Crow's Breath

by John Kinsella

  *

  You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that, Serge!

  She was being a pain in the arse. You have her on weekends, I have her most nights, year in year out.

  She can be a bit difficult, but you shouldn’t be so rough with her.

  You should hear what she says behind your back when you disagree with her in department meetings. She’s got your measure.

  Geez, you never let up.

  What are we going to do about the car?

  Well, it’s her damned car …

  True.

  Dull party. Pretentious crowd. How did you like their ‘Welcome to our country residence …’?

  Are we going to stay over?

  Yeah, we should see their prize bulls tomorrow. And we can get a lift back in that hideous Bentley.

  You know the Bentley man is rumoured to be thinking – or thinking of thinking – of donating towards a chair in our school …?

  Really? Interesting.

  So where did she go? I can’t see her lurking or sulking or whatever she does on her own.

  It’s bloody dark, I can tell you. Let’s head back in. She’ll show up.

  Maybe she got a lift out to meet the RAC?

  Maybe. What can they do about lost keys? If they start the car, how do you turn it off?

  How do you restart it if it, say, cuts out?

  No idea, Serge, no idea. You got a ciggie?

  Sure, mate, sure. Better go inside, though. It’s like tinder out here. You’ve got to think country when you’re in the country. It’s a different set of rules.

  Makes sense. Yeah, let’s go back in. It’s an unholy darkness.

  Yeah, and you’ve gotta be careful … your ichor levels must be pretty low after your brush with death. How’s the wound?

  Not bad. The lovely lady of the house used her tender touch and staunched it beautifully.

  You’re a dog, mate, a real dog. Come on, let’s go in and make the best of a bad day.

  FIVE BUCKS FOR GAS

  Painted Lady houses from Civil War profiteering, and marks of the Underground Railways that funnelled escaped slaves through to safety. These are the legacy of the mid-nineteenth-century heyday of the ‘most Republican town in America’. The cemetery of this Midwest town holds a famous comedian’s remains, and the Wright brothers made their historic flights within a few hours’ drive.

  The Australian family moved into a house that looked more magnificent than it was, although it was quite satisfactory. It was like a half-mansion on the main street, a street leafy in summer and solid-looking in winter. At Christmas many of its houses were overdecorated, with one of them so weighed down with Santas and sleighs and snowmen that its owner joked it would collapse under the weight some day. At the far end of the street was a Mennonite house, with no electricity connected, and its wood pile an act of precision and faith.

  Coming in from work, Alan walked past the porch swing, then backed up and sat down. Briefcase alongside him, he swung the chair gently and looked out over the street. It was warming up a little, though it was already dark. After a deadly winter, the appearance of buds on the trees down Main Street made him feel positive. The door opened and Louisa poked her head out.

  Come in out of the cold, she laughed.

  It’s quite nice, he said, moving over to give Louisa room. He patted the seat as a hint.

  No, it’s too cold, and the kids are at the table having tea. She said ‘tea’ in an Australian resistance to change. They’d always said ‘tea’ rather than ‘dinner’ when she was growing up and she clung to it. Family was a long way away and it made them feel close.

  Come on, he cajoled.

  She did, briefly, and he pawed her, but she pulled away. The neighbours, Al! He muttered something about ‘anodyne neighbours’ and followed her in.

  The knock on the door came late, well after the kids had gone to bed.

  Who on earth is that, Al?

  Wouldn’t have a clue. You stay here and I’ll go down and check it out.

  Alan opened the door tentatively, with visions of a handgun going off in his face. Theirs might be a quiet part of America, but it was America, and he hadn’t been there long enough for statistics or likelihood to settle him down. Instead, they yelled out at him from every newspaper and news website, convincing him he’d open the door late one night and that’d be it.

  Hello.

  Hi, can I help you?

  Sorry to bother you, sir, but our … my car’s broken down just around the corner and I’m wondering if you can lend me five bucks … five dollars for gas? I’ve got this can and the gas station is only a ten-minute walk and you’d be really helping me and my wife out.

  Sure … five … wait there.

  Louise was whisper-calling down the stairs, Who is it, Al, what do they want?

  Shush, he said, waving her back up the stairs, I’ll tell you in a minute. He found a ten and two twenties in the wallet he kept in the study and took it to the door. I’ve only got a ten … don’t worry about it.

  Thanks, sir … that’s very kind of you. I’ll return the money. I’ll bring back five tonight and the other five …

  Don’t worry, said Alan. We’re going to bed. Then he added, Would your wife like to wait inside? Immediately he regretted his foolish error. Maybe this was where it had always been heading. Then they’d be inside. But he’d left the door open and the security screen unlocked while getting the wallet and nothing had happened. The stranger was still standing in the same place, looking out across the streetlights and through the still-bare trees in what Alan supposed was the direction of his car. The porch swing hadn’t tempted the stranger. It swung ever so slightly but there was a gentle breeze. He knew the man hadn’t even given it a nudge. Handing the ten bucks over, Alan looked at the man without wanting to seem to do so. Very white, even in the shadows, and very thin. Medium height. Unshaven.

  The man thanked him, saying. No that’s okay, sir, my wife will wait with the car. As he was closing the door, Alan called, Please don’t worry about the money. Happy to be of help.

  The man shook his head, maybe said something, but Alan had closed the door and was already meeting Louise, who had stuck close to the wall and sidled down the stairs to conspire, to extract the truth, to alleviate her curiosity and fears. It was such a new country to them all.

  *

  Louise answered the door with her youngest in tow. Alan hadn’t come in from work and the two older kids were playing with new friends, a brother and a sister. That was a relief to Louise. She was planning to nip out with Jack and see one of her husband’s female colleagues who had invited her over for a cup of coffee. She’d bought Jack a DVD to watch while the adults chatted. But the knock was emphatic.

  As she opened the door a man stood back from the porch light into the shadows. It could have been to hide himself, or so as not to intimidate. She decided the latter and opened the door wide, the security screen still locked, Jack behind her ready to burst through but restrained by her arm. Yes? Can I help you?

  Is the man … your husband in, ma’am?

  The man? She hesitated, and studied him again. She could see him more clearly. A lanky man, she thought. He looked earnest. He was pushing his hair back. A tic, she wondered, then decided that was ungenerous. He was nervous. Can someone look honest, really? she asked herself.

  He’s caught up, she said a little too earnestly.

  Caught up?

  Busy.

  He’s not here, Mumma! said Jack.

  Feeling herself redden, she pushed Jack further behind her and stared through the screen. She said nothing, her arm tense with restraining Jack in case he said more.

  But the stranger spoke. Well, could you please give him this?

  He pulled something from his pocket and she stepped further back from the screen, slightly closing the door as she pivoted her weight on it. Then she saw it was money, a note … she leaned towards the gridwork of the screen and made out a ten.

 
For gas, he said.

  Gas?

  Jack piped up, Ten dollars, Mum! Can I have another DVD?

  Jack! Don’t take any notice of him, she said quickly. You know how kids are.

  The man half smiled at Jack, then looked back at Louise. Your husband lent me ten. I asked to borrow five but he gave me ten. I never asked for ten.

  Oh, she said. Yes, I remember. Don’t worry, it’s not necessary. My husband wouldn’t want … expect it back. Though she was almost sure of this lanky man, she didn’t want to unlock the screen door.

  I have to return it, he said. I wouldn’t want foreigners to think we don’t pay our debts in this country.

  Foreigners?

  Sorry, ma’am … but I noticed your husband’s accent … and yours. I mean, you’re not from around here.

  No, no, we’re not.

  What is it?

  She refused to get flustered. He’s just curious, she told herself.

  Jack chimed in, Australian! We’re Australians, Mister!

  Oh, Ohss-stray-lee-ann. We’re allies, he said. I am interested in military history. I’ve never met one before. You’re not that foreign.

  No, maybe not.

  Well, here’s the ten bucks … I only needed five. Always good to repay an ally – you never know when you might need to call on them again. That’s a joke, ma’am, he said, reaching out with the note to the screen.

  She unlocked the screen door and took the note faster than she should, then shut the door, trying to lock it without seeming to appear worried. Jack reached for the bill but she crammed it into her pocket. The man watched her fumbling with the lock.

  Okay, ma’am. Thanks again. And don’t forget, we always help an ally in need!

  Yes, thanks. We know that. Closing the door, falling slightly back and resting on the glass panes, she looked down at Jack.

  Why are you sweating, Mumma?

  *

  Louise and Jack are in their local Kroger. Jack is thirteen and big for his age. Louise has just picked him up from school. Louise is working for the city council as a legal adviser, and Alan has got tenure. Out in the Kroger parking lot, there is shouting and then a gunshot. People are ducking for cover. They watch a man running out of Java Hut.

  Louise and Jack are at the till, staring out through the plate glass. They are the only ones still standing, then suddenly Louise pushes Jack to the ground and drops down herself.

  She looks anxiously to Jack and he whispers coolly, in that almost mature voice of his, Mom, that was the man who came to our door.

  What?

  Didn’t you see? It was the man who brought money when I was a kid.

  You mean the five bucks for gas?

  It was ten dollars. He gave you a ten-dollar note.

  I remember. Keep quiet …

  The cashier calls, Sorry, folks, back to work. Got to move on. Hope there are no grazed knees!

  Louise lifts their basket and they both load the groceries onto the conveyor belt. Louise pays with her credit card, takes the receipt, lifts a large brown bag of groceries under each arm. Jack prises them off her. Mom, it’s okay, I can manage these.

  DIRTY SNOW

  In the wheatbelt hospital as he fought for breath, feeling the dry heat even through the too-cold air-conditioning, looking out of the window at the burnt paddocks – the result of a lightning strike the week before that brought fire to the edge of the hospital grounds before they had even had time to evacuate, though it burnt itself out there … looking out of the window as he fought for breath, he suddenly thought back … no, he was suddenly there, there in central Ohio, in the local Walmart parking lot, waiting for his wife to return to their car, staring at a massive pile of dirty snow, heaped up by loaders and pushed to the side of the parking lot. It had been a deadly winter and power had just returned to the town, the ice storm having decided him – decided them – to return to Australia, to return to the dry, the snowlessness.

  Their sons, twins, had just finished college the summer before, and would stay in America with their girlfriends, in their new jobs – of this he was sure. His wife was taking longer than usual to fully decide – she was usually so quick, so efficient. They’d always talked about life in a snowy place: the beauty of a northern winter. But after suffering the most recent storm, the near-death experience of freezing, their isolation from neighbours in the ‘farmhouse’, and the deaths from cold of the elderly reported throughout the region, the deadly and deflating reality of snow was before him. He wanted his wife and boys to understand: a filthy whiteness, a colonising lie, the oil and salt and grit scraped up with the snowflakes and compounded into a sick skyscraper that would have its day in the sun and then flood the drains.

  When they discussed ‘The Return’, they did so in the wan light of their last winter’s dirty snow. The discussions weren’t overnight affairs, but long drawn-out conversations punctuated by the ups and downs of their daily lives. He had to admit, he did, certainly, that a lot of the impetus was coming from deep within him. An interior place. The boys were unhappy their parents were leaving, and made it known in every way possible. They saw it as a betrayal; they spoke disturbingly in what could only be construed or deconstructed (a term overused in the house, his wife said) as patriotic. The boys had Americanised, had connected themselves to a soil they were born on during an earlier working visit by their parents. Despite spending their childhood in Australia, they felt that American soil was the substance beneath their feet in every way.

  He wouldn’t be pleased to leave his sons, though with age they were becoming more and more irritating. They ganged up on him with their mother, truth be told. And he didn’t like it. Hearing his wife, close to the twins in the living room, full of regret and lament at the prospect of living on different sides of the planet … the destabilisation, the confession … Augustinian in fury and decisiveness … that their best-laid plans had failed, he couldn’t help wondering if the dirty snow wasn’t a ploy, a reaction of the soil against a love of country he couldn’t believe.

  What was it they really wanted? The swish house provided by the college, the three cars (admittedly second-hand Dodge Neons), the access to college education for peppercorn fees. Recently, he had found a copy of an Ayn Rand novel – not on his wife’s desk, where it might be cited as research, but comfy on her cabinet by the bed. This had given him pause.

  He admitted that it was his decision. Really, he had decided there and then in the parking lot, and it had become an obsession and no dissensions would be tolerated. Your OCD is taking over, his wife had said. Just another example of cleanliness and tap checking. I can assure you, go on like this and there’ll be no doubt the lights have been turned well and truly off. But he pushed ahead, forged ahead, and forced the issue. Being on 0.5 contracts, they relied on each other to make it work. One leaves and the other has to leave, basically – can’t survive on half a wage. And what would it mean for the twins? He could see himself stuck there … with the twins in law school on the other side of the country, anyway … Years more of Walmart parking lots, dirty snow. Despite his decisiveness, his head was full of static, the snow of American cable television.

  *

  He’d been wandering out on the salt under a furious sun. An unhealthy obsession, he’d been told by his wife, his doctor, even their sons when they deigned to visit from their splendid lives as American lawyers. They had both married and divorced within two years and were looking to marry again. Unbelievably, they were marrying twins. Twin twin lawyers. They had specialised in immigration law, and were doing a raging business settling Australians into the Green Card Splendour of America. They were raging enthusiasts for everything American, including foreign policy. He wondered who they were. He was hallucinating.

  His wife now lived in Perth and taught at the old sandstone university. She had been ‘taken up’, and deservedly so. She’d done the hard college yards and was now getting a little research time to herself. She had a nice flat by the river and joined him a
t their country property every other weekend (or so). He had taken his super and bought a block of salt. A hundred infertile and devastated acres with a shed on it. He pottered about the shed, constantly doing it up. Cold in the winter, violently hot in the summer. He had no illusions about making more of it than there was. He noted that despite the scalds and ‘nothingness’, more animals and birds were found out on the salt than elsewhere in the district because he didn’t shoot or poison them. The salt was less dirty than it seemed.

  Other than to switch on the generator or turn a tap on the rainwater tank, there weren’t a lot of things to check. It was good for his OCD. But salt brought its own obsessions, and there were cleaner and dirtier parts of the block; and rain, while welcome, made the salt grow and then sullied it with the wash of alluvial dirt. It was a complex portrait of place. Place – his American college professor days ate at him, the deconstruction of dirty snow, the repercussions of language and constitution and …

  And at one time, he did have distress when he got it in his head that the US military, so cosy with its Australian counterpart, might use such ‘wasteland’ as a testing site for dirty weapons. This was kind of a joke, but his wife knew that it was kind of not a joke as well.

  *

  He made a friend in Al, a traditional owner, whose land it really was. Al didn’t drink but liked to watch him drink. And he did drink now. Cask wine. How the mighty … this, more than anything else, upset the twins when they their mother informed them. He was becoming an embarrassment. The cabernet sauvignon and fine rieslings had gone out the door. Casks abounded and aggregated. He read conspiracy books and paraphrased them to Al, who said they made perfect sense. Very drunk one night, he’d said to Al, I don’t like you in order to legitimise my presence. Al called him a dickhead and laughed so much he vomited through his nose. Al, on recovering, added, Bloke, you should get yourself a big aerial and a television and watch the footy. He understood what Al was getting at, but started railing against the brutalities of gridiron.