by Mary Rickert
Tamara heard him come home. She heard his breathing when he stood in the bedroom door and watched her. She was only pretending to be asleep. She heard him walk away, heard his shoes drop to the floor. Maybe she should tell him, she thought—but was this how he responded to stress? How would he respond to having a baby with wings? No, Tamara decided, she couldn’t risk it. She was sure it was the right decision, but nonetheless fell asleep with tears in her eyes.
The tears were still in her eyes when she was awoken by the baby’s crying. She brought him to her breast, which silenced him immediately. She fell asleep, but woke up throughout the night to feel the baby suckling. In the morning, she decided it had been her imagination—it was impossible that Ravi had been feeding all night long.
* * *
Elli could feel the way her mother was watching her. It was obvious that she did not think Timmy’s wings were a sign of something good. Elli’s dad (oblivious) tried to talk to her. He even bought up the subject of the beams. “Don’t go in the barn anymore,” he said. “Not until I do something about them.”
Elli thought her dad was nuts. What did she care about the stupid barn beams when she had this baby with wings to take care of, and another one hunting her? She stared at her dad with his stick-out ears and the creases around his upraised eyebrows. He suddenly seemed like some kind of strange, mutant child himself. Elli shook her head and turned her attention to Timmy, without saying a word.
Theresa, sitting on the couch facing the TV and holding Matthew, observed all this: the way her husband tried to speak to Elli; the way she looked at him, appalled; then turned away as though she could not bear to speak to him. Theresa observed all this and she knew.
“I’m going out,” Pete said. Neither Elli nor Theresa responded. When did I become the enemy? Pete wondered. Sometimes women were like this in the first months after giving birth. He’d heard about that. Pete remembered Raj saying, “Sometimes I feel so angry, but then I remember that I love her.” Pete stood in the living room and tried to remember how much he loved them. It was actually sort of hard to do. It was hard to feel it.
* * *
June in Voorhisville. The leaves of oaks and elms and the famous chestnut tree on Main Street grow until the Voorhisville sun filters through a green canopy. Everything, from faces, to flowers, to food, appears tinged with a shade usually associated with alien masks or Halloween witches.
The mothers of Voorhisville are too busy to notice. There are diapers to change, endless feedings, tiny clothes to wash, and constant surveillance.
Cathy Vecker would like nothing better than to hire a nanny or let her mother and grandmother feed the baby, but she can’t risk it.
“He’s growing so fast,” her mother says. “Are you sure he’s normal?”
Cathy resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Look at Sylvia Lansmorth’s baby,” she says. “He was born around the same time as Raven. They’re both the same size.”
“Well, they say Americans are getting bigger. Are you sure the doctor doesn’t want you to put him on a diet?”
. As the tiny bumps on Raven’s back sprout and flutter, the wings pushing against her hands like they have a will of their own, Cathy runs out the front door, ignoring her mother. “You have to stop,” she whispers, though she doesn’t expect him to understand. With a thrust as powerful as a man’s hands, Raven’s wings push against her, tearing through the train-patterned fabric of his little sleeper.
The next thing Cathy knows, she is standing in Sylvia Lansmorth’s garden and Sylvia, dressed in something purple and flowing, is glaring at her. “You’re standing on my roses,” Sylvia says.
“Have you seen my baby?” Cathy looks around, desperately, as though she expects to find Raven perched on a rose petal. Well, who knows? Who knows what will happen next?
“Your baby?” Sylvia asks. “How old is he?”
“Don’t you know me?”
Sylvia shakes her head.
“I’ve known you my whole life,” Cathy says.
Sylvia assumes she is talking to a mentally ill person. It’s the only explanation. “Is there someone I can call?”
“We have to call the police.” Cathy can’t believe how calm she sounds. “I have to tell them everything.”
Sylvia doesn’t like the sound of that. “I’ll call,” she says. “You wait here.”
Cathy takes a deep breath and almost passes out from the sweet rose scent. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Is this about your baby?”
“I tried to do the right thing. I did.”
“Wait here,” Sylvia says, glancing back at the house.
“I didn’t mean to lose him.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“He flew right out of my hands.”
“He flew?”
“You think I’m crazy.”
Sylvia shakes her head.
“Of course you do. That’s what I would think. Nobody’s going to believe me. Unless they see the wings, and if that happens they’ll call him a freak. The worst part is”—Cathy begins to cry—“I don’t know where he is.”
Sylvia puts her arm around Cathy’s shoulder. “I believe you,” she says. “Did you touch them?” She takes Cathy’s hands in her own. “Look, you’re all cut up. How did this happen?”
Cathy sniffs loudly. “The wings ripped right through his clothes and cut me when I was trying to hold on to him.”
“Well, when this happens with my baby,” Sylvia says, “I usually find him in his crib, sound asleep.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“No, it’s true. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it. Listen to me, honey: before you get all panicky, what you need to do is go home.”
“Go home?”
“Yes. Go home and see if he’s in his room.”
“My mom and grandmother are there.”
“Well, then you better hurry. You don’t want them to find him floating over his crib or something, do you?”
Cathy has a stitch in her side by the time she gets home. She runs to the nursery, rushing into the room so loudly that the baby wakes. Cathy picks him up and holds him close. “Oh, I love you, I love you, I love you,” she says, over and over again; thinking, There’s another one, there’s another baby with wings, you aren’t alone in the world, and neither am I.
She takes off his tattered sleeper, shredded as if by some beast, and tosses it into the trash. The she places a gauze pad on his small back and binds it there with first aid tape.
* * *
The mothers of Voorhisville were using gauze and tape, plastic wrap (which caused sweating and a rash), thick layers of clothing, and bubble wrap. What to do about a child with wings? How to cope with the unpredictable thrust of them, the sear of pain, the strange disappearing babies? The flying! How to cope with that? Several mothers (and they are not proud of this) took to devising elaborate rope restraints. It is rumored that at least one mother suffered tragic results from this decision, reported as a crib death, but she is not here with us, so that remains speculation.
Many of the mothers describe the isolation of this time as having its own weight. “I felt tied down,” Elli Ratcher says. “Knowing that my mom had the same problem didn’t really help. I mean she was my mom, okay? What did she know about my life?”
Many of the mothers, when they hear Elli say this, walk towards her, intending to administer a motherly hug or at least pat her on the back, but something in Elli’s expression causes them to stop, as though she is radioactive.
Theresa felt alone in the world. All that June she knew what Pete did, and tried to convince herself she did not. But it was the only explanation. She knew, and she had to do something about it.
Finally, one hot afternoon, she left Matthew with Elli, who said, “Well, okay, but you better hurry back. It’s hard enough watching Timmy every second,” and walked out to the cornfield, where Pete was working with the boys.
�
�Is something wrong?” he said. “Is Elli—”
“I know,” Theresa said, loudly, angrily, as though she had only just figured it out.
“You know what?” Pete asked, looking at the boys, a quizzical women-are-going-to-confuse-you look on his face.
“I know what you did.”
“Did to who?”
“To Elli.”
Pete shook his head. “I don’t know what…” His voice trailed off as he considered the baby lost in the cornfield. “Do you mean the other one? Is that what you’re talking about? It was a freak, Theresa. It had wings, for God’s sake.”
Theresa dove at Pete with her fists. He ducked and weaved, and finally grabbed her wrists.
“How could you? How could you do such a thing? How could you fuck your own daughter?”
Pete dropped her wrists, stepped back as if struck. He gaped at Theresa, turned to the boys, who gaped at him, then stepped towards his wife. “I never—”
“I want you out! Don’t you dare come near us again. I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”
Pete stood there, speechless.
“I don’t care if you understand me or not,” Theresa said. “You come anywhere near us, and I’ll kill you. I don’t fucking care if you understand, you monster.”
Pete watched Theresa walk away from him, the awkward sway of her hips as she walked over the uneven ground. He turned to the boys, thinking to offer them an explanation of the mental illness some women suffer after childbirth, but neither one looked at him. He stood there until Theresa slammed the door behind her, then followed in her path, stepping slowly through the field, leaving the boys believing they were about to witness a murder.
Pete was a little worried about that as well. But there was no way around it. He had the keys to the Chevy in his pocket, and the Chevy was in the driveway. She didn’t expect him to walk, did she?
How had this happened? Had Elli accused him of such a thing? Why? Standing by the car, he considered his options. He could go inside and try to straighten this out, or he could leave. The problem was the gun, which they kept in the basement and had only used for shooting squirrels when they infested the attic after all those traps had proven ineffective. It was an old gun. He didn’t think Theresa knew how to use it, but maybe she did.
He arrived at Skelley’s a great deal earlier than usual, and stayed until closing, at which point he realized he didn’t have his wallet.
Doug, the bartender, told him he could pay the next time he came. “But no more drinks until then.”
“You don’t know of a place I could stay?” Pete asked.
Doug shrugged. “What about that friend of yours, that towelhead? Why don’t you stay with him?”
In Pete’s state, this seemed a perfectly reasonable suggestion. He reached for his keys, but Doug deftly scooped them up. “I’ll take you,” he said. “You can get your car in the morning.”
Pete had no idea where Raj and Tamara lived, but Doug did. “Everyone in town knows,” he said.
Pete slurred his thanks, then weaved up to the house, where he leaned on the bell until Raj opened the door. Tamara stood behind him, wearing a red robe and holding a crying baby.
“My wife kicked me out.”
“I wonder why,” Tamara said, then turned and walked down the dark hall.
“I don’t mean to cause problems.”
Raj put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “You look like you could use a drink, my friend.”
Over tea, Pete told Raj what Theresa had accused him of.
“You need a lawyer,” Raj said.
But by that time, Pete was crying. “I need my family.”
Tamara woke up to the baby’s crying. It seemed like he had only just gone to sleep. Then it stopped. She closed her eyes, but they popped right back open. That’s when Raj burst into the room, holding the baby in front of him, extended at arm’s length, the baby’s wings rising and falling as gentle as breath, the strange man who had arrived in the night right behind Raj.
“He was flying! He was flying!” Raj said.
Tamara looked at her husband. “You’re drunk.”
“Tamara,” Raj said, “I am not drunk. And neither are you.” He opened his arms. Ravi rose into the air, his wings fully extended. He hovered, then flew higher and higher.
“Catch him,” Tamara shouted.
Ravi laughed.
“Ravi Singh, you come down here this instant,” Tamara shouted.
Laughing, dangerously close to the ceiling fan.
Tamara screamed. Raj leapt onto the bed and jumped, trying to catch Ravi by the foot. Instead, Raj grazed the baby’s heel. That set him into a cartwheel, which luckily landed on the bed. Ravi lay crying, a strange bend to his shoulder, but Tamara kept screaming at the men not to touch him. They watched the dark wings shrivel until they were gone. Only then did Tamara scoop Ravi up, holding him close to her chest.
“I think we need to call the hospital,” Raj said. “I think maybe his shoulder is broken.”
“Oh, right,” Tamara said. “And then what do we do? Tell them he fell from the sky?”
“That’s what happened, Tamara. That’s the truth.”
Tamara looked from Raj to the man beside him. “Who are you?”
“Pete Ratcher.”
“From the farm out by the old mill?”
Pete nodded.
“If you tell anybody what you saw, I’ll kill you.”
“Tamara!” Raj turned to Pete. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s hysterical.”
Tamara didn’t look hysterical. She looked like she meant it. It was the second murder threat Pete had received in twenty-four hours, and he felt he was becoming something of an expert.
“I’ll call the doctor,” Raj said.
“No,” Tamara said. “I’m taking him in. I’ll take him.”
“I’ll come with you,” Raj said. “It’s going to be all right. We can handle this, honey.”
“Just stay here with your friend.” She nodded towards Pete. “We’ll talk when I get home. You stay here, okay?”
This was the kindest Tamara had been to Raj in so long that he agreed. “I’ll call the doctor and let her know you’re coming.”
“Please,” Tamara said. “She doesn’t know you. She knows me. I’ll call from the car.”
Again, Raj agreed. He even helped pack the baby’s bag, not thinking to wonder why Tamara needed so many diapers, so many sleepers, so much stuff. He was distracted, he would later tell the television reporter. It never even occurred to him that she was lying.
When Tamara left the house, she turned right out of the driveway, but circled around Caster Lane, heading west. Ravi, in his car seat, had stopped crying and looked at her with his beautiful blue eyes, while chewing on a teething ring. Of course he was way too young for teeth, but they were coming in. She’d seen them, and she’d felt them too, when he bit down on her nipple. “Okay, baby. We’re going on a road trip, but first we’re going to make a little stop at Mr. Ratcher’s house. I hear they have a new baby there. Let’s see if we can make sure Mr. Ratcher has good reason never to tell anyone our secret.”
Tamara would never hurt Pete Ratcher’s baby. But he didn’t know that. All she wanted to do was scare him. All she wanted to do was make sure he didn’t hurt her baby. In a way, you could say her intentions were good.
It is just a little after 4:00 a.m. when Tamara Singh approaches the Ratcher driveway. She turns off the headlights, cuts the engine, and coasts in. What she’s doing isn’t dangerous—it’s more on par with a high school prank—but Tamara thinks that maybe she now understands, just a little bit, what motivates a criminal. Beyond everything else there is this thrill.
When she unbuckles Ravi from the car seat, he is sound asleep; even touching his shoulder doesn’t wake him. Tamara concludes they must have overreacted. She breathes a sigh of relief.
The air is heavy with the odor of manure, dirt, tomato plants, grass, and green corn stalks. Tamara walks across the gr
avel on tiptoe, but the noise breaks through the dark. In the distance, a dog barks. She walks to the back door, opens it, and enters the house. The Ratchers, like most of the residents of Voorhisville, do not lock their doors. Who can be bothered with keys, in this world that no one wants? Tamara wishes she had a sheet of paper so she could write that thought down.
The kitchen is lit by the stove light. The window over the sink is open, and the white curtains flutter slightly. Ravi stirs in her arms. Tamara leans her face close to his. “Shhh, baby,” she whispers. Miraculously, he does. Tamara concludes that all the excitement must have worn him out. Suddenly she’s aware of how tired she is. She tiptoes through the kitchen and into the living room.
The couch, plaid and sagging, faces a TV set with a small cactus on it. Between the couch and the TV, there is a coffee table littered with a parenting magazine, a paperback, unused diapers, a box of tissues, a half-filled glass of water, and an empty plate. On the TV wall stands the only nice piece of furniture in the room, an antique sideboard with a lace runner and two white taper candles in glass holders. Tamara lies down on the couch. As she falls asleep, she can hear the faint twittering of birds and—from upstairs—a baby’s cry; the sound of footsteps.
* * *
When Pete woke up, feeling like he slept on rocks instead of a pullout couch, he found Raj sitting at the kitchen table, making designs with Cheerios. Pete didn’t really have the energy to comfort Raj—after all, his wife accused him of molesting their daughter; he had serious problems of his own. The phone rang, but Raj continued rearranging Cheerios. “Should I get that?” Pete asked. He walked over to the phone. “Hello?”
“Is this Raj Singh?”
“Theresa?”
“Pete? What are you doing there?”
“Theresa, I never—”
“I need to talk to Raj Singh. Is he there?”
“Theresa, you have to believe me.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. Tamara Singh is here, and their baby is dead. Are you going to tell him, or should I?”
Pete watched Raj carefully place a Cheerio in-between two others. “But what should I say? How should I say it?”
