The Blackbird Season

by Kate Moretti

  She imagined saying it now, I know you liked her picture. She imagined his reaction. Would he laugh? It was just the Internet. Nothing real, not tangible. It seemed undignified to divorce her husband because of something that may or may not have happened on social media, like they were sinking to the level of his students.

  His student.

  But no, it was real. It was tangible. The affair, if it happened, was with a student, for the love of God. Were they divorcing? Is that what was happening?

  She wondered if, at fifty, she’d look back here at this moment and think oh, this is how it ended. And then maybe later, of course it did.

  “Whoever is saying all of this is lying,” Nate insisted, still holding that backpack, still standing in the same spot. “Alecia, I don’t know why, but I swear I’m going to find out. I just need you to believe in me.”

  When she didn’t answer, he said, for the first time, “You know I love you, right?” But his voice quavered a little and caught on the love and the first words that flitted into Alecia’s mind weren’t yes or no, but do I? Do I know that?

  He dropped the backpack and stepped forward, toward Alecia. He gripped her arms, his fingers digging into the soft, bare flesh, his thumbs sliding under the sleeves of her white T-shirt, his eyes wild. His chin wobbled. “Do you believe me?” He brought his hands up to cup her face, his fingers sliding around her neck to thread through her hair. She could smell the desperate musk of sweat on his skin. “Do you?” He whispered again, his voice hoarse and shaky.

  Alecia couldn’t do this, she couldn’t look into his eyes and break his heart, no matter how many ways he broke hers. She needed time to figure it all out, to be alone, to think.

  “Yes.” She gripped his wrists and sagged against him, her weight pulling against his arms. He crushed her to his chest, her face pushed into the solid muscle, his breathing ragged. He stroked her hair, her face, and all she could think about was the day ten years ago at her cousin’s wedding, the same feeling of having all the air pushed from her lungs. She whispered back, “I believe you.” It could have even been the truth.

  She remembers after that wedding in the parking lot they looked at the sky before driving home. They saw three shooting stars, right in a row. A shooting star isn’t really a star, he’d said. It’s the dust from a comet’s tail, burning up in the earth’s atmosphere.

  So the thing everyone wishes on? It’s both the end of everything and actually nothing at all.

  • • •

  The phone rang all day and Alecia left it for Nate to answer, a kind of penance. Libby Locking called the house, then Alecia’s cell phone, alternating until finally Alecia answered.

  “Is it true?” She demanded, then her voice softened. “Are you okay? Do you need a . . . safe house?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.

  “For God’s sake, Libby, you know Nate. Do you think it’s true?” Alecia pushed her thumb into her eye socket. “And a safe house? Are you kidding me?” She regretted taking the phone call. Bridget had called, twice, but Alecia declined both. Bridget was too close to it; she didn’t want to listen to her either defend Nate or bash him. She just needed the day. Just to think.

  “No. I don’t know. You should hear what people are saying.” She coughed into the phone. “What do you need? Are you staying with him?”

  “Yes, of course I’m staying. Libby, it’s a lie. Do people really believe that Nate would sleep with a student?” From downstairs, Alecia could hear the sounds of lunch being prepared. Their second day home together, after having a week together only the week before, and she thought about driving up to Motel Deannie’s herself, just to see it. Gabe wailed in protest at something Nate did, and Nate responded, his voice muffled but loud, frustrated. Nate didn’t know there were only certain plates—sectioned so his food wouldn’t touch— that Gabe would tolerate. There was so much Nate didn’t know. Alecia drummed her fingertips against the phone, anxious. “Libby, listen to me. Nate didn’t do this, okay? Tell everyone that. I mean, even Bachman believes him, he just has to do the full investigation. The truth will come out. Okay?”

  There was a pulse of silence. Alecia pulled at a thread in the pillowcase and all the stitching zipped out with a single pop, the hem opening up in her palm like a flower.

  Libby said, “People are worried. About their . . . own kids. This is a really small town, not like Philly.” Libby had a daughter, a junior, not in Nate’s class.

  “I’m from Doylestown, Libby,” Alecia snapped back. The implication had grown old: Nate, born and raised in Honesdale, was one of them. Alecia was bright lights, big city, sleek and blond and missing that rural twang from the back of her throat, that Pennsyl-tucky drawl.

  “The parents are calling a meeting later. At the park. Supposedly Bachman will answer questions, but he’s said he can’t say much, it’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “A meeting? About Nate?” The idea was alien. Three weeks ago Nate was some kind of hometown hero. “Libby, what are people saying happened? Who supposedly discovered the affair and why or how did it get into the paper?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? That reporter saw them together at a motel, last week I think.”

  “Last week? Not a month ago?” Alecia felt her hands go cold, palms and fingertips numbed, the blood coursing through her body seeming to skip her hands entirely.

  “No, a week ago. Maybe less? Not more than that. Not in Mt. Oanoke, though, I forget where.”

  “Honesdale,” she whispered.

  “Yeah! That’s it. How’d you know?” Libby’s voice sounded tinny, far away.

  Alecia felt her heart unfurl, like the hem in her hand.

  I never give her any thought at all. You asked why and I don’t know. I just don’t think of her. She never thinks about me. You said how do you know? She’s your mother. And the truth is that I just know. You said you’d help me find her, if I ever wanted, which is maybe the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever heard in my whole entire life. Everyone I’ve ever known has one thing in common. They don’t want to be found.

  I shouldn’t come to you every day. I know this. I’m not an idiot. You don’t send me away, though. I can see your eyes drifting. I can see your smile when I knock on the door. I can see you. You just don’t know it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Bridget, Thursday, April 30, 2015

  Bridget watched from her car. All the parents—mostly she knew them all—trudged across the parking lot toward the pavilion, their hands clutched, their faces white and blank. Blinking eyes and open fish mouths, a sort of soulless wandering.

  To talk about Nate. Was there anything crazier?

  Bridget stayed in the back. The last picnic table under the pavilion, far in the corner.

  About forty people milled around, waiting for someone to take charge. Tad Bachman tapped his foot against the picnic table bench, his hands tented under his chin, like in prayer. Tad was young, smart, attractive with a soft wave of chestnut hair that fell over green eyes. It was no secret that he and Nate were friends. Until two days ago, everyone and Nate were friends. Tad’s pink polo shirt was tucked into khaki pants and he gave every parent an encouraging smile, a soft, mild-mannered hello.

  After a while, the din died down.

  Jennifer Lawson, Taylor Lawson’s mother, stood, smoothed her palms down the front of her Under Armour running jacket and spoke first. Her voice was high and her jaw shook.

  “I wanted everyone to meet today to discuss Nate Winters. I know we all have girls in the high school. I just wanted this to be a . . . safe space.” She splayed her hands out, moved them around in a circle. “To see if anyone had information that could aid Mr. Bachman and the school board in the investigation.” Her lipstick was bright red, her eyes rimmed in black. She had dark brown hair that fell in glossy waves down her back, and her clothes fit her like a second skin. She was barely five feet tall, and at five foot eight, Bridget always felt like a towering giant when Jennifer was around.

  Jennif
er was an interesting choice to lead the meeting. She had a reputation for sleeping with married men herself. Husbands on the PTA, fathers of classmates. None of it was substantiated, but she was divorced and dressed the part, and people talked. It was Mt. Oanoke; sometimes there was nothing to do but talk.

  Jennifer stood, ironically sanctimonious, on the picnic table in front. Sweatpantsed stay-at-home moms—who just last week would have rolled their eyes at her tight Lycra shirt, her lululemon leggings, her French-manicured nails—now watched her rapt and nodded along. They were all suddenly teammates, united for the same noble cause.

  Jennifer took a deep breath, her breasts heaving. Tad looked away.

  She dabbed at her eyes. “I also wanted a safe space to ask questions. We all have . . . so many questions. Our girls.”

  Oh brother. They acted like Nate was convicted, abusive. Bridget wished she’d stop saying safe space as though the school was a danger zone.

  Bridget was here because she told Nate she’d come. He’d called her, whispering from his car. Alecia said there was a parents’ meeting at the park about me. Tonight. Can you go?

  Bridget wanted to ask Nate what did Alecia believe?

  Tad Bachman stood.

  “I can answer a few questions, but not many. We are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this. To understand what happened, and most important, why and how. We are cooperating with the police, with the school board, while trying to be sensitive to the young lady involved as well as Nate Winters.” The crowed murmured and Bachman held up his hand. “We do not live in a guilty-until-proven-innocent society. Nate Winters has been an exemplary teacher up to this point, going above and beyond for his students.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet,” Kelsey Minnow’s father grumbled loudly.

  “And,” Bachman continued, “the school and the board are not defending him, but everyone has a right to due process. We are trying to understand all the pieces. When we do, we’ll issue a public statement and figure out next steps. Right now, we’re all in flux. I understand it’s uncomfortable. I’ll answer any question I can, but right here, tonight, most of my answers are going to be no comment.”

  The crowd hummed. A smattering of hands went up.

  “Are there other girls involved? Has Mr. Winters had relationships with other girls?” Mrs. Minnow asked, her voice tired.

  “There is no reason to believe that and no one has insinuated that. No,” Bachman said.

  “Will Mr. Winters be allowed back at school?” Jennifer asked.

  “We can’t comment on his employment at this time.”

  And on it went. For twenty minutes, parents fired questions, most of which Bachman was unable or unwilling to respond to, and the crowd grew weary. Bridget watched the whole thing with growing anger, a pulsing in her core that inched up into her throat.

  She promised she’d just watch, not speak. But she couldn’t help it.

  “Does anyone here believe that Mr. Winters, one of our beloved teachers and our baseball coach, is innocent?” Bridget finally asked. She looked around. Jennifer picked at her fingernails. Kelsey Minnow’s mother and father whispered to each other. Ashlee Williams’s mother untied and retied her shoe. Josh Tempest’s father stood up, his hands on his hips, and glared at Bridget but said nothing. In the distance, a dog barked.

  In the back, the Evanses stood, holding on to each other, their arms entwined. They nodded, but said nothing. Andrew Evans. Nate’s star baseball player, his favorite student. He’d written letters of recommendation for Andrew, on the verge of acceptance into University of Texas’s baseball program, one of the most competitive programs in the country, and only as a junior. Half the major league teams recruited from the Longhorns, and in two years, Andrew would be there, in no small part because of Nate. Yet his parents stood, nodding at her, silent and pinched.

  “We know you’re friends,” Jennifer said finally, clearing her throat on the word friends. “Maybe it’s not appropriate for you to be here?” Her voice tilted up, sweet and syrupy.

  Bridget stood, dusted off her long skirt, took her time. “This isn’t easy for anyone,” she said, and made her way through the picnic tables, her back straight. As she passed Bachman, she gave him a small smile. “Thanks, Tad.”

  She sat in her car, in the far corner of the lot, watching from a distance, while the parents asked questions. Some stood, their arms waving around as they gave their impassioned pleas. Finally, Bachman stood, gave a final statement, and headed toward the lot. She lowered the window and he stopped a few feet from her car.

  “Do you believe Nate?” Bridget asked, and Bachman shook his head.

  “Bridget, I can’t tell you any more than I tell them. I’m stuck in a shit spot, okay?” He looked back at the throng of parents, still talking, an hour and a half into the meeting, a father pacing in the back. They both watched in silence, unable to hear any words. “The Nate I know wouldn’t do this. I can tell you that.” The sun was starting to set, a sailor’s delight, as Bridget’s mother would say. “Do you believe him?” Bachman finally asked.

  “I do,” Bridget said with less hesitation than she felt.

  Tad touched his fingertips to the top of her car and gave her a nod. Then he left. She wondered how much of what she’d said to Tad was true. How much she believed.

  Two days ago, when it all came out, Nate had come to her room, his eyes wild.

  “Someone is telling lies about me. They’re going to ruin my life. My life, Bridget. This is my whole life. Alecia, Gabe, baseball, teaching. This is my entire life.”

  She’d read the paper, of course. She’d tried to text him and call him all day.

  “Nate.” She’d closed the door behind him, wondering how it would look if they were discovered. Everything was suspect now. Nothing could be innocent, trusted. “Why now? All this with Lucia happened weeks ago.”

  “I don’t know why now.” He leaned forward. “You’re the only one who believes me. I think even Alecia thinks I’m guilty.”

  “I called her. She won’t take my calls.”

  “She won’t talk to anyone. Not even me.” He raked a hand through his hair, then his palm scraped against the rough of his cheek. His eyes, bloodshot and red rimmed, looked around the room searching. “Lucia called last week, Thursday. I couldn’t take the call, I was on the field. But she emailed me. It said, meet me at our hotel. I need you.”

  “Christ on a cracker, Nate. You went?” Bridget flattened her palms against her desk. I mean, how stupid.

  He nodded his head. “The last time I went there, the girl was beat up, purple bruises. I think Lenny hit her. She had no money, sleeping in the paper mill with a kerosene heater. To me, I need you meant I need help. I thought she needed me to pay for another night. That something happened at the shelter or that she went home to her brother. I had no idea.”

  “I need you didn’t sound sexual to you? Suspicious?”

  “No. It didn’t. It sounded like she needed help, just like the last time,” Nate said.

  “God, you’re stupid,” Bridget said, shaking her head.

  “In retrospect, maybe, but think about it. I had no reason to think any differently. I wasn’t actually having an affair with her. I’ve done nothing but help her.”

  “So you went.”

  “I did. I met her. She came out of her motel room and hugged me. She was crying. Thanking me. Said it was the last time, she just needed to hide out. Get some space and figure out where to go. I didn’t know what she meant and I didn’t ask. I calmed her down. Paid for her room and left. I was home before dinner.”

  “What’d you do with the email?” Bridget had asked.

  “I deleted it. This was before the news story, but I knew Alecia’d have a bird. That’s two hundred dollars I spent on this girl. Gabe needs that money. We need that money. She’d be furious.” Nate stomped his foot, like he was trying to shake feeling back into his toes. “It’s the same reason I didn’t tell her the first time.”

&n
bsp; “So does Alecia know about this last time? At the hotel?”

  “No.” Nate shook his head, adamant.

  “You are a dumb twit, do you know that? She’s going to find out. The whole town is crazy. You have to come clean.”

  “Bridget, you don’t understand.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed through his mouth. “Pretty sure my marriage is over either way.”

  The thing she should have said to Nate, but didn’t, was yeah, but you kissed her. She did say it, right after it happened, but that was before it became the thing they didn’t talk about. They’d had one conversation, one confrontation, and that was it.

  Right after the kiss, Bridget had waited for Nate, on the other side of his door, so when it swung open it nearly hit her in the face. Would have broken her nose, too. Then Lucia ran out and Nate called after her, but Lucia didn’t even slow down, her hair flying behind her like a cape. She thought maybe Lucia was crying, but it was possible she imagined it.

  Nate was slow to come to the door and he looked left before he looked right.

  “You are a dumb, dumb shit, Nate Winters.”

  When he whipped around, they were practically nose to nose. Bridget could see the faint sweat curling the hair on his neck. The way his pupils were dilated. The quiver in his chin.

  “Jesus Christ, Bridget. You gave me a heart attack.”

  “You should be so goddamn lucky. What did I just see? With my own eyes, please Lord, tell me I just didn’t see what I think I did.” Bridget clenched her fists, her nails cutting into the flesh on her palms.

  “She kissed me. I stopped her. She ran away. It was nothing.”

  “Bless your heart.” She wanted to slap him, she really, really did. He took a step backward like he sensed it. He’d never seen Bridget mad, not at him anyway.

  She’d been plenty mad in her life, especially at Holden. Years ago, Bridget threw the biggest temper tantrum of her adult life. Mama would have been proud. They’d all been drinking. Playing cards. The one and only time Bridget had ever seen Holden even look at another woman. Nate had invited another teacher, Carla something, a substitute gym teacher, as tight and toned as Bridget was soft curves. From the moment she got to the Winters’, she set her eye on Holden, touching his arm, laughing at his jokes. Bridget could see it in his eyes, he was taken with her. Charmed the pants off him, or at least almost. They played euchre, a game Bridget mostly stunk at, having never heard of it, so she sat and watched, at first curious about this new Holden, the one who noticed women and was charmed by them. It was almost a turn-on. Until he stopped looking at Bridget entirely, didn’t even notice when she went a whole hour without saying a word. When Carla left, with a sweet little waggle of her pin-painted fingertips, Bridget lost her shit and Holden had the nerve to laugh. He laughed at her. In front of their friends. Bridget left him there, got into the car, and drove home. The next morning, early, before school, he showed up with his tail between his legs. She let him simmer for a day before she forgave him.