The Gravity of Birds: A Novel

by Tracy Guzeman

  At the car rental lot, Stephen tossed his backpack and briefcase into the back of their designated vehicle, and settled into the passenger seat with minimal complaint, immediately adjusting the vents and temperature controls before fiddling with the radio.

  “Lots of country music stations.”

  “We’re in Tennessee,” Finch said.

  “It’s not my favorite type of music.”

  “Then perhaps you should consider turning it off.” They were getting a later start than he’d planned. They still needed to stop at the motel in Dyersburg, and Finch wanted to be in Orion well before dark, before the Kesslers sat down to their evening meal, before the small amount of energy he had in reserve was completely expended.

  Instead of turning off the radio, Stephen hummed over it, stopping his percussion solo on the dashboard to ask, “Do you wonder what she looks like now?”

  Finch knew who he was referring to. Their conversations always circled around Natalie, as opposed to Alice. Natalie had been a beautiful girl, but manipulative and calculating. Finch thought it quite possible her personality had settled into her face as she’d grown older, drawing a shallow channel between her brows, scratching lines of disappointment around her mouth.

  When he’d first found the photos among Thomas’s papers, he’d thought the anger in Natalie’s message, I know what you did, had been for Alice’s sake, in her defense. But after studying both the main panel of the triptych and the drawing at the Edells’, he no longer thought that was the case. On canvas at least, the sisters seemed to have no connection to each other, circling in separate orbits, whether around their parents or around Thomas.

  Alice’s role was less clear. For some reason Finch was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was the photo of her while pregnant, the joy emanating from her so palpable he could swear there was a change in temperature whenever his finger touched her image. Or perhaps it was because, at least when she was younger, she’d seemed immune to Thomas’s spell. Maybe it was the intelligence he noted in those pale blue eyes. Whatever sharpness she had to her was in her intellect, not her personality. Regardless, his mood lifted when he thought of her.

  “She’d be the type to have invested heavily in keeping herself up, don’t you think?” Stephen said.

  “We’re here to find out about the paintings, and if the gods choose to smile upon us, maybe something about Thomas’s daughter. Not to indulge your Mrs. Robinson fantasies.”

  “Don’t ask me to believe you haven’t wondered what they look like now.” Stephen let the air push his arm back against the edge of the open window. “Why would they come here, anyway? There’s so much space. So much . . . nothing.”

  “A number of people might find that appealing.”

  “Would you? If you were young, and looked like they did?”

  “No. I don’t suppose I would.” Thinking about it made him uneasy. They were operating minus a well-crafted plan, with a vast number of unknowns, and he felt at a distinct disadvantage. He wanted the whole thing done with. He wanted to be home with his family for the holidays, and as satisfying as it might have been to deliver Thomas a family of his own, neatly tied up with a bow, the odds of that happening were infinitesimal. “Dyersburg is another fifteen miles. Once we check in, I suggest we get cleaned up and then leave for Orion as quickly as possible.”

  “You want to ensure we make a good first impression, is that it?”

  “You never get a second chance,” Finch said. He fought the urge to point out the miscellaneous stains on Stephen’s poncho. “I believe we’ll need all the help we can get.”

  They pulled into the parking lot of the motel and got their room keys from the front desk manager, an elderly woman whose hair was the shade of a Spanish onion. After nodding in affirmation of her stern warning not to smoke in the rooms, they dragged their luggage up an exterior flight of stairs and closed the doors to their adjoining rooms synchronously.

  A hot shower erased the chill Finch had caught standing in the rain, and the change of clothes improved his mood, if not his overall health. But their brief time out of the car did not have the same restorative effect on Stephen. Without constant feeding, Finch realized Stephen was inclined to become surly and argumentative, neither of which would aid their cause. He pulled into a gas station and drummed his fingers against the wheel while Stephen dashed inside, coming out with his hands full of chip bags and candy bars.

  “Do you have any idea how much sugar and sodium you’ve consumed in the past several hours? I mean, four cans of Bloody Mary mix? We should just get you your own salt lick.”

  Stephen only waved his hand at this reproach and started tearing open wrappers.

  By the time they reached Orion, the temperature had plummeted. Finch’s nose was running and his eyes burned. Someone had hung a large evergreen wreath on the billboard at the edge of town, welcoming all travelers. “Orion—old town! New attitude!” Stephen looked at him and smirked.

  The main street could best be described as quaint, only three blocks long with nary a chain store in sight. The late afternoon sky was stuccoed with heavy clouds, and there were few people on the street. A woman raised her head as the car passed, then quickly tucked her chin back against her chest, any curiosity regarding an unfamiliar vehicle not worth the curl of cold air that might slip down her neck.

  “Mint?” Stephen asked, thrusting a tin under his nose.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” Finch drove past a cemetery and then slowed down, noting addresses. He pulled over in the middle of the next block, in front of an ancient-looking three-story Victorian. A narrow brick walk, lined with boxwood hedges, led to the front porch.

  “Stephen, I think it would be better if you let me do the talking.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll say the wrong thing, aren’t you?”

  “I’m concerned your combination of enthusiasm and directness might be misinterpreted.”

  Stephen shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  Finch locked the car doors out of habit and trudged up the walk with Stephen trailing in his wake. He could hardly believe they were here. In spite of what he’d said to Stephen earlier, in the last few hours it had been difficult not to imagine Natalie and Alice, what they might look like now, their expressions when they heard the name Bayber. He had prepared himself for almost anything, but not for the young boy who answered the door after he knocked.

  Finch adjusted his gaze downward and held out his hand in his most amiable fashion. “Good afternoon, young man. I’m Professor Finch and this is Mr. Jameson. We’ve come to see your mother. Is she home?”

  As if Finch needed reminding that they were no longer in New York, the boy flung the door open, looking not in the least suspicious, or skeptical someone was trying to sell him something, or scamming for cab fare.

  “Nope. She’s in jail. Are you a teacher?” The boy looked around Finch to where Stephen perched on a lower step. “Whoa! What happened to your eye, mister? You been in a fight?”

  Stephen smiled at Finch. “Am I allowed to answer or do you still want to do the talking?”

  Finch nodded weakly, unable to get beyond the in jail portion of the boy’s response. Stephen stepped onto the porch and crouched down in front of the young man. “I have indeed been in a fight. With a large and frightening man. As you can see, I wasn’t the winner.”

  The child held an index finger close to Stephen’s eye. “It’s a good one. I got in a fight once. Uncle Phinneaus told me he’d get out his belt if I did it again.”

  Finch regained his composure and started over. “Is your uncle here? Maybe we could talk with him.”

  “No, he’s at home. We live across the street.” Finch turned to see a neat two-story folk Victorian painted gray with white posts and a covered wraparound porch.

  “I see. So you live over there with your uncle. Do the Kesslers live in this house?”

  “Yep.”

  The relief he felt was immediate and sweet. “Good. M
aybe you can help us, then. The person we’d like to speak with is Natalie Kessler. Would you happen to know her?”

  “Miss Natalie? Sure do. But you can’t talk to her, either.” The boy leaned over to whisper loudly in Stephen’s ear. “She’s dead.”

  Finch leaned up against the doorframe. His body responded to this news from the top down: head swimming, breath fluttering, chest tight. Arms so heavy he wished he could ask Stephen to unscrew them from their sockets and set them aside. His knees wobbled. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes. He was suddenly sorry for all of them, Alice and Natalie and Thomas; for all of the mistakes they’d made, and for all of his own.

  “Frankie, get away from there. What do you think you’re doing?” A woman’s voice echoed up the hall, and Finch watched the boy, Frankie, shrink away from them until he was standing inside the door.

  “These men want to talk to Miss Natalie, Saisee. But they can’t, can they?”

  “Get along with you. Go fetch your uncle.”

  “All right, but this fella don’t look good and the other one’s been in a horrible fight.” The boy seemed more interested than scared and didn’t look pleased by the prospect of being shooed away from whatever was going to happen next. The woman scowled at him, and he turned and jumped off the landing of the porch, skipping all three of the broad treads and landing on the walk, then running across the street.

  “Can I help you?”

  Here was suspicion. Finch recognized it in the woman’s tightly folded arms, the raised eyebrow, the frown. But he no longer cared. He was utterly defeated. There would be no other undiscovered works by Thomas Bayber, and there would be no joyful family reunion.

  “Natalie Kessler is dead?” he asked, his voice strained.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Stephen stepped up and put his hand on Finch’s shoulder. “I’m afraid it’s a shock to both of us. We’ve been looking for her for the last two months.” He held out his hand. “I’m Stephen Jameson and this is Professor Dennis Finch. Could we trouble you for a glass of water? Professor Finch was ill earlier, and I’m concerned he might be experiencing a relapse. Nothing contagious though, I’m reasonably sure.”

  “Stay here.” She closed the front door, and Finch heard the click of the lock. Ah, he thought. Maybe not so far from New York after all. Stephen was patting him on the back as if he were trying to burp a baby, and Finch held up a hand and moved away from him, spent and discouraged.

  “I realize you’re trying to help, but I just . . .” He sat down on the edge of the porch, feeling the cold of the brick cut through his pants.

  “ ‘Is your mother home?’ Really, Finch, don’t you think the boy is a little young to have a sixty-one-year-old mother?” Stephen snorted. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about them. They’re stuck in your head at a certain age, the same way they’re stuck in mine. I have to say, you’re taking this harder than I would have expected. You never considered the possibility?”

  Finch looked at him in amazement. “You did?”

  “Well, statistically the odds are against it, but we know absolutely nothing of the woman’s history. She might have been a smoker, may have had cancer. Maybe she suffered from heart disease or was simply bored to death.” He stopped. “Sorry.”

  “I promised him. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do, but I did it. Every day since I found out Thomas had a daughter, every single day, I think about Lydia and how I’d feel if I knew I had a child somewhere and couldn’t find her.”

  “I’m lucky. The only thing I’m disappointed about is the painting.” Stephen sat down on the brick porch, rubbing his hands back and forth across his thighs.

  Finch glared at him, unsure whether he was being honest or trying to jolly him out of his depression. “I can’t believe you would be that callous.”

  “I would if I were you. But really, Finch, you’re very quick to give up. I find it disheartening.”

  “You heard what they said. Natalie Kessler is dead.”

  “Exactly. Natalie Kessler is dead. No one’s said anything about Alice.”

  “And what would your interest be in Alice Kessler, gentlemen, if I might ask?”

  Finch and Stephen jumped to their feet. A tall, sandy-haired man stood near the corner of the house, leaning on a hunting rifle. He started walking toward them with an uneven gait, a hitch in his get-along, Finch’s father would have said, swinging the gun at his side. At the same time the front door opened and the woman they’d spoken to earlier held out a glass of water.

  “This is Mr. Phinneaus Lapine,” she said. “If you have questions about Miss Natalie or Miss Alice, you best ask him.” She handed the glass to Finch, who stood frozen on the steps, never having been in such close proximity to a real gun. This is where the finesse portion of the conversation becomes critical, he thought, forcing himself to concentrate even though his head had turned muzzy.

  “Yes,” he started, “Mr. Lapine . . .”

  Before he could continue, Stephen jumped off the front porch in much the same manner as Frankie had earlier, holding his hand out. “Phinneaus? Now that’s an interesting name. Is it biblical? Mythological?”

  The man smiled at Stephen, but his hand stayed firmly on the gun. “I believe it’s after P. T. Barnum, but my mother had a peculiar way with the spelling of things. Never met a vowel she didn’t like. And you?”

  “Jameson. Stephen Jameson. Oh, and this is Professor Dennis Finch. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He wouldn’t tell you himself—quite modest, as it turns out—but he’s extremely well-respected in the art world. Writer, historian, lecturer, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d appeared on public television at some point.” Stephen raised his eyebrows hopefully at Finch, who cringed, wishing he was elsewhere.

  “Is that so? Forgive me for not seeing the connection, but what would any of that have to do with the Kesslers?”

  “We’ve come for the paintings, of course,” Stephen said. “Let’s cut to the chase here. It’s late. We’re all cold and we can wrap this up in no time. The way I see it, odds are pretty fair you’d make an obscene amount of money, but if you prefer to focus on the bigger picture, great art can’t be kept to oneself. Well, it can of course. Wealthy people do it all the time. But it’s selfish, don’t you think? Let me put it in perspective for you. It’s your moral obligation to share it with the world.”

  Finch put his hand to his head, now feeling truly ill, and sank back down on the porch. He was going to end up shot by a stranger with an unusual name, and from the looks of him, the man knew his way around a firearm.

  “Better get him inside,” Phinneaus said.

  Stephen stuck his hands under Finch’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet. The woman, Saisee, held the door open and pointed to a sofa in the living room “You’d better put him there. Who drinks cold water when they’re sick? What he needs is some tea.”

  He started to protest but found his legs uncooperative. Let Stephen steer him then. He’d managed to make matters about as bad as they could be. I wash my hands of it, thought Finch, tired of being the voice of reason. Let someone else take a turn being in charge. He leaned back on the comfortable pillows of the sofa, balking when Stephen tried to remove his shoes. He had no plans to expose his socks to strangers. Was he even wearing socks? He’d gotten so cold he couldn’t feel much of anything below his knees and couldn’t remember what he’d put on in the hotel room. All he knew was his head was pounding out a fierce rhythm and his teeth were chattering away, keeping time.

  Saisee brought out the tea and poured him a cup, taking care to move it close enough to the edge of the table so he could reach it without sitting up all the way. As he lifted it to his mouth, a cloud of cinnamon, cloves, tea, and orange wafted up from the cup. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Is this Russian tea? I haven’t had it for years. My wife used to make it for me, when I was in danger of losing my voice. Too many lectures, I’d tell her. Too long-w
inded was what she’d tell me.”

  Saisee nodded with a satisfied smile.

  He took a large gulp. It was elixir, working its way down his throat, soothing his head, thawing his extremities. “Thank you. I apologize. This is very . . .”

  “Embarrassing,” Stephen interjected.

  Finch’s energy was limited and he chose not to waste it conveying his annoyance to Stephen. “I suppose that’s as good a word as any. Miss . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

  “Saisee’s fine.”

  “Saisee. Mr. Lapine. I appreciate your hospitality, especially seeing as how we’ve forced ourselves on you at a late hour with no warning, and I seem to be operating in a diminished capacity. I want to assure you we don’t mean to intrude or cause any disruption. I assume Alice Kessler is not here?”

  Phinneaus nodded.

  “And I would imagine both of you are friends of the Kesslers?” Since Phinneaus’s nephew seemed to have the run of the house, and Saisee had called Phinneaus in as reinforcement, Finch thought he must be, or have been, involved with one of the sisters. While the man wasn’t willingly offering up information, Finch suspected from his guarded responses he knew more than he was going to share.

  “Neither myself nor Mr. Jameson is personally acquainted with Natalie or Alice Kessler, nor are we friends of their family. But we would have recognized them.” Finch patted the pockets of his coat and removed from one a long envelope, handing it to Saisee, who in turn passed it to Phinneaus. He opened it and pulled out the photographs that Stephen had taken of the main triptych panel and the sketch at the Edells’.

  “I don’t know whether either of you have ever heard of the artist Thomas Bayber. My colleague Mr. Jameson generously exaggerates my accomplishments. It is, in fact, Mr. Bayber whose work is well-known and respected. The sketch you see in the photograph is one of his earliest works. It hangs in the Kesslers’ home in Connecticut, where both the girls were born.”