Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  Tara was doing the driving and staring at the road as cold as stone.

  Well, probably she was jealous.

  Though there was no way to know for sure. Patsy couldn’t see her face, and anyway, Tara always buried her feelings; she never shared with her mother. Which was sad. My own daughter is at war with me, she thought. She knows me not. She thinks I’m as churchy as her father. If she knew the wildness in my soul it would blow her mind. If she knew for example the mischief I got into on that trip to Spain when I was her age; oh my Lord in heaven.

  And who did understand that part of Patsy?

  Well. This was nuts but she thought Shaw. A little. Was she sick to think that? About her captor? Was that quite inappropriate?

  Maybe Shaw was attracted to Tara — but Patsy was sure he was closer in spirit to her. Because he was in love with adventure. True, he was a criminal, a son of a bitch, and hanging would have been too good for him. Castration would have been too good for him! But it also had to be admitted that he had blood in his veins. He had the heart of a swashbuckler, which Patsy’s daughter couldn’t possibly appreciate and which her poor sad husband with his soul full of ashes couldn’t stand. Patsy wasn’t excusing him or forgiving him in any way, ever — she was just saying Shaw McBride had blood in his veins.

  Romeo had prepared himself to do what Claude had asked, to be of service. If all he needs is death, I’ll provide it, and in return I’ll just ask him to tell me again, one more time, about the old fisherman.

  But when he got to the trailer he found he was too late. Claude’s eyes were open but no one was there. Romeo touched his cheek: it was like something in a museum. And Romeo’s own heart went cold inside his chest.

  He thought, I should close his eyes, shouldn’t I? That would be the proper thing to do. But which eye first? He chose the right. He tried forcing down the lid with his thumb, but it slipped free and sprang open again and his thumb skidded onto the cold vitreous humor — the iris rolling away, averting its gaze from a botched job.

  Oh. Fucked this up. I’m sorry, Claude.

  Shaw was astonished, when they got back to the house, by the increase in his flock. Cars were parked along the curb of Redwood Road nearly as far as 17, and on Oriole Road two police cruisers had their roof lights flashing. The pilgrims were cheering and waving palmetto fronds. Some of them had come in RVs and had brought kids and dogs and Frisbees. Some seemed to be derelicts. They showed the black roots of their molars when they grinned.

  Trevor’s crew of bodyguards held the crowd back as Shaw and the Boatwrights emerged from the Liberty.

  Shaw murmured to Trevor, “Too many.”

  Trevor nodded. “I paid off the neighbors for tonight. Tomorrow we go to the fairgrounds.”

  An old woman reached between two bodyguards and touched Shaw’s shoulder, crying, “Father! Help me! Father!” She was tiny and frail, but she wouldn’t be denied, and finally he made a sign to the bodyguards: let her approach.

  “Father,” she said, “can you heal the sick?”

  “Who’s sick? Not you.”

  “My husband.” She clutched his sleeve, pulling at him. “Please, Father.”

  He let her lead. The crowd eddied and purled around them. She brought him to the end of the driveway, to an old man sitting in a wheelchair, who cast a skeptical eye as Shaw approached.

  All I need to do, Shaw thought, is use the power that’s already here.

  He asked the man, “What’s your name?”

  “Bill Phillips.”

  “And why are you crippled?”

  “RSD. Ever heard of it?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Reflex sympathetic dystrophy.”

  “You’re in pain?”

  “Oh, yeah. Around my knee here. So much pain I can’t use the leg.”

  Shaw said, “But that’s not the pain you need to be awakened from. What you need to be awakened from is this dream of life. You understand this?”

  Bill Phillips squinted at him. The crowd had fallen silent. A TV camera whirred, in harmony with the crickets, and cell phone flashes reflected off the oak leaves.

  Shaw said, “You dream that you’re alone in the world. You dream that your Father is not with you. But in truth He’s right here beside you, and if you could awaken, you’d see Him as bright as day.”

  “Right here?” said Bill Phillips. His eyes were tearing up. Soon he began to weep. Shaw set hands upon his withered legs, till the spasms of weeping subsided — then turned from him, and walked toward the house, and the crowd parted so he could pass.

  Romeo went out looking for Wynetta, to give her the news. One redneck dive after another: Duke’s, the Oleander Inn, some nameless cinderblock bar out by the airport. But she wasn’t to be found. He even tried a titty bar called the “VIP” Lounge in an old brick warehouse downtown. The sign had it just like that, with quotation marks around VIP. She wasn’t there, but when Romeo glanced up at the dancer working the pole, he found to his amazement that it was Tess! Tess the missionary girl! Seeing her up there was as disturbing to Romeo as looking up into that wheel well had been. She clomped through her act in black suede boots and a silvery g-string, with her big forehead and the allure of an industrial robot. Luckily she didn’t notice him, didn’t see him wincing.

  But when her song was done, and she came trolling for a “VIP” lap to fill, she recognized him — and broke into a wide grin. “Romeo!”

  “Hey, Tess.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She shrugged. “Paying my rent.”

  She took the stool next to him. The bartender was a dour old dyke. Romeo bought Tess a drink and asked her, “What happened to the missionary deal?”

  “Oh. Guy who sent us? Kind of flaked.”

  “And the other girl?”

  “Megan? She’s working at the bag plant. Up in Darien. Last I heard.”

  “Sounds fucked,” said Romeo.

  “Yeah.”

  “You still love that guy who hangs people on hooks?”

  “Sort of. But he don’t love me back so forget it.”

  They were watching the next dancer, who wasn’t any golden beauty either, but at least her performance made a stab at coyness and come-hither.

  Tess asked him, “So how’s your vacation going, Romeo?”

  He shook his head. “Not so good. My friend just died on me.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That guy, the one I met?”

  “Uh-uh. Old dude. Lived in a trailer. Old fisherman.”

  “Oh.”

  “His grandfather was an old fisherman too. His grandfather used to call him the little rooster.”

  She smiled. “Really?”

  “I was taking care of him. Do you know Balm-of-Gilead Road?”

  “Yes!” she said. “We witnessed out there.”

  “Find any converts?”

  “You gotta be joking.”

  The DJ said: “Frankie, to the stage.”

  “Well, that’s me.”

  He said, “That’s like your dancing name? Frankie?”

  “It’s short for Frankenstein. I make ’em use it. It’s my nickname from back home. They don’t want me to use it, but I tell ’em I’m not gonna be your damn Tabitha or Crystal or Char-maigne, you know? I gotta go now. Wait for me?”

  “I wish I could.”

  However, he did take a five-dollar bill from his wallet, folded it lengthwise, and when she held her garter open he placed it in the space provided. That small transaction occurred between them; then he went.

  Back on the road, he remembered that Wynetta had mentioned some bar she liked out on Rt. 341. He couldn’t quite remember the name. Some kind of bird name. He drove out there anyway. Rt. 341 was dark for a long time, then came the blindingness of the lights around the State Police Barracks, then darkness again. Finally he saw a dismal neon sign: Pigeon’s, with a dismal tavern beneath it. And there was Wynetta’s truck sitting in the lot.

>   He parked and lowered his seat and waited for her.

  One by one, drunks came two-stepping out. Driving off.

  Finally, here was Wynetta on the arm of some turkey-neck codger who leaned her up against her car and started sexing her. Trying to fit his hand down between her tight belt and her fat belly, and he had to bend his elbow like he was bowling. After a minute he seemed to have taken his fill of this awkwardness: he pulled his hand free and gave her belly a pat and staggered away.

  Wynetta called names after him but he was done. He drove off in his pickup.

  Then Romeo got out of the Tercel. “Hi, Wynetta.”

  She was confused. Trying to recall how she knew him. Was he a former boyfriend? Cop or something? But the gears turned slowly.

  He said, “There’s a problem about your dad.”

  Now it came. “Oh shit. The fucking. The fake nurse. Get away from me. I scream, the goons will be in your face in ten seconds.”

  He said, “I just want —”

  “In your face! In your face!”

  “All right. I just want to tell you about your dad.”

  “What about my dad?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  He wasn’t going to say it twice. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  “I got my truck,” she said. “Did you say my daddy’s dead?”

  “Better let me take you.”

  She shrugged. He escorted her to the Tercel and they drove back down Rt. 341.

  She said, “How do you know my daddy’s dead?”

  “I went to see him.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  More dark road went by. She said, “You didn’t drink all the PBRs, did you?”

  What a piece of work, thought Romeo. “There are no PBRs. The PBRs are all gone.”

  “You drank them?”

  “No, you drank them, Wynetta.”

  “I didn’t drink ’em all.”

  “OK,” he said. “What’s your point?”

  “My point? My point is, you took something that wasn’t yours.”

  It stressed him to be sharing his car with this callous vacant alcoholic middle-aged brat. She had made Claude’s last days on earth such a living hell he had begged a stranger to set him free. She’d done that to Claude! Romeo hadn’t felt such a purity of disgust in a long time.

  He wondered, can I make something of this?

  Wynetta was still whining: “Take me to Lonnie’s? Lonnie’ll loan me a sixpack.”

  “It’s pretty late.”

  “I’ll wake him up. When I tell him my daddy’s dead, I bet he’ll let me have one beer from his precious stash.”

  Romeo said, “No, I’m taking you to your father’s.”

  “Why? To see him dead? I don’t want to see him dead.”

  They turned onto Balm-of-Gilead Road.

  She said, “It’s not something I care to enjoy.”

  Concentrate on the indecency of her indifference, thought Romeo, and the horror of her breath, and the sadness of this road. Think about all these things at the same time and see how much anger you can scare up.

  She said, “I want one beer. You’re saying that’s not OK with you? One cocksucking beer?”

  He let his left hand drop to where the saber was waiting, between the seat and the door. He curled his fingers around the handle. He could do this. He’d needed inspiration; now he had it. Get me mad enough, bitch, and I’m as dark as any mother-fucker on the planet.

  “Wynetta. You know what I do for a living?”

  “You sell insurance.”

  “No, I made that up. What I really do is, I’m an angel of vengeance. You know what that means?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “It means, like, I dole out just deserts. That’s my job.”

  Her mouth was slightly ajar, but not from fear. It was just her normal expression.

  He pulled in at the trailer and said, “Shall I make it clear to you?”

  “Nah. I got shit of my own to worry about.”

  She opened the door and got out.

  Romeo got out on his side, saber in hand. Keeping it shielded behind his leg as he came around the front of the car. This was the place to strike, out here. Inside would be too cramped. Also Claude was in there with his eyes open, and Romeo knew he could never do this with Claude watching him, even if Claude was dead.

  But he could do it out here. Let it happen now. Let this anger take over. Get to that whirling place. He visualized a sharp coppery whoosh from the blade. Then her shout — then her shout cut short.

  But even as he was conjuring this, she stepped up to the trailer door and said, “Hey, leave me alone with my daddy, OK? I’ll handle the ambulance and everything. Thanks for the ride.” She went in and shut the door behind her.

  The whole time, he just stood there like frozen mud.

  Wondering, why hadn’t he acted?

  Well, for one thing, she wasn’t worth it.

  There was also the saber. The saber had been such a bad idea. He could have done it with a gun. With a gun you just needed to pull the trigger, but with a saber you had to go leaping and slashing like a buccaneer and no way was he ready for that.

  He stood there for half a minute.

  Then he got back in the Tercel and drove off. On Rt. 341 he came to some kind of nursery school, and pulled around to the dumpster in back and tossed the saber. Then he got the scabbard out of the Tercel’s trunk and tossed that as well. Thinking, what I need is to kill coldly. To climb out of my soul and kill coldly. How the hell did I think I could kill her with a fucking pirate sword?

  SUNDAY

  Burris, as ever, sat six pews behind Nell. As ever, Nell didn’t take her own seat till the last moment, but floated from crony to crony, cackling and wisecracking, the loudest most boisterous soul in church. He tried not to look at her, but he was helpless. Her least movement drew his eye. Even while he mumbled hello to his pew mates (they spoke tenderly to him, as he was still a fairly fresh widower), he could see her at the margin of his vision. He leafed through his hymnal, but was aware only of her laugh. He adjusted his tie. He smoothed down the unruly patch of hair on his forehead. He pursed his lips — a thing he often caught himself doing these days, which he hated because it was something an old man would do. Well, he was an old man. It was too damn hot in here. The air-conditioning couldn’t begin to keep up with this crowd. He stole another look. She was chatting with one of the elders, and of course flirting. As ever. But then came a murmur and swiveling of heads, everyone turning because the Boatwright family was coming up the aisle.

  Shaw McBride was with them.

  The girl, Tara, was saying something to her mother, and she had her hand on her father’s shoulder. Then she murmured some private joke to McBride, which he smiled at. When her little brother lagged too far behind, she went back and took his hand firmly and guided him forward. The whole family seemed to orbit around her. She looked into the pews and nodded to friends and relations. She smiled radiantly at her Uncle Shelby and Aunt Miriam and their kids. She bestowed a kiss on the furry cheek of Mrs. Briggs, her teacher from Glynn Middle School. At last she reached Nell. When those two embraced, it made the whole church feel buoyant, sunny, storybook.

  Burris was thinking, could this family really be the target of a hundred-million-dollar extortion scheme?

  It sure didn’t look that way.

  McBride wore an ill-fitting jacket, and seemed shy and uncomfortable. A stranger congratulated him and he gripped the man’s hand as though holding on for dear life. He seemed overwhelmed by all this fuss. The last thing you got from him was mastermind of terror.

  Burris started to worry: had he gotten this all wrong? Had he screwed up again? He was sweating, and with no handkerchief he had nothing to wipe his brow with but the sleeve of his jacket, and as he raised his arm to do that, he caught a whiff of his own pungency. Dear Lord, he prayed, let this service be over quickly.

  But it went on and on, world with
out end.

  First came Rev. Dave’s sermon, pumped up with weepy little stories and zings of corny humor. The parishioners sniffling and laughing on cue, shouting out affirmations like this was some kind of real estate seminar. Next, a batch of praise singing. Next, Marie Kingsley had blessings for the infirm and ailing. She read out a list of all the poor souls in hospital, and as always it was a wrenching and horrific tale, and Burris thought, Lord? What’s Your purpose again in this? Why exactly do You put us through this every week?

  Next, everybody fell to their knees for a round of prayer.

  After which three guys from Valdosta, hair piled up softly on top of their heads like haystacks, sang “Awesome God” and “Hallelujah! (My Chains Are Gone).”

  Knees again.

  And all this time, Burris noticed, no one so much as mentioned the recent deluge of gold.

  No one alluded to the jackpot. Or to the parking lot full of reporters and TV trucks. Or to attendance, which was at Christmas level today — every pew packed and even standing room in short supply, the rafters ringing with thank-you-Jesuses. The cause of all this excitement went unspoken. As though the Max-a-Million jackpot was so holy its name was never to be uttered.

  Everybody up for singing.

  Down again for praying.

  Finally, somewhere near the end of time, the service was done and people were shuffling out to the aisles and milling around — and Burris was headed toward Mitch. A little crowd was already gathering around the Boatwrights, so he had to push his way through. Then he spotted Nell, standing right beside her son, and she happened to be looking Burris’s way. He froze. Gave her a frail lockjaw smile. She seemed not to notice him though. She turned away and went off to one side with her granddaughter and Shaw McBride, and the three of them made a little huddle.

  Oh god, Burris thought: is she talking about me?

  No, stop it. Don’t be so paranoid. She didn’t even see me. She’s not being deliberately cruel. Remember how yesterday she said, I love you, darlin’? She has no conception of the pain she’s causing, of how much I’d like to curl up at her feet right now and die like a poisoned wasp. Forget it. Just do what you came to do.