Knitting Bones

by Monica Ferris

  “Yes,” said Alice, relieved that this was indeed Andrew, a fellow member of the smuggling operation and not some random pervert. “Have you got the package?”

  “Yes. Come with me.” He walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. Reaching in, he took hold of a box about eighteen inches square. As he lifted it, a scrabbling noise could be heard from inside. “He’s a live one,” he said, handing the box over. Its top was folded rather than taped shut and small airholes were punched along one side.

  “Good,” said Alice, who celebrated the return of liveliness in wild animals brought back from the dull misery of sickness or injury.

  She put the box in her own trunk and drove away. In case of a fender bender or some other imperative reason to stop, it was better not to have to explain the contents of the box. It was after ten, and Excelsior was forty minutes away.

  BETSY stood frowning at the immense cage in her guest bedroom, which was also her home office. It was black, an empty three-foot cube made of heavy iron bars. It stood on a metal frame that raised the top to chest level. A perch made of a tree branch crossed it, and there were three openings that held ceramic bowls. “One is for water, the other two hold dog food and fresh vegetables or fruit,” explained one of the two husky young men who had set it up. “Crows are omnivores, they’ll eat just about anything.”

  Betsy, who had seen crows pulling at the innards of ran-over squirrels on the street, nodded.

  “The cage seems very strong,” she said.

  The young man nodded. “It’s a parrot cage someone donated to us. It’s heavy, but we like it because it’s almost indestructible.” Seeing her eyes widen in alarm, he added, “No, it’s because it gets moved around a lot, not because the birds we put in it are dangerous.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Oh, one more thing: The latch doesn’t work very well. We’ve used a piece of wire to reinforce it. Be sure to twist it around the bars and then around itself to secure the door.” He pointed to the eight-inch length of gray wire bent into a long U and hanging from a crossbar.

  “All right.”

  “Well, good luck, and I’ll see you in three days. We’ll call before we come over.”

  “Thank you.”

  The pair left and Betsy went into the kitchen to look in the paper bag they’d brought along. In it were three small cans of dog food, two apples, a browning banana, a tomato, and three hard-boiled eggs. More than enough, they had assured her.

  Betsy went to sit in her chair and knit while she waited for Alice to bring her houseguest to her.

  GODWIN arched his back to ease an ache forming in his lower spine. He’d searched the membership lists for the three local EGA groups that formed the Twin Cities Chapter of the guild, but couldn’t find a single Durand. There were two Corcorans, two Dolans, a Duranty, a Larent, a Tolland, and four Warrens, but not a Durand. And none of the others either were or had a spouse named Anthony or Tony.

  The attendance at the convention, while much larger than the local membership, had been easier to search: it came on a computer disk. No joy there, either.

  He thought of that Gilbert and Sullivan line: “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.” If this sort of thing was a regular part of one’s duties—and, according to Jill, it often was—no, indeed.

  BETSY was thinking that something had happened and she was not going to get a crow tonight. It was after ten, and she was getting sleepy. She began to put her knitting away, sticking the needles into the fabric, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” she called and the door opened. A moment later Alice came into the living room with a good-size cardboard box in her hands. Something scrabbled inside it, and a faint, unpleasant odor wafted from it.

  “He’s either feeling lively, or he’s upset at the confinement,” said Alice. “Or both. In any case, here he is.”

  “Does he have a name?” asked Betsy, staring at the box.

  “No. You can name him if you like, but it’s likely to get changed when he gets where he’s going. Where shall I put him?”

  “His cage is back there.” Betsy pointed, then followed slowly behind Alice. She heard the cage rattle and the door swing open before she got there.

  “Oh, my, look at him!” exclaimed Alice.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Betsy, stopping in the doorway.

  “Oh, he’s dirtied himself rolling around in that box.”

  Betsy came closer. The crow certainly had. He also stank. “We can’t leave him like that, can we?” said Betsy, stepping back.

  “No, birds are very clean animals.”

  “How do you bathe a crow?” asked Betsy.

  “Well, what I’d do is lower the shower head and turn on the water to just warm. Then draw the curtains around the tub and leave him alone for fifteen minutes or half an hour.”

  In her tub Betsy had a shower head that could slide up and down or even come off of a stainless steel rod—Alice had become familiar with the arrangement while cleaning the bathroom earlier in the day.

  “All right,” said Betsy, who really wanted to go to bed.

  “Here, I’ll set it up for him and put him in. All you’ll have to do is get him out again and put him in his cage.”

  “Do I have to rub him dry with a towel first?” asked Betsy.

  “No.” Alice smiled. “For one thing, I don’t think he’ll let you do that without a fight. And for another, it’ll give him something to do, smoothing out his feathers.”

  “All right. Thank you, Alice.”

  Alice re-closed the box and went out and into the bathroom. In a minute Betsy heard the shower start up, then the thump as the crow was dumped in, then the click and scraping of its claws as it moved hastily around the tub. Alice came back out, the box in her hand. “You won’t be wanting this around,” she said. “I’ll toss it in the Dumpster and go home. Any questions?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “If you have any problems, give me a call.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Betsy listened at the bathroom door for a couple of minutes, and heard the click of large bird claws behind the curtain, audible over the sound of the shower. She decided against going for a peek, and instead went back to her chair to pick up her knitting. She was working on a sweater that would be a Christmas present for Emma Beth, who was her goddaughter. It was a cheery red cardigan with cable stitching up the front and down the sleeves. Betsy was doing the tricky reductions as she neared the neck. She worked slowly, because she was tired and because half her attention was on the bathroom. She had closed the door, but if the crow got out it might lie in wait for her to open it and lead her on a merry chase around the apartment. If Sophie joined in, the crow might be severely injured.

  That thought made her put her knitting away and go toward her bedroom. Sophie slept on the bed with her, and knew it was bedtime. As soon as Betsy went in, the cat joined her, leaping up on the bed and looking back over her shoulder at Betsy. Who promptly stepped back and shut the door, trapping the cat inside.

  Then Betsy went to the bathroom and peeped behind the curtain to see a large—very large—black bird at the far end of the tub, wet but clean. When Betsy bent to shut off the water, the bird tried to retreat farther, flapping its wings and clawing futilely against the slope of the tub. Water off, Betsy straightened, and the bird stopped flapping. Betsy could see that one wing hung down a little while the other was incorporated smoothly into the side of the creature. It cocked its head to regard her with one shiny black eye. It was alert but did not look the least afraid. Betsy, herself, was a different story. It really was an extraordinarily large bird, with a frighteningly long, sharp beak.

  Betsy went for a bath towel. She draped it over her hands and lunged through the curtain to wrap the bird in it. Grabbing blindly, she nevertheless got all the bird’s body safely under the towel. As she lifted it up, careful not to let the head near her face, the bird calmly stretched its head over the
towel and pinched her on the forearm.

  “Owwwwwww!” howled Betsy, hopping backward and twisting her hands to make it let go. She nearly fell, but leaning against the sink saved her. The crow was still biting. She waved her arms in a sharp motion that threw the ends of the towel over the crow’s head and, startled, it let go.

  Betsy hastily secured the wrapping, tucked the whole bundle under one arm and, after standing there a minute to regain her equilibrium, and her temper, looked around for her crutches.

  She took one and used it to get to the guest room. She shoved the towel and bird into the cage, holding onto one end of the cloth and pulling back until the bird rolled out of it.

  It had not made a sound since it had arrived, but now it got to its feet, feathers all ruffled, looked up at her and, showing her its bright yellow tongue, released five short, angry caws at her. In reply, Betsy slammed the cage door and twisted the wire to make sure it stayed shut.

  “Wow!” she said then, half in anger and half in awe. She looked at her arm. There was a nice red welt where the bird had pinched it, with a single dark drop of blood at one end.

  The crow shook itself, scattering drops of water everywhere. Then it went to the farthest corner of the cage and stood there in silence, back to her.

  “Humph!” snorted Betsy. Maybe by tomorrow it will have died of pneumonia, she thought; and on that happy note, she went to bed.

  Seventeen

  BETSY was awakened early the next morning by Sophie tapping on her shoulder. Ordinarily the cat left her alone until she started showing signs of waking on her own, so this new behavior drew an angry growl from her mistress.

  But the cat persisted. “Whassa matta?” grumbled Betsy, blinking her eyes open. Then she heard it.

  “Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw!” came the rough-edged noise. The door to the guest room was shut, her own bedroom door was shut, but the noise was quite audible: “Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw!”

  “Awww—” Betsy bit the next word off firmly. No need to waste good scatology on the cat.

  It took her a few minutes to get out of bed, make that first, necessary trip to the bathroom, and pull on a robe. All the while, the crow kept calling.

  “All right, all right, all right!” scolded Betsy, shoving open the door to her office.

  The crow, dry, clean, and every feather neatly in place, was on the higher of the two perches, his head turned sideways so he could pin her down with that beady black eye.

  “What’s wrong in here?” Betsy asked. The crow did not reply, nor did it take its intent gaze from her. She walked to the cage. There were already several messes on the newspaper spread on the bottom. Did the creature expect her to clean up after every mess it made? Then the smell struck her in the face like a used diaper. It appeared that yes, indeed, she would be doing a whole lot of fresh papering of the cage.

  Hampered by her need to balance on a crutch, it took a while to slide the old paper out on its tray and insert fresh. Good thing the cage was on a stand; she was not able to kneel. Meanwhile the crow kept cawing at her and once, when she got close enough to the bars, it reached through with its beak and pulled her hair. She took the messy paper to her kitchen, pulled a white plastic garbage bag from a box of them under her sink and shoved the paper in it, pulling the drawstring shut. Then she washed her hands thoroughly and went back to the bedroom, intending to boot up her computer. But the crow was waiting for her, and as soon as she appeared, it hopped from perch to perch, giving her hard looks and cawing.

  Then she saw the empty dishes in the cage. Of course, it was hungry! It fell silent as she pulled the dishes, which were about the size of ashtrays, out of their holders, but it called after her as she took them out of the room.

  Water was easiest, so she brought a filled dish of water back first. The crow came quickly to dip its beak and lift its head to allow the water to run down its obviously parched throat. Poor thing! Betsy hobbled to the kitchen to slice half a banana into one dish and half fill the other with smelly canned dog food. Sophie walked beside her, whining—she was hungry, too. Betsy brought the offerings back one at a time, one-handed because of her crutch. The crow abandoned the bananas for the dog food, and she left it to its meal to feed Sophie in the kitchen.

  This was an angle she hadn’t thought about. Birds rise with the sun, and apparently rise hungry. Alice had said the crow wasn’t tame—but it wasn’t stupid. It had learned that hollering made humans bring food. Meanwhile, Betsy was going to have to find a source of fresh newsprint. A single daily wasn’t going to be enough, not if she wanted to do any work in the room she was now sharing with a crow. Thank goodness it was only for two more days.

  GODWIN was in Crewel World sorting through a shipment from Norden Crafts, a wholesaler in Chicago. There were some of the newest Kreinik silks, and boxes of DMC’s Color Variations. Also there was an order of “wool rovings,” soft, fat ropes of unspun wool in assorted colors. Spinners could use it, but Godwin had ordered it for a form of felting some of the shop’s customers had taken to. They would draw an outline on felt or thick fabric, lay a thin layer of the roving inside it, then use a button-shaped instrument with a thin stem on one side and four needles on the other to punch the wool into fabric. The rovings could make a soft, almost abstract pattern of leaves and flowers or animals, or be blended in shaded and complex patterns or pictures. Bernina made an attachment for their sewing machines to speed the process—Godwin had an order of the attachments in another box waiting to be unpacked and put on display.

  A customer, Laura Briggs, had taken a plain, dull-green wool jacket and covered its lapels, sleeves, and bottom hem with a flowering vine that was startlingly beautiful. She had twisted green roving tight to make the vine, blended shades of green for the leaves, and used orange and yellow for the blooms. She had agreed to loan the jacket to Crewel World to display as a model. When the box from Norden had arrived, Godwin checked the packing list and phoned her, and the “bing-bong” of the shop’s front door announced her arrival less than ten minutes later.

  She was very young, barely out of high school, a pretty, slender blonde whose cheeks were pink with excitement. Wordlessly, she held out the jacket.

  “It’s even more beautiful than I remember,” said Godwin, taking it and holding it out at arm’s length. “I think it should go right in front,” he said, walking over to an old, glass-fronted counter painted white that jutted out from one wall. “We can set it up on top of this,” he said. “I’ve got a bust made of wire in back that we use for sweaters. That will be a real eye-catcher—you’ll be famous by the end of next week!”

  “All right,” said Laura in a soft voice. She was a little in awe of being famous.

  “We’ll put some of the rovings into a basket and one of these what-dya-callems—” He held up one of the implements used to punch wool into fabric. “Inside the cabinet.”

  “It’s a felting tool. And I think that’s a great idea,” said Laura.

  “No, wait, let’s put the basket and felting tool up here on top beside the jacket.” He put a little wicker basket on top to try it out.

  “All right. That looks nice.”

  “Well, maybe it should go inside. Someone might pick one of those tools up and forget to put it back. Better to have the basket and this gizmo behind glass.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Laura, starting to look a little confused.

  “And instead of one, let’s put two of these felting tools out.” He glanced at her and misinterpreted her expression. “Okay, one.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Laura gamely.

  They settled on two felting tools and a small basket of rovings, inside the cabinet. Laura said she’d think about teaching a class and left.

  A little later, Godwin was arranging coils of wool rovings in the little basket—the forest green twined around the deep orange with the red showing here and there—when the door chimed and Sharon, Ramona Tinsmith’s daughter, came in. “Hi, Goddy!” she said.

  �
�Well, hello!” said Godwin. “I didn’t think I’d see you for weeks and weeks, after you bought all those chicken patterns!”

  Sharon giggled. “I know, I know—and I’ve only started working on them. I found the most incredible fabric print to use as an edging on the quilt: chicken wire! Can you believe it? But I was thinking: What threatens the chicken coop in song and story?”

  Godwin frowned at her. “Chicken hawks?”

  “Well, yes, but there’s another reason for the chicken wire.” He shook his head, baffled. “A fox!” she said.

  He laughed. “You’re right!”

  “So my quilt needs a fox. What kind of fox patterns do you have? Remember, they have to be four inches by four inches.”

  “I thought some of the patterns you bought were bigger than that.”

  Sharon nodded. “Some are, they can make a square eight by eight. But most of the squares are four by four, and I want the fox to be kind of subtle. I want to place him along the edge. Top, side, or bottom, it doesn’t matter, but he should be skulking, don’t you think?”

  Godwin was smiling along with Sharon. “I agree. Let’s see what we can find.”

  There were quite a few fox patterns, but they were too small, or too cartoonish, or too big, or not “skulky” enough.

  Godwin finally said, “I’m sorry, we don’t seem to have one you can use. Maybe you should try Needlework Unlimited, or Stitchville USA.”

  Sharon sighed and started for the door, but Godwin called after her, “Hold on, hold on! Maybe I can help you!”

  She came back eagerly, and Godwin said, “I have to make a phone call.” He would have run upstairs but there was no part-timer in the shop. He dialed Betsy’s number.

  “Hello?” came the reply.

  “What’s that noise?” asked Godwin.

  “There’s a crow fight on the roof.”

  “Sounds like it’s in the next room.”

  “Yes, I know, I have a window open. What’s up?”

  “Betsy, remember that class you took from Rachel Atkinson, the one where she taught that pattern of the fable about the fox and the grapes?”