The Blackbird Season

by Kate Moretti

  Nate hesitated. He wanted to tell Tripp about seeing Jimmy Hamm in the woods. What if Tripp didn’t believe him? Wouldn’t that drive yet another wedge between them? Nate floating some wild theory about Jimmy out there, just to have Tripp tell his cop buddies. Nate could hear them laughing at his desperation, playing the role of Dr. Richard Kimble—it was the one-armed man! The whole thing had a self-serving expedience to it that even Nate couldn’t deny.

  Yet he couldn’t just pretend he didn’t see it, either.

  In the woods, he had frozen when he recognized Jimmy. He watched him clean the fish, leave the guts in the clearing, and take the filets and the head back out the path the way he came. Nate should have stopped him. Should have called out.

  He didn’t because being seen in the woods, the same woods that Lucia had disappeared in, didn’t look so hot for him, either.

  Still. What the fuck was Jimmy Hamm doing cooking fish in the woods when he had a house? Seemingly, a son. A drug addict abusive son, but a son nonetheless. None of it made sense.

  “I kind of wanted to talk to you. I think I saw something today.” Waving the pack of lunch meat in Tripp’s direction, Nate asked, “Dinner?”

  “No, I, um, ate a late lunch.” He gave Nate a grin, the kind that made Nate stand up straight and reroute his thinking. He looked like the proverbial cat with the canary.

  “Oh? A special lunch?” Nate put away the lunch meat and mayo, then grabbed a Miller Lite, kicking the fridge shut with his foot.

  “Kind of. With Bridget.”

  “My Bridget?” The words were out before he could think about them and Tripp turned his head to the side, gave him a weird look.

  “Your Bridget?” Tripp asked, his voice edged with a new kind of wariness.

  “Well, I just meant the same Bridget we know, that’s all,” Nate amended, but he felt the prickle down his back. Tripp, with his zillion dates, moving in on Bridget who was still so goddamn broken. “She’s not ready for you, stud.” It was meant to be a joke, but it came out thinner, a finer point on it than he’d intended.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Tripp’s mouth went firm, set at the corners, and Nate felt the zing between them, an electric tether, a blinking danger sign he’d previously been unaware of. But the speed at which it lit up told him, yes, oh yes, it had been there all along. At every card game, every late night at their house, when Tripp would crash and wedge himself between Bridget and Holden, gaining purchase in any hairline crack he could find, his arms flung wide around Alecia and Bridget, giggling like a schoolkid.

  “Nothing. It means nothing. It was a joke, that’s all,” Nate said, backing up, grabbing his sandwich. “There’s fifty bucks on the table for groceries this week, okay? I can get you rent money if you need it. No problem.” His thoughts zinged back to Jimmy, his head low over his lap, fish scales scattering. “So, about that thing—”

  “I don’t think it is a joke, not really,” Tripp continued, his voice dipping soft and rumbled, the hardness gone. “Alecia, Lucia, Bridget, Jennifer Lawson, Robin Hendricks—remember her?”

  Nate shook his head, although he did remember her, a mistake, an escape, a transgression—and a mild one at that—but he’d paid for and forgotten about it, pushed to that same cobwebbed corner of his mind. Jennifer Lawson, well, that was hardly fair; she kissed him. He’d stopped her and it was over. He tried not to think of that night. The fight between her and Burt had a fine edge of violence to it: Jenny had thrown a glass, which splintered on the Tempests’ tiled kitchen floor. He’d taken her home; she’d cried and he’d held her, a natural instinct, her face pushed into the pocket of his neck. He didn’t remember how the kiss had happened.

  Tripp continued, “Are they all yours, Winters? Do you think everyone in Mt. Oanoke belongs to you?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Alecia, Tuesday, May 12, 2015

  Alecia wasn’t a drinker, not by any stretch. But when Linda arrived Tuesday morning, a headache pulsed behind her eyes and she pinched the bridge of her nose. Monday night she’d been drunk. Maybe enough to earn a barstool at the QB, certainly enough to send her retching into the toilet at three in the morning, Gabe sleeping soundly for once.

  Linda screeched into the kitchen, a monolith, tall and foreboding, hustling Gabe into the next room, leaving Alecia alone for the second day of bad parenting in a row.

  She checked her phone, saw a waiting text message. Are you ok? Then, I miss you.

  Oh, she forgot. She texted Nate. She scrolled up the conversation: Do you know Jimmy Hamm is back in town? Came into the bank, drunk, raving like a lunatic. Then, seems like weird timing don’t you think? He wrote back, He’s been gone a long time, which was a maddeningly vague reply. A few minutes later, I thought I saw him in the woods the other day.

  A sober thought: What was Nate doing in the woods?

  He’d written, Should I tell Tripp? Don’t know.

  She wanted Nate to deny everything again; she needed him to do it. But hadn’t he denied his guilt a million times? Begged her to believe him, even?

  That hat, the coach thumbed over and muddy flipping down the embankment.

  By telling Nate about Jimmy, she’d all but told Nate she believed him. Maybe she did; it was hard to say in the face of so much evidence. She felt the pulse of truth in her heart. Why was he in the woods? Even as she formed the question in her mind, she knew the answer. When Nate was confused or lost or needed time to himself, he took to the trails. He hiked. She never knew him to be more lost than he was right now.

  Was she making excuses? Maybe.

  His replies were noncommittal and she remembered getting mad about it. Why does Bridget care more about your innocence than you do? He hadn’t written back other than to say he missed her. Her words were jumbled, misspelled. He even asked her once, Are you drunk?

  She’d answered him no, but it was a lie, because sometimes the lie was easier.

  • • •

  By the afternoon, she felt better, fresh, showered and clean, teeth brushed. The only remnant of her night was the disjointed text conversation with Nate.

  Alecia reviewed it again, decided she hadn’t said anything so awful after all. She didn’t know what she wanted, but she didn’t want Nate to show up on their doorstep, his bag in hand. She wasn’t there yet.

  Still, Jimmy was back now, which was a weird coincidence. And Nate saw him, too; at least he said he did.

  The doorbell rang and Alecia answered it.

  Bridget held a chocolate cheesecake. “It’s all they had. It’s a bit much for the heat.” After a pause, she asked, “Can I come in?”

  Alecia felt a twinge of annoyance, but couldn’t pinpoint why.

  In the kitchen, she made tea, Gabe at her hip, tugging on her shirt for one thing or another, pointing at water, then cereal. She bagged Kix for him as Bridget watched.

  Bridget was good with Gabe, got down on his level, talked to him like a person. Never cared when he didn’t talk back, or when he answered her not so much with words but with grunts or pointing. Sometimes he replied, a yes or a no, what are you drinking, Gabe? Water, the easy questions.

  But she didn’t do that today, she didn’t talk to Gabe, just stood in the kitchen holding a cheesecake too heavy for the hot day and shifting in her clogs.

  “How was school?” Alecia asked, finally rescuing her, taking the cake from her hands and pulling a knife from the woodblock on the counter.

  “Oh, you know, weird. The teachers are weird, everyone whispers. Everything is quiet.” Bridget settled onto a stool, her mouth twisted in a grimace like she might cry. “I want to show you this.” She pulled out her phone and flicked the screen with her fingers, her hands shaky as she slid the device across the counter. Alecia picked it up, the video already playing, loud shaky music, kids screeching in the background, a deep voice behind the camera.

  “What is this?”

  “A video of a party. Just watch.”

  The image of a girl, sprawled on
the bed, pale flesh flashing, and Alecia drew a breath. “Why are you showing me this?” But Bridget didn’t answer and she saw the hand, a thick scar across the top reach out and jostle the girl’s breast.

  “That’s Lucia?” Alecia asked, her tongue hating the taste of her name.

  “Yes.”

  “So why are you showing me this?” Alecia turned her head, handed back the phone. “This only proves what we know. She gets drunk at a party, films herself having sex. Seems like the kind of girl who would sleep with a teacher, or maybe sleep with a teacher, I don’t know.”

  What Alecia really wanted to say was that no one could compete with the young, tight body of an eighteen-year-old, her belly flat and rippled in the right places, not the wrong ones. Her breasts high and perched, milky white, in lace, tumbling out over the top the exact right way, not in a jiggling, wobbling way. That she could understand why Nate would sleep with her, reach for her, that red mouth on his mouth, his neck, his body. She could almost see it, watching that video.

  “You’re missing the point, she’s unconscious.” Bridget snapped the phone back, exasperated. “She didn’t have sex or sleep with anyone. She was raped here.”

  “Am I supposed to feel sorry for her?” Alecia gathered her hair behind her head, fanning her neck with her ponytail. God it was so hot.

  “As a woman? Yes. I’d think so.”

  “As a woman whose husband maybe slept with her?” Alecia shot back.

  “I don’t think so,” Bridget said, “I really don’t.”

  “His hat was found in that woods. He went after her. Why would he go after her if he wasn’t trying to . . . I don’t know. Silence her. Seduce her. Something.”

  “I can’t answer that, but I know —”

  “That’s the thing, you don’t actually know anything. No one does!” Alecia had had enough. She was so tired of fighting the undercurrent of their friendship, Bridget firmly taking Nate’s side. “What about the Instagram? The credit card receipt? Twice, apparently? The reporter who saw them making out in the parking lot.”

  “They weren’t making out. He hugged her,” Bridget protested, but feebly, flimsily, the words sliding around between them. “She’s been fucked with at school, and I think Nate knew it, but he won’t answer my calls. I’m going over there after this to talk to him.”

  “Why do you defend him so much? Like you don’t even think of taking my side?” The whine came out, petulant, and Alecia could hear it but couldn’t stop it. Her voice edged up, she felt the hysteria rising in her chest.

  “I just want the truth, Alecia. It’s not about sides.” Bridget’s voice raised to match hers. “God, you’re so stubborn. Just see it for a moment. What if Nate is telling the truth, that he was trying to help her?”

  “He saved that picture!” Alecia shouted. “I can’t ignore that. And listen, I’m here in this goddamn house every single day of my life. He’s out there, cavorting with his students, following them on Facebook and Instagram and monitoring their every move, like he’s got some kind of savior complex. I just can’t take it! Why doesn’t he care more about us, this family, than he does some little white-haired weirdo sex bomb on Instagram?”

  “He does care about you, Alecia. But you are so wrapped up in Gabe, it’s all you care about. For two seconds, can you just think about Nate?”

  “Why? He doesn’t think about us. You know what? I saw Jennifer Lawson at the Stop & Shop the other day and you know what she said? That Nate kissed her at the Tempest Christmas party.”

  “The party three years ago?” Bridget held her palm to her forward, eyes tipped toward the ceiling, and laughed. “Three years ago?”

  “So what? We were married three years ago! What difference does it make? I’ve heard this kind of thing before. The student at the Quarry Bar, what was her name? The night Gabe took a header down the steps. I couldn’t get in touch with him. My point is, we are not his priority. I have no reason to believe him.” She shook her head, back and forth, back and forth. “None.”

  “Jennifer Lawson kissed him.” Bridget stood, slapped her palms on the island, her voice a screech. She was practically yelling.

  “Why, Bridget, tell me why? Why does the whole world throw themselves at my husband? And I’m supposed to believe he’s an innocent bystander? I can’t. I can’t do it.”

  Bridget sat, deflated. She shook her head, cupped her chin in her palm. Alecia felt the burn of tears behind her eyelids, threatening to spill over. She was the monster now?

  Bridget looked toward the living room, where Gabe sat entranced by Mighty Machines, then toward the window above the sink.

  Alecia closed her eyes and let her breathing level out, the anger pulsing under her skin, a slow burn.

  After a minute, Bridget spoke. “Nate lets people in, Alecia. It’s like a drug, you remember? It’s why you fell in love with him. When he looks at you, it’s like you’re all that matters. He does that to everyone. Holden was addicted to it, loved Nate more than anyone. This is what he does to people. He doesn’t mean to do it.”

  Alecia walked to the sink and turned on the tap, her back to Bridget. She didn’t want her to see the tear that slid down her cheek, the sting in her throat as she tried to stop it.

  She braced herself against the counter, tired, just so damn tired.

  Finally, she said, “But does that make it right?”

  CHAPTER 32

  Bridget, Wednesday, May 13, 2015

  Bridget’s classroom overlooked the parking lot, where she could see the news van parked in the fire lane, a photographer and reporter fighting against the wind and rain to stand under the front awning. The heat wave had finally broken and brought furious thunderstorms that had been raging off and on all day. She watched the reporter talk, soundless from where she stood, her mouth moving, her hand gesturing, pointing to the school entrance. Bridget studied her mouth—she wore burgundy lipstick—for any indication she was saying Nate’s name and saw none.

  It was her break period.

  She waited for them to leave, but they didn’t, and the reporter moved her hand around in a circle—a retake. No, not now, not ever.

  Bridget walked out of her classroom, slamming the door behind her, and down the hall to the front door. She pushed against the release bar and stepped outside, where the reporter rushed her and shoved a microphone in her face.

  “Miss, what do you know about the missing student? What about the teacher accused of having an affair with her? Is there a sex-for-grades scandal at Mt. Oanoke high school?”

  “No comment. It is a school day, and we are in session. Please, you need to leave the premises.”

  “Ma’am with all due respect, this a public school. You can’t kick us off the property.”

  “During the school day, this is a no-trespassing zone. I sure as hell can, and if I have to, I’ll call the police.” Her finger hovered above Tripp’s name on her cell phone.

  “Just give me a statement and I’d be happy to leave.” The woman smiled, wide and gleaming. Capped.

  “I’m calling now,” Bridget said just as Bachman came up behind her.

  “What’s the problem here? I’m the principal of this school, and you need to leave now.”

  “I’m calling the police,” Bridget repeated, her finger still hovering, shaking. She pressed the phone against her cheek without dialing. “Officer Harris? We have a situation at the school with a television reporter, can you please send a patrol car? Thank you.”

  The reporter held up her hands, palms out, buying her bluff. Her eyes swept Bachman and peered around him toward the door. A crowd of students had gathered in the doorway, piling on top of each other, craning to see.

  “We’ll go,” the reporter finally said. “But technically we don’t have to. Do you want to give us a statement, Mr. Bachman?” She smiled sweetly at Tad and his neck reddened.

  “No comment. Please leave.” His voice was low, his teeth clenched. He turned and went back inside, the students stepping out
of his way. Bridget remained outside, but heard his directive from the hallway: “No one talks to them, got it? No one.” He sliced through the crowd, his arm swinging behind him, the door slamming shut until it was just Bridget who remained, her arms folded across her middle.

  “We’ll be back, Ms. Peterson.” She gave Bridget another dazzling smile.

  They knew her name. Of course they did.

  • • •

  The day dragged on, slower than a herd of turtles, and by sixth period, Bridget had her students watch Dead Poets Society instead of journaling. She was tired of their thoughts anyway. They’d all gotten in her head: Ashlee smacked and snapped her gum from the back of the room; Josh snorted at texts from, assumedly, Kelsey, who from across the room watched him, sleek as a cat, her legs crossing and uncrossing, her finger working a blond curl into a corkscrew.

  Bridget was so sick to death of all of them.

  But Taylor was missing.

  “Has anyone seen Taylor?” she asked, but they all just looked around and shrugged. Kelsey snapped to attention, her back taut as a rubber band.

  Bridget pressed play and dimmed the lights. She sat at her desk and flicked through her emails, all business as usual. Nothing about Nate or Lucia.

  She texted Nate, I’m coming over after school, have to show you something. Please be there. 3:30.

  She waited ten minutes for the reply, just a simple OK.

  Robin Williams jumped on the desk: The world looks very different from up here.

  And then: Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.

  • • •

  The bell rang and Bridget took her time, packing up her desk, the daily journals, her laptop. She rummaged around in her purse as the students burst out the front door like a canon, looking for the news van, the excitement buzzing on their skin.