Seven Crow Stories

by Robert J. Wiersema

  She wouldn’t bother them next door. She’d leave it, for the time being.

  The crying woke her just before three A.M. that night.

  Curt had put the bedframe together after he got home from work, and the bed was now in place, head to the north wall.

  The crying seemed to be coming from where it had come from the night before, a spot on the east wall, a few feet to her left.

  It was louder tonight. But then, she was closer.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  The crying was louder.

  The baby seemed . . . hungrier. More desperate. Crying itself into a small frenzy.

  How could anyone sleep through that?

  Curt snored behind her, and Laura dug her fingers into the bed under her pillow, willing the sound to stop.

  God, won’t someone pick that baby up?

  Please, please, please . . .

  “I can’t believe you slept through that last night,” were the first words out of Laura’s mouth when she got downstairs the next morning.

  Curt had been sitting at the table drinking coffee and reading the Saturday Globe, but he had jumped up when he heard her on the stairs and started making tea.

  “Slept through what?” he asked, turning to face her.

  “The baby.”

  He glanced down at her belly, then back up to her face. “What?”

  “The baby last night,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “Did something—” He took a step forward.

  “Not our baby,” she said, stepping back. “The baby next door.”

  “Next door?”

  “It cries. I’ve heard it a few times. I’m surprised you could sleep through it.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” he said, shaking his head. His brow was furrowed in thought, his face serious.

  “Oh, I know that,” she said. “You snored through the whole thing. I’m a little concerned.”

  He tilted his head.

  “There’s no way you’re going to be allowed to sleep through the night once this one starts crying,” she said, in a tone of stern admonishment that was only half-kidding, curving her hands around her belly.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, brow still furrowed.

  “Hey,” she said, breaking into a smile. “Come back to me, space ranger.”

  “What?” He shook his head, shook it off.

  “I was just kidding,” she said. “No big deal.”

  “Yeah.” His voice was still thoughtful, still far away.

  “I’ll wake you up next time,” she said. “It’ll be good practice.”

  She was awake that night when the baby started to cry. She had tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come, and as Curt slipped away, his breathing growing slow and regular, she gave up.

  There is nothing lonelier than lying awake while the person you love slumbers next to you.

  As the numbers slid soundlessly past on the clock radio, first twelve, then one, then two, she began to think that it wasn’t going to happen, that maybe the baby would sleep through the night.

  But at 2:42 A.M., the crying started again.

  At first, it was a faint mewling, a shallow snuffling sound, like maybe the baby was just stirring in its sleep. After a moment, the first cry, a wail that cut through the wall, that made Laura ache, that made her belly clench.

  She lay in bed, listening. Despite their conversation that morning, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to wake Curt; he was so cranky when he was disturbed.

  But if it went on for too long—

  “Shh.”

  She sat upright at the sound of the voice. It was so clear, so loud, it sounded like it was coming from just past the foot of the bed.

  “Shh.”

  Without even being aware that she was doing it, she was standing up, walking toward the wall.

  “It’s okay. Shh. It’s okay.”

  It was a child’s voice.

  Was it a boy or a girl?

  Six, maybe seven years old, it didn’t matter. It was a child. An older sibling, maybe. Comforting the baby.

  As she touched her hand to the cold wall, the child started to sing.

  “Frère Jacques, frère Jacques. . . .”

  The words seemed to echo through the bedroom.

  “Curt!” she shouted, turning back toward the bed. “Curt!”

  She crossed the room in three steps as the song resonated around her, kneeling onto the bed, pushing Curt between his shoulder blades. “Curt, wake up!”

  He groaned and turned partway over.

  “Dormez-vous, dormez-vous. . . .”

  “Curt, wake up!” She pushed on his shoulders, then hit him desperately. “Curt!”

  He seemed to jump off the bed, his eyes flashing open. “What? What is it? Laura?” His voice was thick and slow, and he shook his head several times, trying to clear it. “Are you okay?”

  “Listen,” she said. “It’s the baby.”

  “Something’s wrong with the baby?”

  She wanted to shake him. Instead, she grabbed his shoulders. “Curt, listen.”

  The room was as silent as an empty church.

  They listened together for a long moment before Curt spoke. “Listen to what?”

  She refused to give up, refused to breathe.

  “Laura, are you okay?”

  She nodded, afraid to speak.

  “Laura?”

  His voice seemed to be coming from very far away.

  “I . . . I thought I heard something.”

  “The baby again?” he asked, all trace of sleep and confusion gone from his voice.

  “Next door.”

  “Laura—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, nodding firmly. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “Laura . . .”

  “Go back to sleep,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  He lay back down and she snuggled in beside him, not touching him.

  It took a long time for his breathing to slow again. She lay awake, listening. Waiting.

  Curt wasn’t alone when he got home from work.

  “Dr. Talbot,” she said, grateful that she had forced herself to get dressed. It had been almost too much to ask of herself, with not having slept the past couple of nights.

  “Hello, Laura,” he said gently, taking her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  The doctor didn’t miss the sharp glance she threw toward Curt.

  “It’s all right,” Dr. Talbot said. “Curt asked if I would mind dropping by.”

  “Why don’t you two go into the living room,” Curt said. “I’ll get a start on dinner.”

  “Thank you, Curt,” the doctor said as Curt showed him into the living room, Laura following two steps behind.

  “Yes, thank you Curt,” she said, seething, as she sat down on the sofa.

  “Don’t be upset with Curt,” Dr. Talbot said, allowing him a moment to leave. “He’s just worried about you.”

  “So you rushed over here at five-thirty on a Monday night?”

  “He told me you hadn’t been sleeping.”

  “Just a couple of nights.”

  “He’s right to be worried.”

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  “You knew that there were risks with your pregnancy, given your—”

  “Condition,” she finished.

  “And I told you that I’d be keeping a close eye on you.”

  “I’m all right,” she repeated.

  “You knew there were risks in going off your medication.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Curt tells me you’re hearing things.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “He’s worried.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not hearing things.” She stretched out the words derisively. “There’s a baby next door—”

  “Curt tells me it’s keeping you awake at night.”

  “It’s crying,” she snapped. “God, what sort of a mother would I make if a crying baby didn’t wake me up?”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m fine, Dr. Talbot. Really. I’m sorry that Curt worried you.”

  “I’m just checking in.”

  “And I appreciate that.”

  He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, through his mouth. “If things get bad, like they got last year—”

  “They won’t,” she interrupted. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “—we won’t be able to put you back on the regimen. Not until the baby is born. That’s—”

  “You don’t have to worry.”

  “It’s not just my job to worry, Laura,” he said, almost in a whisper. “We’ve spent a lot of time together, you and I.”

  “I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m not worried about you letting me down, Laura. I’m worried about you letting you down.”

  She tugged her sleeves down, twisting her sweatshirt cuffs in each fist. “I’m not going to hurt myself.”

  ““You said that before,” Curt said from the doorway. He was holding a tray with the teapot and two cups, a creamer and the sugar bowl.

  Dr. Talbot looked at him, and shifted in the chair. “Curt, if you could just—”

  “Right,” he said, slipping the tray onto the table between them. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

  The doctor started to say ‘thank you,’ but Laura was already standing up. “Actually, Dr. Talbot was just leaving.”

  Curt stopped.

  Dr. Talbot stood up. “Laura, if you would just—”

  “I’m all right, Dr. Talbot,” she said. “I’m not hearing things, and I’m not going to hurt myself. I heard a baby crying. God, I’m a mother: what was I supposed to do, ignore it?”

  She didn’t wait for a response, brushing past Curt on her way to the stairs.

  As she climbed toward the bedroom, she could hear Curt and the doctor’s voices behind her, hushed. Curt apologizing, the doctor reassuring, asking him something about the neighbours.

  She didn’t care.

  She made a point of slamming the bedroom door behind herself, sitting on the bed and staring at the wall.

  “Are you all right?” Curt asked, coming into the bedroom. She had no idea how long it had been since the doctor had left, but it felt like quite a while. Perhaps he had been giving her some space, letting her cool down.

  He had knocked before opening the door.

  She hadn’t answered.

  He repeated the question.

  “I’m fine,” she said, not looking up at him, not coming close to meeting his eye.

  “I’m sorry I called the doctor.”

  She barely heard the words. The baby had been crying for a while, and he—Laura was sure it was a boy—was all she could focus on.

  The deep, ragged breaths, the gasping, the wailing . . .

  “Laura?”

  “It’s all right,” she said blandly.

  She knew better than to say anything else. Certainly knew better than to ask Curt if he could hear the baby.

  She would sit on her hands. She wouldn’t do anything, or say anything. Not yet. Not yet.

  If it got too bad, she would call the doctor. It wasn’t fair to Curt to let him go on like nothing was wrong. If he couldn’t hear what was going on around him, it was up to her. She’d look after him. She’d take care of him.

  That was her job.

  That was the mommy’s job, to take care of her boys.

  The baby wailed, and she clenched her fists on the bedcovers, subtly, so Curt wouldn’t see.

  She didn’t get out of bed.

  Curt got up after the alarm clock rang for the second time, disappearing almost soundlessly through the bathroom door. A few moments later, the shower started.

  She barely heard it.

  Lying on her back, staring at the ceiling, all she could hear was the baby.

  He was really wailing now, like he was starving. His brother was trying to soothe him, murmuring, “It’s all right, it’s all right, she’ll come soon,” but nothing helped. The baby kept screaming. Crying.

  She tried covering her ears, pulling the pillow up around the sides of her face. She tried humming to herself, snatches of an old Wilco song that she couldn’t quite remember. She tried holding her breath.

  Curt came out of the bathroom just as she was about to start crying herself. She willed the tears back, forced herself to look cool and calm.

  “It’s all right. Shh.”

  “You’re awake,” Curt said from the bathroom doorway.

  Laura nodded, not entirely trusting her voice.

  “Did you sleep at all?”

  “Shh, it’s gonna be okay.”

  “A little bit,” she lied as he crossed to the wardrobe and began pulling out clothes.

  “She’ll be here soon.”

  “Are you going to try for a bit more?”

  It took her a moment to realize that Curt was still talking to her. The baby’s cries had grown louder, closer: it was like he was right there. Like if she reached out of bed—

  “Laura?”

  “I think I’ll get up.” He was tying his tie. When had he gotten dressed? “Do you want breakfast?” She struggled herself up to a sitting position.

  He shrugged into his jacket. “No, thanks. I’ve got an early meeting.” He glanced at his watch. “And I . . .”

  Tie. Watch. Jacket.

  When had that happened?

  “She’s coming soon.”

  He was still talking, but she couldn’t hear him. The baby and his brother were both right there, close enough to touch.

  “Laura?”

  She forced a smile. “You have a good day.”

  He stopped and stared at her. “Are you . . .”

  The crying subsided to a faint, thick snuffling.

  “I’m all right.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “I’ll give you a call a little later,” he said, leaning in to brush her hair back, to kiss her on the forehead. He seemed sad to be leaving.

  “You don’t have to,” she said, swinging her legs off the bed. “I know you’re busy.”

  His smile was pinched and tight. “I’ll call,” he said. “Okay?”

  She nodded. He’d call. Of course he’d call. He was sweet. He was kind. He was worried.

  He was going to be such a good dad.

  The baby started crying again, the sound deeper, thicker, phlegmy.

  “Okay.”

  “I love you,” he said, as he turned away.

  “I love you too.”

  She listened to his footsteps down the stairs, to the sound of the door closing behind him.

  She was alone.

  And the baby wailed.

  She wasn’t sure how long she spent sitting on the edge of the bed, listening. It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour: time lost all meaning in the pain, the full-throated desperation of that cry.

  When she finally stood up, it was to go to the bathroom. She peed, put on a pair of yoga pants from on top of the laundry hamper, and drew on her favourite hoodie before going downstairs, careful to hold the rail, especially at the very top.

  Standing at the foot of the staircase, she savoured the silence for a moment. Nothing. No crying. No comforting murmurs. Just the distant hum of traffic, the shifting of a breeze.

  She permitted herself a half-smile.

  She set herself a spot at the head of the kitchen table, put some water on to boil, and was slicing an apple w
hen the crying started again.

  She jerked. Flinched. Turned.

  It was like the baby was right in the kitchen, near the table. Under the table.

  She actually crouched to look, bending with her back straight, her knees parted, craning her neck as if expecting to see a small boy hiding under the table like a fort, protecting his younger brother.

  Protecting . . .

  Was that it?

  What were they doing next door to that poor baby? What had they done to that little boy that he needed to take care of an infant?

  Without hesitating, she stormed out of the kitchen, wrenched the front door open, and stalked across the shared porch.

  She pressed hard on the neighbour’s doorbell, rolling on her feet.

  She cursed herself inwardly for not having done this sooner. She should have called Child Services when she knew that something was wrong. Maybe this way was better, though. Give the parents a chance to change their ways, to let them know that whatever they were doing, it wasn’t a secret, and if they—

  “Hello?”

  The voice was faint and frail, muffled by the door. There were curtains on the other side of the small window on the door, and Laura strained to see through, past her own reflection.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m—” Now that she was standing there, she had absolutely no idea what to say. “My name is Laura. My husband and I, we just moved in next door. . . .”

  “Oh, the new neighbours.” The door opened slowly, and Laura took a step back. “We were going to come over and say hello, but Roger’s been a little under the weather. Won’t you come in?”

  The woman was tiny and wizened, face wrinkled soft and crepey, hair white and pulled back in a tight bun. She wore a navy cardigan over a blue floral housedress. As she held the door for Laura, her hand shook.

  Laura forced a smile. “Of course,” she said, as she followed the old woman inside.

  She closed the door slowly behind herself, looking carefully around the house.

  It was the mirror-image of their own, the same staircase, the same hook-wall, but the entrance to the living room was on the other side of the entry hall.

  Everything was dirty, though. No, not dirty: old. Lived in. The house seemed tattered and worn, the paint flat and chipped, the floors dull, dust in the corners. Every surface was crammed with chintz and knickknacks, stacks of books and magazines on the end of each of the lower stairs.