Knitting Bones

by Monica Ferris

  “You know, I don’t know when I found the time to go to my job,” said Rosemary, who had retired last year. “Classes, projects, shopping, volunteering—the day just fills up from start to end.”

  By row ten, the knitting was definitely bending in the middle, the decreases pulling it down—Betsy was down to knitting just six before slipping and knitting two together. It was fun to watch it happen. When she got to row twenty-two, the rows had decreased in length so much that all she could do was slip one, slip another one, knit two together, pass the slipped stitch over, knit one, purl one. Then slip one going back, knit three, purl one. Turn, and for the final row, in maroon, slip one, purl two together, and slip the first stitch over the second to end.

  There was a sound from the back bedroom and Betsy quickly said “Ha!” to cover it.

  “What’s that?” asked Rosemary.

  “I said ‘Ha,’ because I finished the next square,” said Betsy, pretending she hadn’t heard the curious gurgle. It was a sound the crow made when it found something tasty in its food dish. The cage was heavily covered; the crow should be thinking it was night and be asleep, not up and chuckling to itself over a forgotten dab of dog food.

  Rosemary said, “No, I thought I heard—”

  Fortunately, just then the phone rang, and Betsy lunged for the cordless sitting on the coffee table. “Hello?” she said, a trifle too loudly, in case the gurgle sounded again.

  “Betsy, it’s me, you don’t have to shout,” Godwin said.

  “What’s up?” asked Betsy, not quite as loudly.

  “Have you heard about Tony Milan?”

  “No, what about him? Has he confessed?”

  “He isn’t even under arrest!”

  “He isn’t? Why not? Doesn’t Sergeant Omernic think he’s guilty?”

  “Oh, he certainly does! But Tony’s apartment caught fire two days ago and Tony took that opportunity to disappear!”

  “What do you mean, disappear? Did he catch a plane to somewhere?”

  “Nobody knows! He could be anywhere!” Godwin was lapsing into italics again.

  “Calm down, calm down. Remember, if he’s still in town, he won’t be hard to find—there aren’t many people walking around with a broken arm, a broken leg, and a head wrapped up in bandages. And if he’s found a place to hole up in town, he is certainly going to stay there, not go out where he might be seen. Anyway, there’s no need for either you or I to be afraid; he has no idea we even exist.”

  “Oh. Oh, that’s right. So I guess we just go on waiting. Right?”

  “Right. Now excuse me, I’ve got to start square three of this four-part piece Rosemary is teaching me how to do.”

  As soon as Rosemary left, Betsy went to the back bedroom to check on the crow. The double cover on the cage was pulled half off—and the door to the cage was open. And the crow was not in the cage.

  He was up on the very top of the beautiful iron framework that rose above the bed, teetering back and forth as his claws wrapped themselves around it.

  Even worse, the bird had shown—twice—that it was not housebroken. The beautiful lacey duvet cover on the bed was spattered.

  “Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw!” the bird shouted at her from its high perch, ducking its head and slightly opening its wings at each caw.

  “Get down from there!” Betsy shouted, waving a crutch at its head. Startled, the bird fell backward. Its good wing flapped strongly, turning it sideways in the air, but the crippled wing opened only part way and kept it from whirling down on its head. It landed on the bed breast first, then hopped to its feet, head turning every which way as if confused by its inability to fly. It hopped three times across the bed, away from Betsy, turned to look at her and showed that, so far as loose went, a crow is the equal of any goose.

  “No, no, no! Don’t do that!” shouted Betsy, waving the crutch again. “Get down, get off, you filthy bird! The bird hopped to the edge of the bed, fluttered to the floor—and started to run. Barely in time, Betsy got to the bedroom door and shut it before the bird could get out.

  But that was as good as it got. She could not herd the bird back into its cage—it simply would not hop up to the door, but when driven to the cage, went around it or, once, over the top. It couldn’t fly like an ordinary bird, but could use its wings to make amazingly high hops.

  She chased it around the room, across the bed—twice—and into and out of the closet.

  And then it fluttered clumsily up onto her desk. Both paused, breathing hard. The bird stepped up on, then slid around on the keyboard, finding only poor purchase on the keys, and, just before hopping off, made a mess that went from the R to the P and down to the space bar.

  Betsy shrieked and the bird fled to the floor and went under the desk. If Betsy had been able to kneel, she would have captured it, but she couldn’t.

  Then someone started banging on the door to her apartment. The noise was so urgent that Betsy abandoned the chase and, careful to close the bedroom door behind her, went to see who it was.

  Godwin. His face pale and his expression anxious, he asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I am,” said Betsy, irritated. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Oh, Betsy, I heard sounds as if you were being chased, and then I heard this scream, so I came dashing up to see if you needed rescue.” Godwin had a sturdy wooden embroidery frame in his hand, an impromptu weapon brought from the shop. When he saw Betsy looking at it, he tried to hide it behind his back. “But you, you’re all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not. Come in, I want to tell you a secret and ask for your help.” She explained quickly and briefly about the crow, careful to not name any names.

  “Wow,” said Godwin. “And it’s gotten loose?”

  “Yes. Can you help?”

  Half an hour later the bird was back in his cage, and Godwin was in the bathroom applying Band-Aids.

  When he came out, he asked, “How did he get out of his cage?”

  “I don’t know. I was told the latch didn’t work properly, but they gave me some wire to twist around the bars to hold it shut. I guess he figured out how to untwist it, and now it’s gone—I wouldn’t put it past him to have hidden it somewhere.”

  “You better buy a padlock. And hide the key.”

  “You’re right, he’d probably learn the combination if I got that kind of lock.”

  “Or, why don’t you just toss him out a window and say he escaped?”

  “Because I don’t want to. I kind of like him.”

  “Like him? How can you possibly like him?”

  “Because he’s smart and proud and not grateful for the good we humans are doing him. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I like gratitude. I remember us taking in a starving puppy back when I was married to my first husband and that dog was the most loyal and loving pet I ever knew. Every day he reminded us of our kind deed by his grateful behavior, and I loved him dearly. But—I don’t know—here’s this other creature, as dependent on the kindness of humans for his existence as that dog. Humans took him in, healed his injury, and we’re feeding him good, balanced meals. And his reaction? ‘What-ever!’” Betsy laughed. “There’s something refreshing about that.”

  “I think it’s mean of him.”

  “He’s not being mean on purpose, he just doesn’t understand how helpless he is. I think he’s sure he’d be fine if we’d just turn him loose. Though maybe not. I’ve been reading up on crows, and I’ve found that they’re about the smartest birds on the planet. There are crows who have learned to put unshelled nuts on the road for cars to run over and crack for them. This one pays attention, too; he’s seen me twist that wire a dozen times, and I really do think he learned from me how to undo it. Just this morning, he asked me very politely to pick up a piece of food he’d dropped outside his cage. I think it was an experiment, to see if I would do it, because he’s never spoken to me in that gentle tone of voice before. Later I saw him watching me very carefully, trying to figure ou
t more things about me. Maybe he thinks I’m some new kind of crow—they live in mobs and they do look out for each other. They’re outlaws, pirates, thieves, oh, yes, and not ashamed of it. They eat the eggs of other birds, and eat the young of any species small enough for them to attack successfully. But they’re very loyal to their tribe. They’re interesting, arrogant, intelligent, noisy, messy, independent creatures who will look a human right in the eye without a trace of fear.”

  “Wow!” said Godwin, taken aback. “Looks like this particular crow has made a conquest.”

  Betsy sighed. “Which is not to say I won’t be relieved when he is gone from here. But now listen, what I’m doing is illegal, so you mustn’t tell anyone, all right?”

  Godwin grinned broadly. “That’s the part I find hard to believe. You doing something illegal!”

  “Oh, it’s not all that illegal, especially if a cop catches me red-handed and thinks it’s okay.”

  Godwin, still grinning, said, “All right, if you say so. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Yes, two things: Put that duvet in a plastic bag and take it to the cleaners tomorrow, and so long as you’re out, buy me a new keyboard. We cleaned this one off pretty good, but I don’t know if it can survive what happened to it—and meanwhile, it still smells.”

  “Yet you’re not mad at the crow.”

  Betsy shrugged. “It was just doing what nature tells it to do. They’re bright, crows, but I don’t think I could explain keyboards or duvets to them.”

  Much later, before she went to bed, Betsy changed the papers at the bottom of the crow’s cage again—she was going through several copies of the Minneapolis Star Tribune every day, trying to keep ahead of the creature’s output—and found not only the wire to hold the cage door shut but her antique, heart-shaped gold locket and chain tucked under several layers in a corner of the cage. She hadn’t even missed it.

  She glared at the bird, who cocked his head at her, merely interested. “And you were making believe you couldn’t get back inside when we were chasing you!” she scolded. “I bet in another couple of days you’ll learn how to refasten the wire so I won’t even know you’ve been out!”

  She stormed out of the room, and so she didn’t see him make that thoughtful gurgling sound and go to peck at the wire holding shut the door to his cage.

  Twenty-four

  TONY had broken his resolve to stay strictly in the condo. He’d taken that watch he couldn’t remember acquiring to a pawn shop in a nearby strip mall and had to use all his con artist skills to keep from showing how astonished he was when the man behind the counter offered him three hundred dollars for it. Three hundred bucks for a Bulova? That meant it was worth fifteen hundred, maybe two grand. Tony didn’t know Bulovas could be worth that much. And he didn’t know anyone who owned a watch that costly. Except Marc, and Marc’s watch was a Rolex, thank you very much. He decided to keep the pawn ticket; maybe he could redeem it someday.

  Meanwhile the money meant he could refill his Vicodin prescription without stealing any of the fifties from the stack he’d found stashed in the condo. He called his pharmacy, then took a cab over to pick it up. The pills cost about two bucks apiece.

  The good news was he’d reached that point where he wasn’t in a great deal of pain even without the pills, and so was cruising on them recreationally.

  But after two more days he needed something else to do. When he’d first arrived, it was wonderful, so quiet, so secure, so clean and everything beautiful and expensive. He’d lain the first morning in his comfortable bed, thinking what a great thing it would be to stay here permanently. Surely that wouldn’t be a hard thing to arrange. He’d be sweet and neat and very careful of all Marc’s beautiful things. And when Marc got home, Tony’d be nice and welcoming and as helpful as he possibly could be. He’d cook some of his wonderful dishes and impress Marc with his gentle ways, and Marc would fall in love and Tony would never have to steal or con anyone ever again. And Marc would take him to interesting places, and buy him nice things, and they’d have such great fun!

  It was easy to be honest with all that wonderful stuff hanging in the balance.

  So that’s what he would do.

  That was the first day.

  But now, on the third day, he was bored. This damn condo was starting to feel like a prison. Nothing on cable he wanted to watch anymore. And with his arm and leg still messed up, he couldn’t use Marc’s Jacuzzi. And he’d eaten all the fun snacky things. Luxurious? Absolutely, but still a prison.

  Pretty soon he’d need to see a doctor about a walking cast. But he couldn’t afford a doctor’s visit, especially since he hadn’t paid the deductibles. But in another few days Marc would be back and Marc would pay for a doctor’s visit, surely. All he had to do was wait.

  Why was waiting so hard? Why was he feeling this way? Here he was, going stir-crazy in a palace. It didn’t make sense. Life was such a gyp.

  Hold on, maybe he wasn’t so much bored as lonesome.

  Well, sure! He knew what he needed to fix that: a couple of friends over. Not really a party. Marc had said No parties, and Tony had agreed. Just having a few friends over wasn’t a party, it was a visit. And surely Marc hadn’t meant for him to sit here all by himself till he got back from Mexico.

  Just three friends, that wasn’t a party. What did he need to host a visit? There was plenty of alcohol left, but no chips or olives or fancy crackers. So that meant he’d have to do some cooking. Three or four friends—and he’d ask them to bring ingredients so he could make some of his famous hors d’oeuvres. Artichoke and goat cheese bruschetta, of course. And, with Thanksgiving on the horizon, something with cranberries. Ah, meatballs in cranberry and pinot noir sauce! And pumpkin hummus with toasted pita chips, yes! And, of course, chocolate-covered strawberries. Lots of chocolate-covered strawberries.

  He could feel himself coming to life just thinking about it.

  Suiting action to the thought, he rolled to his feet. Whoops, hold on just a minute: He only had one hand. He couldn’t make hors d’oeuvres one-handed.

  Travis. Travis Dash was pretty good in the kitchen. He’d make a fine assistant. It would enhance his reputation as a cook, to learn some of Tony’s secrets. He’d be grateful for that. So—just as a backup, it wasn’t going to happen that Marc would come home and not want Tony as a permanent guest—but just in case, Tony would have another place to move into.

  Sweet!

  Tony picked up the phone, thought briefly, then recalled the number and dialed. “Hello, Travis, how’s it hanging?” he asked cheerily. “Have I got a great idea for a get-together!”

  “Who is this?” Travis asked. “Is this Stoney?”

  “None other.”

  “Well, well, well, how are you?”

  “As well as can be expected, considering. But I’m out here all by my lonesome, and I am lonesome, so I want to have some people over. Not a big party, but a get-together, just a few friends, for food and fun.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Marc Nickelby’s condo.”

  “Oh, my God! How did you manage to land in such a pot of jam?”

  “Marc is in Mexico and needed someone to watch his place. Take in his mail. Water his plants. So here I am. And I thought I’d share the wealth a little. Are you in?”

  “But naturally, naturally!”

  “Also, I need your help.”

  Travis’s enthusiasm faded about halfway. “For what?”

  “In the kitchen. I want to cook for my friends, and I’m one-handed.”

  The enthusiasm came back. “Will you make tape-ade?”

  “What in the world is tape-ade?”

  “You know, that black-olive stuff with garlic and, and, what-are-they—capers! Olive oil, capers, and black olives all mushed together and you spread it on little squares of bread or crackers. Better than caviar, in my opinion.”

  “Oh, tapenade! Certainly—if we can find someone to bring capers. Marc hasn’t any capers in t
he place. Or black olives.”

  “Ask Milky, he’s got a few dollars in his pocket. In fact, make that the theme of the party! If you want your favorite hors d’oeuvres, you have to bring at least one of the ingredients.”

  That seemed a perfectly delightful idea, and soon Tony was talking to more people about the hors d’oeuvres party. He was up to eight before he remembered it wasn’t supposed to be a party, but a small gathering. But what the heck, he could handle eight, and if ten showed up—people brought friends, after all—that would only make more ingredients for the hors d’oeuvres. The gathering was going to be tomorrow evening, it was going to be splendid, he was in much better spirits already.

  ALL right, it was a party—fourteen people showed up instead of Tony’s original plan to invite four, but some of them brought liquor or wine, and most of them brought something that could be used in hors d’oeuvres.

  The party got louder as the drinks went around, a few spills happened, a statue got broken. But everyone was having a great time, and the statue’s pieces were quickly picked up and thrown away. Tony cooked and cooked, his friends ate and ate. Travis got really drunk, and Tony drank more than he meant to himself, but by the time their hors d’oeuvres started turning out sloppily, everyone else was too drunk to notice. Someone turned up the music, and a quarrel broke out about it. Then the phone rang. “Stoney, Stoney, it’s for you!” shouted the man who’d answered it.

  Tony picked up the extension in the kitchen. “We’re full up!” he announced, laughing.

  “Excuse me, sir, but I’ve been asked to inquire: May I call a cab for some of your guests?”

  “What? Oh. Oops, sorry. Sure, I’ll send some down right away.” Because Tony understood the real message: The party better be over; the neighbors were complaining. He hung up, checked the clock on the microwave, and was amazed to see it was after two in the morning.