Ravens
ALSO BY GEORGE DAWES GREEN
The Caveman’s Valentine
The Juror
This book is a work of fiction. Certain real locations and public figures are included to make the story more vivid, but they
are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination; any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by George Dawes Green
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub
First eBook Edition: July 2009
Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark
of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-446-55092-5
CONTENTS
Wheeling around your light,
Skye,
always
Romeo
was driving down from the Blue Ridge Mountains in the baffling twilight, going too fast, when a raccoon or possum ran in
front of the car. The impact was disturbingly gentle. No thud — just a soft
unzipping
, beneath the chassis. Still, it tore at Romeo’s heart. He braked and pulled over.
Shaw awoke. “What’s wrong?”
“Hit something,” said Romeo, and he got out and started walking back up I-77, hunting for the carcass. Shaw followed him.
A tractor-trailer bore down on them with a shudder and the long plunging chord of its passing. Then the night got quiet. They
could hear their own footsteps. Cicadas, and a sliver of far-off honkytonk music. “God,” said Shaw. “This is it. We’re really
in the
South
.”
But they found no trace of the animal.
They walked quite a ways. They waited for headlights so they could scan up and down the highway. They backtracked and searched
along the shoulder. Nothing — not so much as a bloodstain. Finally Romeo just stood there, watching the fireflies rise and
fall.
“Hey,” said Shaw, “I bet your friend got lucky.”
“Uh-uh. I hit it.”
“Well maybe it was like a sacrifice.” Playfulness in Shaw’s tone. “Maybe it just wanted us to have a propitious journey.”
When they got back to the Tercel Shaw said he was wide awake and could he drive? That was fine with Romeo. He got in on the
passenger side, and they descended into the North Carolina piedmont. His ears popped; the air grew humid. He tilted his seat
all the way back and looked up at the moon as it shredded in the pines. Somewhere after Elkin, NC, he let his eyes slip shut
for just a second — and then the highway started to curve beneath him, and he felt himself spiraling slowly downward, into
a bottomless slumber.
Tara
kept away from the house on Wednesday nights.
Wednesday nights were jackpot nights. Mom would start drinking early. Pour herself a g&t in a lowball glass; then fan out
all her lottery tickets on the coffee table and gaze lovingly at them, and touch them one by one and wonder which was going
to be
the
one. The TV would be on but Mom would disregard it. All her thoughts on the good life to come. Yachts, spas in Arizona, blazing
white villages in Greece, the unquenchable envy of her friends. She’d finish her first drink and fix herself another. Her
boy Jase — Tara’s little brother — would put his head in her lap while he played with his Micro. She’d tousle his hair. She’d
swirl the ice in her drink. At some point the colors of the dying day, and the TV colors, and all the colors of her life,
would begin to seem extra-vivid, even gorgeous, and she’d tell herself she was the blessedest woman in the world, and pick
up her cell phone and text her daughter:
I know we win tonite!!
Or:
I need u!! Tara baby!! My good luck charm!! Where are u? Come home!!
They were siren calls though, Tara knew. She had to be deaf to them. Study late at the library, catch a movie, hang out with
Clio at the mall — just keep clear of the house till the jackpot was done and Dad would come home to take the brunt of Mom’s
drunken post-drawing tirade. By midnight Mom would have worn herself out with rage and grief, and she’d have passed out, and
the coast would be clear.
But on this particular Wednesday, Tara had made a blunder. She’d left her botany textbook, with all the handouts, in her bedroom.
She’d done this in the morning but she didn’t realize it till 7:00 p.m., after her organic chemistry class, when she checked
her locker and saw that the book wasn’t there.
She had a quiz tomorrow. She hadn’t even
looked
at that stuff.
She thought of calling Dad. Maybe he could sneak the book out to her. But no, it was too late. He’d be on his way to church
by now, his Lions of Judah meeting. Maybe Jase? No, Jase would tip Mom off; Jase was in Mom’s pocket.
No. What I have to do, Tara thought, is just go back there and be really docile and
don’t
let Mom draw me into a fight, whatever she says don’t fight back —and first chance I get I’ll slip away to my room before
the drawing, before she blows up.
Tara went to the parking lot and got in her battered Geo, and left the campus of the Coastal Georgia Community College. Fourth
Street to Robin Road to Redwood Road: streets she despised. She hated their dull names and their blank lawns and their rows
of squat brick ranch houses. Hers was the squattest and brickest of all, on a street called Oriole Road. When she got there,
she slowed the car to a crawl, and looked in through the living room window. Mom, the TV. The painting of Don Quixote tilting
at windmills. The wooden shelf of Dad’s # 3 Chevy models, and Mom’s Hummels. Jase’s feet stuck out at the end of the couch.
Everything that Tara despised about her home was glowing and warm-looking like an advertisement for low mortgage rates or
pest control, and such a depressing show she had to call Clio and tell her about it.
“I’m spying on my own house.”
Said Clio, “
That’s
kind of perverted.”
“It’s a really ugly house.”
“I know.”
“I can see my brother’s little marinated pigs’ feet.”
“OK.”
“But I have to see how drunk Mom is.”
“How drunk is she?”
“That’s the problem, I can’t tell. I can’t see her hands. I have to see how she’s holding her glass. If she’s swirling her
glass with her pinky out, then I’m already in deep shit.”
“Are you going in there?”
“I have to.”
“But isn’t this your Mom’s freak-out night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what are you
doing
there? Come over to Headquarters. You know who’s coming? That Kings of Unsnap guy. Jonah. The one who wants to do you.”
“You told me that, Clio.”
“So come let him do you.”
“I got a botany quiz in the morning.”
“Oh God. You’re such a boring geek.”
“Why don’t
you
do him?”
“OK,” said Clio. “You talked me into it.”
“You’re such a whoring slut.”
“I know. Hey I gotta go. If your Mom does something interesting, like touching your little brother’s weewee or something,
let me know.”
“I’ll send you the pics,” said Tara. “You can post them.” She hung up, and sighed, and pulled into the carport.
As soon as she stepped into the living room, Mom was at her: “Where were
you
?” Tara consulted the lowball glass and saw that the swirling was quick and syncopated, with the pinky fully extended, which
presaged a grim night.
“I was in class.”
“You should call me when you’re gonna be this late.”
Not
late, Tara thought, but drop it.
Mom kept pressing. “Which class was it?”
“Um. Organic chemistry.”
“Why you taking
that
?”
Leave it alone. The only goal is freedom. “I don’t know, I guess it’s some kind of a requirement.”
“But if you’re only gonna be a goddamn
whatever
— why do they make you take organic chemistry?”
Tara shrugged.
Said Mom, “They want all our money and what they teach you is worthless.”
Hard to let that pass. Inasmuch as Mom contributed not a cent to her tuition — inasmuch as every penny came from Tara’s job
at the bank plus help from her grandmother Nell plus a small scholarship, and all she got from her parents was room and board
for which she paid $450 a month so that wasn’t a gift either — it was a struggle not to snap back at her. But what good would
that do? Remember, all you want is to get to your room. Remember, this woman is the same birdnecked alien you were just watching
through the living room window a moment ago. Pretend there’s no family connection, that you’re invisible and you can slip
away unnoticed at any time —
“Wait. Sit for a minute. The drawing’s coming up.”
“Got a quiz tomorrow, Mom. So I should probably —”
“You know what it’s worth this time?”
Tara shook her head.
“You’re kidding me,” said Mom. “You really don’t know?”
“I really don’t.”
“Three hundred and eighteen million dollars.”
“Wow.”
The sum touched Tara’s life in no meaningful way, but she thought if she showed sufficient awe maybe Mom would release her.
“Though if you take the lump sum,” said Mom, “then after you pay your taxes, you’d only have a hundred some million.”
“Oh.”
“Like a hundred twenty-odd. Hardly worth bothering, right? You mind freshening this for me? So I won’t disturb the Little
Prince here?”
Mom swirled her glass.
On the TV was
Nip/Tuck
, which wasn’t appropriate for ten-year-old Jase but then he wasn’t watching it anyway. He was playing
Revenant
on his Micro. Oblivious as ever — and Tara was happy to ignore him back. She carried Mom’s glass to the kitchen, filled it
with ice and Bombay and tonic, cut a thin half-wheel of lime and placed it festively. Be solicitous, servile. Try to soften
her. Don’t resist in any way.
But when she returned, Mom was holding up a thin windowed envelope, a bill from some credit card company, and demanding: “Know
how I got this? Came right to the office.
Angela
gave it to me. I didn’t even know this bill existed. It’s for seven hundred dollars. Your father never
mentioned
it.”
What would be the least resistant reply possible? Tara tried, “That’s awful, Mom.”
“Awful? It’s the most humiliating thing that can ever happen to
anyone
.
Anyone. Ever
. Of course your father isn’t worried. Your father thinks we’ll be fine.”
“Well, won’t we?”
Oh, that was dumb. That was way too cheerful. Mom pounced. “You don’t get it
at all
, do you? They’re gonna
foreclose
. They’re gonna take our
house
. They’re gonna take it out from under our feet and take the damn Liberty with it. You’re gonna have to leave school. I’m
sorry, cupcake. You’re gonna have to start producing some
income
.”
“Mom, I’m a little tired. Would you mind if I —”
“Do you think I’m
not
tired? I am so
damn
tired of being this poor and your father in total denial and you kids thinking this is some kind of bad dream we’re gonna
wake up from! We’re gonna lose
everything
, do you not get it? This boat is
sinking
. Nobody’s gonna bail
us
out. The boat is going down! I mean, baby, sugar-cake, you’re gonna have to start
swimming
. You’re gonna —”
But then came a fanfare on the TV, and instantly Mom left off. She gave Jase a little swat and he hustled out of her way,
and she leaned forward to check her flotilla of tickets.
“And now,” said a somber announcer, “here’s tonight’s drawing for the Max-a-Million jackpot. Tonight’s jackpot is worth… three
hundred and eighteen
milly-on
dollars.”
No one onscreen. Just the voice of that undertaker. And a hopper in the shape of a funeral urn, full of lightly waltzing plastic
balls. One of them flew up suddenly on a puff of air and rolled down a serpentine ramp and posed itself before the camera.
“The first number is… tuh-
wenty
-seven.”
Mom murmured, “Uh-huh. Got that here.” Trying for indifference. But her eyes were full of eagerness.
Tara quietly cheated a few steps toward the hall.
“The next number is forty-two.”