The Swallows

by Lisa Lutz

  “Ice,” Claude said. “How incredibly thoughtful. People should bring ice more often.” She accepted the cold bag and held it like a small child.

  I introduced my mother, and Claude pointed out the table with drinks and refreshments. I followed her into the kitchen and helped her refill ice buckets and gather more bottles of booze. Claude was tipsy but in good spirits. She looked serene, in fact—a word I never would have applied to her before.

  Hugh the bartender arrived. He and Claude exchanged a familiar glance. I left them alone and wandered the mid-century living room. A few guests introduced themselves as we plucked food from the deli spread. Most were neighbors. None of them seemed to know the deceased all that well.

  Finn walked over to me as I was serving myself a mysterious cocktail from a pitcher. I wasn’t trying to avoid him. I had come to accept that you can’t really avoid people at Stonebridge.

  “Hey,” Finn said.

  “Hey,” I said. “Claude seems okay, I think. Is she?”

  “Not sure. She never talked about it much, but it was a difficult relationship, and the final years were hard on her. Happy belated birthday, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thank you for entertaining my father the other night.”

  Finn half-smiled, sank his hands into his pockets, and looked at the floor.

  “When you invited me over, I thought you were inviting me over,” he said.

  “Did you?”

  “It wasn’t an absurd conclusion, since you sent the text,” Finn said, glancing up.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think about that.”

  “It’s okay,” Finn said. “Sometimes you want to know what you’re walking into.”

  He made a good point.

  “Hope he wasn’t too obnoxious,” I said.

  “Nah, he was fine,” Finn said.

  Maybe Finn was a good liar after all.

  “Dad said you were an excellent drinking companion.”

  I left Finn with an apology and roamed the room, looking for something to tell me about the woman who had just died. There were a few photos on the mantel but none of Candace. I spotted a few pictures of adolescent Claude and her stepfather, but nothing more recent. As I walked down the hallway to the bathroom, I noticed that the white walls had squares of bright paint, marking the recent removal of pictures.

  Other than a toast made by a neighbor, it was a wake without a nod to the dead. There were no speeches or stories about Claude’s mother. Not a single tear was shed that evening. I heard that Mrs. Woolsey had been cremated immediately, but no urn was on display. It felt more like a muted retirement party than a wake.

  Claude was sloshed by the time we left. A statement of fact without any judgment. Everyone grieves in their own way, I reminded myself when I saw her retreat with the bartender to one of the bedrooms, where they remained for at least an hour.

  I thought maybe I was the only one who’d noticed Claude’s griefless behavior. But as we were leaving, my mother took my arm and whispered, “When I die, you better cry like the Danube. And then you get over it and move on.”

  Gemma Russo

  “Freedom smells like a keg of cold beer,” Adam Westlake said, as the Ten gathered in the woods around the metallic drum of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  I’m not sure you can actually smell the beer when the keg hasn’t yet been tapped, but there was something in the air that Friday before break. It felt like the end of a really long family dinner, where everyone is sick of one another and yet they can’t quite bring themselves to leave.

  When a holiday approached, Stonebridge students liked to play a game of chicken, waiting until the last second to decide whether to stay and be orphans over the break or go home. The decision was always based on the quality of the other orphans. When Emelia heard that Nick might stay, she canceled her trip home and contrived a story about her parents opting for a last-minute holiday to Copenhagen. Then, when Nick’s itinerary changed, Emelia’s parents suddenly abandoned their Oslo vacation and Emelia returned home to Manhattan, like she always does. Not one person called her on the discrepancy.

  The only game I played was keeping my plans as secret as possible, because not having a home to go to on Thanksgiving isn’t something you advertise. But I felt different about it this year, when I heard Ms. Witt was staying on and that Mel, deep in her Darkroom obsession, couldn’t bring herself to go home until her work was done.

  Norman was also on the orphan list, which I found odd, since I’d heard his mother lived in nearby Dover. I decided my chat with him could wait until the school cleared out. He might speak more freely if no one was around. There were also a few freshmen, sophomores, and juniors lingering behind, to whom I would pay absolutely no attention. Linny was going home to Maine. She asked me to feed her fish in her absence. I didn’t even know she had a fish.

  The Ten and their minions were having one final party before the student body dispersed across the globe. It was my hope that I’d have Dulcinea cracked wide open before anyone returned.

  Adam had reserved Milton Studio because it was close to a good spot for the keg. Mick made the rounds, patting guys on the back and kissing girls’ hands. Adam played attentive host, always asking if someone needed to have their drink refreshed. Although he never refreshed it himself. Nick smoked and practiced furrowing his brow. Hannah did the splits against the wall. Rachel Rose kept scribbling shit down in her notebook. Jack scratched himself, everywhere, with utter abandon. And Jonah and I delivered brilliant performances of two very casual acquaintances.

  It was a crap party. Everyone started to feel like fellow inmates rather than schoolmates. The room had thinned out by eleven. I don’t know why I stayed. Maybe I was hoping that one of the drunk dickheads would accidentally spill some intel. When Gabe turned popping a zit into a performance piece, Mick decided we’d all had enough.

  He flicked the lights on and off and said, “I’m calling it. Time of death: twelve-fourteen A.M. See you all after the break.”

  Tegan was back in our dorm already. I found her on her bed, laptop splayed, her earbuds drowning out her aggressive stabs at the keyboard. I figured she was messaging one of her second-tier friends. She still, however, managed to take note of my arrival.

  “Did I miss anything?” she said.

  “Nope. Where’s Em?”

  “With Nick,” Tegan said.

  “Of course,” I said. “Remind me how long it’s been?”

  “If you count their first hookup,” said Tegan, “and Em can’t decide if she should count it or not, almost seven weeks.”

  Unlike some of her friends, Emelia doesn’t offer blowjobs to members of the editorial board. She believes in romance and wants to fall in love. She doesn’t kiss on the first date and has claimed that she waits three months before intercourse. But Nick was playing to win and Emelia couldn’t see that he was playing at all.

  “Seven weeks,” I said. “So still at least five more to go?”

  “I think Em’s reassessing her timeline,” Tegan said. “No one waits even two months anymore, let alone three.”

  Shit.

  “I think I left something in the…uh—”

  I couldn’t be bothered finishing the lie. I had to at least try to throw a wrench in Emelia’s date with Nick. I needed her to wait until after the break. By then we’d have the editors in the crosshairs.

  I left Woolf Hall and followed the tree line back to Milton Studio, Nick’s preferred hookup location. On the way, I heard hushed voices near the keg. I turned and walked deeper into the woods, following the voices. As I ducked behind a tree, I saw an odd group huddled around the barrel and soon realized that it was the dean, Ms. Witt, Coach Keith, and a woman I’d never seen before.

  “I feel a little guilty,” said Witt. “But Mick and Adam were just guzzling beer right in front
of me. They weren’t even pretending to drink coffee.”

  “We have to crack down every now and again,” said the dean.

  Keith tested the weight of the keg. “You want me to pour it out?”

  “That would be the responsible thing to do,” said the dean.

  “That is very wasteful,” said the other woman. She had a slight accent.

  The other woman—older than Witt, but not old-old—picked up a plastic cup and filled it. I think it was the only cup left. She took a long sip and passed the cup to Keith, who drank and passed it to Witt. The woman with the accent refilled the cup and offered it to the dean. He hesitated and then took the cup.

  The strange woman said, “Don’t be pussy, Gregory. Drink.”

  I didn’t know who she was, but I wanted to be her when I grew up.

  Then I remembered why I’d gone out again. I thought maybe I could rescue Emelia before she boned New Nick. It was a stupid idea, I know. It’s not like I had a plan for what I’d do when I reached them. I checked Milton Studio. It was empty. I headed over to Dick House, where the slick Brit had nabbed a single on the sophomore floor. There’s always an extra room kept as a reserve in case of a roommate blowout that can’t be managed or a new student who requires the privacy. There was once this kid with a deviated septum. On a summer night, you could hear him snore all the way to the north woods, some said.

  I climbed the stairs to the third floor and strolled down the hallway. I paused outside Nick’s door, listening. Then I heard the whine of door hinges behind me. I started to walk away, since I had no idea who was behind me. Cock-blockers are frowned upon at Stonebridge. I couldn’t risk being cut from the Ten.

  As I tried to make a quick escape, a male voice said my name. It was late and he was quiet enough to avoid waking the sleeping gents, so I figured it was plausible to pretend I didn’t hear him.

  I kept walking until I reached the north stairwell and opened the fire door. I heard the quick patter of feet behind me just before the door slammed shut. I remember being scared, which didn’t make sense. I jogged up the stairs, thinking that wasn’t the obvious move and that I’d elude my tail. I heard my name again. I recognized the voice.

  Adam Westlake. That time I couldn’t pretend.

  “Where’s the fire?” Adam said.

  I stood on the landing and looked down at him.

  “Hey, Adam. Didn’t hear you.”

  “Where are you going? Got some freshman on the fourth you need to rough up?”

  “I thought maybe the rooftop would be clear. I wanted to look at the stars.”

  “Great idea,” said Adam, as he climbed the stairs.

  I was committed now. It was a good lie. Dick House has roof access because someone paid for safety fencing after a student tried to fly sometime in the eighties.

  “Can’t sleep either?” Adam said.

  “No,” I said. “Tegan snores.”

  “Yeah,” he said, like he had secondhand information on the subject. Maybe firsthand.

  Adam gallantly opened the door for me. We stepped out into the cold air and took seats in the cheap lounge chairs they leave up there. I looked at the sky; it was an unusually clear night. There was a picture-perfect crescent moon surrounded by gleaming stars. It would have been lovely if Adam hadn’t been there.

  “I should come up here more often,” he said. “This is nice.”

  Adam leaned over and bumped my shoulder like we were old, old friends.

  “We don’t talk anymore. Why is that?” he said.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “When you first came to Stonebridge, man, I thought we were going to be great pals. And then…did we grow apart, like an old married couple?”

  “Maybe we don’t have enough in common. You like khaki; I don’t like khaki,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” said Adam. “The problem is we have too much in common.”

  “No. I don’t think so,” I said, getting to my feet.

  I was tired of playing his game, pretending I was his friend, his ally, his secret-keeper. That time Adam thought I saw something, I saw nothing. But later, I saw everything and I kept quiet about it. Maybe he wouldn’t be acting so smug if I reminded him of his secret.

  “Leaving so soon?” Adam said.

  “Got to go; wouldn’t want to be caught roaming Dick House after hours.”

  “I better get some shut-eye myself,” Adam said, following me to the door of the stairwell.

  I jogged down a flight ahead of him and said, “Later, Adam.”

  Before I hit the second landing, Adam said, “Hey, Gemma?”

  I should have kept walking. But I didn’t. I looked back.

  “I was glad to see you threw your hat into the ring,” Adam said.

  He was practically radioactive with self-satisfaction.

  “What ring?”

  “You know, Gemma.”

  “I don’t.”

  He whispered: “Dulcinea.”

  I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, my blood on fire. It took everything I had to keep my shell from cracking. I didn’t move; I said nothing. I let one eyebrow slide up, just enough to express confusion.

  “Your scores were excellent, by the way,” he said.

  “Good night, Adam,” I said.

  I felt like one of those bomb technicians who’s called in to deactivate an explosive device on countdown mode. Only the device was me. I walked down the steps slowly and carefully as I heard Adam call out from above.

  “Congratulations.”

  PART III

  The Army

  It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it.

  —General Douglas MacArthur

  Ms. Witt

  Memory and reality are like cousins. Best-case scenario, they’re first cousins. But sometimes they’re the kind of cousins who can marry.

  Thanksgiving at Stonebridge might be my one solidly good memory of my short tenure there. It’s telling that my fondest recollection occurred when most of the student body was absent.

  In retrospect, it was the calm before the category 5 hurricane.

  It was the last week before everything went to shit.

  * * *

  —

  From the south-facing window of my new apartment, I watched the students file through Fleming Square, limping sideways with the weight of their suitcases. Some students were accompanied by parents, a few met cabs at the security gate, and others wheeled their own luggage off to destinations unknown.

  I remember waiting around on Saturday morning for my mother to spontaneously arrive and force me on a three-to-eight-mile hike. By noon she hadn’t shown up, so I got dressed and took a leisurely stroll around the deserted campus.

  When I reached the entry to the trail system, I stood at the three-pronged fork, trying to decide between Austen, Burns, or Hardy Trail. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go for a hike. As I attempted to decipher my own inclination, I heard the rumble of Rupert’s ATV. Before I knew it, he was idling next to me.

  “Alex, Alex.”

  “Hi, Rupert.”

  I hadn’t seen Rupert since I’d discovered his secret identity.

  “Good to see you, Ms. Witt. I heard you got flooded out of the cottage.”

  “I did. But I’m settled now,” I said.

  I remember looking at the trailheads, trying to decide whether I wanted to go for a hike at all.

  “You look lost, Ms. Witt,” he said.

  “I’m not lost. I just can’t decide which trail to take.”

  “Indecision plagues all of us. What do I want, what do I need, what do I hope for out of life?”

  “Right,” I said. “Something like that.”

  Rupert nodded knowingly and said, “Which trail is speaking to
you?”

  I considered the three trailheads.

  “None of them,” I said.

  Then I felt sad and aimless.

  “What do you want to do right this second?” Rupert said. “Don’t think. Just answer the question.”

  “I want to take that thing for a spin,” I said, pointing at his ATV.

  Rupert tilted his head, considered the request, and promptly dismounted.

  “Hop on,” he said.

  I climbed on board. Rupert showed me the throttle and the brake and made sure the belt buckle was secure.

  “I got three rules for you. You take the Burns loop, stay on the dirt the whole time, and never go more than twenty miles an hour. Got it? Got it?”

  “I got it,” I said, thrumming the engine.

  I hit the gas pedal. It was sensitive. The vehicle lurched and slowed until I got the feel for it. The terrain was bumpy and disorienting and far more satisfying than any predictably thrilling ride at an amusement park. I followed the loop around once and circled back to Rupert. One more time, I asked with pleading eyes and a raised index finger. I saw Keith jog over to Rupert. They were talking during my second loop. Then Keith jogged away.

  When I closed the second loop, Rupert was giving me one of those two-armed waves off the road like you see at NASCAR events. This time I slowed without giving myself whiplash. Rupert leaned over the gears and turned off the engine.

  “Coach Keith just gave me a talking-to. He thinks you should be wearing a helmet.”

  “He should mind his own business,” I said.

  “Nah. He made a good point. I have a nephew. Many years ago he fell off his bike, got a head injury. Every time I see him he keeps talking about the Lynn Swann catch in Super Bowl Ten. I’m glad he gets to live a great moment over and over, but that’s his only moment. You’re young. You should have many moments. Now, an old fart like me, I like feeling the wind in my hair.”

  I climbed off the ATV and thanked Rupert for the experience.

  “My pleasure,” Rupert said. “Enjoy the good weather while it lasts. Snow will be here before you know it. Like, maybe this weekend.”