When she had finished, she bent over and clawed something from her beak. A shimmering, sparkling bead, the size of a fat crow’s eye. It landed in front of me. As fast as anything, I pecked it up. It was bitter-tasting, and seemed to move, although I was sure that it was not anything that had been recently alive. I held it under my tongue.
Facunde said…
3. Abominable
You meet a woman.
In a bar, sitting at a table, with a long, white cigarette between her pale fingers and smooth, pale nails. Her lips are red, her dress is red. She stares at you like a beautiful monster, hungry. The smoke curls toward you, she brushes her blue-black hair off her face. A cynical Snow White, the fairest of them all.
You’re charming.
You turn the chair next to her backwards. You sit and smile. You’re Jack. Her name is Laura. You say you’d like to share your life with her, starting with a drink. Hers is a gin and tonic. You’re charming, and she enjoys you.
—
Taking her to your apartment is smooth and easy. You brush away your usual lines, your foreplay falls away like heavy winter clothing, you’re making love—
It’s not making love, she murmurs, moving her satin and fur around you. You hardly know me.
You touch her face and grin crazily, We’ve had at least what could be considered a formal introduction, yes?
—
You insist that she meet you every night, she cannot resist.
For months you pamper her, cooking, brushing her hair, flowers, conversations in the dark. She loses some of her cynical chill, you teach her how to tell jokes. She tells you she used to be a country girl with shit on her cowboy boots, never so sophisticated, but she’s forgotten how— You tell her the city bores you, you’re playing with the idea of moving on—
—
I wish I could take you back home sometime, she says. Out to the old place, so many things I wonder if they’re still—
You’d like that.
—
She means something to you.
She’s the only thing that holds fast, stays perfect and pure. Everything else stinks of tar, mildew, or rust. When the night fills up with assholes yelling to wake up other assholes whose car alarms have gone off, she sleeps, so quiet you can barely hear her breathe. You talk about all the crazy things you did as a kid. She listens, she really listens.
You aren’t sure—nobody’s ever sure—but you’re good to her, just in case.
—
She’s crying.
She clings to you and wipes snot off her face with her sleeve. You calm her and stroke her tangled hair, trying to put her smoothness back together. You beg her, no matter what, we can—
When she can talk she tells you she’s pregnant.
Shock, panic flashes, your ears cloud up and echo with thunder. Yet you find yourself smiling like a damn fool as she pushes you away.
I don’t want it, she says. I can’t stand kids.
It wouldn’t have to be just your kid, you say. Our kid. Baby. You’re not going to kill it, are you?
Fear, cold fear.
Her, she says. It’s a girl. My family always has girls. —No.
We could move back to the place where you grew up, you say. Don’t you have family out there? Your parents?
My cousins, she says. My parents are dead, remember?
If it didn’t work out your cousins, would they take it? Her?
—Yes. They only had the one, and he died.
This is your chance to gain solidity. Gravity, roots, earthiness. You were about to float away with indifference before you met her. Turning point, settling down, rock-hard foundations. Please? Pretty please?
She doesn’t want this, but she says yes.
—
Laura swells up like a stubbed toe, puffy and complaining. You don’t have to feign attention through the birthing classes. You buy her simple, sweet gifts. You make sure she dresses well: you don’t want her self-image to suffer any more than it has to. You take her out, but she hates it because her back hurts or her bladder is full.
Laura, you tell her. I love you. It’s only a matter of time.
—
When the baby is born you name her Flora after your grandmother who lives on the other side of the city. Your grandmother is cross and uncaring when you take Flora to meet her.
You take the baby to Laura’s cousins, they coo and cuddle.
Of course we’ll take her if—if. But Jack, they say, when are you two lovebirds getting married?
This, she says, is the way I want it.
—
Leaving Flora with the cousins, you see the house.
You’re deep-sea divers, you’re men on an alien moon in your borrowed insulated coveralls and boots, wandering through the icy house. The sun filters in, trying to melt the dusty frost that sparkles everywhere. Upstairs, one of the windows has shattered. You pull off a glove, the cold presses on one side of your hand and not the other. You turn your hand in the breeze.
You find Laura downstairs turning the pages of a photo album.
Mother, wife, cousin, daughter, she says. I have all this family I didn’t remember I had.
You can’t make out the faces on the ruined pictures.
Really, the house is in great shape, the cousins have been wonderful keeping it up for the day that Laura would come back, her trust fund paid for it and all, but there was love—if only that damn window upstairs hadn’t busted—if only all that time hadn’t passed—
Laura cries on the way home to the city, you tell her—you don’t know what you tell her.
—
Four weeks, you go. It’s something of a drive, but not that bad. Works as a commute, barely.
It’s a white house with green shingles on the roof. It’s so old you thank God for the running water and electricity. The woodstove heats the center of the house like a heart, and the cupboards and closets and the attic and the basement are like cold fingers and shivering toes.
You’ve hired someone to check out the wiring, the plumbing, the cracks in the cement downstairs, but it’s you, one slow week after another, who cleaned out, fixed up, and furnished the house again. You saved as much as you could, but you couldn’t save everything. Some of Laura’s past is gone, trashed, wasted, refused, no matter that she’s back now.
Laura stands in the house with her arms open, for the first time seeing the changes. You see the world spread out for her, open up her claustrophobic urban future into a white prairie with red sunsets. She trots through the house, she stretches in front of the stove, dressed in a red flannel shirt and blue jeans. You’ve never seen her wear blue jeans before. She chops wood in the morning, she takes long walks into the shelterbelt in the afternoon. She sings in the kitchen.
She hates you.
Everything she sees and touches is a reminder to her that her past is gone. You’ve thrown away the rags and scraps that used to be her home. You’ve taken her away from the city, from the woman she used to be. Never mind that she’s happier now.
You’re the father of her child.
When she’s undressed her belly sags and her cunt flops around like an empty sack. She doesn’t make love to you, she fucks you, sloppy and bored like your grandmother’s kisses. She’s stopped shaving her legs and wearing makeup.
Yet you’re happy, you tell her, and all it will take is time for her body to go back to the way it used to be.
—
At first, Laura nursed Flora, but Flora’s teeth came in early. She said her breasts were sore from being bitten, you couldn’t blame her. But that wasn’t all. Nothing Flora did pleased Laura.
Little monster, she called her.
Wouldn’t change her, wouldn’t feed her her formula, wouldn’t hold her when she cried.
Not my baby, our baby, she says. I did all the work for nine months, now it’s your turn. I’m going out to the shelterbelt to clear some more deadwood before the storm. I’m taking the pickup, do you need anyt
hing from the store?
The usual, you say, make sure you don’t forget the diapers.
—
It’s almost March before you convince yourself it isn’t a matter of time, change, adjustment. You’re afraid to leave Flora alone with her mother, always know that the little monster means less to her than a sodden teddy bear that you threw away months ago.
Laura’s body hasn’t recovered, and she says she’ll never forgive you. Her callused hands will never be pale and smooth again. The nails are hard-bitten now.
You decide to leave.
—
You tell Laura.
She smiles.
I’m taking the pickup out to Gundersen’s, she says. Think I’ll start raising some orphaned lambs this spring. I’ll keep them in the garage where you used to keep your car. With heat lamps. What do you think?
I don’t think you’re fit to raise anything.
I’ve been ready for you, she says. She pulls out a well-creased, dirty envelope from the pocket of her coat. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.
Thank God. I’ll never see the little monster again, will I?
Then she skips out to the pickup truck and leaves.
—
You read the note.
She doesn’t want you to leave her anything you’ve touched. She doesn’t want the baby, doesn’t want the car, doesn’t want anything you picked out for the house. You made her realize that she needs a home and a family, but you’re damned useless and she doesn’t want you around. You pushed her into all these decisions, so live with it. She’s been sleeping with that sheepfarmer Gundersen. He thinks her body is just fine.
But so did you.
—
You’re leaving first thing in the morning, you think. Your grandmother is unpleasant, but you can stay there. Just until. When you take Flora over to the cousins, you tell them as much as you know.
We heard, they say, about Gundersen.
You’ve been hurt before, you say. You hate to leave, but—you’ve been rootless for so long that it isn’t much of a readjustment.
Will you be back for Flora, they want to know. Please say no.
Yes, oh, yes, you say. Tomorrow morning. I just need to pack. I want to keep her, I’ve been raising her myself. Laura hates her.
We know, they say.
You go, you just go.
—
You put more wood on the fire, briefly you consider burning the house down. You pull as much of yourself and Flora out of the house as you can, packing it tightly into the car. There’s too much left over. You decide it’s enough to let the fire go out in the morning and throw the windows open. The pipes will freeze, and the snow will get in, ruin everything.
You fix yourself a sandwich and ignore the storm coming up, thinking only, I hope Laura gets caught out in that—
—
The windows rattle.
You can hear the wind picking up outside and a knocking sound upstairs. It’s a window, the one that was broken before, the one that always jiggles loose from the broken yardstick you used to wedge it shut. The snow’s coming in, the wind slams the closet door against the wall.
You let your heart wash itself out in the cold, close the window, then jam the yardstick tight.
—
You sit with a beer in front of the television.
You wonder what she’ll do with everything you’re leaving behind. Burn it, put it in boxes marked “asshole,” shit on it, and mail it to your grandmother. Or she won’t notice it’s even there.
Suddenly there’s a gap in the wind, and you realize the house is silent. You turn down the volume on the television, wondering if the storm is dying down or if you’ve just gone deaf.
Then you hear the moaning.
It isn’t the wind, but it’s definitely coming from outside.
You look but you don’t see anything. Jesus. You hope it isn’t some kid lost in the snow.
It’s too bright to see out the window.
You turn off the lights. Nothing.
You bundle up, grab a flashlight and (remembering a couple of stories they made you read as a kid) tie a rope to the porch railing before you take a walk around the house. Your cheeks sting as snowflakes knife into your face. And melt, dripping into the neck of your coveralls.
The moaning sound is just a trick of the snow. It moans as it clings to the side of the house, slips, and the wind rips it away. It gathers and huddles in little piles as if for warmth. The wind throws leaves and sticks and bits of ash from the trash barrel and knocks the snow screaming out onto the prairie.
The snow seems to sense you, and starts begging, scrabbling harder and harder at the siding of the house like a puppy or a drowning man.
You go back inside and turn up the tube.
You get rid of the beer.
—
After an hour you wake. Hadn’t realized you were falling asleep.
It’s louder.
As if someone were speaking backwards. Muttering.
Then as if someone were taking a small ax to the outside wall. Loud.
It’s colder.
You pull back the drapes, and the window is covered entirely with white.
Goddamn snow.
Give me back the city and the municipal plows, you think.
The house bangs and shudders. You hear another groan at the window.
You pull back the curtains, but this time the window is black. You can’t see anything. No snow.
It comes at you so hard it seems to bend the plate glass window toward your face.
Bang.
Weird.
Bang.
The snow ripples with the impact as it strikes.
Bang.
It’s so cold.
You realize that you’ve let the stove go out.
You hear a sob from the window, and the snow disappears.
You turn off the lights and peer through the corner of the window at the side of the house. Nothing. You turn the lights back on. Nothing. Christ, you turn the televisio—
Something scrapes against the wall. You can hear it.
You haven’t taken off your coveralls or boots, you pull on the rest of your gear and open the front door. You don’t shut it behind you. Something’s stuck to the side of the house, moving up the gutter, snatching snow out of the air, getting bigger. Heading toward that loose upstairs window.
You go back inside, run upstairs.
You see the mass of snow outside the window. It splits into tendrils and wedges itself into the cracks of the window frame.
The window frame grunts and creaks.
The snow starts beating on the window.
Bang.
Harder. Like a fist.
Bang.
Harder.
The glass shatters.
—
Warm, warm, it only wants to get warm. You run. You run to the heart of the house, but the stove is out. The only warmth left is you.
It takes shelter in you, cell by cell. You aren’t warm enough. Nothing is warm enough. God. You flake up and blow away.
So cold.
—
The nearest farmhouse is Gundersen’s, just across the shelterbelt and another mile or so. Half a mile out, heading back to the farm, you find Laura.
She runs into you with the truck. You cling to her windshield, you force her into the ditch.
You can’t get in. You huddle around the truck cab, begging her to let you in. You don’t mean to torment her, but you do. If only you could reach her, touch her—Laura—
Laura—
Just leave me alone!
She screams until she falls asleep, blue at the lips.
Laura—I’m sorry—
Laura—
You go on moaning her name until springtime, looking for warmth. Not your fault, really.
And then you melt and flow away.
* * * * *
When she had finished, Facunde peeked at the chicks underneath her. “My bead,�
� she croaked. “Give me back my bead.” Her voice, so long unused, had gone rough and prickly, like pinfeathers. “One of you has it, you filthy things. My bead!”
I did not open my beak.
The girl was looking at me, her eyes two narrow, suspicious slits peeking out from under her blanket and her carpet of crows. Oh, yes. She had seen me take it. I winked at her. The bead, if that’s what it was, wriggled under my tongue, trying to crawl down my throat, and I had to clear my throat over and over, to keep it from going down. It was as bitter as a soul turned rotten.
It might have been as bitter as your heart.
Facunde heard me clear my throat, and pecked me on the head. “You have it, Machado. Don’t try to lie. If you do, it will jump out of your mouth and down the throat of one of these chicks. And who wants that!” She laughed and flapped off the mirror-perch, her frayed wings beating the thick air, and crashed into the girl’s lap. Old Loyolo, of course, hopped out of the way. He can’t be having crows knock him about; it upsets his dignity, which is a cupped leaf full of rainwater, likely to tip out with the slightest breeze.
Facunde crawled up the girl’s arm and settled on her shoulder, with her beak almost in the girl’s ear. “You keep it, Machado,” she very nearly hissed. “See how you like it. And see how you like the thought of another bird having to carry it under their tongue in your place.” Her feathers seemed darker, with more sheen to them.
As for the bead, already I did not like it at all, not the taste, and not the feeling of it in my mouth.
“Who will be the next storyteller?” Old Loyolo said.
The chicks called out their suggestions, naming those who were chicks themselves, foolish downy things who couldn’t describe a rotting corpse on a snowy hill in the moonlight with any kind of poetry. The ones they named tucked their heads under their wings and stamped their feet, shuffling away from the girl and, more specifically, the elders sitting on her lap, whose eyes can be so piercing, so dark and threatening.
Strange to think of myself as one of them now, an elder.
Facunde whispered in the girl’s ear, but the girl shook her head. Facunde chuckled wickedly, a sound that set my feathers shivering with near-forgotten longing. Already her eyes were brighter, her feathers more ordered. As for myself, I felt old and tired (at least, more old and tired than I usually did, and not as old and tired as I do now). Despite the crowding in the truck cab, there was space around me, as the chicks leaned away from me, trying to keep from brushing their feathers against me.
A Murder of Crows: Seventeen Tales of Monsters and the Macabre Page 4
