An Exaltation of Larks

by Suanne Laqueur

  No luck slipping away, though. “Good morning,” said his caseworker, Lauren, materializing like a pixie. “How about some breakfast?”

  He knew it was pointless to refuse, so he sat at a little table with Lauren, nibbled on some bacon and had a cup of weak coffee.

  “So, your uncle is coming back for you today,” she said.

  “Yeah. He’s taking me to see Roman.”

  “Good, good. How did it go last night?”

  “All right, I guess. I mean, for never meeting the guy before. He’s okay.”

  “Excellent. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I’d like to walk around, get some air?” He wasn’t yet sure how much authority this place had over him, and if he were required to account for his whereabouts at all times.

  “Sure,” Lauren said. “Stop by the infirmary because they’ll want vitals. Then sign out at the front desk. You can walk anywhere on the grounds, but I suggest going down to the grove to the treehouse.”

  “Treehouse,” Ari said, pressing his finger on the last few bacon crumbs.

  “The guy from HGTV built it. He’s from Guelisten, you know, and now he’s got that show. Home in a Tree.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ari said, sucking on his finger. “My mom has a huge crush on him.” A prickling upset went across his eyes and he looked down into his coffee cup. “I mean, she had.”

  Lauren touched his hand. “My father passed away three years ago,” she said softly. “I still catch myself using present tense when I talk about him. And I still have his number in my cell phone.”

  Ari nodded, swirling the last bit of cold java around.

  “Go take that walk,” Lauren said. “If your uncle gets here before you’re back, I’ll send him your way.”

  Ari prepared himself for something cool, but when he got to the grove he stopped short, his mouth falling open. It wasn’t merely one house in one tree, but an entire, elevated compound built within the grove. As if a piece of Rivendell had been plucked from Lord of the Rings and transported.

  “Holy shit,” he said, going up the spiral staircase to the hub of the structure. He kept repeating “holy shit” under his breath as he walked around the octagonal hall with four trunks piercing its shingled roof. A rustic railing encircled the platform, off which led three swinging bridges to other trees with smaller houses, tinier crows’ nests and more spiral staircases to the ground.

  He explored the entire thing from tree to tree, then made his way up one more winding stairway to the highest level. Through the leafless branches, he could see the artery of the river stretching north and south. The pale blue Mid-Hudson bridge spanning the banks like a lady spreading her skirt. The geometric trusses and struts of the old railway bridge beyond.

  Ari sat on the deck, putting his feet between two spindles and letting them dangle. Alone, hovering above the world, he dug his hands deep in his pockets, set his forehead against the railing and exhaled.

  My mother is dead.

  The words whirled nonstop around his mind. And his mind stood with the door half open, shaking its head with a blank stare. I’m sorry, you are…?

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  “You know what?” Naroba said to him on New Year’s Eve, only five weeks ago. “It’s our time now.”

  Having emerged alive from the black hole that was 2003 to 2005, they could make fun of the ordeal. After Ari’s illness, the heroin bust, Tom’s arrest and conviction and the fallout, Naroba looked as thin and exhausted as Ari. Yet something in her eyes was electric, galvanized for change. She had both her scrubs and her game face on.

  “Second chances are given or made,” she said. “That’s what my father always said. You and me, we’re going to make something happen this year. We’ve been to hell and back, but you wait, Ari. It’s our time.”

  He shut his eyes. Naroba was etched behind his lids as he’d last seen her: sprawled on the floor, her head twisted and her eyes staring. Close by lay Roman, his eyes also fixed and glassy, barely breathing.

  Ari thought it was a professional hit. It had to be Tom Kingston’s doing. This was clearly a vendetta. He had screamed as much to the 911 dispatcher. But when it became clear it wasn’t murder but an accident, Ari became angrier than he could ever recall feeling in his life. His brain flared up white hot behind his eyes. It was like staring into the sun. His mother was dead because she’d tripped. She skipped a step, stumbled, faltered, went for the handrail and missed. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of.

  “No,” he kept saying at the precinct, telling the police, yelling at the social worker, shouting to anyone who would listen it was their time now. They’d made it through hell. They were going to make something happen and it was impossible Naroba fell down to death.

  When he started throwing things, one of the cops got arms around him. Ari’s wrestling instincts took hold and he was about to break out when the lock turned into more of a hug. The strong, solid grip pulled him close. Compassion like a blanket pulled up tight and a deep voice inside a barrel chest. “It’s all right, son. Don’t throw it out there, give it to me. Come on now…”

  He collapsed in this stranger’s embrace, his throat slashed apart with crying. Through the blinding glare he wept so hard, his nose started to bleed.

  Then he passed out.

  “Here you are.”

  Ari looked down from his perch. His uncle stared up at him. Jesus Christ, the guy said he was a writer but he could’ve been an actor. Or a model. He said he wasn’t gay, but he could probably walk down the street and collect panties and boxer shorts in equal amounts.

  “I’d have given my left nut to have this place when I was a kid,” Jav said, coming up the stairway.

  “They said the guy who built it is on TV. He goes all over the world building tree houses like this.”

  “Nice work if you can get it.”

  “No shit.”

  “You sleep all right?”

  “Some,” Ari said. He cried a good portion of the night but that was nothing Jav needed to know. “I think my mother used to work here.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She said she once worked as a private nurse at a group home. In some rich little town on the other side of the river. I think this was it.”

  “I called the shelter. They said Roman’s doing all right. They open at ten so I’ll take you over.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You hungry?”

  “No.”

  “I am. Mind if we stop in town so I can grab a bite?”

  Crunching across the gravel parking lot to the car, Ari asked, “Why did you change your name?”

  “I didn’t feel part of the old one anymore.”

  “Why Landes?”

  “I usually save that story for the third or fourth date.”

  “Fair enough,” Ari said. “What do you want me to call you?”

  A moment of confused staring, then his uncle said, “Jav is fine.”

  As Bemelman Street descended, it widened to a divided boulevard with majestic old houses on either side. Houses that would only be law offices or funeral homes in Morgantown. All the yards were clipped, groomed and ship-shape. No junk or clutter on porches. Curb appeal was a priority, and people put their names and addresses on their mailboxes like an artist would sign a canvas: The John Smiths, 1928 Bemelman Street.

  Jav turned onto Main Street and parked by the railroad station. Beyond it stretched a waterfront park, the river sparkling under the sunshine.

  “This place is picturesque as fuck,” Ari said.

  Jav laughed. “Right? Norman Rockwell’s wet dream.”

  They crossed the street and walked past shops. A dressmaker’s. A restaurant. Then a bookstore with a coffee bar one of the staff members at Lark House recommended. The sign hanging down from two chains read Celeste’s and the door opened with a ring of the bell on its jamb.

  The smell hit Ari first. He drew it in through his nose, filling up his chest. Wood. Leathe
r. Paper. Ink. Coffee. Bread. Sugar. Chocolate.

  His eyes widened at the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind couches and easy chairs and tables. A fireplace at the far end of the space, a long bar with a few stools along one side.

  And books.

  “Wow,” Jav said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I wouldn’t mind being held hostage here.”

  They took stools at the bar. Ari stared. The man working behind the bar was… No, wait. It was a woman.

  “What can I get you guys?” she said. Her voice sounded how Ari imagined bourbon would taste. She had white-blonde hair, buzzed short at the back and sides, long bangs falling over her forehead. Her body was arrow-straight under black leather pants and a tight denim shirt. Ari couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked like the offspring of David Bowie and Annie Lennox.

  “Here you go,” she said, sliding large, round cups to them. She had a ring in her nose and the smiling gaze she flicked toward Ari was icy grey.

  The coffee was superb, a strong, rich shot, straight to the veins. Ari ate a croissant. Then another one. The lost sleep of the night before began to creep down the top of his head. Warm and full, he looked at one of the chairs by the fire, thinking he could drop down right there and crash.

  The bell on the jamb rang out, then a blast of cold air. Someone darted through tables and chairs and slipped under the coffee bar. No trouble classifying this time, it was definitely a girl. Dressed for running in leggings, sneakers, a fleece top. Sculpted legs and a tight ass. Long blonde hair in a high ponytail. Cheeks pink with cold and exercise and above them, the same ice grey eyes as the barista.

  A daughter? Ari wondered. Sister? She acted like she owned the place, taking a glass cloche off a cake stand and helping herself to a danish. She held it tight in her teeth as she replaced the dome, and her eyes caught Ari’s.

  His heart whipped around and his stomach sat up.

  Hello…

  Her eyebrows raised and a conspiratorial smile stretched around golden flaky pastry.

  Don’t tell, her eyes said.

  Ari blinked twice. To the grave.

  The barista capped a paper cup of coffee and handed it off to the runner as if it were a baton.

  “Don’t fall down,” she called, as the girl ducked under the end of the bar and jogged back out of the store. The bell. The breeze. The thump of the door closing. Then silence. The air in the girl’s wake swirled and sparkled. As if the bookstore were a snow globe that got shaken up and set down again.

  Who was that? Ari thought.

  “We have another half hour to kill,” Jav said, finishing his coffee.

  “The gallery is open upstairs,” the barista said, taking their cups. “The door is on the other side of the restaurant. Right next to the dress shop.”

  The sign over the dress shop read Deane Fine Tailoring. Yet another gorgeous blonde woman was arranging the display in the front window.

  “Is being blonde a residential requirement in Guelisten?” Ari said.

  Jav laughed. “Think you can live here?”

  “I’ll take one for the team.”

  Just as Ari stepped inside the stairwell, he heard bells ring next door. He leaned back to see the runner emerge from the dress shop and head up the street, the turquoise soles of her sneakers flipping up behind her. Calves tight, ass tighter, ponytail bouncing. Ari stuffed his eyes with her, swallowed hard, then followed Jav up the stairs.

  He was expecting an art gallery but instead, the open room was full of dollhouses.

  Miniatures certainly weren’t anything Ari would seek out on his own, but he couldn’t help being charmed by the displays and impressed by the craftsmanship. Crouching down to peer in the rooms, shuttering his focus into a small, close pinpoint was strangely relaxing.

  His mother would love this.

  A whistle blast and hiss of brakes as a train pulled into the station across the street.

  You mean she would’ve loved this. If she hadn’t fallen down.

  “I’m having the weirdest déjà vu,” Jav said. “I feel like I’ve seen these houses. Or knew about them.”

  Ari looked through a tiny bedroom window and met his uncle’s eyes.

  “Ready to go?” Jav said.

  “You go on in,” Jav said as he drove up to shelter’s entrance. “I’ll park.”

  The vet was waiting for Ari, a tall guy with glasses, dressed in green surgical scrubs. “I’m Alex Penda,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Come on, I’ll take you to see Roman. He’s doing great.”

  It was warm in the shelter. Ari shrugged off his jacket as he followed Dr. Penda down a hallway.

  “Did you come alone?” the vet asked. His shoulders were broad and he had bands tattooed around each upper arm.

  “My uncle brought me,” Ari said, uncle still foreign and surreal in his mouth. “He’s parking. So what was in the gum that made Roman so sick?”

  “Xylitol,” Penda said. “It’s in a lot of sugarless gums and candy. But it’s incredibly toxic to animals.”

  In one of the adoption rooms, a volunteer sat on the floor by a dog bed where Roman lay, still hooked up to an IV pole. He was a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. Pure copper with a white chest and one white paw.

  “He’s been on dextrose and fluids all this time,” Penda said. “We’re doing glucose checks every six hours and we’ll have to run the liver tox screens for another seventy-two hours. But his heart rate is excellent, blood pressure too. He’s going to be all right.”

  “He’s so chill,” the volunteer said as Ari sank down on his knees.

  “Hey, buddy,” he said softly. “What’s going on, huh?” Roman burrowed his muzzle beneath Ari’s arm and made high, keening noises in his throat while his tail thumped hard.

  “I’m between surgeries,” Penda said. “But I wanted to say hi and bring you up to speed. Eve’s here for you. Stay as long as you want.” He raised a palm and then hurried out.

  Eve dragged over another dog bed. “We don’t have much in the way of chairs here,” she said, but Ari wasn’t listening. He put his face into Roman’s neck and let the world disappear. Faintly he heard the click of a door closing and knew he was alone.

  “Did you miss me?” he whispered, his voice falling to pieces. “Did you think I wasn’t coming back? It’s all right. I came back. You’re going to stay with me, okay?”

  He jammed the second dog bed tight up against the first and sank down onto it. Roman pushed up against him and his arms closed around the dog.

  My mother’s dead.

  She left me, she lied, she kept secrets, she fell down. Now all I have left is in my arms.

  Soft copper-colored hair. The smooth, domed forehead. The panting muzzle in his neck. The utter joy in his presence. The unquestioning love and loyalty and adoration.

  My mother is dead.

  Roman clasped tight to his chest, Ari cried himself into sleep.

  Ari awoke, not knowing where he was until Roman licked his ear, tail thumping like a heartbeat. Ari sat up, rubbing his face. His head swam with a prickling fog. He’d slept so hard he broke a sweat.

  The door opened a bit and Dr. Penda stuck his head in. “How you doing?”

  “All right,” Ari said, and cleared his sludgy throat.

  “Your friend could probably use a walk.” Penda opened the door further and behind him was the girl. The runner. Wearing jeans now, her hair still up in a ponytail. She took one hand out of her hoodie pocket and raised it at Ari, who stared back stupidly.

  “This is my slave, Deane,” Penda said. “Rhymes with mean.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. Ari got to his feet, conscious of his dry mouth and sweaty nape, wondering if his hair was messed up or if he smelled like a dog’s bed. In Deane’s steady gaze he felt thin and insignificant and he wished he’d put on more layers this morning.

  “Deane, this is Aaron,” Penda said.

 
; “I go by Ari, actually.”

  “Ari.” Penda smiled. He had deep dimples in both cheeks. “You and Deane can take Roman straight out that door into the run. He can walk on the paw with the IV, just keep the line out of the way.” As he left the room, he gave Deane’s ponytail a little tug and said something in Spanish. Ari’s ears pricked up but couldn’t grasp the words.

  The other volunteer, Eve, stuck her head in. “Your uncle was here,” she said. “But he saw you were asleep and didn’t want to disturb you. He said he’d run some errands.”

  “Thanks.” Ari pulled on his jacket. Deane put on a dark grey windbreaker with Guelisten High School in white letters on the back, encircling a grizzly bear’s head. She took the IV bag off its pole and coiled the extra tubing up. “Come on, Roman,” she said. The dog yawned and got up, stretched his front legs, then the rear and padded toward the outside door. “He’s so beautiful. I love his color.”

  “I think I saw you this morning,” Ari said as they let Roman into a small courtyard. “In the bookstore.”

  She smiled, showing her own dimples. “You did.”

  Roman stopped every fifth step to shake his needled paw out and sniff it. He took a lopsided pee, then walked around smelling everything, Ari following and holding the IV bag out of the way.

  “The woman behind the coffee bar,” he said. “Is she your mother?”

  “My aunt. My mother owns the dress shop on that same block.”

  “I saw you in there, too.”

  And now here.

  “Dr. Penda is my dad,” she said.

  This girl was a ribbon sewing together the events of the day.

  Ari crouched down as Roman came to him and turned circles within his arms. Deane had her hands in her pockets and her face turned up to the sun. The light glinted off her different neutral tones. The dun-gold of her hair. The grey of her jacket and the washed-out blue of her jeans. Her pale but pearly skin and the ice storm of her eyes. All the colors Ari saw in winter along the river banks in Morgantown. Hues he associated with poverty and crime. Abandoned houses and crumbling rowboats. Dead fish and broken dreams. A palette turned around and made beautiful on this aloof, slightly sleepy-looking girl with her face in the sun.