Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  However, at 4:57 p.m., Rose Whittle dispatched him to a possible burglary in progress at the Jane Macon Elementary School. It was late in the day and he found the school empty, except for an old black lady, a secretary, working in the office. She said she’d heard noises. He accompanied her to check the classrooms, and then the bathrooms. They found nothing. And they were about to quit; they were on their way back to the office, walking through the big gym, when Burris heard whispers. Off to the left. Where the bleachers were. He went and peered beneath them. Eyes. Two pair.

  “Come out of there.”

  Two little girls scurried away. He jogged after them, but he had that big gut to haul, in addition to all the bouncing and clanging cop paraphernalia on his duty belt, and he was aware of how he must look, with his bald head and the shades and the cop shoes. He wasn’t really trying to catch anyone.

  But one of the girls turned out to be so chubby and slow that he caught up to her anyway. He tapped her shoulder and she crumpled on the floor and started weeping.

  Oh, what a fearless crimestopper am I.

  The other one got clean away.

  He helped the chubby one up and marched her to the office. He sat her in a chair and folded his arms and scowled at her. He wanted to comfort her but knew it was his duty to be cold and mean — for at least a little while.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kyra.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  “What did you think you were doing here?”

  “Following Shylana.”

  “Is Shylana your boss or something?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because she left you holding the bag.”

  Kyra wept.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be following Shylana around. Maybe she’s leading you to bad places.”

  He asked the old secretary for a tissue and passed it to the girl. It wasn’t much help. Every time Kyra looked at him, she’d cry with more vehemence. Because of the uniform, of course. Wear a police uniform, and everywhere you went, people got emotional. Children, lovers, hardened criminals. They’d see the badge and the shiny shoes and they’d start bawling their heads off.

  But then a funny thing happened. Shylana appeared.

  She marched right into the office and sat down next to Kyra and glared up at Burris. She didn’t say her name, but who else could it be? She was very tiny but she was beautiful. Her face was delicate and her eyes enormous. She said, “This was my idea. So leave her alone.”

  Burris asked, “What was your idea?”

  Shylana didn’t answer.

  Said Burris, “I mean, what’re you doing in school after hours anyway?”

  She glared.

  She reminded him of Nell. From a long time ago, from fourth grade. Burris had been in love with her even then, when they used to take the bus on Thursday afternoons to Baptist Bible study — which they both hated. He’d sit behind her and tell dumb jokes and she’d laugh her wild laugh. Once, the bus driver had told her to pipe down but she’d ignored him. When he’d complained a second time, she’d said: “You’re not my father. You’re not my teacher. You don’t get a vote, mister.” Skewering him with her powerful eyes. And fifty years later, here it was again, the same unrepentant alien gaze, from tiny Shylana. As Burris sternly admonished her: “Your principal could get a juvenile warrant, you know that? Then you’ll have to go before Judge Parr and he could send you to the juvenile home — you hear me, Shylana?”

  Streams of tears broke from her eyes. Two thin cascades, running straight down her face. Yet she kept glaring at him; her gaze didn’t falter. Burris was upended by admiration for this girl who’d come back to share her friend’s punishment and who wouldn’t be cowed by the cop with the gun and the gut and the patch of snaky hair in the middle of his forehead.

  He stopped lecturing. They just studied each other.

  Then abruptly Shylana confessed, “We came to look at my picture.”

  “What picture?”

  Shylana shook her head. “Picture I made.”

  “Could I see this picture, Shylana?”

  She got up and started walking. He followed her out of the gym and down the dark school corridor, and Kyra and the old secretary came behind them. Shylana went into a classroom, and pointed to a watercolor on the wall. It was a portrait of a schoolbus. The bottom of this bus bellied down in a way that made it seem alive, and gave life to everything around it. Shylana had chosen to make the sun itself the color of grape juice, which made the bus look extra-stunningly yellow. Good God. It was the old school bus from his childhood, with its creaking seats and blown shock absorbers, with sunshine roaring out from its Bluebird heart.

  He wondered, how is this possible: such sunniness, after so many years? His eyes were filled with prismatic tears. He told Shylana it was the best picture of a schoolbus he’d ever seen. He wanted to say it was the best picture of anything he’d ever seen, but he was afraid that might have sounded insincere. He murmured something about needing to use the little boys’ room, and the old woman pointed the way. He went down and pushed through the door. It was truly a ‘little boys’ room, with dwarf urinals and dwarf sinks. He leaned against a sink, and got down on his haunches, and looked at himself in the mirror. All I’ve ever wanted was a lot of sunshine, and here it is, suddenly, knocking me down. What’s happening to me?

  After he collected himself, he drove Shylana and Kyra home. He left Kyra off first, then took Shylana to her grandmother. Before he drove away, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  He said, “Shylana, you remind me of someone. A little girl. A long time ago I was in love with her.”

  “Really? Did you marry her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Beats me,” he said. “You think I still could?”

  She shrugged. “How would I know?”

  Mitch didn’t speak during the migration to the Rotary Club fairgrounds, but held Tara’s and Clio’s hands the whole time, and kept his eyes low. He knew what he’d done. He’d almost gotten his daughter’s best friend killed, with his own family thrown into the bargain. His pride had led him into massive folly, from which others had rescued him, and he felt lower than dirt. He wished he could be a grub so he could lie in filth and be trodden upon and forgotten.

  An honor guard of pilgrims walked with the Boatwrights.

  It wasn’t a long walk. They went down Robin Road and crossed Canary Drive and Fourth Street, and then there was a sign: Rotary Club fairgrounds. The sign had a clown and a Ferris wheel. Mitch remembered the Ferris wheel from the fairs of his youth, but it was long gone; now there was just a big scrubby lawn with picnic tables to one side. A cattail pond. A few cabins (sometimes the place was used as a summer camp). Hundreds of the faithful were already here, and they cheered as Mitch arrived. Such an outpouring of love! He stayed hunched over, looking at his shoes, bewildered. Then he and his family were ushered up to a place of honor, by the card table that had been turned into an altar.

  A chant went up: “Shaw! Shaw! Shaw!”

  At last Shaw obliged them with his presence.

  Someone handed him a microphone. The crowd kept calling his name, but he held his hand up and begged them: “Don’t. Don’t. I’m not important here.” For a while they refused to obey him: their love was irrepressible. But finally the chanting died away, and silence settled in, and then Shaw said, “What is important is that we rescued a soul today. You all hear about that?”

  Another upwelling of devotion, mixed with rapturous laughter. Everyone was looking at Clio, who hid herself in Tara’s embrace like a shy baby animal.

  Shaw motioned, to indicate the lofty sweet gums and oaks that surrounded the field. A breeze was passing from tree to tree. “And do you feel that? Do you feel that wind?”

  “Oh yes!” came the response. “Praise the Lord!” “Yes, yes!” “We feel it!” “Praise the Lord!”

  “Do you see how the wind is drawing a
circle around us?”

  “Yes sir!” “Yes, Jesus!” “Yes we do!”

  He said, “And I guess we know what’s coming.”

  “We know!” “We know what’s coming!”

  Shaw said, “Be a change.”

  “There’s gonna be a change!” “Big change!” “Praise the Lord!”

  Mitch could see the spirit traveling from face to face. Already some were on their knees. He glanced over at Tara and found that she — even his beloved daughter! — was so absorbed in Shaw’s words that she didn’t notice her father looking at her. Oh Lord. Just a few hours ago the man was threatening to kill us. He’s a demon, isn’t he? Am I mistaken? Isn’t his heart as black as death? My Lord, my Father, help me to see!

  Shaw held up a loaf of bread. He said, “Well. It does look like bread.”

  Chuckling from the assembly.

  “Except, when you taste it,” he said, “it tastes like light. You know the taste of light?”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “If you don’t, you’re going to find out,” said Shaw.

  “Praise the Lord!”

  “Because this bread is the body of our Lord.”

  “Yes it is!”

  “And the light comes from Heaven.”

  “Praise the Lord!”

  He made a motion to Patsy: come forward.

  She neared the altar. Shaw gave her a nod, and she knelt. He tore off a morsel of the loaf and placed it on her tongue, and said, “You chew this good, honey.” He didn’t say this into the mike, and only the people in the front rows heard it, but their laughter rolled through the crowd and the folks in back laughed just for the sake of laughing.

  Then Shaw held up a goblet of wine.

  Patsy’s lips parted. She gazed up into his eyes and sipped. Mitch knew that she was imagining Shaw McBride’s lips against her own. She was in love with Shaw McBride, Mitch knew. She worshiped him. It was a knowledge that should have filled Mitch with anger, but didn’t.

  All he felt was shame, and fear, and the looming of some upheaval. Something was about to play out here. He was about to make some kind of journey, and take leave of these troubles. The wind that was kicking up was going to rip him out by the roots from the world he’d been living in, and carry him to some new world, and so be it.

  His daughter Tara led him to the altar. He knelt. Shaw touched his forehead, and the touch was scorching. When bread was set upon his tongue, the hollowness inside of him, the hunger, was quelled. His thirst was quenched by the blood of the Lord. He sobbed. He rose and stumbled from the altar. The cry went up, “Praise Jesus! Praise the Lord!” His daughter led him back to his seat. He sat there holding her hand, still with the taste of Jesus in his mouth, and he knew he had journeyed a great long way to this salvation. But all that mattered was, he was here. He’d made it. He’d found the green pastures and the still waters, and he could lay his head down now in his daughter’s lap and be all right.

  Romeo patrolling on Rt. 17, saw Old Pork in his cruiser, lurking behind bushes. Romeo slowed the Tercel. Slowed way down, till he was just creeping along, 10 mph or so, and gawking as he went by.

  Still Old Pork didn’t notice him. He was looking at nothing, lost in thought, and only by chance did he happen to shift his eyes and spot the Tercel. Then instantly his overhead came on. He burped out a little pig-squeal and in five seconds was perched on Romeo’s ass.

  Romeo pulled into the parking lot of Tawney’s Transmissions. Old Pork right behind. Getting out of his cruiser and waddling up to Romeo’s window. “How are you today, sir?”

  “Good, thank you. How about you?”

  “I’m good. You’re still in Brunswick.”

  “Yes.”

  “Get that animal disposed of?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Still on vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Folks don’t usually vacation in Brunswick.”

  “They don’t?”

  “No, they go over to the island, or Savannah or something.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s not much to do here.”

  “You’re right about that.” Romeo shrugged. “I guess I just like how it’s falling apart and nobody’s trying to fix it.”

  Old Pork studied him intently. Trying to get a read, decide what his angle was. Romeo didn’t mind the attention.

  Then the cop said quietly, “OK. Could I see your license and proof of insurance, please?”

  Romeo handed them over. The cop took them back to his car, and did his little incantations over them or whatever cops did.

  Then he came back and returned the documents and said, “Mr. — I’m sorry. I forgot how you say your name?”

  “Zuh-DER-ko.”

  “I got a question for you.”

  Romeo waited.

  “Your license says you’re from Piqua, Ohio.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would that be anywhere around Dayton?”

  Oh! It was coming then. The Truth. It was coming in the guise of a shabby old traffic pig. He wondered what he should do. Should he keep prevaricating under the very shadow of Truth?

  “I’m sorry, Officer. Would you repeat the question?”

  “What I’m really asking is, you wouldn’t happen to be friends with Shaw McBride, would you?”

  “Well. Oh. I guess yes. I mean I used to be.”

  “Used to be? You have a falling out?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Give me the gist.”

  “The gist is, he got struck by lightning.”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean he won that jackpot. And became the apostle of all those freaks. And me, I guess I’m becoming something else.”

  “What are you becoming, sir?”

  “Nothing.”

  “All right.”

  “Officer, do you sometimes get the feeling we’re on the same ride? You and me? The way we both keep driving around and around this city like we’re on some carousel together? Me on this ugly old shit-colored pony, you on your porkmobile pony? Jesus. Like we’re waving at each other as we go around. You know?”

  “Sir, I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

  “I’m not either. It just feels like everything’s spinning faster and faster, and we know this ride is gonna crash but we gotta keep pretending it’s not.”

  “Crash?”

  “I’m just thinking, why don’t we jump off?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean I wouldn’t mind going home for a while. You wanna come with me? I could use another driver for the trip. You could get a break from this heat. See Ohio. Ohio’s nice.”

  Old Pork looked at him.

  Romeo smiled. “I’m kidding. I know, we’re stuck. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Sir, do you have any weapons in this car?”

  “I have a Phoenix .22 plinker in the trunk. That legal?”

  “So long as you keep it in the trunk.”

  “OK. Could I ask why you pulled me over?”

  Old Pork thought a while. “Well sir,” he said, “you’ve got no illumination on your tag. That’s a requirement in the State of Georgia.”

  Stood there just looking at him, with no expression Romeo could read. But finally he added gently, “So you get that fixed, all right now, sir?”

  Clio figured, so long as she was with Tara, she’d be OK. The memory of what had happened at the creekside, though already faint, was still present, and she needed to keep clear of it. So she stayed close to Tara’s side; she stayed busy. They worked with the pilgrim ladies on the supper line at the fairgrounds, Clio ladling out barbecued shrimp, Tara dealing the garlic mashed.

  Tara had filled a Snapple bottle with Cuervo. Now and then she or Clio would duck down and take a surreptitious pull. That’s what Clio was doing when Tara announced, “Oh my God. The Turkeys are here.”

  The Turkeys were a family of pilgrims from Delaware. The father had this jutting thing he’d do with his chin
, and his wife and kids all had identical birdlike stares. And just now the whole family was coming through the chow line, and Clio and Tara had to fight to suppress their laughter.

  Soon after them came the Enormous Pious Lady. Tara gave her an extra scoop of potatoes, and the EPL actually said, “Bless you, my child.”

  Then some guy came through the line and Tara whispered, “Doesn’t he look like that guy on The Hills? The poser-ass dickwad?”

  Clio groaned. “Oh my God. Spencer! He does!”

  They were still laughing over that when the EPL came back for seconds. Tara gave her another big dollop of potatoes and the woman said, “Well, the Lord provides, don’t he?”

  And Tara said, “Yes ma’am. Provides and provides.” As soon as the woman was gone Clio let loose with howls. She had to apologize to Mrs. Riley, the old lady who was running this show. “Sorry, Miz Riley. Getting it together now. Going back to work now.”

  The woman gave her an indulgent smile. Everyone was so good to Clio. Everyone knew how lucky she was to even be alive.

  The last ones to come for lunch were Shaw and Trevor. They crossed from the picnic tables, talking quietly, easy in their skins, glowing with confidence. Clio worshiped Shaw and thought Trevor was sort of cute as well, and she was glad to see them. But Tara turned the color of ashes, and put down her big ladle and said, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait. Why?”

  “Or stay,” Tara snapped. “Stay if you want.” She walked away. Heading for the big cabin.

  Clio hurried after her. “Why? You don’t like him? But he saved my life. Didn’t he? It wasn’t true what Romeo said! I mean it was you and Shaw who saved me, right?”

  Tara kept walking. “I think he’s great, Clio. I’m just tired. I gotta lie down. You wanna come with me?”

  Clio gave up trying to understand. Nothing clear or honest will show its face to me now, she thought. Which really was OK. She felt helpless, lost; she seemed to see everything through a keyhole; she couldn’t tell which of these shadows were angels and which demons and the best thing was to go wherever Tara led her.

  Burris drove around Brunswick, considering Zderko.