Blackbird Fly (27 page)

Most of the junk was gone, old bottles, nests of
cotton that were once clothes, ancient preserves and unrecognizable
lumps of mold. The wooden kegs she’d fallen into must have once
held potatoes or carrots but animals had cleaned them out. She
kicked one and saw a huge cockroach skitter away.

The rolled-up carpet, source of whiskered varmints,
was large and heavy. Setting down the flashlight, she picked up one
end. Under it was a piece of tarp. Oil cloth, it felt like. So
maybe it wasn’t rotten. She shook it, hoping any mice would run
away, but nothing came out. Dragging one end toward the stairs, she
groaned under the dead weight. As she backed up the stairs, knees
splayed, the length of the rug swung out, knocking over bits of
broken kegs like a mermaid’s tail.

Heaving it around corners, she pulled it out into the
garden into the golden summer light and took a good look at it. The
exposed top was covered with mildew. The sides weren’t so bad, and
the oil cloth had at least partially done its job of protecting it
from creeping damp. She kicked it with her foot, unrolling it on
the gravel by the table.

An Oriental rug of reds and blues, very faded. Worn
too, with places where the backing showed through. She folded it
back in half so that the moldy top could be scrubbed, filled the
tub with cistern water and got a scrub brush from the house.

The mold was superficial, probably developing since
the hole in the roof. With elbow grease and soapy water, it
yielded. The hard work was satisfying, the way it had been when
they first arrived. She threw the rest of the water on the rug,
swished it around, rinsed it with a clean tub then called it
good.

The sun had left most of the garden. She had managed
to get herself soaking wet. Her pink polo shirt clung to her chest,
more than a little transparent, her blue running shorts dripping on
her bare feet. Putting the tub and scrub brush away, she considered
stripping off her wet clothes right here. The towel would serve as
back-up in case Pascal was still around. She unbuttoned a button
and stopped. Yves and Suzette had a good view of the garden.

As she stepped into the kitchen she heard footsteps
on the stairs. So, Pascal had almost caught her naked in the
garden. The thought made her skin crawl, or maybe she was just
cold. The house stayed at least ten degrees cooler. She paused at
the kitchen door just as a creature, a large hairy mouse, ran up
through the trap door and stopped at the bottom of the stairs,
staring at her.

The animal sat up on its haunches, the size of a
small rat. It didn’t look like any rodent she’d seen. It had a long
nose and big, round ears but was chubbier, almost Mickey Mouse-ish.
His black eyes were large and round, the fur brownish gray. But he
was a mouse, a filthy rodent, and he wasn’t running away.

Pascal peeked around the doorframe from the lower
steps. “I see you have company,” he whispered, smiling at the
thing.

The creature looked fairly tame, chewing something,
unafraid. “What should I do?” she whispered through chattering
teeth.

“
Say hello.” He crouched down on the
step.
“Bonjour, petit loir
.” The animal turned its black
eyes toward him for a minute then jumped backwards like a miniature
kangaroo.

Merle backed toward the kitchen door. “Here you go.
The big wide outdoors. All yours.” She stepped aside. “Tell it to
go outside.”

He clucked his tongue. The
loir
twitched its
long hairy tail. Pascal eased over the stair railing and dropped
softly onto the floor. “Close the trap door,” she whispered. He
tipped the door until it closed with a loud thunk. The animal took
off like a shot up the stairs, its skittering claws scratching
against the wood.

“
No! Not my bedroom!”

“
If only I hadn’t closed off the
ceiling.” Pascal’s eyes moved over her and she crossed her clammy
arms over her chest. “But the window is open. And the chimney. It
will escape.”

“
Will it come back?”

He shrugged. “The loir is a harmless little creature.
Nothing to be afraid.”

She sat on a dining chair, still shivering. “What did
you call it?”

“
A loir. You do not have them in the
United States? It is cousin to the English dormouse.”

She shook her head, feeling droplets fling off the
ends of her hair. If we had them in the U.S. she didn’t know about
it, and didn’t want to know. She really should change out of these
wet clothes. Her hands were stiff. Pascal disappeared then returned
with a towel he wrapped around her shoulders. “Forgive me. You are
the shivers.”

“
Thanks.” She pulled the towel
closer. “I think I — I — ”

“
Wait here. I get you some dry
clothes.”

“
B-but.” But he was gone, up the
stairs. To look through her drawers. And chase the
loir
out,
she hoped.

He came downstairs with underpants, a sweatshirt, and
jeans, then went outside into the garden. Stepping into the
bathroom, she peeled off her wet things, dried roughly and pulled
on the warm clothes. She dried her hair ends and rubbed her face.
He had brought her underwear, plain, white cotton ones as if that
was who he thought she was: a plain, white woman, slightly worn and
a little baggy.

Holding her wet clothes in a ball, she stepped out
outside. He was still here. Smoking a cigarette. He crushed it
under his boot, picked up the stub and put it in his pocket.
“Better?”

She threw her wet clothes over the clothesline. “Have
you got another one of those?” He dug the pack of cigarettes out
and lit her one. She smoked with jerks, hand to mouth then handed
it back to him. “That’s enough.”

He crushed it under his boot like the other. “You are
still cold? I can make
chocolat chaud.”

Inside Merle climbed the stairs to get some socks and
grabbed the blanket off her bed. In the kitchen he stirred milk in
the saucepan. She sat on Tristan’s bed in the parlor, wrapped in
the blanket. When had a man ever cooked for her, she wondered, as
he handed her a mug of hot chocolate. “Did you make one for
yourself?” He poured himself a cup from the saucepan and leaned
against the doorframe.

“
You make great cocoa. Thank you.”
And you make great conversation, for a brain-dead person
.
“How is the work going upstairs?”

“
Pas mal
. I can stay and
clean it up but tomorrow there may be more mess.”

“
As long as I can get, you know, to
my bed — my bedroom — my room.” Christ. Had her brain frozen? A
racking shiver went through her.

He looked at her over the cocoa and then at the
liquid in his mug. Merle drank, and finally got warm. He set down
his cup on the stove. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“
You don’t think the little thing,
the — ?”

“
Loir.”

“
The loir will be back?”

“
He is harmless. You will sleep all
right?”

“
Oh, sure. I guess.”

“
Everyone has a loir now and then.
It is very French.”

So she curled up, extremely French, under her covers,
cursing in French to keep away rodents, listening for scratching
noises, for claws on wood. Something on the roof woke her at three
with its scritch/scritch; by five she called it quits and got up.
She felt ridiculous and squeaky, like the silly blond in the old
gothics who needed a man to protect her. That was not her.

“
Only a fricking mouse,” she said
loudly to the dust motes on the stairs, hoping to scare ‘
le
petit loir’
if he hid somewhere. The thought of things
scampering over her in the night, and their little whiskers and
teeth. Pascal hadn’t been afraid. But he wasn’t sleeping with
rodents.

When the hardware store opened at eight o’clock she
was there to ask about grills for her chimney, to keep out birds
and small animals. The clerk showed her different sizes, all rather
pricey. She had been expecting a piece of chicken wire but these
were ornate affairs, ranging in price from twenty to sixty euros,
depending on the strength of the iron bars and the number of
curlicues.

What size was her chimney opening, they asked. She
didn’t know. At home she made an espresso and set Albert’s ladder
up against the house. The sun was rising over the hills to the
east, sending golden rays from behind a bank of deep purple clouds.
Halfway up she stopped to admire the sky. On top of the hill to the
east, framed by sunrise, the big Château looked like Cinderella’s
castle, with turrets and flags and shrubs sculpted into animal
shapes. The wine-tasting tourists had asked her about it, was it
worth the big price tag. She didn’t know a thing about it. Over
there, still in shadow, was Château Gagillac where trucks were
moving in and out around the tasting room. Loading wine? Would they
schedule another tour? She did so miss Gerard’s scowling face.

Onward, skyward. She passed her bedroom window and
kept going. Those shutters needed paint, badly. At the edge of the
roof she stopped again. Pascal’s work was twelve or so feet to the
left but she could see the new tiles, the patched spot. It looked
good, blending in with the old tiles and secure from the weather.
He hadn’t reset the gutter though. It hung, swinging loose.

She set her hand on the tile roof. The clay tiles
were slick moss, and steeper than she imagined. Walking across them
to the chimney was out of the question. Down she went, looking over
her shoulder at the winery again. Now the big barn doors of the
ageing room were wide open. A truck was backing into it. Maybe
loading barrels to take to the commune.

As she lowered her foot to the next rung the ladder
lurched to the left. A jolt of adrenaline snapped her to attention.
She had been sightseeing from her perch when she should have been
watching what she was doing. She looked down. One leg of the ladder
was sinking in the wet dirt below. Her foot slipped but she hung
on. Her heart beating in her ears, she waited for more sinking. She
was ten feet off the ground and it would be nice to take the rest
one rung at a time, thank you very much. Slowly she put a foot down
on the next rung. The ladder sunk a little more, tipping west.

Quick or slow, that was the question. She eyed crash
sites below, soft mud straight down where she’d washed the rug.
Hard rocks of the path or gravel of the patio if she went left with
the ladder. The ladder sunk a little more, tilting precariously. On
the upper end, where the ladder touched the roof, the left leg was
barely in contact with the gutter. Another inch and —

With a two-rung hop Merle pushed off the ladder,
falling to her right hip and catching herself with her right arm.
Her shin banged against the bottom rung and she cursed loudly. The
ladder fell sideways out from under her flying feet, taking down
some of the ripening pears as it fell. A loud peel as it clanged
against the top of the wall resounded off the stone buildings like
a church bell.

Blinking, her ears ringing, she sat up, covered with
mud. An inventory of the body found a gash in the shin, rising
already into a goose egg. She gingerly rotated her shoulder. It
felt all right, despite falling on it. She felt her arm, her wrist.
Sore but okay. She tried to stand. Pushing up with her right arm
was painful. Not to mention the sore leg. She looked at her wrist
again.

“
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” she
whispered angrily. This was the problem with being practical. You
wanted to do everything yourself to save a few francs and ended up
nearly killing yourself. Years ago, in the blush of home-ownership,
she’d decided to hose out the gutters, climbing all over the roof,
having a good ol’ time up in the air until Harry came home and told
her she could have broken her neck. She could hear him right now,
scolding her from beyond the grave.

“
Oh, Harry.” She sat on the patio
chair, pushing the ladder off it. “I wish I could say this is all
your fault.”

Pounding at the back gate. “Merle?”

She pulled the key out from the chain around her neck
and unlocked the gate. Moving her wrist to twist the key hurt; she
switched to her left hand. Albert wore his usual uniform, the blue
farmer’s coveralls.

“
I hear the big boom.”

Her wrist was beginning to ache. “I might have broken
something.”

He insisted she go see the doctor, leading her
through the streets to the
Cabinet du Medecin
of Doctor
Beynac. Merle played her role as careless child. An x-ray and exam
later, she was fitted with a cast made of rolled gauze and some new
material simulating the outdated plaster of yore. The doctor was
very nice, even nicer because Albert was an old friend. He also
checked out the shin gash, dabbed it and bandaged it up.

“
Be careful now, ” Dr. Beynac said,
wagging his plump finger. “You should not be doing these things. Is
your husband not able to do these?”

“
I am a widow,
docteur
.” A
stupid, careless widow.

“
That old ladder,” Albert muttered
on the walk home. “I will get a new one. That one is bad, very old,
very bad.”

Merle stood in front of her house, holding her cast
across her waist with her good hand. This could be awkward, not
having a right hand. The fingers could wiggle but they couldn’t
reach her thumb. “The ground was soft. It went — ” She mimed the
sinking ladder with her good arm. “Then I jumped off.”

“
Mon Dieu
. I am feeling
terrible. And the worst of it is, I must use that ladder to pick my
plums this week.”