looked out for us. He warned us to be mindful of prying eyes.

  Hopefully, he took his own advice.

  Chapter Seven

  Ward

  Sometimes I missed the lights of Rochester, Minnesota. Nice city. I couldn’t say the same for the people shouting in my old building. This house—hell, all of Black Orchard—was quieter than a church at midnight. Here, I lay awake because of the wind sighing in the attic.

  At least living by the woods, I didn’t have to deal with trick-or-treaters. No one came to the bleak house surrounded by the foreboding gate, but I still carved a half-dozen jack-o-lanterns and nestled them among the dead leaves on the front porch, their orange glow lonely against the night. At my old apartment, Drake only got tricks. Lots and lots of tricks. Some in stiletto heels, some in fur coats and probably not much else.

  Oliver screamed over the baby monitor. I set aside my crossword puzzle and trudged upstairs to the nursery. My nephew sat in his crib, face red and tear-streaked, and I lifted him up, murmuring the words Heidi crooned during the night. “You’re okay.”

  His fingers clawed my hair as I sank into the rocking chair beside his crib and patted his back. I caught my reflection in the window and coughed. A month ago, I’d have given them the crazy look if someone said I’d be babysitting. A month ago, I was still in Drake’s apartment.

  The studio unit where I’d lived with Drake was a matchbox, cluttered with takeout containers and overloaded ashtrays. The water in the pipes was glacier-cold in winter and lukewarm on sunny days. I remembered standing on the roof, my shirt sweat-adhered to me as I stared at the street. A metal sawhorse, shears, my blowtorch—all my tools scattered around me. The roof’s door squeaked as it opened. Louis, this guy I palled around with after bumping into each other at an Arcade Fire show, squinted in the July sun and hollered, “Man, I trusted you! What are you doing with my girl?”

  I’d lit a cigarette, sneering. “Giving her what you can’t.”

  He’d come at me, throwing me to my back. The heat from the roof had scorched my skin as I tried to deflect his flailing punches.

  It wasn’t easy to forget all the hitting, the fighting, the anger at being stuck in a shitty life. The acceptance that things wouldn’t get better. They had, even with Oliver’s chubby hands batting my chin as I wrestled him into a cloth diaper, attempting to decipher Heidi’s cryptic notes on folding and fastening the damn thing. Was I so dense I couldn’t fold a piece of fabric? So it wasn’t perfect. At least the kid had what he needed.

  Food. Shelter. Parents. Lucky guy.

  The day I fought with Louis was the same night I last saw Drake. I had to piss about midnight and found Drake passed out near
the toilet with a syringe in his arm, mouth hanging slack like a rubber mask left out of a costume bin. I checked his pulse. Alive. Kind of. It wasn’t an overdose this time, only his typical drug stupor. By morning, he’d disappeared.

  After three weeks, his lawyer stopped by. Peeking through the peephole in the door, I zeroed in on the guy in the sweltering hall. He had a pig’s button eyes, and his suit smelled like fish tacos. In five minutes, he stank up that apartment.

  “I’m sure you guessed Drake was arrested again.” He spoke flatly. No surprise. No apology. We were used to Drake’s bullshit. “He was busted in an underground opium den. He pled out to get court-ordered rehab. You know the drill. Find someone to stay with.”

  Usually Mr. Lawyer Man was able to dig up Drake’s Hooker of the Week. My father had some money socked away from his years as a singer, but he’d always been as famous for his love of opiates as he’d been for his gravel voice. That time was different. No one came. No ditz in a leopard print nightgown swung by to make pancakes while not getting cigarette ash in the batter. It took until September before one of my teachers noticed I was wraith-gaunt and coughing despite that I’d quit smoking. Sometimes you’re so desperate, it doesn’t matter what you say when someone asks if you’re okay—they know you need help.

  At some point, Drake’s brain fired the synapse with Heidi’s married name, and beckoned by a caseworker, she drove to Minnesota. Heidi had twelve years on me and sat across the table in a clean, blue dress, tapping her fingernails as we played twenty questions.

  Was I on drugs? Uh, no. How many times was I arrested? Enough. For what? Stupidity since that’s what got me caught.

  Over diner coffee and scrambled eggs, she told me I was moving to Wisconsin. No choice. The court granted her emergency guardianship, and I packed my duffle bag. I doubted she liked it any more than I did.

  Sleep didn’t come easily in this house that whispered at night, but I could count on a few hours where my brain blacked out.

  The front door slammed. Heidi’s footsteps echoed off the woodwork. Babysitting detail complete. If she thought I’d guard her demon baby at her every whim, she could forget it. I bounced Oliver in my arms to soothe him before taking him to Heidi. He whined until my half-sister unbuttoned her top, at which point he became excited and I became very weirded out. She stroked his head and asked, “How’d it go?”

  “The kid hates me,” I said, rooting in my pocket for my iPod. Damn. Left it upstairs.

  Bernadette tottered out from the kitchen and dropped at my feet. I hoisted her onto my lap. Her fur was grimy, but I was rather gross when we met. All was fair.

  “I think you need to get used to him,” Heidi said then cooed at Oliver, tapping his nose.

  “So did I pass your test?” I asked. “I mean, Oliver’s still alive and the house didn’t burn down.”

  Heidi lifted her chin. “What test?”

  “I’m shocked you trusted me to babysit.”

  My half-sister’s lips narrowed. “I don’t think you’re a bad guy, Ward. I think you’ve been through some crap, and Lord knows Drake’s good at messing up and hurting others.”

  I tsked. “I don’t see how he hurt you, and if he did, you still turned out okay.”

  “I wasn’t always this person, Ward.”

  The phone rang. I jumped, and Heidi’s neck cracked as she whipped her head in the direction of the phone. Casual calls didn’t come at ten on weeknights. Drake might’ve been a drunk-dialer, but he was an every-seven-days guy. Our last conversation went:

  Drake: You doin’ okay?

  Me: Better than if I was with you.

  Drake: I’m clean, buddy. We’ll move to California, live the high life.

  Me: Was that a pun? Shut up.

  Drake: Now, hold up. You’re no better than me. I’m your dad.

  Click.

  Chris appeared in the doorway with the phone, his face long. “It’s about Drake.”

  Of course, it was.

  Heidi took the phone and listened, promising to be in touch. Only one call made people’s skin the color of raw potatoes. I sank into the couch, a cold moat winding through my stomach, and enfolded Bernadette in my lap. The dog snuggled close, and I ran my hand over her head and down her back again and again. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to care.

  Heidi passed Oliver to her husband and touched my shoulder. “Ward, I’m sorry.”

  I patted Bernadette’s bony sides. Her leg kicked as I hit her ticklish spot. I wouldn’t cry for that son-of-a-bitch, instead, burrowing my face into the crook of my elbow and coughing.

  Heidi rubbed my back. “You’re okay.”

  If I could believe that, I would. God, I would.

  Depositing Bernadette on the couch, I bolted upstairs and flung myself onto my bed with my pillow covering my head. I shoved my headphones in my ears and switched on my iPod. The drums were a frenetic backdrop as the singer screamed. Yelling wouldn’t help. It was all noise.

  Shut up.

  I’m your dad.

  Heidi opened the door. “Chris and I don’t want you to be alone.”

  A skosh late, wasn’t she?

  I bit my lower lip. Hurt like a mother.

  Chris took Heidi’s place at my door, kissing the back of her head before he sent her away. He felt along the walls of my room, the sketches I’d drawn of the woods, line doodles of Bernadette’s whiskers and shiny nose. It used to be his office, but he’d never said a word about giving up his workspace for me.

  “We’ll drive to Rochester tomorrow,” he informed me.

  “Have a blast.”

  “You don’t have to decide right now if you’re going to Drake’s funeral,” he said. “But you might want to grab some stuff from the apartment.”

  “Oh, great, and bring the plague here.” I didn’t want anything from my life there. “All his stuff can all be burned. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Like I said. We’ll leave in the morning,” Chris said and shut my door.

  A gooey tongue licked my fingers hanging over the edge of the bed. Bernadette was on her hind legs, wiggling her ass as she waited for help onto my bed. “Not now, girl.”

  Her ears drooped. Like I could resist hurt doggy kisses. I lifted her off the floor, and she circled several times before laying her head beside mine, her dog smell overpowering. I once asked Drake for a dog. He told me to make some money walking the beagle across the hall. Then he took the money and bought an eight-ball.

  Don’t think about Drake. Can’t do anything for him. I believed in God, but didn’t believe God wouldn’t give people more than they could bear.

  I got up from my bed and wandered around the room until the promise of distraction put me in front of the computer Chris let me use. If it weren’t so late, I’d be outside, putting the finishing polish on the lightning rod wind sculpture. After a moment of mindless surfing, I noticed Jonah signed in to instant messenger.

  WardofRavens: Up late, I see.

  SilverTongue: Can’t sleep.

  Another message chimed to get my attention.

  SilverTongue: I’m V.

  Vayda. I smiled.

  SilverTongue: Why are you still up?

  WardofRavens: Bad night.

  SilverTongue: Call me.

  The clock read shortly before midnight. I dialed the number Jonah gave me for his house regardless.

  “What’s going on?” Vayda asked.

  “Nothing good.” I cleared my throat, shaking out the kinks. “Drake’s dead.”

  Vayda was silent. Maybe she didn’t know how to respond. Hell, I didn’t know how to respond.

  “Do you need to come over?” she asked.

  I breathed out. Relief, release, something. I wouldn’t have to be alone. “Yes.”

  Heidi was in bed with Oliver. Downstairs, Chris watched some singer warbling off-key on a late-night show. I leaned agains
t the back of the couch and said, “I’m heading out.”

  He looked me over, seeming to wonder if I intended to get stoned, drunk, or any of a hundred ways I could get fucked up. “Where will you be?”

  I wrote down the Silvers’ number on a scrap paper. “Call in a half-hour if you want to check on me. That’ll give me enough time to walk over there.”

  “You are not walking this late. There’s already a hard frost, and that cough of yours isn’t getting any better. We’ll take the car.”

  This wasn’t typical of Chris. Maybe he felt bad for me. Maybe he wanted out for a ride. I didn’t know but slipped on my leather coat and followed him to his Jaguar. Nice, not terribly easy to break into. Chris tossed me the keys. He was gonna let me drive his baby? Seriously? I wasn’t about to say no and held my breath as I settled in the driver’s seat and negotiated the car down the driveway. Don’t mess up.

  “This car’s meant to go fast,” he told me as I pulled onto the street.

  I could do fast. The Jag’s engine kicked in, and we careened along a forested stretch of road on a pitch-black night. No other cars on the road. Chris and I might be the last people awake in Black Orchard. The only creatures out at midnight were spooks.

  The Silvers lived so close the Jag barely had time to pick up any speed. As I parked between the gray stone house and the barn, Chris opened his door to switch to the driver’s side and admitted, “You’re not bad behind the wheel. Heard you can hotwire a car pretty fast, not that you should be proud of that.”

  I snickered and handed back the keys.

  The porch light outside the Silvers’ home was a welcoming lantern, but the hair on my neck rose as I stepped inside the house. The sole light was the fire in the woodstove and shadows shrouded the living room. Hard to tell where the walls ended. Vayda emerged from the kitchen, set down a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, and hugged me. Her arms were icy, but her body was warm. She smelled like a blast of snow, cold but burning, and I hung on tight.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Shitty,” I blurted.

  “It must be a shock.”