The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

As instructed, I dropped by Greg’s office shortly after noon. Greg sat down behind his desk and gestured for me to take a seat.

  “I feared something like this would happen,” Greg said. “My God, was the space heater on?”

  “I think I’d be dead if that were the case.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of making other living arrangements.”

  “What is that motel in town called?” I said.

  “Motel,” he said. “No. Not that. We have other quarters. Not in the dormitories, have no fear, but on the top floor of Beckett Gym, far away from the students. You’d be just two flights away from our exquisite bathhouse. Even though it has a full bath. It’s the chambers we reserve for special guests and alumni.”

  As Greg and I strolled over to Beckett Gym, I thanked him for not mocking my outfit, to which he replied, “Why would I? You look the same as you always do.”

  The apartment on the top floor of Beckett was actually kind of swank, nicer than the teachers’ quarters in Dickens or Woolf. It even had a flat-screen TV and was wired for cable and Internet. Greg referred to it as “Godot’s Place.” I let that detail slide, because I could not have pictured anything more enticing after waking up in the middle of a swamp.

  “I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Oh, good. I should mention that it comes with a tithe.”

  “A tithe?”

  “I need another adult supervisor over Thanksgiving break. I hope that’s all right?”

  The tithe was more than reasonable, to my mind. Plus, it saved me the complications of choosing between my parents for the holiday.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” I said, eyeing my pristine new home.

  Gemma Russo

  Mel and Kate were toiling away in my office, hopped up on sugar, caffeine, and wrath. And yet there was something blissful in their joint code-breaking. They’d left the door open, which pissed me off, and I gave them a stern lecture.

  “You done?” Mel said when I was not done.

  “We broke the code,” said Kate.

  “Not entirely,” said Mel, “but we found distinct patterns that we can extrapolate from.”

  Mel approached the chalkboard and pointed to a list of four birds:

  Sparrow, Loon, Owl, Hawk

  Let me condense a twenty-minute code-breaking lecture down to the basics. Each girl’s code was a number, one through four, followed by one of those birds, with numbers tacked on to the end. The first number was the year in school. They still didn’t know exactly what the birds meant. The addendum numbers were simple numeric swaps for the specific girl’s initials. For example, my code would be 4, some kind of bird (hawk, I assume), 718 (G being the seventh letter and R the eighteenth).

  The boys, on the other hand, used screen names. Once we parsed some of the Darkroom chatter, it was no wonder they kept their real names under wraps. Kate and Mel had collected some of the sleaziest commentary for my perusal.

  Dead_klown: Steer clear of 3Loon12: Bad breath, smelly pussy, and clingy.

  Hef47: No reason to get near pussy, brah.

  I knew instinctually what they were like, and I’d heard bits and pieces over the years, but it was the first time I’d seen the depth of their contempt for us. I had been too distracted by breaking into the Dulcinea contest to grasp how sad it all was. Mel put her hand on my shoulder and offered me a licorice vine, as if it weren’t from my own stash.

  “Have a licorice. It’ll make you feel better.”

  “I was sick too for the first few hours,” said Kate. “It fades, and then what’s left is an unquenchable thirst for revenge, which is quite invigorating.”

  “What’s up with the birds?” I said.

  “The bird designation seems to be fluid,” said Kate. “I saw a reference to a sparrow turning into a loon and an owl into a hawk.”

  “The bird references have something to do with traits or behavior,” Mel said. “And there’s supposed to be a fifth bird, but I don’t see it anywhere.”

  “Let’s not get stuck on this bird shit,” I said. “Why aren’t there any references to Dulcinea? That’s the whole point of this, right?”

  “It’s not here,” said Kate.

  Mel gave her comrade a sharp glance.

  “What do you mean it’s not here?” I said.

  “There’s another room inside this one. We don’t know how to get in yet,” said Mel.

  “How do you know there’s someplace else?” I asked.

  “I just know,” said Mel.

  She was hiding something. I didn’t have time to think about it. I studied the printouts in front of me and noticed a few common threads.

  “LennyBro and Hef21 were both talking about 3Sparrow12. If we know even one of these three, then we might be able to deduce the rest,” I said.

  Mel lay flat on the floor, gazing at the ceiling. She held her chomped-down licorice rope between her index and middle finger and pretended to smoke it.

  “LennyBro, Lenny Bruce,” Mel said.

  “That’s got to be Gabriel Smythe, right?” Kate said.

  “Has to be,” said Mel.

  “That narrows down the options for 3Sparrow12,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  When I returned to my dorm room, Emelia was out with Nick, and Tegan was studying with her earbuds on.

  “You’ve been gone a lot lately,” Tegan said.

  “Are you complaining?” I said.

  “Nope. Where do you go?”

  “Nowhere, everywhere.”

  My phone buzzed.

  Linny: I have information

  Gemma: Greenhouse? 5 minutes.

  “You’re up to something,” Tegan said.

  “Isn’t everyone up to something?” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “Piece of advice? Respond to a text now and again. At least pretend you’re one of us.”

  I had muted the text thread a while back. I was so enjoying the silence, I forgot. Shit. The odd thing was that Tegan wasn’t taunting me with this information. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought she was genuinely concerned.

  “You should be careful too,” I said.

  I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. I didn’t like her, but I didn’t want Tegan to be made a fool of.

  “About what?” Tegan said.

  “Watch yourself with Jack.”

  “There’s nothing going on with Jack and me,” she said.

  “That’s good, because I see him all over school with other girls.”

  “Good for him,” Tegan said, giving away nothing.

  When I arrived at the greenhouse, Rupert was astride his ATV, having a loud conversation with Linny. The conversation was loud mostly because his engine was still running.

  “No, no,” said Rupert. “I said I’d meet you at seven-thirty. I waited until seven forty-five.”

  “No,” said Linny. “You told me to meet you at eight-ten, which is a stupid time, anyway. I arrived at eight and stayed until eight-thirty. You never showed.”

  “Sounds like a simple miscommunication,” Rupert said.

  “You may have fleeced the rest of the school, but I’m on to you.”

  “If you have any issues about how things are run here, feel free to use the suggestion box,” said Rupert.

  “Oh, I will,” Linny said.

  Rupert gunned the engine on his ATV and disappeared into the woods. Linny stood there, fuming.

  “Let it go,” I said.

  “You can’t pretend there’s an A/V club if there’s no A/V club,” she said. “That’s bullshit. My brother gets to do the morning announcements at his school. That job isn’t for the groundskeeper. It should be up for grabs. Plus, he gets the weather wrong Every. Single. Day. How hard is it to read the newspaper?” />
  Everyone has their own war. But Linny seemed to be fighting many wars. I started to feel like I didn’t know her anymore.

  “What have you got for me?” I said.

  “I saw Mel leave campus in the middle of the day. I followed her.”

  “You’re not allowed off campus, Linny.”

  “Do you want to know who she met with?” Linny said.

  “I do.”

  “Norman Crowley.”

  Ms. Witt

  My birthday is on November 16 and my father’s is on November 14. My mother used to throw us combined parties on November 15. I found the whole thing unfair and infuriating, and my father found the abundance of children at his celebrations unseemly. No matter how much we protested, my mom could not wrap her head around the excess of two parties in three days. But later, in the years AD (After the Delete), my father and I ended up continuing the tradition and meeting in the middle.

  For a while we attempted birthday-like activities, the things people do at a children’s party. But my father dismissed them one at a time.

  On bowling: Well, this is simply unsanitary.

  On miniature golf: Wait, where did it go? Oh, I give up!

  On the arcade: Why do you have so many more tickets than I do?

  After a purgative roller-coaster ride on my sixteenth birthday from which I may never recover, I suggested that a simple meal followed by no physically jarring activity was the best option. From year seventeen on, Dad and I would have a fancy meal at a location of my father’s choosing. We hadn’t missed a year yet, but I assumed this would be the one. Unfortunately, he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He’d made a reservation at a place called Manger. It was the finest restaurant within thirty miles of Stonebridge. Dad said he’d pick me up at six.

  I’ve told my father on many occasions that I would rather have one thing I love than one thing I like, one thing I’m ambivalent about, and seven things that don’t resemble regular food at all. He conveniently forgets my tastes. When we arrived at Manger (which I purposefully and repeatedly pronounced with a hard g and r), the waiter said we could choose from a four-, seven-, nine-, or twelve-course menu.

  I made a preemptive strike on the twelve-course meal, threatening to eat alone at the diner down the road. Dad suggested nine. I said two and he reminded me that four was the lowest option. Four, then. Dad told the waiter that we’d do the seven-course meal—“splitting the difference,” he said, giving me a dad-wink.

  After we ate our deconstructed Waldorf salad, my father suggested we exchange presents. I handed him a plain brown box wrapped in a bow. He handed me an envelope filled with cash.

  “You’re light this year,” I said, feeling the thinness of the envelope.

  “Not my best year,” he said, opening the box.

  “Why don’t drug dealers do this?” I said. “That box could be filled with drugs and we just made this exchange in a public place. No one would think anything of it.”

  “Hmm…I could use that,” he said, taking out his notebook and scribbling.

  Dad returned his attention to his gift. Inside the box were several pieces of paper filled with solid three-act story outlines, on which he could hang the next Len Wilde novel.

  “Plots,” Dad said wistfully. “You shouldn’t have.”

  We do this every year. The pretense is that I conceived most of the story lines, with a minor contribution from my mother.

  “Which one is Nastya’s?” he said.

  The real question, however, is: Which one didn’t she write?

  “I can’t remember, Dad. Just pick the one that speaks to you most.”

  * * *

  —

  The third or fourth course was a reinterpretation of surf and turf. It had sea urchin and mushrooms. Dad took the sea urchin off my plate because he knows it makes me angry. He tried to make small talk about his work in progress, Bitter Prayer.

  “I had to scrap a hundred pages, but Sloan thinks it’s coming together quite nicely.”

  “I’m surprised you have the balls to say her name.”

  “You will be hearing her name again, so it’s time you got used to it.”

  “You’re getting divorced again, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old is Sloan?” I asked.

  I already knew she was younger than me. Dad didn’t answer.

  “We had a deal,” I said.

  I was twenty-two when my father was hooking up with Greta, age twenty-seven, his then assistant, soon-to-be ex-wife. I made my dad promise never to date a woman younger than his daughter. He promised.

  “It’s not exactly a binding contract,” Dad said.

  “How would you feel if I brought home a sixty-six-year-old lover?”

  “Stop it, Alex. That’s a grotesque notion.”

  “Isn’t that what Sloan’s father would think?”

  “Sloan doesn’t know her father,” my dad said. “And I think it’s important to note that you’ve never brought home a louse. You’ve always been quite savvy with men. I’d like to think I’ve had a hand in that.”

  “No. No,” I said, feeling my face flush with heat. “You don’t get to pat yourself on the back for my choices. And I’m never going to let you think that the way you behave is okay.”

  Dad put down his fork and knife and looked me in the eye.

  “I’m sixty-two years old—”

  “Sixty-six,” I said.

  “If I’m lucky, I have ten good years, and maybe ten mediocre years. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel like the best is behind me. Everything good has already happened. Even the once reliable pleasure of sex is not what it once was. So, if I meet someone who makes me feel alive and capable of—”

  “If you finish that sentence,” I said, “I’ll stab you with the sea-urchin fork.”

  “My point is,” Dad said, “I’d rather be happy and fulfilled than adhere to some nebulous moral standard. Do you understand?”

  “What if I gave you an ultimatum?” I said.

  “Alex, please. That’s absurd.”

  “If I told you I wouldn’t see you again if you continued with this relationship, what would you do?”

  “You don’t even have a relationship with Greta. What do you care if I leave her?”

  “Answer the question,” I said.

  “I would choose you, Alex. Of course. And I would be miserable. Is that what you want?”

  “Works for me,” I said.

  “Fine. I will call off the engagement.”

  “Excellent.”

  “I assume you will take responsibility for my care once I become infirm.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “Marry her. But I’m not going to the wedding.”

  “Understood,” Dad said.

  The waiter asked if we wanted another bottle of wine. I ordered the most expensive one, as retribution.

  My father sighed and said, “I would much rather spend that money on dental work.”

  “Don’t be an asshole,” I said.

  “Please, Alex, please let me pay to fix that tooth.”

  “No,” I said. “And you’re only bringing it up to change the subject.”

  “Nonsense,” my father said.

  My teeth used to be quite a point of contention between my parents. I was teased some in primary school, and several dentists advocated for braces. But one honest orthodontist admitted that the fix would be purely cosmetic.

  My parents got into one of their great fights when I made the decision to leave the tooth alone. Dad was convinced that my mother’s anti-orthodontia stance was anti-American. It wasn’t. It was practical. Dad thought my decision meant that my identity aligned more with hers. It wasn’t that complicated. I liked having one rebel tooth. Besides, it cuts food just the same.


  * * *

  —

  I arranged to stay in Greg’s guest room and delivered Dad to my new quarters at Beckett Gym. Dad surveyed his accommodations, restlessly meandering about the room. Eventually I realized he was searching for the minibar.

  “I hope Greg isn’t offended that I’m not staying with him,” Dad said.

  “He’s not,” I said.

  He really wasn’t. My father is a notoriously demanding houseguest. Greg accepted the exchange of me for my father without question.

  “I’m going to go now,” I said. “Are you clear on your assignment?”

  “I am.”

  I sent Finn a text.

  “Tell him to bring booze,” Dad said.

  I sent another text.

  “Do you still love me?” Dad said.

  I paused for a moment, just to fuck with him.

  “I guess so,” I said.

  I kissed him on the cheek and left.

  Mr. Ford

  Witt: Come to my new apartment. I have a surprise.

  Witt: Could you bring some bourbon?

  I thought I was getting laid. I got Len.

  In real life, he looked like the mug-shot version of his author photo. He shook my hand with a domineering grip, but he was pleasant enough, drunk, and clearly in need of more booze and company. Maybe he just needed the booze. He eyed my bottle of Maker’s with brazen lust. I handed him the bottle. He had a heavy pour.

  I told him I was a fan because I was (of his first three books). He was my hero after I read Darkness, Behave. And I think his first two crime novels transcend the genre, to use a hackneyed phrase. I read one or one and a half of his later works and gave up when I realized he’d given up. Len asked what my favorite book was.

  “Darkness, Behave,” I said.

  He looked disappointed. Then I mentioned the next two, both written at least fifteen years ago. It was a rookie move. No man wants to be reminded that his best work is behind him. Then I told him how impressed I was with Hidden Window, which might have been his worst. His language had lost its ease. It had a heavy-handed, molasses-thick quality about it. I remember reading a line that referred to a Post-it as a devil square backed with glue.