Consider the Crows (2 page)

“She looks like she could put away a lot of food.”

“Oh yeah, eating is one of her best things. Keeps me broke.”

“I can believe it,” Susan said. “If you're looking for a job maybe I can help. Ask a few people if they need anyone.”

“Oh thanks, but I don't need a job. Well, I need one, but I've already got one. At the college? I'm a clerk-typist.”

“Where did you live before you came here?”

“Boulder. You know? Colorado. I liked it there too, but here is better. This is kind of like home.”

“You're renting it?”

Lynnelle nodded and looked around at the barren room with delight. “It's all mine, the whole place. Just for me and Lexi.”

“It's kind of isolated out here, isn't it?”

“Yep. Abandoned. Lonely. I figured I fit right in.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it didn't come off. Under the perky manner was a raw edge of pain that Susan responded to. Her own sense of isolation, abandonment and loneliness, always just under the surface, made her want to reach out to this kid. “You don't get nervous living by yourself?”

“Nope.”

“What made you choose Hampstead?” Susan could almost feel Lynnelle close in as she looked away, traced a circle on the dog's head with one finger.

“Oh, you know. Reasons. And it's so pretty here. The hills and the trees and all the white houses.”

Something not quite right here, Susan thought, something she wasn't picking up. Letting her emotions clog her perceptions. “What reasons?”

Lynnelle shrugged. “Just reasons.”

“Do your parents know you're here?”

A mixture of expressions that Susan couldn't read—anticipation, apprehension, determination—flashed across Lynnelle's face. “My mother. She'll know.”

The little niggle of worry gave another nudge, and got pushed aside as Susan noted the time. She was already late for the meeting. Reaching for her bag, she got to her feet. “I guess I'd best be going. I'm glad to meet you. If you need anything, give me a call.”

“Hey, thanks. It's nice to meet you too.” Lynnelle uncoiled herself in one smooth movement and opened the door to let Susan out, then stood watching as Susan climbed into the pickup.

There was a forlorn quality about the slender figure in the half-open doorway, a look that comes when you're lonely and you watch somebody, anybody, walk away.

Susan started to go back; ask a few more questions, stay with the kid a little longer, dig out what reasons brought her here. Glancing at her watch again, she started the pickup. The college bunch were probably painting placards and organizing their demonstration.

The sky was blacker, but the rain held off.

“Are they still here?” she asked Hazel when she got back to the department.

“In the interrogation room.”

“Getting ready to riot?”

Hazel smiled, exposing one slightly crooked front tooth. “I don't know about that, but there's been a lot of giggling going on.”

Susan could hear the chatter as she came down the hallway; it abruptly ceased when she reached the open door. Four bright young female faces gazed at her innocently, then darted quick glances at each other. They sat two on each side of a long wooden table.

“I apologize for being late.” Susan pulled up a brown plastic chair and joined them.

“We were just getting ready to leave,” Renée said with reproach. She was a sturdy young woman with a mane of red hair and cinnamon freckles.

Next to her sat Robin, thin, intense, ash-blond hair plaited into one long pigtail. Across the table was Roz, orange earrings dangling, her dark hair cropped short up the back and even all around, creating a bowl effect.

Susan thought of them as the three R's. The fourth student was Julie Kalazar, the vice-chancellor's daughter. Straight brown hair, shoulder-length and parted in the middle, framed the sharp planes of her face. All four wore jeans and the blue Emerson sweatshirt with the glittery-gold snarling wildcat.

“I spoke with the fair committee,” Susan began, working out the sentence as she went along, “and their decision is—”

“No,” Renée finished with a so-what-else-is-new flourish.

“They do have a point,” Susan said. Although not a good one. “This is a crafts fair and the purpose is to raise money. They feel that passing out free information on AIDS isn't a big money-maker.”

Robin snorted. “They just want to pretend only freaks and druggies get it.”

“It is the committee's decision. And they are entitled to make it. I am sorry—” Susan was trying to think how to phrase, And don't try any kind of commotion, disturbance, demonstration, or destruction or you'll all be arrested for civil disobedience, disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, littering and anything else I can think of.

“It's okay.” Julie tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

“We got a better idea,” Roz said.

The three R's all grinned.

Julie frowned at them, then said to Susan, “If we sell something, can we give out the AIDS information to anyone who wants it?”

Feeling as though she were being set up for something, Susan said slowly, “I would think that would be acceptable. What would you sell?”

“Jewelry,” Julie said.

The three R's carefully refrained from looking at each other.

“Okay,” Susan said slowly. “Submit another application, and if it's turned down, let me know. You're aware the jewelry has to be something you've made?”

“Yes,” Julie said. The three R's nodded.

“Well then, there shouldn't be any problem. That sounds fine.”

All four of them gathered up their down jackets and their backpacks and scooted out like freedom fighters hearing the call. Why didn't it feel fine?

She trudged off to run Lynnelle's name through records and see if anything turned up. Nothing did.

The house was cold when she got home, and empty. Empty, she couldn't do anything about, but she kicked up the heat to take care of the cold and spread out the budget on the desk in the small office off the living room. The plan was to work on it a couple hours, then knock off for dinner, but the image of Lynnelle standing alone by the bright red door kept getting in the way. Susan lit a cigarette, propped her head in one hand and bent her mind around figures. A
pit pit pat
on the window made her look up. The rain had started.

2

R
AIN PATTERED SOFTLY
at the kitchen window and Carena Egersund, at the round oak table, looked up from the calculus exams and watched wavery streaks trickle down through her reflection. She'd planned to get the exams finished up this evening: so far she'd managed a lot of coffee drinking and no exam grading. Her mind, with equal parts irritation and uneasiness kept jumping back over the ugly scene with the vice-chancellor. Dr. Kalazar had been furious with her, furious and threatening.
Confine your interests to statistics and probability theory or you won't teach at Emerson next year.

So much for your new life, lady. She raised her cup in a toast and took a sip. Uck. Cold. She thought of her ex-husband and wondered how his new life was going. Well, Jerry, all you dreamed it would be? She raised the cup again. May the blue bird of happiness—or as my father would say,
der blau vogel von gluck
—fly up your nose.

The doorbell rang and coffee sloshed over the exams. She glanced at the clock radio. Eight o'clock on Saturday night? Tossing down the pen, she stood, tugged the gray sweatshirt down over the sweatpants and flopped toward the door in her fuzzy slippers. On the way past, she switched on the lamps at either end of the couch, then the porch light.

It shone down on a damp waif with a floppy hat, faded jeans and blue down jacket. “Hi, Dr. Egersund,” she said with a smile so careful it was almost painful. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She seemed familiar, but Carena couldn't place her. A student? Not one of mine, Carena thought as she unlatched the storm door and invited her in. Probably selling tickets for something or other, tickets were always being sold for something or other; or wanting to know if a math course would be available for next term. Students couldn't seem to grasp that monumental decisions could wait until office hours.

“What can I do for you?” She relieved the young lady of the jacket and draped it over a dining room chair.

The down jacket had given the girl an illusion of bulk. Without it, she looked about fourteen, small and thin. Snatching off her hat, she shook out her blond curls and her green eyes stared gravely at Carena with unnerving steadiness. She opened her mouth to speak, seemed unable to come up with anything and cleared her throat instead.

Carena was curious. Students, in general, weren't this nervous when confronting a professor, even if they were arguing about a grade they knew they deserved. If she was reduced to thinking about her ex-husband, Carena figured she ought to welcome any distraction. “Maybe we could start with something simple, like your name.”

A quick spark of humor glinted in the green eyes. “It's Lynnelle. Lynnelle Hames.”

The name meant nothing to Carena, but Lynnelle waited as though it should. When the silence stretched to awkwardness, Carena offered coffee. Lynnelle accepted with a grateful nod, and let her eyes drift over the furnishings; the rose and white brocade chair and matching couch, the painting of autumn trees on the wall above, cherrywood bowl on the coffee table, pale rose rug, the wooden rocker. She smiled as if she'd satisfied something for herself.

In the kitchen, Carena dumped her cold coffee, refilled the cup and poured a second one. She looked through the cabinet, hoping to find a cookie or two—ever the mother, milk and cookies—but was out of luck, then ferried both cups back to the living room.

Lynnelle was planted in the chair by the fireplace, her chin firmly high; a young lady with her mind made up; whatever the cost, she was determined to get on with it.

Carena handed her a cup and sat on the couch opposite. “Are you enrolled at Emerson?”

“No.” Lips pursed, she sipped tentatively. “I work in the English department. Clerk-typist.”

Ah. Probably why she looked familiar. “You wanted to see me about something?”

Lynnelle set the cup down, scooted forward in the chair and fixed her gaze on Carena's face. “You don't know me, but I've thought about you a lot.” The words came out as though they'd been rehearsed, then all of a sudden she seemed to forget what came next. Her glance slid away and landed on the mantle. With a soft smile, she stood to look at the small ceramic ghost crying over a broken pumpkin, a Mother's Day gift from Michael when he was little. Lynnelle held it in the palm of her hand and looked at it from all sides. “Boy, I hope this isn't an omen. Your great important moment in life and you break the pumpkin.”

Carena started to feel uneasy. Her mother always said this habit of picking up strays could one day be dangerous. There was something a little looney-tunes about this young lady.

Lynnelle put the ghost back and peered at the framed picture of Michael in cap and gown for high-school graduation. “Picture of your son.”

“Do you know Michael?”

“I know a lot of things.” Picking up the snapshot tucked in the frame, she studied it closely; a snapshot of a much younger Carena and a baby Michael.

Carena was beginning to think maybe she'd better hustle this girl right on out. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No.” Lynnelle started to say something and once again seemed to lose her place.

“Why are you here?”

Lynnelle turned, squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I thought you might like to meet your daughter.”

Oh my oh my oh my oh my oh my. Take a breath. Well then, she knew how old this young lady was. Twenty-one. “Oh, Lynnelle. No. Child.”

Lynnelle stiffened, her face went blank as though she'd been slapped. “Your very own baby. You gave away like some—puppy you didn't want. And never wanted it to turn up again. Well, guess what.”

“Lynnelle, no—”

“You ever think about me? Wonder how I was? What I looked like? What the people were like you gave me to? He died, you know, my father, who I thought was my father. He fell. He was a builder. Scaffolding. Some kind of scaffolding and he fell. And she married again, my— my— I was fifteen. He'll be a father for you.” Her voice took on a singsong quality. “He'll love you and you'll love him too. You'll see. We'll be a family again.” Abruptly, she turned and stared down at the cold ashes in the grate, back rigid, fists clenched.

“Lynnelle—”

She spun fiercely, like a small animal at bay. “I know about the fight with Dr. Kalazar. She wants to fire you. Maybe she'd like to know. How you had a baby and you weren't married and you gave it away. I could tell her, you know. I—” Tears glistened in her eyes. Angrily, she rubbed at them with the back of a hand and darted toward the door.

“Wait.” Before Carena could get her mind working and her muscles lined up to respond, Lynnelle had flung open the door and nipped out. Carena went after her, but by the time she got to the street the VW was already speeding away. The taillights sparkled in the light rain as they disappeared around the corner. She felt Lynnelle's pain. That lashing out with the silly threat to tell Kalazar had come from deep hurt. Lynnelle had been obviously nervous when she arrived. She'd probably thought a long time before she'd worked herself up to it; played it out in her mind, memorized the dialogue.

Oh, you poor child. I'm so sorry. I handled that very badly. I don't think fast on my feet.

Back inside, Carena noticed the down jacket still hanging over the dining room chair, the shoulders spotted with raindrops. You can't run around without your coat. She checked the pockets and found crumpled Kleenex, a stick of gum, and a paperback book,
Summer of the Dragon
by Elizabeth Peters, with an envelope as a bookmark. It was addressed to Lynnelle Hames, Seven Creighton Road, Hampstead, Kansas. Nothing inside. She reinserted it at the appropriate page and stuck everything back in the pockets, then wandered into the bedroom, where she stacked pillows at the head of the bed, kicked off her soggy slippers and stretched out to stare at the ceiling.