Murmuration

by TJ Klune

  “No,” they tell him. “Stay away. Mrs. Richardson wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  They tut at him and shoo him away.

  He goes back to dusting the shelves while Mrs. Richardson mutters into the phone. He hears little snatches of the conversation—Why, you’ve seen him! You absolutely must fix this!—and he thinks maybe he should be worried, but figures she has to weigh a buck ten at best and thinks he could take her if she tried to strong-arm him into anything.

  She hangs up the phone and smiles at him.

  He doesn’t like that smile too much.

  “You’re lucky you have me,” she says quite seriously.

  MIKE’S SITTING in the office chair, brought out into the middle of the store, arms folded across his chest as he glares at everyone standing around him. “I’m not shaving it off,” he says.

  “I told you he wouldn’t,” Donald says, shaving kit splayed out on the counter next to them. “Even when he comes in for a trim, he’s very careful with it.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Richardson says, like it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever heard. “You allow him to leave your shop looking like this? By choice? And here I was thinking he did this at home by himself. Oh, this is so much worse than I ever thought. How you’ve gotten this far shows just how forgiving that young man of yours truly is. Shave it! Shave it all off.”

  “You come near me with that thing,” Mike says, turning his glare to Donald, “and I’ll tell the others you’re counting cards at poker night.”

  “Well, I never,” Mrs. Richardson says. “What a terrible thing to do, Donald Franklin. Cheating at cards? I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

  “I’m more scared of her than I am of you,” Donald tells Mike. “You can hurt me physically. She can hurt me emotionally.”

  “And I would do it, too,” she says, and the ladies titter behind her in agreement.

  “Well maybe Sean likes it,” Mike says, struggling valiantly not to blush. He’s thirty-six years old, for god’s sake. He doesn’t have to justify himself to anyone. He scratches his wrist and refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. “You ever think of that?”

  “Well, I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” Mrs. Richardson says with a proper sniff.

  “How about a trim?” Donald says, intervening before Mike’s lips even start twitching. “A trim that brings him from mountain man to debonair bookseller. Why, I think that sounds like the perfect compromise!”

  Mrs. Richardson gives a rather unladylike snort. “The Good Book shows us that miracles are possible, so I suppose I can attempt to believe in one now.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Mike says. Sure, he’s been lax as of late, and maybe he didn’t pay as close attention this morning as he normally does, but he was distracted. That stupid dream was rolling around his head and he’d decided to forgo coffee at the diner this morning, knowing Oscar would give him shit for looking like he did. But then he frowned at himself in the mirror, replaying that thought over in his head, because he doesn’t know any Oscar, it’s Walter who he sees at the diner, and Walter’s as sweet as they come, never giving anyone shit.

  So yes, he has other things on his mind, and he thinks he can be forgiven for forgetting to trim himself up. Though, today is important. It’s very important. And while he knows Sean likes him no matter how he looks, he doesn’t want there to be even the smallest doubt in Sean’s mind that Mike’s serious about this. Mike doesn’t think he’s ever been more serious about anything in his life. And after three years, it’s about time.

  They’re waiting for him, five women and one man, staring at him like they have all the time in the world, trusting him to keep to the right decision (and see it their way).

  He sighs and says, “Fine. A trim. That’s it.”

  “Honestly,” Mrs. Richardson says. “Always the difficult way with you. Donald, hop to it. You only have so long before I’ll need him for my side of things. Now, ladies. Just what are we going to do about those bags under his eyes?”

  Donald nods happily, starting to whistle that little tune he always does when he’s about to get to work. Mike asked about it once years ago, and Donald shook his head, saying it was something from when he was a kid. He couldn’t remember the lyrics, just the tune, but he thought it’d been something about a love shack, baby, love shack. Mike had never heard the song before. Donald couldn’t remember the name of the singer, and Mike didn’t push him. He didn’t think he and Donald had the same tastes in music, if the look on his face was any indication when Mike put on one of his jazz records.

  But he whistles that same song whenever he works.

  Like he is now.

  It’s comforting to Mike because it’s familiar. He lets it slide over him as Donald lays an apron on him, snicking a pair of scissors around his face with a practiced twitch of his fingers.

  The womenfolk are moving in the periphery, chatting quietly, listening to the orders barked by Mrs. Richardson. He doesn’t know what she’s up to, but he’s certain he won’t like it when he finds out. He knows she means well, but the Mrs. Richardsons of the world tend to bulldoze rather than ask.

  Donald wants Mike to let him do his hair a little differently, maybe a jelly roll or a flat top, but the glare he earns has him holding his hands up in placation, saying that even if it’s all the rage these days, he doesn’t expect Mike to go along with it.

  “Why would he?” Mrs. Richardson says, standing at Donald’s shoulder, surveying his work with a critical eye. “He has a beard, for heaven’s sake. Why, I had to convince Mrs. Kim at the florist just the other day that he wasn’t some Red living in our midst, waiting for the perfect moment to strike to bring us all into Communism. I don’t know that she actually believed me, but there you are. Watch your back around her, Mike Frazier. She subscribes to the belief that the only good Commie is a dead Commie.”

  Mike doesn’t know what to say to that, aside from the obvious that he isn’t a Red, that he thought maybe Red spies in small towns were stuff you only saw at the pictures, but he doesn’t want to open that can of worms with Mrs. Richardson of all people. That, and he doesn’t think she has the right to comment on hairstyles, given that her own nest looks like she got into an altercation with a pack of hair rollers and lost.

  His nerves are starting to get the better of him as the morning passes. He knows he did the right thing in asking Sean on their first date, knows he’s ready for something more after all this time, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling a little frayed and strung out. Last night probably didn’t help, whatever the hell that dream was about.

  Donald’s done a little while later, brushing loose hairs off Mike’s beard. He’s done something with his hair too, at Mrs. Richardson’s insistence, slicked it back with some oil. Mrs. Richardson says it makes him look more presentable, and Mike can barely keep from rolling his eyes.

  “A little old place where we can get together,” Donald sings under his breath, bending down until he’s inches from Mike’s face, studying it closely.

  “Perfect,” he says, standing back up and clapping his hands once. “I am very good at what I do, would you look at that.”

  The Amorea Women’s Club oohs and aahs and tells Mike that he’s never been more handsome, that Donald did such a wonderful job, that Sean will simply die at the sight of Mike and how wonderful all this is.

  Mike doesn’t want to look in the mirror in case his reflection is that of a trussed-up trollop. Sean’s going to give him shit, to be sure, and Mike is almost dreading it.

  It’s made that much worse when he’s handed off to Mrs. Richardson and sees what the bundles they carried in are about.

  “Now,” she says, a firm grip on his arm like she thinks he’ll flee at any second. “About what you’re wearing.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” he asks. He’s got his Chucks on, his jeans, his shirt. What he usually wears.

  “The fact that y
ou don’t know the answer to your own question is precisely why I’m here,” Mrs. Richardson says. “I’ve brought seven different outfits to choose from and you will pick one of them, because I won’t have you looking slovenly while out with Sean. You are meant to impress him. Not underwhelm him.”

  “You’re a terrifying woman,” Mike says.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Now, I was thinking a suit, but it’s so warm out today that you’ll probably end up sweating right through the jacket. Tell me, how do you feel about knee-high socks?”

  IX

  AT A quarter after twelve on a sunny Saturday afternoon in the little town of Amorea, a man named Mike Frazier closes the door to the bookstore, takes a deep breath, and begins to walk slowly toward the residence of one Sean Mellgard, who he’s spent the last three years in a vague sort of courtship with.

  If asked, Mike Frazier would say that at this very moment, he’s certain he’s only a few stomach twists away from vomiting the hastily eaten toast and burnt coffee he made himself that morning.

  It’s not as if Mike’s never been on a date before. He has, he’s certain about that, even though the details are lost in a milky haze he finds he has no will to sift through. Besides, he tells himself, it’s not polite to think about past dates when preparing for a future date. Even he knows that, and Mike has been called obtuse more than once.

  It’s probably not helping that he feels utterly ridiculous wearing bright yellow shorts with a white collared shirt tucked in and opened at the throat. He has checkered socks pulled up to his knees and brown loafers on his feet. He’s told that it doesn’t clash at all with his hair and beard, and in fact, according to the Amorea Women’s Club in a fit of slightly breathless giggles, he looks rather dashing, like a rogue from one of the tawdry romance novels that he carries a few of in his store. “You look like you just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean,” one of the ladies told him. “A yacht of love.”

  This did not endear Mike to his appearance as much as they probably thought it did.

  He’s scratching his wrist, nervously nodding at everyone who passes him. It’s not helping that he’s getting knowing smiles, like they’re all in on the secret. Not for the first time, Mike thinks about the lack of privacy in Amorea. It’s never really bothered him before—he’s not even sure it bothers him now—but it’s more noticeable today. Shop owners are standing in front of their businesses, waving at him and patting him on the back. Mrs. Kim (who eyes him like she thinks he’s about to inflict his Commie propaganda on her right in the middle of the street) hands him a violet, saying, “It means faithfulness and truth. Something that you will both need.” He takes it with a nod of thanks but doesn’t stop to chat.

  He’s off Main Street, and the parade of people has lessened. He’s about to turn into Sean’s neighborhood. He’s reciting in his head: Knock on his door, he’ll open, say hello, you look nice today, this flower is for you, I’m so happy to see you, knock on his door, he’ll open, say hello—

  One moment he’s ready, ready, ready and he’s going to do this, he’s going to be confident and Sean is going to smile and everything is—

  You can’t see, can you.

  He stops.

  Takes a breath. It crawls in his mouth and down his throat.

  His eyes widen.

  None of you can. You’re glazed over.

  He thinks, The birds. The birds, they circled overhead. Thousands of them.

  Hollow on the inside. I see you in my garden, you know?

  There was a horse, wasn’t there?

  It crossed the road and he touched it.

  You’re brittle and thin and won’t take much to break.

  He’s standing on a street in Amorea on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and he’s—

  HE’S TIRED of it.

  They’ve been arguing for hours. Back and forth, back and forth.

  This is it, he thinks. The dying gasp. He doesn’t know why neither one of them has pulled the plug on it. Called it. They were so much better before when they were just friends. He doesn’t know why they’ve let it twist into what it’s become. It’s not fair to either of them. Sure, they tried, they really did. And he likes to think he did the right thing, marrying her. It was one night. One drunken night when they were both feeling a little bit sorry for themselves. It was a mistake, yeah. It was all a mistake.

  They woke up the next morning, phones going off, text messages from their friends: where r u guyz and holy shit Tara said you were kissing?!?!? and it was awkward, but they laughed about it and said it wouldn’t happen again. One-time thing. Sex wouldn’t ruin what they had before.

  Two months later she said, “Hi, how are you? I’m pregnant,” and then she burst into tears while he sat there, skin buzzing and mind racing.

  They tried. They really did. He’d been raised right. His momma said that a man’s job was to do right by a woman, and even if he wasn’t always with women, the sentiment was the same. (The fact that his mother said this to him while sporting a black eye that his old man had bestowed upon her should have meant more to him, but he was eleven at the time and didn’t understand the meaning of irony.)

  So he did right by her as best he could. He took care of her, of them, just like he said he would, and yeah, sometimes they kissed, and sometimes they still had sex, and maybe one time he said, “We should probably get married,” and maybe she’d replied, “Yeah, that sounds okay to me,” even though he thought it was probably the worst idea in the world. They were both angry people, and they could lash out at each other viciously, most of the time with words, but sometimes with more. She’d scratch him, bang her fists against his chest, and he’d take it, he would, even if he felt like reaching out and slapping her silly, but he would never be his father. He would never do that, even if she left marks on his arms.

  They tried, though. They got married, just went down to the justice of the peace, signed some papers, wham bam thank you, ma’am, and it was done. It felt like the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t what they wanted, but the right thing isn’t always about want.

  Their friends thought they were making a mistake, but by then, they weren’t really their friends anymore because he’d pushed them away, even though she begged him not to. She still went out with them, she still saw the old group, and sometimes she’d come back smelling of booze and cigarettes and he’d yell, “Are you stupid? Are you out of your goddamn mind? You’re fucking pregnant, how could you be so careless?”

  And she’d cry and say she was sorry, she was so sorry, she never wanted this, she never wanted any of this. And he was twenty-eight years old. He was in the prime of his life, and it didn’t help that he thought, This is your fault, this is all your fault, every time he looked at her. It wasn’t fair, he knew, because it took two to tango, but he couldn’t stop it. He loved her, he did, but he wasn’t in love with her, and maybe he even resented her sometimes.

  He was twenty-nine when the kid was born, and the kid turned out to be a daughter, a wrinkled little thing with pale skin and a shock of red hair on her head. He was blown away by her, by the fact that she was real, but she was sick, they said. The doctors said she was sick, her fucking heart had been growing on the outside of her chest. They knew this. They’d been expecting this. There was hope. There was always hope.

  She lasted two years, most of which was spent in and out of different hospitals.

  When she died, when their daughter died, everything else died too, and they fought like animals, teeth and claws and they gouged each other with vicious barbs. She said things like Maybe if you were more of a man, maybe if you’d done more, she’d still be here, and he’d say I wish I’d never even met you, I wish I’d never even heard your name, you are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and on and on it went.

  He knows they need to end this, this thing that they’ve become, because he’s sure he’s going to cheat on her, and he’s sure she’s already fucking around on him, not that they’ve even slept in the s
ame bed in close to a year. This last fight is it, really. They are getting to the point where the words will never be taken back, and they will break each other.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” he says when her voice dies out, cracked and broken.

  Her laugh is bitter. “Of course you can’t.”

  “You don’t love me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He frowns at her. “Hey, you don’t, okay? Not like… not like we should.”

  “Don’t put this on me,” she says, and she’s crying now. “It’s you too. You did this too.”

  And she’s right, of course, and he could probably sling any number of things in her face right now (the text messages to the person in her phone listed only as BT that say things like miss u and can’t wait to see u and 2day was exactly what I needed xx) but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and it’s not because he’s a better person. No. He’s not a better person and he feels that old familiar anger rising up in him, that sick fury that causes the palms of his hands to itch, that makes him want to reach out and just shake her silly, to snap at her, to tell her what he knows while his grip tightens on her shoulders.

  He’s about to do exactly that, about to throw it back at her, but he’s distracted, because there’s a bird. There’s a bird sitting on the rail of the balcony, a bird that’s staring at him, unblinking.

  “Are you even listening to me?” she cries. “God, this is just so fucking typical—”

  But he’s not listening. He’s seen the bird, and he’s thinking, Starling, huh, that’s a starling, like when I was a kid, watching TV with Dad, and he said, “Look, look at that, would you look at that, oh my god, look,” and I did, and there were thousands of them, tens of thousands of them, and they were moving together, they were dancing, Dad said it was called a murmuration, said it was order in the chaos, and that it’d be the most beautiful thing I’d ever see.