Consider the Crows (3 page)

Here is this child, turned up after all this time. What should I do? I don't know. That's not good enough. I'm afraid of what this will mean. That won't help either. Oh God.

God? Remember me? Yes, it's me. I realize you haven't heard from me in a long time but, you see, there's this problem.

She sighed. Maybe God got bored with having it all and periodically looked around for some amusement. When she'd accepted the position at Emerson, it had seemed like some cosmic bad joke; it put her, at forty, right back in the very spot she'd spent the first eighteen of those years trying to get away from. And now here was this child.

Maybe God had an even more complicated game in mind.

Rain spattered against the window. She'd hesitated to accept this position, but she wanted to get away from Boulder, Colorado, where her ex-husband was, and jobs weren't that easy to find. There was the little matter of a roof over her head. She looked at her watch. Only eight-thirty; it felt like midnight. Swinging her legs over the side, she sat up and picked up the telephone receiver. Holding it against her chest for a moment, she took a breath and with a shaky hand punched in the number.

In Topeka, thirty-five miles away, the phone was answered by a young male voice. “Hello, Stevie, this is your Aunt Carena. Is your mama around?”

“Yep, she's here.”

A clatter came through the line as the receiver was dropped and she heard Stevie yell, “Mom?”

A moment later, Caitlin said, “Carena, I'm glad you called. It's been a while.”

“I guess it has.”

“What's wrong?” Caitlin's ability to pick up on the emotional climate was phenomenal.

“Nothing's wrong.” Carena hesitated. “It's just that—” She told her about Lynnelle appearing on the doorstep.

“Oh Carrie.” Silence. “How did she find you?”

“I don't know.”

“But what was she doing in Hampstead?”

“She lives here.”

“In Hampstead? Where?”

“Somewhere out on Creighton Road.”

More silence, then Caitlin spoke in a soft voice. “What does she want?”

“I don't know, Caitlin.” Her mother; a teary reunion, stunned disbelief and joyous embraces.

“What do you think she'll do?”

“Maybe nothing. I was so surprised, I just sat there with my mouth open. That might have turned her off the whole thing.” Not likely.

“Do you think so?” Caitlin's voice faded and she said something Carena couldn't hear. “Will you find out?”

Carena felt suddenly tired. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I will.”

“Carrie?”

“What?”

“It's a pretty name, isn't it, Lynnelle?”

“Yes, Caitlin. Yes, it is.”

After she hung up, Carena put on her heavy robe and dry socks and fixed a cup of peppermint tea, which she carried out to the screened porch off the kitchen. Sitting in the dark in a white wicker chair, she listened to the rain patter against the roof and breathed in the aroma of the tea. She thought about that awful hot summer twenty-one years ago. Was it all going to come out now? Somewhere, an owl cried and a bit of Shakespeare came to mind.

A falcon, towering in her pride of place,

Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.

She shivered, took one sip of scalding tea, then got up, left the cup on the kitchen cabinet and went to put on her shoes and coat and find her car keys.

*   *   *

Lynnelle tossed the few pieces of dry wood she'd been able to find—on top of everything else the furnace had conked out—into the Franklin stove and then sat cross-legged on the small white rug in front of it. She picked up the guitar and strummed softly. Thunder rumbled, muted and distant, and the big white Samoyed stretched on the floor beside her raised head from paws and gave her an anxious look.

“Stupid, sentimental shit,” Lynnelle told the dog. “Believing in fairy tales. And they all lived happily ever after.”

The floor lamp next to the gold plush chair threw a circle of light on the ceiling. Rain leaked from one corner with a steady plink, plink, plink into a coffee can.

“She didn't even want to see me. Boy, didn't she even want to see me. Sat there looking like I'd punched her in the stomach.”

Bending her head, Lynnelle brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and sang harshly.

“She's tied it in her apron

and she's thrown it in the sea;

Says, Sink ye, swim ye, bonny wee babe.

You'll ne'er get mair o' me.'

“I
cried,
” she ground out through clenched teeth. The tears made her madder than anything. Weak, pathetic little shit.

She dropped the guitar back in its case, uncrossed her legs to get to her knees and buried her fingers in the dog's thick fur. “Alexa, it's just you and me, baby. A couple of rejects. We don't care, do we? We don't need anybody else.”

Her fingers tightened on the dog's fur as she pictured Carena Egersund's shocked face. Alexa yelped. “I did it all wrong. Just blurted it out. I should have worked up to it. I meant to. It just—”

Suddenly, the house felt suffocating. Air, she had to have some air. She rose in one quick movement and padded in stockinged feet to the kitchen. The dog scrambled up and followed. Heavy boots sat drying on a newspaper by the door and Lynnelle pulled them on, snatched the poncho from its hook, whirled it around and over her head. While she rummaged in a drawer for the flashlight, Alexa waited eagerly by the door.

“I like to walk in the rain,” Lynnelle told her. “You don't.”

Alexa waved her plumy tail and dashed out when the door was opened. She started down the steps, stopped and gave Lynnelle a reproachful look.

“I told you so.”

Alexa backed up, tucked herself well in under the overhang and collapsed with a sigh. Lynnelle laughed, stooped to ruffle the hair on both sides of the dog's neck, then snicked on the flashlight and set off along the irregular stones on the muddy ground under the big oak tree. An old rope swing hung from one branch; she gave it a push as she went by and headed across the open field to the woods.

Lightning flickered and thunder rumbled. The trees were thick overhead. In the three months since she'd moved in here, she'd spent a lot of time walking these woods and sitting by the creek watching the water gurgle past. There was an old cottonwood she liked to sit under with branches that reached up over the water.

The night was full of sounds; the spatter of rain, the moans of the wind, the squish of undergrowth beneath her feet, a rustling that suddenly stopped, then a long haunting note that sent nerves crawling along her spine.

It's only an owl.

A twig snapped, louder rustling, then the owl spoke again. Hair seemed to rise on her neck and she thought of all those old movies, Indians gliding from tree to tree, alerting each other with the voice of the owl, stalking the unwary. She stopped, shined the light behind her; trees and shadows and tangled growth on the ground. The air smelled like damp and dead vegetation.

She shook her head irritably. Afraid of the dark too? There's nothing here but trees and low, tangled vines and dead leaves and small furry things like squirrels and mice. She plodded on.

Lightning splintered the darkness. For an instant, she saw, clear as day, a dark figure against a tree trunk.

She froze. Her breath caught, her heart thudded.

The figure came toward her.

“Oh.” Lynnelle pulled in a deep breath. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

They walked through the dripping trees and, shaky with relief, Lynnelle babbled on and on. God, I sound like a dreep. “Do you ever think that life's just a cheat? All promises that never come true? I mean, good things are supposed to happen, aren't they? Sometimes? How come they never do? How come you plan and you look forward to, and you hope and then it's finally there and then—” She raised her head and let the rain run down her face. “You end up crying over a broken pumpkin.”

A crackle of lightning lit up the sky just as they reached the creek. Recent rains had swelled the usual trickle into a rush that fountained up over rocks and fallen branches.

She sensed movement behind her and felt a moment of fear. Before she could turn, a blow smashed against the back of her head. Intense white pain zigzagged through her mind and the owl cried again just as she felt herself falling.

3

H
UNCHED OVER THE
steering wheel, Carena tried to see through the windshield as the wipers struggled courageously against the rain. When she pulled into the dark garage, she relaxed and turned off the headlights and motor. She rattled down the overhead garage door and, head bent, sloshed through the driving rain toward the house. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement inside the lighted screened porch but before she could gather her wits, the screen door opened and a man in a ski jacket trotted, loose-jointed, down the steps. In the dark, he looked huge.

“Michael?” She was taken by surprise that this large person was her son. When had he gotten so adult?

“Where have you been? I'm going to have to speak to you about staying out so late. Irresponsible parent. Now you listen to me. There's no reason why you can't let me know—”

She hugged him and he squeezed her tightly, lifting her off her feet.

“And furthermore—”

Vigorously, she rubbed the top of his blond curls with her knuckles. He released her and, one arm over her shoulder, shepherded her inside.

“When did you get here?”

“An hour ago.” Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it over the back of a chair.

She picked it up and hung it along with her own on hangers over the bathtub, then replaced her wet shoes with down booties and went back to the kitchen. “How's everything in Boulder? Classes okay?”

“Great.” Michael, in white sweatshirt with University of Colorado printed on it, sprawled in a chair, stretched his long blue-jean-clad legs halfway under the table. “Anything to eat? I'm starving.”

Of course, starving; some things never change. “That could be a problem.” Opening the refrigerator door, she peered at almost bare shelves; block of cheese, half a loaf of stale bread, several limp carrots, eggs, orange juice, a jar with one dill pickle, a carton of milk.

She lifted the carton and shook it to judge how much was left. “Scrambled eggs?”

“Yeah.” He chose an apple from the bowl on the table and bit into it with a juicy crunch. “Where you been?”

“Driving around.” She turned the burner on under the skillet and cracked eggs into a bowl.

“It's after midnight.”

“I had some thinking to do.” With a fork, she whipped the eggs, crumbled in some cheese and added a dash of milk.

“Want to tell me about it? Now that I've had Psych One I know all about that stuff.”

“Thanks, but I'll just muddle through on my own. What are you doing here?” She got out toaster and bread and poured eggs into the hot skillet.

“My roommate—Rich, you remember Rich? He has this girl in Kansas City and he was overcome with love and longing. Since he doesn't have a car, he offered to pay for gas if I'd drive.”

“Why didn't you let me know you were coming?”

“Spur of the moment. When love strikes, you can't wait around. Besides, I thought I'd surprise you.”

“It's a lovely surprise.” She set a steaming mound of scrambled eggs in front of him and kissed his forehead, this large blond son, then sat across from him and sipped reheated peppermint tea. “So, tell me what you've been up to.”

He bit off a corner of toast, chewed and swallowed. “Well, I met this weird chick.”

“Michael! Young women are not chicks.”

He grinned. “Just checking to see if you're paying attention. Anyway, this
young woman
is weird. Kind of intense. She asked all these questions.”

“What about?”

“Me. You. The family.” He waved his fork. “Just questions.”

“Maybe she likes you.”

“Natch.” He gave her a cocky look from under lowered lashes, and chased the last of the eggs around on the plate and scooped them up. “She has an attitude.” He chewed and swallowed. “Like she knows something I don't. You know, the way you might if you knew what somebody was getting for a birthday present and he didn't.”

Oh no. No. Couldn't be. Carena sipped tea. “What's her name?”

“Lynnelle.”

Carena choked and coughed.

He whacked her, almost fatally, on the back. “You all right?”

“Fine,” she wheezed. “Where did you meet her?”

He shrugged. “Around. You know, on campus. In the book store. Once at a party. In the Union. Seemed like everywhere I went, there she was.”

He pushed himself upright and ambled to the refrigerator, refilled his glass with orange juice and stuck bread in the toaster. “After a while she disappeared and then I got letters. I mean, I barely know her and there's these letters. Can you believe it?” He flopped into the chair and hooked an elbow over the back. “Turns out she's living here. Isn't that weird?”

Not weird. It explained how Lynnelle had found her. How had she found Michael?

“You ever meet her?” The toast popped and he leaped up to snatch it and slather on butter, giving her a moment of reprieve.

Even though she didn't believe in keeping secrets from her child, always felt he had a right to know what was happening in his world, she'd kept this one. Her own parents had operated under the attitude the less the children knew, the better; that way led to confusion, anxiety and unwarranted guilt. For a moment, she was tempted to explain, then put the thought out of her mind. Too soon, too many random variables. “What did the letters say?”

“Oh, you know. Stuff.” He brought the plate back to the table and sat down. “About this job. Boring, but it's money. About this place. Small town, different. Finding out stuff about people.” He washed down toast with a slug of orange juice. “I think she likes knowing things about people. Makes her feel important or something. And something about somebody she was scared of.”