Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  “I need a drink,” she said. “Buy me a drink?”

  “OK.”

  She checked the time. “Everything’s closed, but we could go to Pigeon’s out in Sterling. They’ll let us in. That’s where we should go.”

  However, they wound up not going there.

  When they stepped out to the Huddle House parking lot, there was all that heat again, and next door were the remains of a pickup truck immersed in kudzu, and out of the night came a deep-throated train whistle. It was sort of like the South as Romeo had imagined it, except for the Huddle House itself, which looked to him like any box-shaped interstate diner anywhere.

  Wynetta asked him, “Where you staying?”

  “Blackbeard’s Motel.”

  “That’s a real shithole, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “But all of Brunswick is a shithole, to tell you the truth. I got a trailer out on Balm-of-Gilead, if you want to stay there. Really it’s my Dad’s trailer, but he’s in the hospital.”

  “What’s he there for?”

  “Congestive heart failure.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah.”

  Romeo supposed that this trailer would turn out to be some kind of redneck nightmare, with cockroaches as big as owls. Still, it’d be a lot more private than Blackbeard’s Motel, and it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at it. So he got in the Tercel and followed her. She drove fast and made a lot of turns, and it was a challenge to keep up — but also sort of relaxing, like a low-level video game. He let her lead him along, this way and that, no questions. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d led him clear out of Georgia.

  He wondered why he’d ever said yes to Shaw.

  What’s the matter with me? Shaw says I need you — I say, OK, at your service. Why don’t I tell him I can’t do this?

  Wynetta led him through a neighborhood where everything was built out of cinder-block. All the houses looked like outbuildings at a sewage-treatment plant. The churches also. He kept following Wynetta as best he could, and he remembered the first time Shaw had ever said to him, “I need your help.”

  They had been twelve years old. Shaw had come to Romeo’s house — a visit that Romeo thought miraculous. And they were up in Romeo’s room, and when Shaw said, “I need your help,” he said it in a voice as throaty and resonant as an adult’s, and that little lopsided smile went crawling up his face, and Romeo had been dazzled, in awe, and had no chance.

  OK, he thought. But now I should tell him: “I’m not good at this. I love you but get someone else.” Why not say that? What is the matter with me?

  Wynetta took another turn. The street sign said Balm-of-Gilead Road. Romeo turned after her, and in a few minutes they came to the trailer. He pulled up behind her. They went in together. To his surprise, the place turned out to be clean and shipshape. Wooden models of shrimp boats, and on the walls were neatly framed photos of little Wynetta and her mother. Romeo said, “So that’s your mom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Dead.”

  She gave him a Pabst Blue Ribbon; she turned on the TV and ate a can of Vienna sausages while they watched one of those famous Christy Brinkley infomercials. Then she came on to him. It wasn’t so bad. At least she was brisk and matter-of-fact about it, and although drunk, not sloppy. Once, with her weight splayed out over him and his face wedged between her great white breasts, he imagined himself stuck between the Titanic and the Iceberg, and this almost made him forget where he was.

  FRIDAY

  Tara scrambled eggs for the bastard, since that’s what he said he wanted. She cracked the shells and whisked the yolks. In her slippers she shuffled to the fridge, and as she got out the bacon, and milk and butter, she wondered what she might poison him with. There was a can of Drano under the sink. But he’d smell that, wouldn’t he? Also some kind of roach thing: Combat: wasn’t that like a nerve poison? Wouldn’t it be odorless and tasteless? She conjured an image of little scorched-earth glittering crystals. How much would it take? How much, you bastard, to tie your spine into knots? Maybe I could mask the taste with cayenne sauce? Or maybe not. She had no idea. And anyway, even if he did eat it, would it really kill him? Maybe it’d just make him sick and rabid and more dangerous than he already was.

  And suppose he died — would that even help us? His friend Romeo would still be out there.

  And Romeo would kill Nell. And after that…

  But who cares about after that?

  I can’t afford, she told herself, this anger. Keep my head clear. Scramble his eggs and pour the OJ and watch every move he makes, every gesture. Find out who he is. Maybe I can figure out how to trap him. Also keep an eye on Mom, that she’s not sneaking shots; also make sure Dad’s not boiling over where he sits. Keep everyone calm and floating on an even keel.

  The sunrise shoved in through the big sliding glass door. She went and shut the blinds.

  The family ate without a word. When they were done, Shaw wiped his lips carefully, cleared his throat and said, “OK. It’s time to work on our story.”

  They looked at him.

  “Here’s my idea. Flat tire. I was on the road and got a flat tire. And then, Mitch, you came along and helped me out. Like a good Samaritan, OK? We took the tire to that convenience store to fill it with air. And then on the way back you remembered you were supposed to buy lottery tickets for your wife. And I said, hey, would you buy some for me?”

  He looked for their reaction. No reaction. He sipped his coffee and pondered. Then he shook his head. “No. You’re right. It feels phony.”

  He thought some more.

  “Mitch, you go to bars?”

  “I don’t drink,” said Dad. “Patsy does, sometimes.”

  Tara kept her gaze on Shaw. He was biting his lower lip, and his gray eyes had a stormy light to them. He said, “It might work better if we’d met before. You ever been to Ohio?”

  Dad shrugged. “Through it. Once. On my way to Chicago.”

  “When was that?”

  “Um —’85?”

  “Way too long ago. Where else you been?”

  “Well. I went to Columbus when I was in the Guard. I mean Columbus, Georgia. That was, well, like ’91?”

  “Anything more recent?”

  “They had me up to Greenville once for training.”

  “Where’s Greenville?”

  “South Carolina.”

  “Training for what?”

  “Service Mita copiers.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Don’t know. Two months?”

  “This was when?”

  “Few years ago. ’03.”

  “No bars?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well then,” Shaw pressed, “how could I have met you? Say, if I was just passing through Greenville, South Carolina?”

  Dad shrugged. “I stayed at the motel when I wasn’t training. That’s about it. Except church.”

  “What church?”

  “Faith Renewal. Same as my church here.”

  “So I might have gone to that church and met you there?”

  “Might have.”

  “Would you say that church is welcoming to strangers?”

  “Oh, yeah. We had a crisis center there. You know, for anyone in trouble. I volunteered there. I guess I could have met you through that —”

  “What’s a crisis center?”

  “Um. If you’re suicidal? Or, you know, you just need someone to talk to, you’re depressed, or if it’s drugs or whatever. Or any kind of trouble and you need to talk?”

  “You just walk in?”

  “Mostly people call.”

  “But you could just walk in?”

  “You could.”

  “And how many people would work there at a time?”

  “Well, just one, mostly. Or they had it rigged so a call would come in and get switched to your own phone. But I didn’t have a phone, ’cause I was staying at the m
otel. So I went in. Sundays and Mondays.”

  Shaw’s eyes were incandescent.

  He held out his cup and Tara filled it. He sat there holding the cup close to his lips but not drinking. He’d forgotten to drink. He was lost in thought and had a little smile working. She could guess the story that was unspooling before his mind’s eye: the meeting of two strangers, a lost lamb and a kindly shepherd. He started laughing, and Dad must have thought he was laughing at the idea of a Christian crisis line, because he said, “No, we really helped some folks, we really did.”

  Shaw said, “Oh, God, I know you did. I know you saved souls. You saved mine.”

  Burris, the old city cop, was at Trudy’s Café on Newcastle Street, waiting in line for the cashier. Rose Whittle was right behind him; they fell to talking and she asked him what he thought about the jackpot news. He said he didn’t know what she meant.

  She was astonished. “You really don’t know? The Boatwrights won the Max-a-Million jackpot.”

  Long awkward moment. Finally he asked her, “Which Boatwrights we talking about here?”

  “Mitch and Patsy.”

  “Is this a prank?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How much was in the jackpot?”

  “Huge. Like three hundred million. More.”

  “Rose. Tell me the truth.”

  “That is the truth. Well, I guess it’s only a rumor. But I believe it.”

  Rose had a demonic streak of white in her hair, and voodoo fingernails an inch and a half long, and knew everything about everybody — not through voodoo but because she worked Dispatch at the Brunswick police. If Rose was crediting a rumor, it was probably solid.

  Stupidly then, insufficiently, Burris responded, “Wow.”

  Then he attempted a little smile.

  Then he exhaled slowly and said, “Well that’s just great.”

  He paid, fumbling the change, and went out to the blinding street where everything was white, erased, and the fumes that came off the asphalt were so hot he felt they might carry the hat off his head. On the way to his cruiser, he passed the Chief of Police, who was headed into Trudy’s with a couple of city commissioners. The Chief was a young guy. He had an abundance of hair. He gave Burris the slightest of nods, then murmured something to the commissioners. Whatever he said amused them. Burris hadn’t heard it, but it was probably, “Well, here comes Deppity Dawg,” or “Well, if it ain’t Deppity Dawg,” or something like that. Why did the Chief call Burris Deppity Dawg? Burris wasn’t sure. It had been his tag for years. Maybe owing to his years of faithful police service. Or his jowliness, or because he was such an entertaining idiot.

  He nodded back at the Chief.

  Keeping his shoulders at the proper angle of hunchment. Limping to his cruiser and getting in and driving away. Give ’em a show of debasement and get the hell out of here. He drove to his favorite hiding place on Rt. 17, near the Spur, behind a mess of oleanders, and raised dutifully his radar gun. But today was a lucky day for speeders in Brunswick, Georgia, because he wasn’t even looking at the numbers. All his thoughts were on Nell Boatwright. Now she’ll be lost to me forever. Her son Mitch will buy her a mansion in the south of France, and she’ll have tea with duchesses and play seven-card stud with Bea Arthur who will adore her drawl and her crazy piercing laugh, and she’s lost to me. It’s finished now. I’m done and I just ought to own up to that fact.

  Tara had to drive Shaw over to Nell’s. She begged him not to make her do this. She said, “I can’t lie to Nell. She’ll know something’s wrong. Please.”

  But he wouldn’t listen. “I’ll have to meet her sooner or later. Why not now?” He tucked his pistol into the holster that fit against the small of his back, and put his dull corduroy jacket on over it, and they went off together, in Tara’s Geo. They went by way of Norwich Street, which seemed to fascinate him. He told her to slow down so he could look at things: the down-at-heels bodegas and money order stores and old men sitting under oak trees playing dominos. Then they left the Mexican neighborhood and came to the black neighborhood: custom-wheels shops and Marvin’s Grocery, and one storefront church after another. Shaw read aloud their names: “Fisher of Men Ministries.” “Healing & Deliverance Bible Institute.” “Christ’s Church for the End Times.”

  “Jesus,” he said. Laughing. “What a great town.”

  She drove and kept silent.

  “Tara,” he said, “are you worried?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I know I’ll give it away.”

  “No. I’d kill you in front of her. Wouldn’t be that hard on you, but for her it’d be better if she’d never existed. Like her whole life was just the build-up to this suffering, and she’ll regret every minute of it, everything she ever did because it all leads up to watching you die. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly. But you have to fool her. You have to. So you will.”

  Shaw looked at her for a while. Then he turned away and watched the city go by and thought: what I have to do is keep this fire going. This furnace of black flames. Be unafraid to have it inside me. Be willing to create every horror. Fear becomes discipline becomes profoundest love, and if I don’t hold these people to the highest standards, everyone’s life will turn into shit. If I’m timid, or irresolute, it all goes to shit. For all parties involved. Everything rests on my shoulders here.

  Romeo awoke to the sound of a car outside Wynetta’s trailer. Christ, what’s this, a boyfriend? He went to the window. In the drive was some kind of official van, from which a black man in white uniform was emerging. He didn’t look to be a boyfriend. He looked like he had business here.

  Romeo gave Wynetta a shake. “Someone’s here.”

  She growled in her throat and turned away.

  He pulled his jeans on. Through the window he saw the black man lower a ramp from the side of the van, then roll out a wheelchair. In the chair was a child, all bundled up: the oddest-looking child Romeo had ever seen. Frail and hairless, Victorian, consumptive-looking.

  Romeo shook Wynetta again.

  She opened one eye. “What the fuck?”

  “Hello?” called the black man from outside the door. “Hello? I have Mr. Santos here.”

  That finally roused her. “What? Oh my God. Wait!”

  She grabbed her bra from the floor. It was a full harness, an iron maiden, and it took her a while to get it all fastened. Then she struggled to get her shorts on, and her T-shirt, and opened the door.

  The black man was standing there, with the child cradled in his arms.

  “Daddy!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

  The child rasped, “I’m not. Dying. In that place.”

  Close up, Romeo could see it wasn’t a child at all, but a withered old man. The black man — evidently his nurse — carried him to the bed and laid him down.

  Said Wynetta, “He checked out of the hospital?”

  “Marcus? What do they. Call it?”

  “AMA,” said the black man. “Against medical advice.”

  “That’s,” said the old man, “me.”

  Wynetta said, “You gotta go back, Daddy. I’m supposed to go to Tifton today. With Jesse.”

  “Well. Good.”

  “But I can’t just leave you.”

  “You can.”

  “You’re too sick!”

  “I’m fit. As. A fiddle. Except for the. Dying.” He gave Romeo a wink. “Son. What’s your name?”

  “Romeo.”

  “Mine’s. Claude. Santos. Pleased. To meet you.”

  Lifting his hand from the bed. Romeo held it a moment, then stepped away when the nurse came back in with his IV setup. The man had a deft touch. He coasted his thumb along Claude’s wrist till he found a tender spot, then slid home the catheter tip. Claude never winced but was stoic throughout. Nor did he rebuke his daughter for her whining.

  She said, “Dad, what are we gonna do?”

  He replied mildly, “How about. Tennis?”

>   “Come on, Daddy. Be responsible.”

  “OK. I’ll chop. Firewood. I’ll clean. The gutters.”

  His grin was toothless but went from ear to ear.

  He asked Romeo, “Is that really. Your name?”

  The sudden fixity of his gaze made Romeo blush. “Well, my mama knew what a lover I’d be.”

  “Ha! You’re Italian?”

  “Half. I’m Polish on my dad’s side.”

  Said Claude, “I’m Portuguese.”

  Romeo smiled.

  Claude said, “My grandfather. Came here. For the fishing. First to Darien. Then Brunswick. He had. Shrimp boats. Him and my uncles.”

  “Did you work on the boats?”

  “Oh yes. My grandfather. Would stand. On the dock. And say, ‘Galo pequeno. Quem o ama? O pescador. Idoso. Ama-o!’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means. ‘Little Rooster! Who loves you? The old. Fisherman loves you!’ ”

  Wynetta whined, “Daddy, I gotta take you back to the hospital.”

  “He carried. A netting needle. Made from bone. In his pocket.”

  “Could you say it again?” said Romeo.

  “Say what?”

  “What he told you.”

  “Oh.” Claude tucked his chin down and cocked his elbows. “Galo pequeno! Quem o ama? O pescador. Idoso. Ama-o!” He was a childlike wraith posing as an old fisherman posing as a roosterish kid. This pierced Romeo.

  “Could you say it again?”

  But Wynetta had had enough. “I’m taking you back, Daddy.”

  Said Claude, “No, no.”

  “I got to.”

  “This. Is where I’m. Dying. Right here.”

  Romeo saw that it was time to go. He had no business here. “Well I guess I got things to do. Nice to meet you though. Both of you.”

  He went out into the blazing day, got in the Tercel and drove off — and then the Brunswick stench hit him. Gone, instantly, was ‘The old fisherman loves you.’ He shifted forward in his seat and set his face grimly and drove back into the city of Brunswick without seeing anything.