Harvest of Bones

by Nancy Means Wright

  The vet, a woman, examined the hawk critically. It was a female, she said, explaining that the female hawk was actually larger than the male, its tail feathers redder. They’d have to do tests. “But my assumption is that it’s been poisoned. The way the eyes look, you know. It’s a healthy bird—good flesh—I can see that. It must’ve gotten into something bad.” She peered over her glasses at Vic’s mother, as if she was responsible, but Vic spoke up. “Mom doesn’t use pesticides. Not anymore. Dad did, but when he left . . . well, Mom doesn’t now.”

  He was proud of that.

  The vet just shrugged. She knew farmers, the shrug said: how they got around the law, tried poisons for this and that— lice, horn flies on their cows. . . . “We’ll try atropine,” she told his mother. “It’s an antidote for organophosphate poisoning. That is, if my assumption’s correct. We’ll try,” she repeated, her expression softening when she looked at Vic’s face, though he tried to hold it expressionless, immobile. “And I’ll call you, Vic. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try.”

  He let his mother lead him back through the maze of rooms to the outer door. A dog whined in a crate; a cat hissed on its owner’s lap. “If somebody’s using poison,” his mother said, “I don’t like it at all. Not with my animals out there in the field.”

  Vic nodded. He thought he might like to be a vet some-day. A small-animal vet, not a big-animal vet. Not cows.

  Chapter Four

  The greyhound Fay had ordered arrived at six in the morning. “Come in,” yelled Fay, and stumbled into the kitchen, a blanket pulled around her—Fay slept in the nude—just as the old white cat Glenna Flint had brought with her was digging its claws into the greyhound’s rear end. The dog had come from New Hampshire, where they still allowed greyhound racing— a disgrace, Fay felt, agreeing with the woman from Greyhound Rescue.

  “Call off your cat,” the woman said. “This animal tolerates cats. Some don’t, you know. They train these dogs with mechanical lures—mice, rabbits, cats. But this poor fellow, we got him away, young. But look at the ears, all bitten away. The scars. Three toes where there should be four. They chopped it off at the track. Abuse!”

  Fay looked doubtfully at the tall sleek animal. It was panting, and she could see its yellow teeth—would she have to brush them?

  “What does it eat?” she asked, running her tongue over her upper lip.

  “I feed mine Eagle Premium Select,” the woman said. “Maybe a little boiled chicken or hamburg mixed in. They have tender stomachs, these dogs—all that crap food they got fed at the tracks. Look,” she said, baring the animal’s teeth. Fay stepped back. The white cat hissed and lurched menacingly toward the dog. It cowered.

  “The cat isn’t mine,” Fay assured her. “It belongs to a guest.”

  “Who’s a guest?” growled Glenna, bumping her way down the stairs in a pink flannel nightgown and huge fuzzy pink slippers. “Get that beast out of here. He’ll kill my Puffy! Puffy,” she cried, snatching up the bristly white cat while the greyhound stood warily by the door.

  “In Spain,” the woman said, “they hang these dogs when they’re through racing. Hang them! You’re saving a soul.”

  “That has a soul?” said Glenna, pointing at the cowering dog, but Fay saw the half smile. Glenna, she suspected, was more bark than bite.

  Fay leaned down to pat the dog. It gazed up at her gratefully, its eyes a rich liquidy brown. It was all curves and angles, sleek gray fur. Already, Fay loved it. Already, too, her heart was racing—the presence of the old lady and her great-niece was causing tension. Her mother had keeled over at sixty-nine, and age was creeping up on Fay. Turning her into Old Mother Hubbard. Fay just wanted to live in peace with a dog. She thanked the woman and ushered her out the door. Two more greyhounds were gazing sadly out the window of a black van. LIVE FREE OR DIE the license plate read. “Enjoy,” the woman called back, as if she’d just served up a meal.

  “Oh, adorable,” said Hartley Flint, running downstairs in jeans and an orange sweatshirt. She threw her arms around the dog’s neck. “What does he eat?” She stuck her head in the old General Electric, hauled out orange juice, Phony Boloney, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!

  “I’m supposed to make the breakfast,” Fay said. “I forgot to ask you what time.”

  “I’m always up by six,” said Hartley.

  “Well, I’m not,” said Glenna, and, grabbing up her cat, she stomped back upstairs to dress. She turned at the top and yelled down, “You’ll have to keep that animal outdoors, then. I won’t have my cat eaten alive.”

  Upstairs, there was a crash. “It’s Aunty,” Hartley said. “You need new springs on that bed.” She crushed two pieces of whole-wheat bread into the dented toaster. “You can use a new toaster, too. This thing squeals when you push it down.”

  Fay sighed. “The place needs a new everything.” She’d have to go out and get some kind of real job. She accepted the glass of orange juice Hartley gave her. The greyhound was panting in its corner. “It wants water,” Hartley said, and poured some in a cracked saucer. The dog lapped it up in a gulp and stuck out its tongue for more. “Got any hamburger?”

  “Not yet,” said Fay, sighing.

  “Speaking of Aunty,” said Hartley, “I can’t sleep in the same room with her. She has these nightmares. I didn’t sleep one single minute last night. Though I couldn’t make out a word she said. What about that other room upstairs?”

  “It’s not ready. I’ve ordered the paint, but I still have to buy curtains—I haven’t had the money.”

  “Oh, Daddy will buy them.” Hartley waved her credit card. “Just put it on this. It’s his house, really. I mean, he has power of attorney. He makes out all Aunty’s checks since she hurt her arm.”

  “Oh?” Maybe the aunt’s arrival wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Fay had been too modest in her requests, afraid to ask for much. Now she had a buffer. “You can sleep in the room anyway,” she told the girl. “There’s a bed. The window’s broken, but spring is coming.”

  “Yeah,” said Hartley, looking out at the light snowflakes. They were flying this way and that, as if they couldn’t decide which direction to snow in. Fay was identifying with everything these days. She squatted down beside the dog to give it a welcoming hug. “I think I’ll sleep in that trailer out there,” Hartley said. “It’s kind of cute. I could fix it up.”

  “No, you won’t.” A voice boomed down the pipes. “Nobody uses that trailer. Nobody sleeps there.”

  “Why not?” the girl yelled up. “You got your old man buried there or something?”

  The pipes were silent, except for the rattling of the gas furnace down in the basement. The furnace was a backup for the woodstove, which was always going out. Fay hadn’t counted on having to cut wood, either. She’d done enough of that in her old life. Her ex-husband, Dan, was in love with his woodstove.

  “There are rats, that’s why,” Aunty hollered down. “Your stepmother would wet her pants if she knew her little girl was sleeping with rats.”

  “You got to get a new toaster,” Hartley complained, ignoring the comment about the rats. She slapped a dollop of butter on her burned toast.

  “We’ll go in this afternoon, with your credit card,” said Fay. “How long you say your parents are gone for?”

  “Six days. Well, they left yesterday. Five days still. Then I’ll have to go back. You have a telephone here? Matilda— she’s my stepmother—will want to know what’s going on. I can call back from here. She won’t trace the call, will she?”

  “I don’t know your stepmother.”

  “She’d call if she was suspicious. We’ll have to make sure she’s not, right?”

  “I rather think so.” Fay watched the girl lather on the butter. Her butter. At this rate, she’d have to shop every day. The dog was sitting up, staring at the water dish. It wasn’t water he wanted—that was obvious. She wondered if they could put dog food on the credit card.

  In the pantry now, Hartley g
ave a cry of triumph, came out with a can of ham spread, and dumped it in the dish. In one lick, it was gone. Fay watched in shock. She dropped the dirty plates and cups in hot water. Of course there was no dishwasher. She’d have to wash the eggy plates by hand. What had made her think she wanted to run a B and B? If anybody came today for a room, where would she put them? In the bathtub?

  “I’ll take doggy here out for a run,” Hartley said. “That okay with you? Can I name him?” Without waiting for a reply, she said, “How about Gandalf? That’s a guy out of The Hobbit—Tolkien. Have you read it? I’ve practically memorized it. Now I’m starting on The Lord of the Rings.”

  “No,” said Fay, then added, “Whatever.” She was thinking now she might send the dog back with Hartley and Glenna when they went. She might not be able to afford to feed it.

  “I’ll have to go back,” said Hartley, turning at the door, as if she’d read Fay’s mind. “Though Aunty here thinks she’s staying for good.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Fay. She had to take a stand against intruders.

  “We’ll see,” said the girl, and whistled for the dog. It sprang up, knocking over a chair, and dashed out after her. The pair disappeared into the drive and down the dirt road.

  Fay had just settled back for a quiet cup of coffee when the phone rang. A cheerful voice from the Branbury Chamber of Commerce informed her that a man wanted a room for that night. “He has business in the area. He might stay awhile. Isn’t that good luck? He especially asked for a B and B in your area, seemed happy that it was your farm. Shall I say yes?”

  “Tonight,” Fay repeated, feeling her fingers jump on the receiver. “Uh huh.What time?”

  The person on the other end of the line repeated Fay’s question to another party, then replied, “After dinner, eight-ish.... Ma’am, are you there?”

  “I think so,” said Fay, and hung up.

  “Jesus,” she said aloud to the sink. She left the dishes soaking and went to throw on some clothes.

  Once she was dressed, she went back to the kitchen and pulled a gallon of white paint out of a bag. She’d have to get painting right off. Then she remembered she hadn’t milked the cow yet, and Dandelion would be ramming her head against the barn wall. She pulled on her boots, picked up her heavy purple sweater, and ran out.

  Fay got waylaid up by the hired man’s trailer. Hartley was yanking on the door knob. “I’ll sleep here. I want to,” she hollered.

  The door came open and the girl nearly fell inside. “It’s cute in here! I don’t see a single rat.”

  As she spoke, a mouse raced out the door and around the side of the barn; it disappeared underneath. The dog raced after it, then began digging. “Quit that,” Fay ordered, but the dog went on digging for the mouse. Fay gave up and followed Hartley inside the trailer.

  It was trailer size, though not exactly a trailer: a tiny room had been built on—actually, two rooms cut out of one, and a Lilliputian bath. One could take a shower and pee all at the same time. The living room was painted canary yellow over old striped wallpaper that glared through where the paint was thinnest. There was a couch with the bottom fallen out and a plush velvet overstuffed chair that the mice had obviously chosen as home. When Hartley stood in the bedroom doorway, a bed fell out of the wall.

  “Neat,” the girl said, and dropped onto it.

  “If not rats, mice,” said Fay, looking at the droppings. “But okay, if you want to sleep here, fine, but you can’t clean it today. I’ve a guest coming at eight tonight and a room to paint and curtains to buy, so I’ll need you and your credit card. Oh, and how’d you like to milk a cow?”

  “I’d rather paint.”

  “Then get to it. Paint’s in the kitchen. I’ll bring up a second brush when I’m done with Dandelion.”

  Outside, Fay yanked the dog away from his digging and clipped on his leash. It was a warmish day; a few red leaves still clung to the trees. But the place could fall in any minute; there could be a sinkhole, she thought. Out in California, she’d read, a whole house fell in while the family looked on in shock. A small girl watched her bed and teddy bear sink slowly into the muck. That image had stuck in Fay’s head. It made her think of her sweet young grandson....

  Well, I have to quit this guilt trip, Fay told herself. “C’mon, Gandalf, I’ll give you a squirt of milk.” And she headed into the barn, the greyhound panting behind.

  ****

  Jeezum. Vic Willmarth had found another downed bird—this time, a crow. It was in the pasture his mother rented out for sheep. Vic had a schoolmate whose mother owned the sheep, and when he saw them out in the field, he’d gone over to ask about the homework assignment—he had been in the bathroom when the teacher gave it out. Garth was in a bad mood because his mother had put him to work. “I hate sheep, I hate sheep,” the boy chanted while his mother shushed him from the far end of the field, and told him to “Go wait in the car, Garth.”

  But Garth Unsworth didn’t. He wanted to see what Vic had found. “Ooh, re-vol-ting,” he said, reaching out a finger to touch the purply-black feathers. The crow gave a violent twitch, and then its head flopped over. The filmy eyes stared.

  “Leave it,” Garth said. “No loss. They’re filthy birds. They eat dead things. Caw-caw,” he cried, flapping imaginary wings and pretending to peck at Vic’s ear.

  Vic explained how crows were actually useful; his dad had taught him that. “They’re part of a chain,” he told Garth. “They clean things up. So only the bones are left. They pick the lice off our cows—you watch sometime—you watch. The cows like it; they lift their tails so the crows can perch.”

  “Re-vol-ting,” said Garth, who had been brought up in a city. He kicked the dead bird and raced, cawing, back to his mother’s car. Vic watched him go, then wrapped the dead crow carefully in his jacket and carried it back to his house. They were intelligent birds, they were! His dad had said so. His dad had had a pet crow when he was a little boy. It kept saying cu-koo, as if it wanted to talk to his father. He’d remember to tell his dad about this when he called on Saturday. Sometimes he was mad at his dad for leaving, didn’t feel like talking. But this time he would.

  It could be that poison again. The stuff that had poisoned the red-tailed hawk. Though the hawk was still alive—it had to be! The vet had said she’d keep in touch. Yes, she should probably know about the crow. He’d call her when he got home. Maybe she’d let him come visit.

  Poison, he thought. Jeezum. Who would do that to birds?

  * * * *

  By five o’clock, the room was ready, though smelling of fresh paint. Fay made a sign—DO NOT LEAN ON WALLS OR WINDOW!—and then propped it up on the guest’s pillow. If he wanted this place, he’d have to take what it offered: cluster flies (Hartley had painted over several right on the wall) and primitive sleeping arrangements. The new ruffled curtains and rose-flowered quilt looked out of place, like thin paint over ugly wallpaper. There were fresh blue-striped sheets on the bed, though, and a pine rack at the foot for a suitcase. She wondered if the chamber of commerce had told the man that this wasn’t a working farm, but then she swallowed the worry. He could take it or lump it. Lump it is right, she thought, looking at the mattress. Well, she was the only B and B in this part of town. That, at least, was an advantage.

  “Mother would throw up if she saw those ruffles,” Glenna said, squinting into the room, her mouth in an upside-down U. “This was her room.” Glenna followed Fay down the creaky stairs. She shuffled in her huge pink slippers over to the pantry and banged around among the few cans and bottles there. “I know I had scotch,” she said. “She won’t allow it down in New York; it’s got to be here somewhere. You been sipping?” she accused, squinting out the pantry door.

  “I don’t drink scotch,” said Fay. “But have some wine, if you want. It’s homemade. By my ex.”

  “I never had an ex,” Glenna said thoughtfully. “Never needed one.”

  Hartley came flinging in with the greyhound on her heels, and P
uffy leapt up on the kitchen table, fur rising like quills. The wine bottle clunked over on its side.

  “They’re going to have to learn to be friends.” Hartley picked up the furious cat and brought it close to the dog. Gandalf quivered while the cat hissed and jabbed its claws at him. Glenna laughed. “That dog knows who’s boss around here.”

  “Yes, he does,” said Fay bravely, “and the boss has a guest arriving any minute. And she’d be very grateful if you would go sit in the living room. No one treads on anyone else’s toes around here. Remember that.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said Glenna, and shuffled with dignity into the front room.

  Outside, a taxi was already pulling up. A tall, lanky man in a dark brown suit got out, hauling a suitcase that could hold a month’s clothing. He stared dubiously at a dog mess, stepped carefully around it and up onto the shaky porch, looked a moment at the disappearing taxi as though he might want to drive back to town, and then, with a quick intake of breath, knocked.

  Fay met him in the doorway, her most ingratiating self. “We do have two other guests,” she said with a casual laugh, “but they’ll be leaving shortly, and we’ll move you into another room. I mean, I have a room for you now, of course.” And laughing again (it came out like a step creaking), she took his suitcase.

  “Come on,” he said, hefting it, and shook her hand with his free one. He appeared to be in his early sixties and was intimidatingly good-looking: thinning dark hair, gray around the temples; eyebrows still thick and dark; a straight Grecian nose. Nice and lean. And hungry? Fay hoped not.

  “Kevin Crowningshield,” he said, catching up her hand. For a moment, she thought he might kiss it and her heart quickened. “Any room’s fine. I’m just in town for a bit of business; I won’t be in the room much.”

  She couldn’t imagine what business would bring him to this rural town, but she wasn’t going to pry. She just wanted to keep him here while he did it.

  When they got inside, the kitchen was empty, the table cleaned up except for a bottle of homemade wine. She saw him look wistfully at it. Was wine a part of the B and B deal? But already he’d dropped the suitcase, was sinking into a chair. “Tell me about this place,” he said, “this farm. I like to know about where I’m staying. I like farms. The fresh air . ..” He stopped, coughed, smiled. He was quite charming. Yes, Fay liked men; she just didn’t always want to live with them.