The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  Then I added The Last Short and Shadow Room to the list of books I’d read, since I recalled those specific titles. Len appeared to be waiting for me to mention more. I improvised.

  “Forgive me,” I said. “My memory is not what it used to be. I read the one with the widow and the one that came out two years ago?”

  “Oh, yes, Mortal Alley and The Ninth Station.”

  “Yes, The Ninth Station,” I said. “That was intense.”

  “Most of my readers didn’t respond to that one.”

  “I’m an outlier,” I said.

  “Did you get the Dante references?”

  “Who the fuck wouldn’t?”

  I felt like how my students must feel when they haven’t studied for their exams. I poured Len another finger of bourbon, hoping he wouldn’t probe me for more details.

  “Young man, how long have you been at this strange school?”

  “Four years now.”

  “You’re a writer, I am told.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved I no longer had to improvise. “About five years ago my first novel was published. Tethered. Didn’t sell very well.”

  “I think I read it,” Len said. “It was an audacious undertaking.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The old man was bullshitting me. Now I wanted to make him dance.

  “I got a lot of shit about the scene where the wife gives her husband a shave with a straight razor and deliberately cuts him,” I said.

  “Utterly gripping,” Len said.

  Yep. Bullshit artist, just like me. There’s an unsettling moment when Avalene ties Wade’s necktie, but it could not be mistaken for a close shave.

  “What are you working on now, son?”

  Well played.

  “I just sold my second novel. My agent is negotiating the deal now.”

  “Congratulations,” Len said, refilling my glass.

  “Thank you.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s about the dark secrets behind an elite boarding school.”

  “Intriguing,” Len said with a forced smile. “I’d love to read it sometime. Send it to me, will you?”

  “I’d be honored,” I said.

  We raised our glasses.

  “This is the toast I used to give my students before they embarked on their next great work,” Len said, clearing his throat. “Take the blank page by the throat and beat it to a pulp. Do not let it beat you.”

  We clinked glasses and drank. Len casually studied the room, leaned back on the couch, and crossed his ankle over his knee.

  “Let me ask you a question, son. How do you concentrate on your writing with all of this fresh pussy around?”

  Announcements

  Happy Monday, students of Stone. This is the final week of class before the Thanksgiving holiday. A friendly reminder to the majority of students who will be going home for break: Please do not leave any perishable food in your dorm room. That message is for you, room 307, Dickens House. The weather forecast is an overcast but dry fifty-two degrees. It looks like we have a few days’ reprieve from rain, so please make sure to get some fresh air and vitamin D, and go smell the pines. It’s November 16, a slow day in history. But before I sign off, let’s give a warm happy birthday to our very own Alex Witt.

  Ms. Witt

  Before class the next morning, I dropped by my new apartment to say goodbye to my father. He was too hungover to work out the coffeemaker, so I brewed it for him while he showered.

  After he dressed, Dad dragged himself to the kitchen table and waited for me to serve him. We sat and drank for a while in silence. I like Dad best this way, with the pomp beaten out of him. Sometimes, on bleary mornings like this one, he even looks serene.

  “Happy birthday, Alexandra.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Did you enjoy your company last night?”

  “He served his purpose, and the bourbon was decent enough,” Dad said.

  “And?”

  “He’s going to send me that book of his.”

  “Excellent. So what did you really think of him?”

  “He’s an amiable drinking companion. But I’m sure you’ve already figured out he’s a lecherous S.O.B.”

  * * *

  —

  My students sang “Happy Birthday.”

  Jonah gave me a perfect lily from Graham Greenehouse.

  Sandra Polonsky got me a latte from the Mudroom.

  Mel gifted me with a spork she made in metal arts.

  And Gemma gave me a promise that she’d bring down the Darkroom by the end of the year.

  Claude wasn’t at school that day, but she sent a quick birthday text and gave me an IOU for drinks. We had a quick exchange.

  Alex: Everything okay?

  Claude: Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?

  After class, I went back to my old cottage. Sandbags still hugged the perimeter, but the water had receded. Inside, I found my mother and Coach Keith, packing up my belongings. I got the feeling that Keith just happened by and Mom had shanghaied him into service.

  She hadn’t mentioned a trip to Stonebridge, but I wasn’t surprised. Even though their child had reached the ripe old age of twenty-nine, my parents still acted like joint custodians. Dad got to see me two days in a row, so Mom’s arrival was right on cue.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Happy birthday, darling. I came to help you move.”

  “Keith, are you here of your own free will?” I said.

  “Yes,” Keith said.

  It was a quick move. Perhaps the quickest of my life. Keith double-timed us up and down the stairs of Beckett with the few boxes of personal items that I owned. My mother tried to tip him, but he waved away the cash and said he had to go.

  Greg knocked on the door a few hours later. My mother was in the bedroom, refolding my clothes.

  “Looks like you’re settling in,” Greg said.

  “Can I offer you some water or hot tea?” I said.

  “No thank you. Have you heard from Claude?” Greg asked.

  “Yes. She texted this afternoon.”

  “Good,” Greg said. “She’s having a wake Friday evening at her house.”

  “What wake?” I said.

  “Her mother died,” said Greg.

  “When?”

  “Last night,” Greg said.

  I checked the message from Claude, trying to make sense of it.

  My mother entered the room. She and Greg were talking about a bag.

  “No. I left it in my car,” my mother said.

  “Just give me your keys, Nastya. I’ll grab it and put it in the guest room,” Greg said.

  I couldn’t figure out what my mother and Greg were discussing.

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “I invited your mother to stay on for Thanksgiving break,” Greg said. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  Norman Crowley

  Mick called an emergency board meeting soon after the lice outbreak. Gabe suggested a remote meeting for the purposes of containment. Jack said something like, “Don’t be gay and it won’t spread.”

  Adam arrived at the lounge wearing a shower cap.

  Jack doubled over in hysterics.

  “Laugh all you want,” Adam said. “This scalp will remain vermin-free.”

  “It’s like a condom for your head,” said Nick thoughtfully.

  Mick thought it was a grand idea. “You got another?”

  Adam pulled a fresh shower cap from his pocket. Mick unfurled the plastic and placed it like a crown on his head.

  “How do I look?” Mick said to Adam.

  “You look as good as a man can look wearing a shower cap,” Adam said.

  “You too, good man,” Mick said.

/>   “Grandmas,” Jack said. “Let’s get this meeting started. I have to do another round of RID.”

  Mick scanned the room and sighed. “Jonah’s a no-show again?”

  “It’s time to vote him out,” Jack said.

  “All in favor,” said Mick.

  There were three ayes, and one abstention—Adam. Jonah was officially out. This seemed to piss off Adam, but I couldn’t say why. My best guess is that Adam liked Jonah better than these other buffoons. But maybe there was something I was missing.

  The meeting, however, wasn’t about Jonah, the Darkroom, or Dulcinea. It was about the plague on Dickens, of which the lice outbreak was just the latest wave. I could see how someone might have managed the poison-oak attack, but wrangling lice seemed risky. And none of the girls had it yet, even though they’ve got a lot more hair. As always, I didn’t share my opinion with the board.

  “My source thinks it’s Gemma,” Adam said.

  His source was Rachel Rose. We’d all seen her Veronica Mars-ing around school, demanding alibis.

  “Is your source hazarding a guess, or does she have proof?” I asked.

  I never speak, so they all looked stunned and suspicious.

  “I mean, you want to be careful leveling accusations,” I added. “That’s how you let the real perp slip away.”

  “Good point,” Mick said. “In the meantime, I think we’ll have to go to our backup plan.”

  The backup plan was to use the little brothers as sentries during all non-school hours. They created six four-hour shifts. I was glad I didn’t have to put a sophomore through forced insomnia—my little brother had dropped out of Stonebridge after two weeks. I was never assigned another. I was kind of bummed about it at the time. Now I consider it a bonus. Besides, what great wisdom could I impart to an underclassman? Keep your head down and don’t make trouble.

  As soon as the meeting was up, I texted Jonah to warn him. He asked me to meet him out on Fielding.

  I found him kicking a soccer ball around by himself. He kicked the ball in my direction, I think expecting me to trap it, but it breezed on by. He should know better. I ran after the ball and picked it up.

  “Congratulations. You’ve been officially made redundant,” I said.

  Jonah pumped his fist in the air. “Fuck, yeah.”

  He legit looked happy—like, happier than I’d seen him in weeks.

  “Are you sure that was the right move?”

  “I don’t know. I was deadwood anyway,” Jonah said.

  He jogged backward, waiting for me to pass him the ball. I tossed it in front of me, kicked out, and completely missed. It would have looked cooler if I rolled it on the ground two-handed, like a bad bowler. Jonah didn’t bother kicking it back to me after that.

  “Stay cool, Norman. You’re now the only inside man. We need you.”

  Jonah was going to toss me the ball as some kind of jock handshake. I flinched. He was kind enough to pretend he didn’t notice.

  I was walking back to Dickens when I ran into Enid Cho. We’re not friends, exactly, but we talk about class stuff and I see her in the library.

  “Hey, Norman. Did you hear about Shepherd’s mom?”

  * * *

  —

  I didn’t have a plan exactly. I walked off campus and strolled down Hyde Street to see what was open at eight-thirty on a Thursday night. It was dead in town, other than Hemingway’s and a small grocery store called Otto’s.

  I don’t know that I’d ever been there before. And I won’t go back, because someone—maybe Otto—kept following me around the store, asking me if I needed help. I told him I was browsing. I couldn’t tell if Otto was giving me a hard sell or thought I was shoplifting, but I could not shake that green-apron-wearing old man.

  “What are you looking for?” he said for like the third time.

  “I don’t know!” I said.

  “You should always go to the store with a list.”

  Otto had a small selection of flowers. But they looked pretty beat up, and flowers had taken on a sinister vibe lately.

  “You got the munchies or something?” Otto said.

  I opened the freezer and picked the first two pints of ice cream I could find. Then I went to the juice section and got one of those green juices in case Ms. Shepherd wanted something healthy. And for a reason I will never be able to articulate, I got a bag of prewashed spinach. I assembled all my items on the conveyor belt. You would think that Otto would have been pleased I’d made a decision and was getting out of his store, but no.

  “You should get a steak to round out the meal.”

  “I don’t want a steak, thank you.”

  Otto rang up my order, giving me shit for not bringing my own bag. I paid and got out of there. My one small act of revolt was refusing to say goodbye.

  I almost never went into Lowland at night. No one does. Now I know why. It’s a ghost town. I had been to Ms. Shepherd’s house once, ages ago. She had to stay home, taking care of her mother, but she’d left her book bag at school. She sent me a message and asked me to bring it to her. She was nice that day. But she didn’t invite me inside or even let me past the front door. I gave her the bag and left.

  Her house is on the east side, maybe half a mile off Hyde Street. When I arrived on the front steps of 344 Crestview Drive, I stalled outside the front door, trying to decide what I should do. It seemed really stupid, going to a teacher’s house with ice cream and spinach right after her mother had died. I kept thinking of that day I saw her at the doctor’s office.

  Ms. Shepherd opened the door before I had a chance to make a run for it.

  “Norman, what are you doing here?”

  “I, uh…didn’t know if you needed anything,” I said, holding out the bag.

  Shepherd took the bag and invited me inside.

  “You got me ice cream and spinach!”

  She was smiling, but her eyes were watering.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just found out and I went into town and then I went into Otto’s.”

  “You went to Otto’s for me? You’re so sweet,” she said.

  “I wasn’t able to make a more thoughtful purchase, because he was such a jerk,” I said.

  “Oh, I hate Otto,” Ms. Shepherd said. “He’s always following me around, staring at my ass.”

  “He followed me too. You think he was staring at my ass?” I said.

  Ms. Shepherd laughed and unpacked the groceries, leaving the pints of ice cream on the counter.

  “Mint chip and chocolate fudge. Excellent choices,” she said.

  Shepherd asked me if I’d had dinner. I told her about the overcooked roast beef and she insisted on heating up a plate of lasagna that her next-door neighbor had dropped off. People kept bringing her food. She made it seem like I was doing her a favor by eating it. She drank something with gin while I devoured the lasagna. It was really good. We never have lasagna, even though a guy named Mario cooks our food. I started to ask Shepherd how she was doing and all of that stuff, but Shepherd switched subjects immediately, explaining that she wanted to talk about anything but her mother.

  Ms. Shepherd wanted to know if I’d asked Mel out yet. I told her I hadn’t, that I wasn’t even sure that Mel liked me. Shepherd asked if Mel had given me any signs. I don’t know about signs, but she gave me a spork as a gift. I didn’t tell Shepherd that the spork was a thank-you for helping her hack a pornographic website I helped create.

  “She gave you a spork?” Ms. Shepherd said. “Like the things you get at those fried-chicken places?”

  I keep it my backpack, so I showed it to Shepherd. She held the metal object up to the light and ran her fingers over the edges.

  “She made it in metal arts,” I said. “There’s some good craftsmanship in there.”

  “It’s a most unusual gi
ft,” said Shepherd, handing it back to me. “Is it practical?”

  “I like it as a piece of art,” I said. “But I think Mel really wants to bring it back into the mainstream and, honestly, I tried to eat with it the other day. The tines aren’t really long enough for a good grip on solid food. Ultimately, it’s inefficient as a fork, and who wants to be stabbed by a spoon?”

  “I don’t,” said Shepherd. “But here’s the good news. She likes you.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I said.

  Shepherd shook her head and went to the kitchen to make another drink.

  “You don’t make a spork for a guy you’re not into,” Shepherd said. “Oh, Norman, I wish you could see into the future. It would make everything you’ve been through worthwhile. But you’ll see one day. It’s kids like you who have a real life, a good life. The ones who thrive in high school, they’re not the ones who rule the world. Just wait a few years; that’s when your real life will begin. Promise me you won’t become a rich asshole.”

  “I promise.”

  We ate ice cream and then it was time for me to leave. Shepherd was tipsy by then. I thought it was kind of beautiful, the way her eyes were half open and the loose sway of her walk. I walked down the steep hill and looked up at Shepherd, who waved from the door. I hoped that she was free now, that her real life had begun.

  Ms. Witt

  Friday night, my mother, Greg, and I arrived together at Crestview Drive for the wake of Candace Woolsey, Claude’s mother. I asked Greg about the late Frank Woolsey. He recalled a warm and inclusive school leader who regarded every student as a member of his family.

  I searched the spacious room for familiar faces. Finn and Evelyn were sitting together on a divan, drinks in hand, whispering conspiratorially. Rupert was by the buffet, along with a few other faculty that I knew only by sight. It didn’t come as a surprise that neither Martha nor Keith scored an invite.

  “I brought ice,” I said.