The Blackbird Season

by Kate Moretti

  Maybe Bridget would go. It had been months. Bridget Peterson was one of Alecia’s only friends who didn’t stem from a support network. She was a teacher, with Nate. She wasn’t a special-needs mom, or even a regular-needs mom. She wasn’t a therapist or a sympathetic nurse or a doctor. She was just a person, and sometimes Alecia forgot what that was like, to have friends who were just people.

  Years ago, before Gabe, when she and Nate first got married and moved to Mt. Oanoke, Bridget and Holden Peterson were Nate and Alecia’s first real couple friends. They’d spent long, boozy nights at local pubs, laughing till their sides hurt, drunk on cheap rum and Cokes and the golden, sparkly potential of their infant marriages. Before infertility (for Bridget) and special needs (for Alecia) and then, later, the unspeakable.

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Alecia said to Nate, noncommittal, because anything could and sometimes did happen at the last minute. We’ll see was a standard translation of yes, unless I let you down.

  “That’s a no.” Nate huffed into the phone.

  “That’s a maybe.” Alecia sighed, her annoyance creeping in. A crash from upstairs, followed by a quick, air-stabbing wail. “I gotta go.” She hung up the phone and took the steps two at a time.

  Gabe stood at the foot of his bed, his lamp cockeyed in front of him on the floor. He turned to Alecia and pointed to the mess, the shattered bulb and fragmented plastic lampshade. The lamp was a gift from Violet; “Vi” everyone called her. Nate’s Mom. Over half of what they owned was a gift from Vi and most of it had been broken by an energetic, well-meaning Gabe. While Vi loved her grandson, Alecia dreaded the quick flicker of disappointment in her eyes when she inevitably asked where the lamp went.

  “Oh honey, what happened?” She bent to pick up the pieces, shards of plastic interspersed with razor-sharp glass. “Back up!” She pointed to the doorway and Gabe scampered in bare feet. He sulked, hands over his ears. Her sharp tone, even a hint of it, could send him reeling, and she took two deep, calming breaths. He hummed to soothe himself.

  Still, it was just a lamp, and a fairly cheap one. Vi had picked it because Gabe liked the colors, the red, yellow, and blue fluted plastic splaying bright light on the ceiling and the walls, and also because it was hardy, but no matter. They could get a new one. Maybe next month with what was left of the first baseball check.

  “Hey, buddy.” Alecia pushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, the broken glass and plastic pinched between her fingers. Gabe hummed louder, covering his ears, so Alecia said it again, a bit more forcefully, this time meeting his eyes. She smiled. “Hey, buddy.”

  He stopped humming. Smiled back at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and for a brief second, worry-free. She pantomimed a deep breath and he took one, too. Their little inside joke, breathe, Mama. Breathe, Gabey. It’s just breathing, easy peasy.

  “Do you wanna go see Daddy? He has a baseball game. Remember?”

  His eyes flicked away, disinterested.

  She tried again. “Gabe, let’s go see Daddy.” He brightened. She tried again. “On the way we can stop at the construction site. We can’t go in, but we can look.”

  “Yes!” He jumped up and ran to her.

  Alecia yelped, pointing to the spot with possible shards of glass. “I have to vacuum! You’ll cut yourself!”

  Instead, Gabe lifted off, jumping over the fallen lamp and landing heavily on the bed, where he bounced crisscross-applesauce and whooped. He recoiled off the far edge of the bed, making a big show to avoid the mess and giving Alecia a pointed look. She laughed. Gabe made her laugh every day, not so much with his words, which sometimes were few and far between, but his wry sense of humor. The way he outright mocked her. No one else could see it. In many ways, Gabe was textbook: standard comedy failed him, TV shows were filled with nuance he neither got nor appreciated, humor in any regular way went over his head, or more likely, he just didn’t care. But to Alecia, he was funny and warm and she walked that frustrating tightrope, stretched taut between content and flailing every minute of every day.

  With her free hand, she leaned over and plucked a small metal toy front-end loader off the ground and waggled it in his field of vision. “Sneakers on. Right there.” She pointed to where he stood and he looked down at his Velcro Nikes. He sat, working the Velcro straps, his eyes on the toy in her hand. When he was done, he stood with his arms out and his back straight. Alecia tossed the toy gently and it landed softly on his comforter. He snatched it up, rubbed it against his cheek, and stuck it into his pocket.

  “Go, Mama.” He gave her a big toothy grin. The vacuuming could wait.

  So they went.

  And everything was just fine. Gabe was fine. Alecia was fine. She watched her husband, leaning against the wood frame of the dugout, his thumbs hooked into the pocket in his navy blue athletic pants, his hat low on his brow, looking no older than any of his boys, his eyes only on the batter, and flicking periodically to two men in the upper corner of the bleachers. Recruiters. They came around to one of the first games every year and made Nate pace. His boys. His seniors being shunted away to major colleges, maybe, one day, major leagues. He’d always hoped, anyway.

  He hadn’t even looked up to see her there before the birds started.

  As they fell, dead or barely alive, two small ones landed between second and third base, four on the infield, one between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and more than a smattering of black bodies against the green grass of the outfield. Alecia shielded her eyes against the sun and surveyed the sky. A cloud of black birds, thousands and thousands of them, swarmed like mosquitoes. The whole cloud seemed to hover, suspended on some invisible air current while the crowd murmured. The pitcher, Andrew Evans, paused, his hand clutching the ball high in the air and then sort of wilting as a starling hit his feet, his face tipped up to the sky, wondering what the hell?

  Then, pandemonium. Everyone tumbled, panicked and screeching, running for the small overhang under the concession stand, or the dugout, or their cars. Even the players ran, as strong and tough as they liked to pretend they were. Everyone pressed together. Parents and coaches and players and teachers, people who sometimes could hardly stand to be in the same room together, stood next to the open concession window, the smell of hot grease and pretzels thick, and all you could hear was the thunk, thunk, thunk of starlings as they hit the dirt, their wings twitching.

  Alecia had the sensation of watching something huge, momentous, but on television. Removed and staticky, a broken broadcasting voice through the haze. She looked around, and even the recruiters—men in sports jackets or windbreakers, with clipboards, their radar guns tapping nervously against their thighs—watched the sky with an open-mouthed, gaping wonderment.

  The whole thing lasted no more than three minutes; three whole minutes during which even Gabe was quiet, pulled in against her hip, although Alecia knew he had no real grasp of the situation. He wasn’t scared, he wasn’t picking up on the cues of everyone else, and she barely had time to be grateful for that before it was all over.

  Everyone looked up and started talking again, whispering, really, stunned and reverent, blinking back into the light, as though they’d weathered a real storm, and surveyed the damage. Hundreds of small black forms, crumpled and fluttering in the wind, like wrinkled carbon paper.

  Someone called 911 and a few people scurried away, gathering up their sons and hustling them to their minivans away from some presumed noxious invisible gas cloud. Alecia stayed and waited for Nate, watching Marnie Evans sweep two small carcasses from the front hood of her Pathfinder with her peep-toe sandal, hopping around on one foot. It would almost be comical if Alecia’s stomach wasn’t so twisted, or she didn’t feel like crying, or the back of her tongue didn’t taste metallic and bitter.

  They were small birds and could have fit in the scoop of her hands had she desired to pick one up. She imagined that—cupping its small, broken wings underneath its still warm body, its eyes shocked open in f
right. Where did they come from? Why did they fall? The question would be asked a thousand times over the course of the next month.

  Until, of course, more important questions arose, at which time everyone promptly forgot a thousand birds fell on the town of Mt. Oanoke at all.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bridget, Wednesday, March 25, 2015

  The comforting thing about high schoolers was they never changed. Every day they were as self-absorbed as the day before, their phones perpetually inches from their faces, fingers flying over the screens, sending Snapchats and text messages and tweets. Drama over boyfriends and best friends and boyfriends-slash-best friends. Bridget kept her ear to the ground: she knew who were BFFs and baes and whose mom was popping pills and whose dad was sleeping with the biology teacher who wore the short skirts.

  Even when Bridget had bad days, really, really bad days, when she missed Holden with every breath in her body, when her very cells seemed to vibrate with missing him, with the way his flat, wide thumb used to slide up her arm with a smooth, gentle pressure. It was the little gestures that popped into her mind and stole the air from her lungs in the middle of class, in the middle of a sentence half the time. She swore the kids thought she’d lost her ever-loving mind. Maybe she had. But even then, on those days when she could barely string two sentences together and they all looked at her, mouths agape like catfish, they never let her down. They concerned themselves with her for about one hot minute before they kept on keeping on with their oh-so-gripping soap opera lives.

  It was too cold for March. Sneaking up on spring break and still hovering around the thirties and forties. Her Georgia blood wasn’t used to this nonsense, and she wondered for about the billionth time why she didn’t go back, now that Holden wasn’t keeping her here anymore. Maybe because it still felt like he was here, only nine months later. Hardly any time at all, and she could still sense him in the bare, crackling trees in the front yard, their leaves scattered and killing what was left of his precious lawn. She could, what? Feel his aura? Oh, if her mother could hear her thoughts. Ain’t got the good sense God gave a rock, that’s what she’d say.

  “Earth to Bridge.” Nate Winters stood in the door to her empty classroom, only three minutes after the bell, but long enough into her prep period to catch her sitting, hands folded in her lap, staring at the far wall of chipped and peeling cinder block.

  She gave him a big smile, shaking her head to clear it. “I’m here. I was . . . thinking.”

  Nate crossed the room in two easy lopes, turned a chair backward, and sat. “You? Nah.” He rolled his eyes and she swatted at him.

  They used to joke about that, Bridget’s hamster-wheeled brain, the thing that never stopped. Even when she was drinking, she’d stand up suddenly, her whiskey and Coke sloshing over the edge onto Alecia’s new carpet (and you could tell she had a small heart attack about it), and proclaim to have an idea. This was back when they thought they could do things. Nate and Bridget were teachers. Holden was a doctor. Alecia was in public relations. They were a dream team for some not-yet-established charity that helped children and bought them shoes or taught them to read or gave impoverished girls tampons. They had potential, dammit.

  Bridget straightened the papers on her desk, just for something to do, her mind slipping dangerously on the thin ice of the past, the way it sometimes did. Some days she never really found her footing. But Nate made it more bearable. He touched her arm.

  “How’s Alecia?” She brushed her hair back off her shoulders, sat up straighter, and gave Nate another bright smile. “Gabe?”

  “Oh, you know. Ups and downs.” He shrugged, and Bridget wondered how many of the downs Nate really got to see up close.

  “Give them my love.”

  He nodded and pulled out a folded index card. “I stopped by because I wanted your advice on this.” He pushed it across the desk at her.

  The ravens came in sets of three

  One for each sword, drawn down, unfreed

  Fearless

  Until nightfall when he’d cower

  Washed with the blood of a thousand kings

  Bridget read it twice, three times. It made very little sense; it wasn’t even symmetrical, poetically speaking. The rhythm was wrong. But something about it crawled around in her brain, skittering across her unfocused thoughts.

  “Who wrote this?” She flipped it over, not expecting a name.

  “I’m not sure, but I found it on the floor, near my desk after last period.” He leaned back, pulling on the chair back. Nate was a fidgeter, not much different from the long-legged boys in her classes, their knees bopping, cracking their knuckles. “It weirded me out. You don’t think it’s weird?”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m a creative writing teacher. You should see the shit I read. They’re kids. Some of them truly think that what they’re going through on any given day is the worst pain they’ll ever have in their lives.”

  Nate gave her a sad smile. “Aw, Bridge.”

  “No. You don’t get to feel sorry for me. That’s not your job.” She waved her hand at him. She studied the card again. Something in the last line, the thousand-kings part, jumped out at her. She snapped her fingers and flipped through the journals on her desk.

  She’d made them keep a handwritten journal. Some days it was classwork, some days it was homework, but it couldn’t be typed. In her view, journals were meant to be taken to bed, scrawled in while tucked under the blankets, a private enclave of thoughts.

  Their handwriting was atrocious and they whined incessantly about the assignment. Most of them wrote about what they did, which was boring as all get-out, even documenting what they’d eaten for breakfast. The girls often confessed their weight, a long-held secret, bursting out of them like jelly from a doughnut. They turned them in on Fridays, and Bridget might check to see that they were complete, but didn’t grade what they wrote. Sometimes she gave them topics in class, sometimes it was open-ended.

  She grabbed the black leather one; she knew which one it was by heart. Lucia Hamm wrote about death and dying—a lot of them did. But most of them glossed over it, or mused about what it was like to die, what happened or how it would happen to them. Some of them were scared. But Lucia Hamm seemed to fly toward the subject, undeterred by her teacher losing her husband almost a year before to cancer. Lucia tackled pain and death clinically, a biology lab dissection. As if Bridget’s hurt could be pulled apart like little frog’s legs, pinned back to the wax, sliced clean down the middle, and simply exorcised. Bridget had seen it before, a death fascination; that’s not what bothered her. It was almost mundane to be Goth. But Lucia got under her skin.

  She flipped through until she found the page. A drawing, three blackbirds along the top, feathered over a wire, three swords pierced through a beating heart. No kings. Huh. She flipped it around to show Nate. He studied it.

  “Gotta be, right?”

  “I’ve given up trying to figure her out.” She shrugged. “She sees birds.”

  Nate cocked his head, moved his hand in a circle, like go on.

  She sighed, the idea exhausting her. “She finds dead birds, she says. She’s written about it. She says they come to her and she knows bad things will happen.”

  Lucia, on the fringe, but exotically, unsettlingly beautiful. Crazy white hair, black-rimmed eyes and bloodred lips. She’d been held back in kindergarten, something about emotional and social readiness, so she was a full year older than the other seniors. She had a way of speaking, clipped and certain, her gaze level and steady, like she was humoring you. Bridget always looked away first, couldn’t take the directness. Every conversation felt like a confrontation.

  She handed the card back to Nate.

  “I think there’s something going on. Lately her grades have been tanking. She comes in, looks like shit. No makeup. Haven’t you noticed?” He tapped the card against his knuckles and twisted his mouth. “She’s got that godawful brother, you know?” Bridget vaguely knew. Her broth
er, Lenny, a dropout, and her father, Jimmy, had skipped town.

  Bridget eyed the journal, suddenly ashamed. She hadn’t really been paying attention. This was her job, not just the teaching, but to observe them. In that way, Nate took it more seriously than she did.

  Nate had anonymous social media accounts. He never posted anything, just scrolled through the newsfeeds. He followed his students and they followed back, not knowing who he was. So stupid, Bridget thought. Didn’t they know the creeps who were out there? But Nate knew who was fighting whom, where to be, when to be there, who was getting bullied, who was doing the bullying. It made him a better teacher, he defended. He’d never abuse it, she knew that, but still. She told him she didn’t want to know anything. Leave her out of it. She wondered if Alecia knew that when she lay in bed next to her husband at night, he scrolled through his phone, spying on the lives of his students like they were his own personal miniseries. It was a moral gray area, she admitted, but Nate did it for the all the right reasons. In the drama that played out at school each day, the stage was set online the night before.

  “I just don’t have it in me. Not this year. Other years, I’ve been with you. Fighting for them. Against the administration, against their parents, against themselves half the time. Not this year. I’m barely hanging in.” She opened Lucia’s journal, fanned through the pages, and realized for the first time how many of the entries were drawings. Half of them, at least. She’d have to talk to her about that. This wasn’t art class.

  Then, a glimmer of recognition as she turned the book one way, then the other. She’d known once what it all meant, although her skills felt rusty. Aunt Nadine had taught her how to do a reading when she was barely ten, perched on her lap while a cigarette snaked down to the butt. But that was a long time ago.

  The last reading she did nearly ended her marriage.