by Deb Davies
“I am so sorry.” Claire pulled her arm back. “I should have been driving slower. Or been looking more carefully. Or both. There are often deer on this road. Sometimes, smushed deer.”
Claire rubbed her shoulder. The affronted deer trotted across.
“I wasn’t paying any attention either, Claire. Whew! Weren’t they beautiful, though?”
They drove back in relative silence, each engrossed in thought. Laurel was thinking: I’m glad I signed my trust. If anything happens to me, Jen can avoid probate.
Claire was counting heartbeats, breathing deep, slowing her pulse.
I don’t want to die, she realized. I thought I did, when George died. Maybe it helps to be outside. The world feels peaceful today.
But when they turned into the driveway and got out of the car, Pearl was hunched in a feral half-crouch in front of them, fur puffed out, gold eyes blazing, tufted ears back, lashing his tail. As Claire turned toward the kitchen door, the cat ran at her and slashed at her ankles. Claire sidestepped, and he pivoted in a sinuous half-circle to smack her feet again, this time drawing blood. He raised his hackles and produced a guttural yowl that made hair stand up on the back of Laurel’s neck.
“Claire! Could that be rabies? Get away from him.”
Claire backed away slowly, her eyes on the cat. “I don’t think he can have rabies,” she said. “He’s had a rabies shot.”
As she backed away, Pearl ran to her, mewing like a kitten, belly dragging on the driveway.
Claire knelt.
“Jesus! Don’t do that.” Laurel edged toward her. “He might have been poisoned.”
“I don’t care! It’s not his fault, whatever it is.” Claire swiped at blood trickling into her sandals.
Because she was kneeling, the sudden crump! from the inside of a kitchen window seemed even more loud and more startling. They looked up to see bird feet clutching the sill, and an oversized beak.
“Khraaaaaaa!” something proclaimed from inside the house.
Pearl had flipped over to again bar Claire from moving forward. His ears were again back. Frothy drool oozed from his mouth.
“I say,” a man’s voice exclaimed from the driveway behind them. “I think you have birds in your house.”
There was a rental car from the airport and Laurel’s daughter, Jennifer, looking like a taller, younger version of Laurel, accompanied by an unknown, tall, and unshaven man. Claire stood, steadying herself by putting a hand on Laurel’s arm. Both registered that his five o’clock shadow was gray. He was too old for her.
“Jen!” Laurel hugged her close. “I’ve been looking forward to you coming. Though not like this.”
Claire burst into tears. She didn’t know what was worse: that something the size of a cormorant was inside her house, that she’d nearly killed her best friend by misjudging a road turn, or that she found the stranger attractive. Uncombed graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, straight nose, square jaw, half of his raincoat collar turned up, half turned down. Until she fell in love with George, she’d liked men who looked a little rumpled.
“I think you have ravens,” her guest said. “The young ones can get themselves in trouble this time of year.”
Claire stared at him. “In trouble? Why are they in my kitchen?”
“I don’t know.” His tone was somber. “But let’s get them out, shall we? Before they get hurt.”
Charles is an ornithologist,” Jen said. “Which is lucky right now.”
“Passionate amateur,” he corrected her. He handed Claire a large linen handkerchief—crumpled but clean. “Key?” he asked.
“It’s not locked,” she said.
He looked at her appraisingly. “Any other doors open? Not locked, that is?”
“The patio door,” she said.
“Let’s go that way, then,” he said, sounding tired but determined. Pearl was sniffing his feet.
“Mom, Charles Blakely,” Jen said. “Charles, this is Laurel Walker, my mother, and her friend, Claire Monroe. Mom, Claire, I met Charles on the plane. He was upset when some seagulls hit our engines, but mostly for the gulls. I changed seats, because the woman next to him seemed angry with him. I mean, who wanted to crash? But he had a point. The gulls were dead.
“I moved seats, and we talked about planes interfering with bird migration, and we somehow got to talking about sea eagles. I’ve always wanted to see them. It turned out we’d both been to the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia, which is an incredible place, Mom. I asked him if he thought designers exploit or give credence to First Nation art, and he said, mostly exploit.”
“Jen, I love you,” Claire said, “but I don’t care if he’s Jesus Christ in a raincoat. You’re welcome here, Charles, but I want this bird, or birds, out of my house.”
“I wouldn’t be Jesus Christ,” Charles said. “If I could, I would be Bakbakwalanooksiwae, Raven God of Reincarnation of the northwest American coast.”
“You could help,” Claire said, “instead of lecture. Whatever’s in the house scares the crap out of my cat.”
“I’m a bird guy, remember? I’m not any cat’s buddy.”
Charles worked his way around the edge of the foundation, followed by Jen, Laurel, and Claire, with Pearl trailing behind. They edged, on their tiptoes, past the kitchen and past the windows of the room filled with books. Wooden blinds hung lopsided, hemorrhaging rust-colored connecting cords.
Another raucous call. Another crash like clanging cymbals.
“Ravens won’t hurt you,” Charles said. “They’re really smart birds, but I can’t think how they got in here. Have you got a chimney guard? You should. Prevents against swallow nests and the odd robin.”
Claire wanted to say, Fuck the odd robin, but didn’t have the energy. “Not sure,” she managed.
“I’ll open the doors now,” he told her. “You might want to duck, just a little. Be prepared for mess.”
He slowly opened the patio doors and pushed back one of the wooden blinds at the same time, making a throaty chirring, muttering noise.
Absolutely nothing happened. It was as though stage curtains had opened only to reveal a deserted stage.
“Stay behind me,” Charles said as he stepped through the door. “However your birds got in here, they didn’t want to stay in here once they’d—once they’d—”
He stopped, and rubbed his forehead.
“Why,” he asked, “would you leave food about like this? You might as well have left a garbage dump. Your whole house reeks of salmon. You’re lucky you didn’t get a bear.” He had stepped into the room now, letting the others crowd in behind him, and looked at Claire, who had clearly disappointed him. Pearl shot them all a reproving glance and retired under a chair.
The bathmat-sized slab of salmon, reduced to shreds, was draped over the back of the couch like a Salvador Dalí afghan.
“What is that on the rug?” Jen asked.
“Black salmon skin,” Laurel answered. “The gooshy part.” She walked carefully through the room. Bird droppings sluiced down bookcases. Some of the whitish, greenish, yellowish deposits looked lumpy and solid, but other places seemed power washed with paint-thin guano.
“This is too bad,” Charles said. “Raven excrement gets more watery when they’re stressed. Your bird or birds gorged on salmon and then couldn’t get out.”
“You stupid man,” Claire said. “Do you think I left salmon spread across my couch? Wanted to match a color for new drapes, maybe?”
“Aunt Claire,” Jen said. “Why are you shouting at Charles? He’s helping.”
Laurel, with Charles and Jen following her, headed toward the kitchen. Claire picked her way toward the bedroom Laurel had slept in, wanting to splash her face with cold water, which had been her mother’s all-purpose remedy. She heard Pearl give a small growling sound.
“Be right back, Pearl,” she said as she kicked off the sandals. In the stillness that followed, she heard scrabbling, followed by frantic wing-fla
pping. It was coming from the bathroom. She flexed her toes and stood stock-still.
She knew that wildlife could and did invade bathrooms. When she was ten, she’d heard her mother screaming upstairs and the sound of a toilet seat lid being slammed hard, the way no one was supposed to slam it. Her father had come, wearing plumber’s gloves, and scooped a wet squirrel from the toilet. It promptly bit through his gloves, and he dropped it. Then it raced through the house and up an upright piano, only to shatter a glass window shelf displaying antique cups. By then, Claire had managed to open the back door, and the squirrel sped out, looking damp and traumatized. If squirrels communicated, she’d wondered, what had he told his family about his evening at their house?
Her father explained it had doubtless fallen into the vent pipe that lets a toilet flush. He resisted Claire’s mother’s insistence that he see a doctor about the squirrel bite and then went off to smoke his pipe. Her mother had gone off to have a midday glass of sherry and later explained to her friends, “I thought it was a rat!” Claire, at that age, had hoped to catch the squirrel, dry it off, and cage it, eventually taming it and teaching it to do tricks. She remembered thinking that there must be other parents who wouldn’t make such a fuss about the outdoors coming indoors.
And yet, she was now the age her parents had been then.
“Charles,” she said, her voice calm as she backed away.
She heard nothing.
“Charles!” she repeated. “Charles, Charles, Charles, Charles, Charles!”
He appeared behind her, which blocked her exit from the bedroom.
“What are you fussing about?” he asked.
“Something,” she said. “In the bathtub.”
They edged around one another. She had a hard time getting her feet to move. He proceeded into the room so she could no longer see his face. He must’ve been approaching the tub.
“Oh good,” she heard Charles say. “Nice, soft towels.”
There were whole minutes of silence. Mom, she thought. If you’re up there and can hear me, I apologize for calling you a coward.
The scrabbling resumed.
“There, there,” Charles said.
A muffled, protesting toc-toc-toc broke off into high-pitched clack-screech protests.
“Come on,” Charles said, his voice proud and avuncular. “You did all that by yourself? You’re very strong. No, bite the towel. Of course I wouldn’t hurt you.”
A soft prruk-prruk-prruk came from the bathroom. The bird—she guessed—must’ve been tired.
“Come on,” Charles said. “Let’s find you a nice, safe, dark place to hide. How about the floor of this closet? I’ll add more towels. How’s that?” He turned to Claire. “I can’t think how this injured bird got up to a kitchen window. Maybe it fluttered up to a trash basket, for a halfway point? I need to fix this wing. I need brandy, or cognac, an eye dropper, Q-tips, and Elmer’s glue. And later on, get me some sticks.”
Claire, Laurel, Jen, and Charles sat on the patio eating slices of cheddar cheese and apple. Claire was tippling scotch from a pink plastic cup. Pearl, who had recovered enough to hunt scattered salmon bits, now sat scrunched near their feet.
“How long?” Laurel asked again.
“God, Laurel, give it up. How would I know? All the desk sergeant would say was, ‘Don’t go back in the house. We’ll get someone there when we can.’” Claire spit crumbles of cheddar from her mouth into the palm of her hand.
“Ugh. If you’re giving that to Pearl and breaking off more cheese, wipe your hand on a napkin, would you? His whiskers smell like salmon.”
“You’re grumpier than I am. And my whole house smells like salmon.”
“There’s guano in my tub. Well, your tub,” Laurel muttered.
“I’ll clean it up for you when we go back in the house,” Jen said. Her dark hair hung limp over one eye. She had been drafted to help Charles with his projects. “‘Move that Q-tip four degrees. Don’t smear the glue!’” she quoted him.
“I can’t believe we couldn’t get him out of my house,” Claire said. “Raven—look it up. I bet it’s the root of ‘ravening.’ There are stories that say ravens are ghosts or murdered souls! And yet, your Charles is not spooked or even swayed from his purpose by police advice! How did he know there wasn’t a crazed killer with a cake knife upstairs? Or another penguin.”
“Raven,” Jen corrected.
“At least,” Claire said, “Charles said George had first-rate cognac.”
“I don’t think he drank any. Well, maybe a swig,” Jen said. “He put some in the eye dropper with a little water, and Oscar—”
“Oscar?”
“That’s what he’s calling the raven. Be glad he isn’t calling it George.”
“Jesus, Jen!” Laurel said.
“Oscar went limp, and then we glued the Q-tips on one of the ‘fingers’ of his hurt wing. Charles said Oscar most likely got clipped by a car when he and some buddies were munching roadkill.”
“So we still don’t know why Oscar was in my house,” Claire said.
“That’s true,” Jen said. “We don’t.”
Pearl jumped on Claire’s lap.
“Salmon breath,” Claire said.
“Pearl was helping you,” Laurel admitted. “That’s why he clawed your ankles. He was keeping you away from the house.”
“Tonight,” Claire said, “we should cuddle him and lick his ears. He likes that.”
“He would! He’s male,” Laurel responded.
“Female cats like it too. It reminds them of their mothers.”
Laurel raised her eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.
Charles had constructed a nest in the back seat of the rental car, though he would have preferred the Bentley. The mass of sticks and twigs, lined with fur from an old pair of George’s gloves, had been set into a bigger, wooden box that had once held a croquet set. He ambled back from checking on Oscar.
“Still groggy,” he reported with satisfaction. “He should settle in as the sun goes down and be out for the night.”
The sun had disappeared behind the tree line and a bank of purple clouds before a lone police cruiser pulled slowly into the drive. Jen and Charles had retreated into quiet conversation. Laurel dozed in her chair. Claire’s head was cradled in her arms, her face hidden, Pearl sitting in her lap with a look that said, “I told you so.”
She straightened up when the cruiser parked beside the Bentley. A burly, gray-haired man and a short woman with carrot red hair hooked behind her ears walked toward them. Both looked comfortable in their uniforms despite the heat. Claire was familiar with the man’s gait. She felt momentary guilt. She hadn’t done anything to provoke the slight crush Arnie had on her. A crush—could a word be more adolescent? Was there a dignified word for attraction between adults?
She shooed Pearl out of her lap and walked forward to greet him, aiming for her everyday tone.
“Arnie? I thought you would have been home by now, watching a movie and eating take-out Chinese.”
“Hi, Claire. I had to come figure out what got you out of the house.”
Laurel stretched and groaned, her back protesting. The groan, actually, was pure irritation. She’d wanted to welcome Jen and apologize that her daughter’s reception had turned into a complete cock-up, but Jen had brought Charles and seemed more interested in him than in her, or in Claire’s trashed house. Now they had to deal with Mutt and Jeff.
“We’re like that Hitchcock movie,” Claire said. “Fewer birds. More bird shit.”
“I think someone put a bird in the house. Charles says Claire has a chimney guard,” Jen volunteered.
“You are?” Arnie asked.
“This is Laurel Walker and her daughter Jen. Laurel and I have been friends since we were ratty little kids. She came yesterday, and Jen joined her today, both hoping to stay and help me sort through some of George’s things.”
“Detective Robideu,” Arnie’s partner offered before Claire could introduce
him using his first name.
“Detective Robideu.” Claire nodded, acknowledging his formal title. “This is Jen’s friend, Charles. She met him on her plane from San Diego.”
“Last name?” Robideu asked.
“Blakely,” Charles told him. “I have a place—a cabin—southeast of here, outside Luzerne. Jen and I were seated together on the plane, and she offered to share a rental car and get me the rest of the way home, if I’d stop by here first.”
“Identification.” Arnie was civil.
Charles pulled a cloth wallet that looked as though it had been through a trash compactor out of a rear pocket and opened it, producing a driver’s license.
“Looks OK for now. This,” Arnie said, nodding toward his female companion, “is Detective Elaine Santana, who’ll be helping me with your salmon infestation.”
Laurel’s jaw clenched. “Excuse me, sir. Do you think, because you and Claire know one another, that you can joke? Why haven’t you checked to make sure there’s no one in her house?”
Arnie took off his hat and scratched his head.
“No, ma’am. What happened here, at Claire’s house, is not funny at all. I joked because I’m relieved. We’ve got some gang going about in this area trashing houses—not taking anything, just messing things up. We think it’s kids who don’t have enough parental supervision. Sooner or later, they’re going to have a fatal run-in with someone—a homeowner, police, or a neighborhood vigilante—which is not what we want for anyone.”
“Why didn’t I know about this?” Claire asked.
“Watch the news much?” Santana asked.
“Not really.” Claire answered. “Damn, Arnie, this ‘detective’ thing is distracting.”
Robideu said something inaudible under his breath, directed at Santana. The two looked at each other. Elaine shrugged.
