Crow's Landing

by Brad Smith

  It was almost noon when the crowd started streaming out of the barn and began to gather around the cars. Parson watched for Zoe and then he saw her, wandering along, admiring a small painting she’d obviously just bought.

  The Barracuda was the big-ticket item and so the auctioneer would offer it last. The other cars were nice but not particularly rare, and they went fairly reasonably, the GTO with the butchered console topping the bunch at $16,200. When the auctioneer began to sing the praises of the ’Cuda, Parson got up from his place in the shade and began to walk. He reached the periphery of the circle surrounding the auctioneer as the man was stating that the car was “numbers matching.”

  “It’s not,” Parson said loudly.

  The auctioneer turned on him. “I beg your pardon.”

  “That’s not the original engine,” Parson said. “That motor’s out of a ’68. It has nine to one compression heads, and a cast iron intake manifold. Tear it down and you’ll find the crankshaft has four-inch main bearings. The Hemi they made in ’70 was four and a half.”

  It was pure double talk but Parson was pretty sure it would fly. He stood looking at the auctioneer, not in a challenging manner, but rather as someone just wanting to set the record straight. This was the tricky part of the proceeding. Everything that Parson had said was bullshit and if there happened to be somebody present who could verify that the car actually was as advertised, Parson was out of luck. But that rarely proved to be the case. Even if somebody suspected that Parson was bluffing, people were usually reluctant to present themselves as experts when there was money at stake.

  The auctioneer was not happy. He shifted his glare from Parson to a man in a pink fleece pullover, standing just outside the door to the barn. The man was obviously either handling the estate for the family or, more likely, a relative of the deceased. As Parson watched, the man looked skyward and shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture. That was it for the auctioneer. He was pissed at the development, not just for the lost revenue it would cost him, but also because his company had advertised a vehicle that, apparently, was not what they claimed. He made a little speech, the standard spiel about buyer beware, clearing the house of all liability, and said that they would continue.

  When the bidding began, Parson offered a couple times for appearance’s sake, then dropped out at fifteen thousand. Zoe bought the convertible for twenty-two five. Parson knew it would have reached at least three times that if he hadn’t spoken up. The auctioneer knew it too.

  Parson walked to the Escalade and drove off, stopping again at the gas station at the corner, while he waited for Zoe to pay for the car and obtain the title and bill of sale. She showed up fifteen minutes later, getting out of a cab, still carrying the painting. She handed Parson the remainder of the cash in the envelope and he put it in the console as they drove off. He would send somebody over that afternoon to trailer the car to his shop.

  “You pay yourself?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “The dude in the pink sweater was bad-mouthing you.”

  “He should’ve pulled the car,” Parson said, “the minute I opened my mouth.”

  “That’s what the auction house told him,” Zoe said. “Too late though.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “How rare is it?”

  “Ragtop, with the Hemi and the automatic, they made nine that year.”

  “So what’s it worth?”

  Parson smiled. “It’s worth whatever I can get for it.”

  Zoe lit up again, to Parson’s dismay. “Tell me something,” she said. “What are you going to do when the day comes that you can’t get somebody like me to do your bidding? Pardon the pun.”

  “Come on, Zoe. Don’t you treasure these moments together?”

  “Answer the question.”

  Parson smiled at her. “You know the deal. I buy it, I have to show ID and then it’s in my name. And if the same guy who questions the car buys it, it’s suspicious. Especially when it happens over and over. This way, I ask the questions, drop out of the bidding, and then Zoe Smallwood buys it. Nobody suspects anything.”

  Zoe thought about that. “That’s just a fancy way of saying you like to get other people to do your dirty work for you.”

  Parson smiled but said nothing. They were on a country road, heading west toward the thruway. There were orchards and vineyards along the way. Roadside stands offered fruits and vegetables, jams and preserves.

  “What’s the painting?” Parson asked.

  Zoe showed him. It was an oil painting of a frame house at the end of a street, with rolling fields beyond. There was a front porch with a swing on it, and a black-and-white dog sprawled on the boards at the top of the steps, head resting forlornly on its front paws, as if waiting for someone to return.

  “Why did you want that?” Parson asked.

  “It reminds me of my grandmother’s house,” Zoe said. “I used to stay there summers when I was a kid.”

  “You’re so sentimental, Zoe.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.”

  Parson shifted his eyes from the painting back to the thruway. Zoe sat smoking and after a while she turned and put the painting on the floor in the backseat.

  “So what about it?” Parson asked. “You ever going to have kids?”

  Zoe didn’t reply at first. She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the coffee cup. “I always figured on it.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Still young enough.”

  “I guess.” She watched out the window, to an orchard across the way, the trees already heavy with apples.

  “What about you?” she asked. “You’re the one always wanted kids.”

  “Still do.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Parson smiled. “The right brood mare.”

  “You’re such a fucking asshole, Parson. You know that?”

  SEVEN

  Dusty spent Saturday at the brownstone at Madison and Canfield. Gutting the old building was a bigger job than she’d expected and by noon she was second-guessing herself, thinking that maybe she should have taken Murphy’s advice and gotten some help. But then she’d be splitting the money.

  She started on the third floor, removing the doors first, and then the casings from the doors and the windows, and finally the baseboard. The trim was of red oak, and unlike most houses from the era, it had not been covered with a dozen coats of paint over the years. Dusty assumed that Murphy would want to retain the woodwork, so she carefully pulled the nails from everything and carted it all down to the basement, where she stacked it on some shelving there. If it turned out that Murphy didn’t want to keep it, Dusty would buy it from him and sell it. There were plenty of antique dealers in the city who would jump at the period trim.

  Back upstairs she removed a bay window overlooking the Dumpster on the ground below and began pulling down the lath and plaster from the ceilings and walls, tossing the debris into the container below. It took her the remainder of the day to gut the third floor. Once the plaster was gone, she had to remove the knob and tube wiring, some of which was still live, and the two-by-four framing itself. Afterward, she spent a half hour sweeping up. She’d worn coveralls and a ball cap and dust mask, and by five o’clock she was covered with plaster dust and just plain grime from head to toe. She left the coveralls and mask there and headed home, where she had left Travis with a babysitter from the building. Back in the apartment she stayed under the shower for a long time, washing away the cobwebs and dirt and rock wool insulation from her hair, her ears, even her nose. She’d put in eight hours, and would charge Murphy twenty-five an hour. She was exhausted but two hundred dollars was two hundred dollars.

  She made mac and cheese for the two of them for dinner and then she fell asleep on the couch while Travis watched Shrek for the hundredth time. He woke her when the movie was over, and told her to go to bed before heading off himself. Role reversal.

&n
bsp; * * *

  She would have gone back to the job on Sunday but earlier in the week she had made an appointment to look at a house out in Cobleskill, a place she’d found in the real estate flyer she’d been reading at work, the same day that Stan the plumber had suggested she move in with him. She considered canceling but then was afraid the place would sell before she got another chance. She was basically fooling herself anyway, thinking she could swing the financing, but in her more optimistic moments she envisioned a situation where the current owner might hold the mortgage, with a minimal down payment. The chances of that happening were nearly nonexistent, but it didn’t cost anything to dream.

  She packed Travis into the truck, leaving early enough to give them time to swing by the old neighborhood to pick up some cheese at Cabretta’s on Bleeker Street. Dusty had hung around the place when she was a kid, and Mrs. Cabretta, ancient even back then with long curly chin whiskers and a lingering smell of garlic about her, had liked Dusty, even though Dusty was a pretty accomplished shoplifter from the age of about five, and occasionally would help herself to the hard Italian licorice or the dark chocolate displayed by the cash register. Eventually she found out that Mrs. Cabretta was aware of her thieving all along, and as soon as Dusty knew that, she quit doing it. She even went to work at the store for a few months when she started high school, but that was right around the time she began to hang out at the park, getting high and jacking cars instead of licorice, and her career stocking shelves didn’t last long. Now she made a habit of stopping in at least once a month to pick up a half a pound of cheddar, or pecorino, but mainly to say hello to Mrs. Cabretta, who had remained very protective of her, even when Dusty had gone to jail. Mrs. Cabretta had been convinced that whatever had happened was not Dusty’s fault. This from the woman who had turned a blind eye to Dusty’s sticky fingers way back when.

  Today, however, the forgiving old lady wasn’t there; a sullen girl of about seventeen or eighteen was working the counter. She had very dark hair and brown eyes and Dusty assumed she was one of the several grandchildren. Her foul mood was probably due to the fact that she was a teenager working on Sunday morning. But Mrs. Cabretta had to be seventy-five or even eighty by now. It was time she took the odd day off.

  She bought the orange cheddar that Travis liked her to use for grilled cheese sandwiches and as they were walking back to her truck, she saw Shell near the entrance of Jefferson Park, standing by her peanut cart. Dusty checked the time on her cell and figured she could stop and say hello.

  Shell’s name was Michelle but nobody ever called her that, not that Dusty had heard anyway. She was ten or twelve years older than Dusty and she’d come to the city from Jamaica when she was a teenager. She was very large, maybe three hundred pounds, and her body was scarred and burned and broken from her days with the needle. Her past had robbed her of much of her beauty, both inside and out, but it hadn’t stolen her brilliant smile and she showed it when she saw Dusty and Travis walking across the grass.

  “Hey, girl,” she said.

  “Hi, Shell.”

  The big woman leaned down and offered her hand to Travis. “Hey, little man. I be calling you big man before long.”

  Travis hung back. Shell was an intimidating figure; her hair hung in long braids, adorned with glass beads and silver trinkets, and her breasts were huge, each one half the size of Travis, who held on to Dusty’s leg before finally offering his hand to the large woman. They shook solemnly and Shell turned back to her cart, where she had on display everything from peanuts in the shell to cashews to pistachios. She had fresh-popped corn as well and she filled a bag for Travis.

  “What you doing here on a Sunday morning, Dusty?” Shell asked as she drizzled some viscous yellow liquid over the popcorn. “Don’t tell me you homesick for the park?”

  “I miss this place like I miss acne,” Dusty said. She held up the cheese in her hand. “Heading out for Cobleskill and stopped by Cabretta’s for some cheese. Wanted to say hi, but there’s some newbie working the counter. Guess the old lady’s taking a day off.”

  The big woman handed the popcorn to Travis, who thanked her without being reminded by Dusty. Shell smiled at him while speaking to Dusty.

  “She dead.”

  “What?”

  “She died maybe two weeks ago,” Shell said. “I shoulda called you, guess I never thought.”

  “What happened?”

  Shell shrugged. “People get old, then they die. This news to you?”

  “I guess not,” Dusty said. She wished she had known. She would have made it to the visitation at least. She tried to remember the last time she had talked to the old woman. More than a month ago, she guessed. She had seemed the same as ever that day, asking the same questions she usually asked, not really pausing to hear the answers. She always made a fuss over Travis, even though she had a busload of her own grandchildren. Great-grandchildren too.

  Dusty took a look around the decrepit park. It was pretty quiet. Sunday morning coming down, like the song says. There were a couple of teenagers playing one-on-one across the way, on a patch of cracked concrete that served as a court. Travis saw them and took a few steps toward the game, munching his popcorn as he watched. A few people were sitting on benches, clutching takeout coffees, others wandering aimlessly. A couple of older men were sleeping on the grass. Or at least they looked older.

  “I don’t know anybody down here anymore,” Dusty said. “Where’d they all go?”

  “Jail or the graveyard, I suppose,” Shell said. “Ask me, one place bad as the other, but then you know all about that shit.” She paused, watching Dusty watch Travis. “Some of ’em make it out to the burbs with their little shoe box houses. Like Jules. How she doing?”

  “She’s good,” Dusty said. “Her husband’s a bit of a caveman but he got her out of here, at least. He works steady.”

  “What about you? You still building them houses?”

  “Still building them houses,” Dusty said. Now she turned away from Travis, who had stopped on the grass a few feet away. “How you doing? You okay, Shell?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Being good?”

  Shell shook her head, as if she was bored with the subject already. “You asking me if I’m using? Yeah, I’m using methadone. On the government’s dime. Tell me—that being good? That being better than a righteous junkie?”

  “That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Dusty said.

  “Guess it is. What about you—you being good?”

  “Have to be, Shell. I got a parole officer.” Dusty indicated Travis. “And I got this guy. I’m straight and narrow.”

  “Whatever get you up the mountain.” Shell watched her a moment. “So maybe you don’t need to be coming round here. Nothing but bad history.”

  “I can stop and say hi to you, Shell.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “But I do,” Dusty told her. “Other than Julie, you’re the only one came to see me in prison. You telling me I can’t stop and say hello, Shell?”

  The big woman shrugged. “I’m not telling you shit. You gonna do what you want anyway. Always have.”

  “Not always,” Dusty said. She smiled sadly at Shell but let it go and turned to Travis. “Okay, dude, let’s get a move on.”

  “What’s on in Cobleskill?” Shell asked. “Going on a picnic with your cheese?”

  “Nah,” Dusty said. “Going to go look at one of those shoe box houses you were talking about.”

  * * *

  Cobleskill was a forty-five-minute drive west of the city. The town was small, population six or seven thousand, and it was home to the state agricultural college, as well as a bedroom community for people who worked in the city but didn’t want to live there. Dusty knew the area a little; one of her friends from the old neighborhood had gone to school there and Dusty had visited her occasionally on weekends, when things had been in party mode. She remembered a bar in town called Reggie’s. She really didn’t remember much about the town, b
ut then her memory was a little foggy in general when it came to those days.

  The house was in an older subdivision on the north side of town. The homes there were well kept, the lawns trimmed, the driveways paved or laid in interlocking brick. The real estate agent handling the listing was named Cheryl Smythe. Dusty had spoken to her on the phone a couple of days earlier and they had arranged to meet at the house at one o’clock. Dusty arrived in town a half hour early, and she and Travis drove around a little, checking out the schools and the shopping centers and the parks. They took a pass through the university grounds, largely deserted on a Sunday morning, before driving around the residential areas, looking for other places for sale. Dusty jotted down two numbers to call later. Travis was not enthusiastic about the trip.

  “Not another one?” he said when they pulled up in front of the house with the sign on the yard featuring the smiling face of Cheryl Smythe. “Why do we have to do this every weekend?”

  “Because it’s fun,” Dusty told him.

  “Fun?” he said. “Have you ever had fun?”

  “Come on,” Dusty said. “Wouldn’t you like to live here? Have a lawn? You could ride your bicycle to school.”

  “I don’t have a bicycle.”

  “We would get you one.”

  Travis looked at the ranch-style house, and he glanced up and down the block. “How come they all look the same?”

  Cheryl Smythe was waiting inside, looking a few years older and a few pounds heavier than the woman on the sign out front. Her smile was not quite as welcoming either, once she saw Dusty, in her jeans and Patti Smith T-shirt, with her tattoos and the crescent moon scar from Albion Correctional still prominent on her cheek. Dusty saw the judgmental look, and she saw the woman shift her eyes from Dusty to Travis, as if checking to see if he was likewise marked up. Like they were circus people or something.

  Dusty was there to go through the house and she didn’t give a shit what the woman thought of the way she looked. Cheryl Smythe’s hair was coiffed and highlighted with blond streaks, and she had been Botoxed very recently; Dusty could see the tiny needle marks on the too-smooth skin between her eyebrows.