Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  A girl, on stage. Tara, age 12. Daughter of Mitch and Patsy Boatwright. She was wearing donkey ears. It was Christmas 1999, at the Faith Renewal Church of Brunswick, Georgia. The girl was kind of skinny but what intense eyes!

  Tara. He loved the Deep-South cheesiness of the name.

  She’d be twenty-one or twenty-two now.

  tara boatwright facebook

  But Facebook’s Tara Boatwright was an old crone from Perth, Australia.

  Maybe, because this was a small town in Georgia, his Tara hadn’t gotten around to Facebook yet?

  tara brunswick ga myspace

  And that was it.

  She was now twenty-one. Her handle was johnny’s girl — the page was backdropped with a sprawling Johnny Depp. He went right away to her pics. Those eyes again. Oh my god. Curious, large, innocent. Though not too innocent. In one beach pic she was turning to look back at the camera and you saw that not only did she have a devastating ass; she also knew what you were looking at. Another shot had her wearing smudged mascara and a black choker and black bangs. Severity in her jawline. She was representing danger. God. Will you fight me, Tara? He grinned. I imagine you will.

  Shot of a rock concert with some goth girlfriend: Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes. in Savannah. With Clio! Favorite band evvvuh!

  Another shot, also with Clio and some other girls: CRUNK POSSE!

  Shot of her little brother Jase.

  Various boys. James, a dull boy, and Wynn, equally dull. No, maybe Wynn was one degree cooler, shaggier. James was posing woodenly in front of a church bus.

  Various shots of other relatives and friends.

  Two somewhat strained poses with her father, Mitch. Only one with her mom.

  But more than a dozen pics of her with her grandmother Nell.

  The two of them laughing, waltzing arm in arm: Me and Nell in New Orleans. Then they were in Tunica, Miss, before a row of one-arm bandits. Looked like Tara was only fourteen or so — had Nell sneaked her into a gambling joint?

  I LOVE:

  John Christopher Depp, Jr.

  Nell

  Biking to the beach

  Our Lord!

  Mom and Dad and Jase

  Clio

  BarbeQue shrimp at Southern Soul

  Golden retrievers

  Frida Kahlo

  Cousin Alfred

  Being scared

  MOVIES: Anything with JCD, Jr!

  Also Donnie Darko, Kill Bill 1 & 2, The Passion of the Christ, Ghost World.

  Hot hot summer days

  Had she really written Being scared?

  Everything I need, thought Shaw, is right here. All that the girl cares about, all she prizes. Into the basilica of Tara comes the beast. The pillager, the barbarian.

  He looked down and saw that his hand was shaking. He pressed his palm into the corner of his desk, to steady it. But it kept shaking.

  Why? Because I’m terrified? Probably. Yes. But so what? I can’t live the way I’ve been living, not another hour. Not as a gonking field mouse for Dayton Techworld. Not another second.

  BOOKS: The Bell Jar. The Wind in the Willows. The Monkey’s Paw, by W. W. Jacobs.

  Being scared.

  GOAL IN LIFE: Get out of the Wick.

  The Wick? What could the Wick be? And why be so intent on escaping it?

  Could “the Wick” represent time going up in smoke? The grindingness, the ephemerality, of day-to-day life?

  Oh. Wait. Of course. Bruns-wick.

  The tea was sweet and dilute; it slapped against his gullet and was about the best thing he’d ever tasted. The feeling in his limbs was cool, stony. He brushed his fingers against his thigh and his own touch was distant to him. I believe if she crosses me I’ll be happy to let her feel some of what I’m capable of.

  In her JOURNAL, in an entry from a week ago, she’d written:

  Worrying last night and once I start worrying I can’t stop and cant sleep. is everything in the world about money? But Nell never had money &she’s so happy. I want to marry edward scissorhands. I want to BE edward scissorhands.

  She also wrote, and this came as a shock to him:

  Do not mess with the people I love because I will CUT you and no one will ever fix you again, I’m serious.

  He consulted 411.com. There was a Nell Boatwright on Egmont Street, and a Mitchell Boatwright at 38 Oriole Road.

  On Birdseye, there were aerial views of Brunswick that seemed to have been made on a day as sepulchral as this one. Scattering of cars on Rt. 341, and on Gloucester Street, but most of the streets were completely empty, lifeless, not a soul in sight.

  38 oriole road.

  Birdseye took him in a great arc over Brunswick, the chemical plant, the railroad tracks, the hospital, and then softly downward. Descending as though on spidersilk into a neighborhood of middling prosperity. Till he was dangling just above the Boatwrights’ home. A brick ranch house, no more or less soulless than the houses to either side. The oval blob in back might be a kiddie pool. One spindly tree out front. Looked like a hedge on one side; on the other a wooden fence.

  He was so juiced he had to get up and walk around.

  He came back to the laptop. Look at that, he thought. That house — his workshop. Jesus. Could he really do this? He had to. He had to live. He couldn’t not-live any longer. He knew that if there were any resistance, it would have to be crushed mercilessly. If they challenged him, he’d have to kill their loved ones while they watched. And how would he withstand their looks of horror? By tapping into a vein of steadfastness and wisdom. By knowing what he needed. What he needed was beauty. A life of pure beauty, nothing less. He’d pay any price for it.

  OK.

  I’m ready then.

  But Romeo? What about Romeo?

  He turned and looked at Romeo asleep on the bed. Whimpering in his dreams like a wounded dog.

  Tara, the moment she shut her car door, heard a whoop from inside the bungalow and cats meowing in concert, and then Nell came out to the front porch to greet her. “Well hello, ba-by!” Her voice was hoarse, crackerish, high. She had a powerful embrace. She held Tara and they rocked back and forth. Tara always thought her grandmother’s hair smelled like popcorn.

  Nell dragged her into the kitchen to show off her new toy: a singing buck’s head. It had a six-point rack and it sang “Killing Me Softly with His Song.” It kept rolling its eyes toward a trophy fish on the opposite wall — which sang back, “Hook, Line and Sinker.” Nell cackled wildly.

  Then she and Tara sat at the kitchen table and ate crabcakes and drank Yellowtail shiraz. The cats writhed at their feet. Tara thought of the jackpot, and waves of bliss washed over her.

  She asked Nell how school had gone today. Nell was sixty-two and semi-retired, but she still taught a summer school program called Great Expectations, for kids who had no expectations at all. Nell said, “Well, Jeremiah tells me he’s been suspended. I say, ‘Why, Jeremiah?’ He says, ‘ ’Cause I rose up against Mr. Briggs.’ I mean, he’s but thirteen years old, but he’s about as big as Mr. Briggs already. Twice my size. I taught his father. I taught his grandfather. Both of ’em hooligans, and Jeremiah’s a hooligan too. I say, ‘Jeremiah, you better not rise up against me.’ He says, ‘I ain’t never gonna rise up against you, Miz Boatwright. I’m scared a you.’ ”

  She howled with pleasure.

  They finished their crabcakes and cleaned the table; and then played pot-limit seven stud —their custom on Thursday afternoons.

  They each had private sacks filled with coins and currency of various countries. The Romanian ten-bani coin was worth a quarter. That old Chinese coin with the hole in the middle was valued at fifty cents. An ersatz Confederate dollar was worth a dime. But the game wasn’t all whimsy: if Nell wanted to bully you, she’d throw down legal tender — a five or a ten or even a twenty — and you’d better stand up to her. You were permitted to fold from prudence but never timorousness. If she caught you shrinking from a fight, she’d turn surly, withering;
she’d send you home early.

  But so long as you fought back you couldn’t lose. Even if Tara dropped sixty or a hundred dollars in a single evening, it would all be returned to her. When she opened her next tuition bill, she’d find it magically marked PAID; and next time she came to Nell’s she’d find her sack was brimful again, with new and ever odder coins.

  This afternoon, Grandmother had a rampage of good fortune. Tara was dealt a straight, but Nell topped it with a full house. Tara picked up a set, but Nell beat it with another boat. Just one of those days. Nell was giddy. She tsked, “Poor poor unlucky child.”

  When she dealt, the cards flew from her fingers.

  The cat called Horace Jackal jumped up on the table, and she swept him off with an outstretched arm, without looking. She shouted at Tara. “Bet! It’s your turn! Bet or get out!”

  In one hand, all four of Nell’s up-cards were hearts. After she took the pot, she showed her hole cards: all hearts. Seven of them. “Blood everywhere!” She was already tipsy. “Reminds me of my prom night.”

  “What happened on your prom night, Grandmother dear?”

  Nell shuffled and said, “Oh, well, my date and I, we went to his car to make out? And I was so drunk, and it was so dark in his backseat, I didn’t realize my period had started.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Oh my God is right. We open the door and the light comes on, and it was like the Manson family had been in there. It was like helter-skelter in there. It was the single most mortifying moment of my life.”

  She shuffled again and again. She held her tongue between her teeth, like a child.

  Tara asked, “Who was your date? Was that Grandpa Bill?”

  “Nah, I hadn’t even met Bill then. Just some local yokel.” She dealt. But she was still lost in that memory. “Actually, you know the guy. You know who it was? — it was Burris Jones.”

  Said Tara, “The old cop? The one who goes to our church?”

  “Believe I’m gonna bet on this girlie here,” said Nell, drawing attention to the queen she’d dealt herself. “I’ll start this massacree at only fifty cents, to be kind.”

  “You dated Deppity Dawg?”

  “I did.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Oh, Lord. Boring?”

  “Did the blood gross him out?”

  “Not really. He was always crazy about me. You in?”

  Tara called the fifty cents. More cards fell, and the pot grew, and soon Tara was showing the King, Queen, Jack, ten. In truth she had no straight, since her hole cards were trash. But the hand looked pretty, and the shiraz and the jackpot and Nell’s stories were making her lightheaded, and she decided to make a charge.

  She bet the full value of the pot: twelve dollars.

  She was not a bluffer. Against Nell, bluffing was suicide. But she thought, who knows, I pulled it off with Clio. Maybe the ability to bluff is just another gift of the jackpot.

  Nell said, “Look at me, child.”

  Meet her gaze. That was all she needed to do. Same as with Clio. Well no, much harder than with Clio but still, she could do it. Just hold her gaze without wavering and remember: the jackpot makes everything possible.

  But her grandmother’s gaze was too searching.

  Nell could be foolish; she could be petulant, sullen. Her taste was all over the place: she loved equally the Texaco Saturday opera and her singing fish from the Dollar store. She’d had affairs during her marriages; she drank too much; her house was unkempt. She could be cool to the people she loved, sometimes even to Tara. But Tara thought her divine, and believed her to possess supernatural powers of wit and clairvoyance. And now it was impossible to endure her gaze. Tara let her eyes flicker away for an instant, and though she swung them right back, she knew it was too late. Nell was already calling her bet. Tara quietly folded. Nell raked in the pot. “I’ll catch you every time; don’t you know that?”

  Tara laughed. “I momentarily forgot.”

  “Like right now I can tell you’ve got some good news you’re not telling me. I feel it coming off you. Why aren’t you telling your grandmother your news?”

  “I’m that easy to read?”

  Nell nodded. “You are when you’re sittin there grinnin like a jack-o’-lantern. You in love?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Something about school?”

  “No.”

  “Well, what then?”

  Tara smiled shyly. “You want to guess?”

  “No I don’t,” said Nell. “There’s no profit in guessin. If I guess right, you’ll be disappointed ’cause you didn’t get to tell me your secret. And suppose I guess wrong, but my guess is better than the truth? That’ll make us both feel rotten.”

  “Your guess won’t be better than the truth.”

  “Child. Tell me.”

  “Really? Just like that?”

  Tara couldn’t recollect a more pleasurable moment in her life, and she hated to surrender it. But Nell was losing patience. “OK,” said Tara. “But don’t ask me if I’m kidding. I’m not kidding. Don’t ask if there’s been a mistake. There’s no mistake.”

  “Wow. This is a really big thing?”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Well then get to it.”

  “OK. Soon.”

  She laughed, and picked up her glass, and walked out of the kitchen. She went to Nell’s back porch. She lay down on the swinging bed, at an angle, relaxing into the old pillows. The porch was screened in, and a vine of Lady Banks’ yellow roses was climbing up the pilasters. Tara called, “Come on, Grandmother, come out here and I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m sick of fooling with you!”

  “I promise I’ll tell you!”

  She’d been waiting for this all day. Not just to be here at Nell’s — but to be on this back porch, on this bed, at this particular angle, with the mound of fancy cushions rising behind her, with the toes of one foot just touching the floor, so that now and then she could push off and keep the bed rocking, while she looked out at Nell’s garden, the crepe myrtle tree and the chili peppers and the clawfoot bathtub, the mock-banana fragrantly in bloom, the roses clinging to the screen. She took a sip of shiraz. She called again, “I promise!”

  Nell came shuffling in. Took the rocker without a word.

  Outside, a breeze silvered the leaves on the crepe myrtle.

  Tara said, “OK.” She drew a breath. “We won the jackpot.”

  “The jackpot?”

  “The Max-a-Million. I mean Dad won it.”

  “You kidding?”

  “You promised you wouldn’t ask that.”

  “There’s been some mistake?”

  “Grandmother.”

  “How much did you win? A lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “A hundred dollars?”

  “More.”

  “A thousand dollars?”

  “Little more.”

  “A hundred thousand?”

  “Even a little bit more.”

  “Stop it,” said Nell. “You can’t lie to me.”

  “I know I can’t.”

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  Nell essayed, in a small birdlike voice, “You won a million dollars?”

  “Higher.”

  “Sweet baby Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me, child!”

  “OK. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “We won three hundred and eighteen million dollars.”

  “Good. God.”

  “And on the way over here? They announced it on the radio. I mean, not about us, but that the ticket was sold out of Brunswick. And they said there’s only gonna be one winner. So it’s not even split. It’s all ours. But I mean we’re going to take the lump sum, so I guess it’ll be less. And then taxes, you know. What we’ll wind up with is only like a hundred and twenty-something million.”

  “A hundred and twenty something. Million.”

 
; “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re really trying to tell me y’all are gonna take home a hundred and twenty million dollars?”

  “Or so.”

  “Mitch don’t have to cart toner all over the county no more?”

  Tara shook her head.

  “And you can get your degree?”

  “If I want. Maybe I’ll just buy my own college.”

  “And I can just strut around like I’m Queen Marie of Romania?”

  “You do that anyway, Grandmother dear.”

  They laughed so hard that Nell sprayed her wine, and Horace Jackal disappeared.

  Nell noticed that her own wine glass was empty.

  “Damn, we got to toast this. I’ll get some more.”

  Said Tara, “I can’t drink any more. I got to drive home.”

  “No, you’ll drink a toast with old Nell. I’ll call Willie; he’ll drive you home. Wait.”

  She weaved back to the kitchen.

  Tara lay there and her heart was weak from too much joy. Too much! Everything was hers! Of course it wasn’t really her money and if it were up to Mom she wouldn’t see a nickel — but she knew Dad would make sure she had anything she wanted. Travel. New York for wild nights with Clio. The Galapagos for a summer trip with Nell. And she could go to some great school, maybe Duke. And clothes. Maybe one or two dresses. Like those Marc Jacobs’ in Marie Claire. And she didn’t care about shoes but she wouldn’t mind owning one pair of great heels. Stop, she thought. But if she was going to Duke she’d absolutely need a car to get around in. Not a falling-apart Geo. Maybe a convertible BMW though it didn’t need to be brand new. Though really, why not brand new? And a nice apartment of her own. And a garden. With a clawfooted bathtub!

  As she lay there the tumbling of all these things through her thoughts — along with the swinging of the bed, and the heat and the wine, became dizzying. When Nell came back with a new bottle, she must have sensed something was wrong because she squinted and said, “Honey, you OK?”

  “Oh. Uh-huh.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m great. I’m just, maybe a little… I don’t know.”

  Nell refilled Tara’s glass, then her own. And asked, “You’re not scared, are you?”