Black Bird

by Michel Basilieres

  “Oh my God,” she exclaimed, and rushed over to beat the bird away.

  But Hubert put his hand up and his palm out and said, “No.”

  “She’s hurting you,” said Aline, and made another move forward.

  “No. Doesn’t hurt. I like the bird.”

  Aline thought, of course it’s not a real wound, it’s just makeup. If this poor simple soul likes having Grace on his head, leave them both be. But it was disturbing to see her beak dip so deeply into the bandaged spot. It seemed as if Grace were trying to pick out a berry or a nut she’d glimpsed among the mess. She seemed to grip something and twist it this way and that as if she were working it loose.

  “Burnt toast,” Hubert said.

  Aline realized she’d been staring at Grace. “What?”

  He looked puzzled. “Burnt toast,” he said.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Aline sighed. Of course she could give him at least some toast. It would be better for him than all that candy he’d been gorging on. She put two slices in the toaster and pushed the lever all the way to the right, the darkest setting. Burnt it is.

  Hubert’s eyes lowered. He seemed to be looking at nothing at all, slumped in the chair like someone totally despairing of life. Aline felt like that sometimes. “Do you have parents?” she asked.

  Without looking at her he said, “No.”

  “Any family at all?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a place to live?”

  “No.”

  Aline suddenly realized how far she’d committed herself to this disturbing stranger. She really expected him to be simply lost, and that she’d just track down his home or his parents, or whatever institution he might be in care of, and hand him back. But now she was afraid she’d have to actually take him in, at least overnight. It was too late to call anyone now to do anything for him. No social agency or government office or even church would answer a knock or a phone call now.

  The toast popped. Grace flew up to perch on the window frame. Hubert handled the toast like a child, unsure of his grip and awkwardly trying to fit it into his mouth. His eyes were still downcast, his shoulders hunched over as if he lacked the will or strength to sit up straight, and he masticated noisily and let crumbs fall from his mouth.

  Aline burst into tears and lowered her head to the table, sobbing. It was just like having breakfast with her husband. He was unwashed, uninterested, ungrateful and uncommunicative.

  Grace fluttered down to rest on her back. She cocked her head, leaned in behind Aline’s ear and squawked. Aline heaved and sobbed again.

  Hubert had finished eating and sat, blankly. Grace hopped across the table, up on his shoulder and eyed the hanging, bloody bandage. She picked. He grunted. Grace prodded.

  “Sing,” said Hubert.

  Aline raised her flushed face. The wave of despair had ebbed but tears still streaked her face. “What?”

  “Sing,” he repeated. “Your voice.”

  What was she going to do? How could she take on another burden? The whole household had become her burden: Grandfather, Mother, everyone else. No one looked after themselves, no one lifted a finger to help her. She had no life of her own, no friends, no hope. All she had was Grace. And now this basket case, another helpless burden, had landed in her lap.

  He raised his eyes and looked straight at her. Grace had to jump to his head to reach down into the sticky mess. “Your voice is your heart,” he said. “The heart is the strongest part. Follow your heart.”

  Aline laughed nervously and wiped her face with her bare hands. “Get off him, Grace,” she said. She got up, walked around the table and held Grace with both hands so she couldn’t fly away. “I can’t stand it, even if you don’t mind. It’s too creepy.”

  She brought him to the basement, which was harder than she imagined because he was quite incompetent with the stairs. He stood unsteadily, watching her opening and sorting through boxes until she offered him some clothes.

  “I’ll leave you with these, you can change yourself. We’ve no extra beds in the house, but you can sleep here on the floor. It’s hard, but not any dirtier than you already are. Wrap yourself in these blankets, and in the morning we’ll call the welfare people. Somebody else can give you a bath.”

  As everyone retired, turned off the television, locked the doors and went to bed, Grandfather awoke and stretched in his bed. It was musty and warm as always, but he took note of it almost for the first time. Almost, because as he was feeling the touch of the stale sheets and blankets as never before, he realized they’d always felt that way. And with the window closed, how stuffy and warm it was.

  Through the wall he heard his wife crying in her bed. Nothing had changed. But he took no satisfaction in it; that was new. He put his eye in, blinked, felt the paste in his mouth. Why should he now begin to feel guilt, where before her tears had justified his angry pleasure?

  Exhausted, Marie had slept on the cot beside the grave. Earlier she’d stirred, half woke on hearing scrapings and bumpings at the wall, and voices in the basement beyond. But it was quiet now. She lay in the darkness in the small room without windows, with the knowledge of what she’d done, and felt how airless and hidden and muffled it was in there, as if she herself were dead and in her coffin.

  She might as well be dead. She’d failed at everything, had lost everything. Burying Cross had been her only choice, but it was really a stop-gap measure. She couldn’t leave him here indefinitely; someone would find out someday. Even the false wall she’d built for this tiny hole she lay in was only ever supposed to be temporary. She must think of what she was going to do.

  How do you get rid of a body? Who could help her with that question?

  At the kitchen table, Grandfather lit his first cigarette of the night. He opened the previous day’s newspaper and read. He’d never noticed before how quiet it was. He heard the house creaking; he heard the occasional car race past on its way down Park Avenue, or the bus. He opened the window and heard the tree gently rustling in the cool breeze. He heard weeping still, and looked up to the bedrooms overhead. No, it wasn’t Aline. She was silent now. But he still heard it. He moved away from the window and heard it louder in the centre of the kitchen. He moved towards the hallway, and there—he heard it more clearly still, through the basement door. Someone was crying in the basement.

  Finally, Marie turned on the light, wiped away her tears and stood up. She was hungry, she needed a bath and she had to pee. She took up Grandfather’s spade to return it before anyone noticed it missing, and stepped into the basement. She reached for the hanging bulb, closed the door behind her, flicked the light on and stepped around the boxes of Angus’s things. She looked up. A man stood slouching, his head down. It wasn’t Uncle or Father or Grandfather or even Jean-Baptiste.

  He lifted his head. It was Hubert.

  Marie screamed.

  “Marie,” he said.

  Grandfather yanked open the door and charged down the stairs. At the bottom he found Marie standing terrified before a stranger. She was holding his spade, in self-defence, he thought. He drew closer and saw the horribly shambling mess that shifted its weight from one foot to the other.

  “Give me the shovel,” he said to Marie, but he had to reach over and take it from her hands. As he stepped up beside her he looked the stranger in the face.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said. This was the man the cops had brought to his back door, the man—the corpse—he’d sold to Dr. Hyde.

  Without hesitation Grandfather lifted the shovel and swung it like a baseball bat. He broke Hubert’s nose. Hubert swayed backward and grunted. He lost his balance and toppled over.

  Marie ran up the stairs. Hubert! Where had he come from? He was dead, he was dead! How could he be here? She heard noises in the basement. Grandfather was beating him with the spade—should she stop him? Should she help him? Good Lord, she couldn’t let him try to bury Hubert—he might find Cro
ss.

  She dashed back down the steps and grabbed Grandfather’s arms. He’d been bending over Hubert, whose head had cracked against the gas meter and lay awkwardly against the pipes and the grey stone of the foundation. “No, no, don’t!” she pleaded, and held on to Grandfather’s arm as he made a swing right at Hubert’s face. She yanked his arm and he missed Hubert, but he hit the pipes and the soft lead of a fragile solder joint, and after the short clang came a sharp hissing and the pungent smell of gas.

  “Christ, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Grandfather. “Wake everyone. Get out of the house. Call the fire department.”

  “Are you crazy?” said Marie. “They’ll find him.”

  Grandfather looked puzzled. Why would she care? “He’s an intruder. We’ve got a gas leak, we could all be killed. Get out, let’s get out!”

  Marie stood still, looking from Grandfather to the unconscious Hubert. She was breathing heavily in short bursts, her mind racing so fast she couldn’t think. Grandfather grabbed her arm and tugged her along after him. He was filled with a sense of urgency and worry; he couldn’t really make sense of the situation, but somehow he felt, above everything, the need to get Marie out of danger. That was new too. Putting someone else first.

  Hubert crawled up the wall until he stood unsteadily on two feet. He picked up the shovel and examined the thing that had broken his nose. He could feel the pain, but he wasn’t bothered by it. He dropped the shovel. It struck against the stone of the foundation, and two tiny sparks shot out. They pleased him. He raised the shovel again, and dropped it.

  The explosion threw him to the foot of the stairs. He’d lost an ear, and the other rang painfully.

  But the flames were nice and warm.

  Aline ignored their pleas. “Open the fucking door, Aline,” shouted Father. “No one’s kidding around here.” But Aline lay still. Grace fluttered around the bedroom cawing, and Father and Uncle pounded harder and harder on the door.

  In the hallway they were all shouting at one another:

  “How’d he get in?”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “Why didn’t you take care with the shovel?”

  “Why didn’t you do a decent job with the soldering?”

  “What’re we going to tell the cops?”

  “Aline, the house is on fire. You have to get out.”

  “Forget her. Let her die. I’m getting out.”

  “For God’s sake, someone help me with Mother.”

  Who is this person lying with a head split open? And look, great seams along his chest, his arms, everywhere. But nothing, no person in there.

  There was a disturbance in the house, but more than that was unclear. Was this person responsible? He collected himself and moved closer. He drifted down against the warmth that pushed back at him, and still, there was no one in there. Repulsive. What an ugly, beaten monster. But when he got close enough, there was a thrumming, a pulsing that welcomed him. He offered no resistance. He settled in through the sutures and the gaps in the flesh, and he began to feel. His chest rose slowly, contentedly. Everything else hurt, hurt like hell, but his chest drew in air—air!—and he felt a kind of release of tension, as if some ordeal were over, and he was once again welcomed and loved.

  He slept.

  He woke to the sound of strident cawing. He might have been dreaming of vultures.

  Hot. Why is it always so bloody hot? Red, orange flames, dark black smoke—what have I done? What did I do or not do? To be here, enduring this? I did what they told me to. I kept my nose clean, I didn’t cause trouble—is this my reward? Bodiless, in hell?

  But those are my things burning—and I’m lying on stairs—fuck, my head hurts—my back—my chest—

  He gasped the air, and then realized he’d done it. He looked around. Everything hurt. A jet of flame sprang from the wall and everything was catching fire. He struggled to rise, but had trouble with his legs and arms—

  —these are not my legs and arms—

  He crawled up the stairs. Black smoke billowed out the doorway into the hall. He crawled out of it coughing, raised himself on the door, took huge gasps of cleaner air.

  This was his daughter’s house. He staggered down the hall and held himself up on the parlour door frame. There was screaming and thumping coming from upstairs. His daughter lay sleeping on a hospital bed. He slowly put one mismatched foot in front of the other and swayed unevenly, flailing his arms out to balance. Behind him he heard someone running down the stairs. He reached the bedside and steadied himself with both arms locked, and looked down at his sleeping daughter’s profile. Behind the sagging lines of middle age he saw the bright eyes and curiosity of the girl she had been. He saw his long-dead wife’s chin and smile, saw his own nose, saw her in her wedding gown, saw her in the hospital bed with a newborn in each arm.

  Behind him he heard, “Jesus Christ.”

  “Wake up,” he said to his daughter. Nothing. “Wake up. Wake up!” Nothing. He reached over to her ear, drew in his breath and yelled, “Wake up!”

  Just as Father grabbed him by the neck, Mother’s eyes fluttered. “Wake up,” he croaked.

  She opened her eyes.

  And screamed.

  Father yanked so hard the head came off in his hands. He yelled and dropped it. Mother scrambled from the bed, and the body fell where she had lain.

  He was dead. Finally.

  Aline was so depressed she convinced herself they were only playing some horrible Halloween gag on her. But Grace was agitated, shrieking and flying about, fluttering at the window. Aline got up to open it. Even though they’d abandoned their pounding and screaming at her door, it sounded like they were doing just the same elsewhere in the house.

  When she had the window open, and Grace had darted out into the cold night air, she realized she could hear the sirens of fire trucks screaming towards her.

  My God, had they been serious? She hurried to the bedroom door and flung it open. A wall of flame came rushing up the hallway towards the air pouring in from her window. She retreated. It really was a fire. How could things continue to get so much worse? Wasn’t there ever an end to the suffering?

  She had no choice now but to go out the window, just as Grace had. She stepped onto the roof of the kitchen and saw flames licking over the lip from the windows below. The roof was hot on her bare feet. There were no stairs or ladder to the ground, which seemed infinitely far below. Behind her the top floor of the house was engulfed. In minutes the roof would collapse beneath her.

  Grace flapped in her face, cawing. She beat the bird away, but it came back, flying around her in ever-widening circles, calling. Aline was confused. “Grace, go away, we’ll both die.”

  The bird herded her to the edge of the roof. Across the lane the church was dark and lifeless. Aline couldn’t bring herself to jump: it was too far across to any other building or down to the ground. She’d always been timid. She turned and ran to the other edge. The church was behind her and she faced the flank of the mountain. The illuminated cross glowed out of the darkness. Grace flittered about her face again, and Aline staggered, almost went over.

  She was frightened. Grace screeched, almost hovering in front of her, over the empty air. “Oh, Grace,” she said.

  The bird called out to her as she had during their singing lessons, with the notes and strains of the tune they’d worked out together. Aline turned and saw, on one side, a wall of flame advancing towards her from the rear of the building, and on the other, the coloured glass of the church windows flickering dimly in the shadows. There were angels circling in the air, leading the risen one up, in a scene of the Ascension.

  She had always wanted to fly. She sang with Grace. She had to raise her voice to hear herself above the cracking timbers, and the wind and fire howling back and forth at each other. She felt the tar of the roof go soft under her feet, heard the groaning and snapping of beams giving way. Jump? She could no longer afford her fear.

  She flew.
<
br />   The firemen worked through the night to put out the blaze, but they were lucky to be able to contain it to just a few buildings on either side of the Desouche home. The sky gradually lightened, though as usual it was overcast, and so it couldn’t be said that anyone saw the sun rise. But what emerged from the darkness was a smouldering pile of rubble where the house had stood, and on the sidewalk in front of it, some miserable figures wrapped in the cheap blankets they’d been sleeping in. The firemen collected their hoses and stole away. The police opened the street to the morning traffic.

  Grandfather surveyed the smoking ruins through his glass eye and thought, along with what little we owned, I’ve killed another woman. Part of him was bitterly ashamed. But still, he felt now as if he’d been reborn. The past lay consumed, inert and powerless to hurt him. It was late in his life for a man to begin again, but now nothing else was possible.

  He saw Marie staring blankly at the ruins, hugging herself against the damp, and shuddering. He threw his arms around her and held her close, and he himself felt comforted.

  Marie was light-headed with exhaustion and dread. This was what her years of continued and increasing dedication and work had brought her to. The devastation was complete. She surveyed the open field of ash and char; the fire’d been fuelled so efficiently by the gas that nothing recognizable was left, not any of their possessions or that horrible zombie Hubert, or probably even Cross in his grave. At the edges of the exposed pit that was their home, timbers and pipes and scraps of the neighbours’ dwellings and of the funeral parlour could be distinguished, and across the lane the grey stone wall of the church was blackened; but in the centre, where the blaze had begun, the largest surviving object was a small dark lump like a burnt potato. Unnoticed, it continued to ooze blood.

  In the cold of the November morning, Ville-Marie de l’Incarnation Desouche stood, homeless.

  Jean-Baptiste walked home from Bordeaux jail to save the bus fare. He’d never been so far out of his own neighbourhood before, never seen so many unrecognized streets and buildings. Yet they were all unmistakably Montreal. Countless French street names, street-front balconies and staircases, black ironwork and grey stone, and carved gingerbread doors, lintels, gables. Grey churches with green peaked roofs. Buses with brown and cream paint, red brick schools covering whole blocks, six storeys high, corner stores with their doors literally cutting the points of corners, always painted the same green as those church roofs. Enormous quantities of beer and cigarettes being carted up or down the block by ten- and twelve-year-olds fetching for their parents.