A Notion of Pelicans

by Donnna Salli

  Getting the word from Doctor Sylvester, I must have gone a bit green, because he said, “There now,” and jumped up and got me a glass of water. I’d kept my secret for so long, I was sure I was safe. But now here was this kindly doctor, smiling sympathetically and patting us on the shoulders, letting a wife-eating tiger out of the bag.

  We didn’t say a word about what Sylvester said until we were in the car, driving. Marcus is the kind who clams up when something’s bothering him. I glanced sideways at him. “Marcus,” I made myself say. He had both hands on the wheel, and his face was closed. “Honey. It’s all right. I—I don’t care. That we can’t . . . have any more.”

  He kept his eyes on the road. When he answered, his voice was tight. “Listen. Luce. I don’t want to discuss it, not ever. You understand? There’s nothing we can do—so there’s nothing to talk about.” He glanced at me, turned those blue lights for just a second. “Is there?”

  There wasn’t. I kept my chin up but turned my eyes away, let my mind close around a circle of black-and-white cows huddled in a field.

  That drive was the longest I ever took. I had a bad spell later on, but at that point I was too scared to feel sad. When we got home, Joey met us at the door. He was in his cowboy hat, footy pajamas, and holster. He jumped into Marcus’s arms. “Twirl me, Daddy. Twirl me.” Marcus did, then put him back down and looked him over like he was seeing him the first time.

  “Were you a good little man for Julia? Of course you were. You’re my Joey.” Marcus hugged the boy so hard I thought my heart would give out. Joey didn’t notice, but Marcus looked like he was going to cry. He didn’t, of course. But from then on, I knew. Marcus knew that Joey wasn’t his—and he knew I knew. We’ve had some barnburner fights in the years since, but Marcus never brought up that, and I didn’t, either. I owed him that. I always thought it would be too much for him to hear me say it.

  To Marcus’s credit, he never took it out on Joey. It wasn’t the boy’s fault. But then, when it’s come to Joey, Marcus has always been an easy mark. He had no call to learn the hard lessons about love I learned as a child. He threw himself into it with Joey, and even in a man, love for a child can be hard to break. It would be about as likely that Marcus would go out and pour gasoline all over his garden and drop a match in it as that he’d stop loving Joey.

  He wasn’t that hard on me, either. Marcus and I have lived by a code of obligation. Got a lot, give a lot. Speak a pledge, keep it. Especially one spoken before the Lord. Divorce was out of the question, but Marcus did pull away, and I let him. It was easier for both of us. Easier to pretend our marriage had just bottomed out over the years, the way marriages naturally do. The important thing was, we were civilized. We based our life together after that around other things.

  Marcus never touched me again, not once in all these years. Once I got used to the idea, not having marital relations wasn’t as hard as you’d think. That part of me was a garment I took off, folded, and tucked into a drawer. The only trouble I had was when I reached my change and I let some fool doctor talk me into hormone shots. They had me so horny Marcus started looking dreamy. I went back to the clinic and said, “I’m not having any more of those infernal things. Take ’em yourself, if you’re so interested.”

  The situation between Marcus and me suited me. After what had happened to Mama when Joe was born, I didn’t mind not having to worry something like it would happen to me. As for Marcus’s needs, I don’t know if, or where, he went for them. He probably did, but as long as he didn’t embarrass Joey or me, I left it his business. We kept up appearances. As long as Joey was at home, we continued to sleep in one bed, an invisible line down the center. But when Joey went East to boarding school, Marcus and I moved into a bigger house and started sleeping in separate rooms.

  By now, that old story is so much water under the bridge. I don’t know why it came back to me today. As I waited, the clock I gave Marcus for our twenty-fifth struck six, and I turned away from the window. “The man can drive me crazy,” I said out loud. I don’t mind talking to myself. I know it’s just a way of sorting things out. The feeling had been growing that something wasn’t right. I couldn’t exactly identify it, but something kept nagging at me.

  I hate not being able to do anything, so I checked the foyer closet. The coat Marcus wore to work was on its hanger, neat as a pin—he’s finicky about the condition of his clothes. But one of his casual jackets was missing, so I knew he’d been here and gone out again. I started looking around the house, and found his new Italian wallet and money clip on the desk in the den. That struck me as real strange. Marcus never goes anywhere without carrying a lot of cash.

  The alarm bells started going off. I threw on a coat and a pair of Marcus’s house slippers and went out to the garage. His car was there, but no sign of him. Things were starting to get eerie. Something told me to check the yard. I grabbed a flashlight off the workbench and turned the backyard light on.

  “Marcus?” There was no answer.

  I figured maybe he was at the woodpile. Marcus loves his woodpile. He loves wood. He spends hours splitting and stacking it, in perfectly straight rows, and he’s dragged every man he knows out to look at it. “There’s wood enough out here to heat a house for three winters,” he says.

  “Ain’t it something?” they’ll say.

  Or, “Nobody plans that far ahead anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Marcus will agree. “And I split every chunk of it myself.”

  They all shake their heads and act like he deserves a medal. Never mind we heat with gas.

  I passed the crab apple tree and the oak grove, branches clacking in the wind, and skirted the remains of the garden. There I got the shock of my life. I’d been cursing the man for almost an hour, and the whole time he was laying in the yard, his body wedged cock-eyed between his beloved chopping block and woodpile. The ax was on the ground, nowhere near him. No blood. Sticks of kindling everywhere.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  At first, I thought there was hope. But when I dropped to my knees and really looked at him, I knew he was gone. His skin was ashen, one eye was open, the other one closed. I reached for his hand—actually, it was like I was standing behind myself and saw myself reach for it. The fingers were very cold. Sweet Jesus, I thought. I couldn’t believe it. Marcus never got sick. I let his hand drop and stumbled back to the house.

  There were signs everywhere, if only I’d seen them. The screen was moved to the side of the fireplace. The wood caddy was missing from its spot. The kitchen door had been unlocked. But I was so intent on getting to the theatre, I walked around blind.

  My mind couldn’t decide what to do with itself. The last thing I expected when I got up this morning was I’d be widowed by nightfall. I was starting to feel some real strange emotions. I thought, Okay, Lucy. You’ve got to call someone. You’ve got to call Joey. I’d been walking around in a daze, but the thought of telling Joey about his father made my heart lurch. I didn’t know how I was going to make that call.

  I dialed 911. The dispatcher said she’d send an officer and an ambulance.

  “He’s dead. An ambulance isn’t going to do any good.”

  “Mrs. Talbot, it’s standard procedure. Are you all right there alone?”

  “Of course I’m all right. The only other person here is dead.” The woman just didn’t seem to be grasping the situation.

  “I understand that, ma’am. Would you like me to stay on the line with you until the officer arrives?”

  I let her know I was just fine and hung up. Then I regretted it. The house was so big, so quiet. I went to wait by the front door and noticed every sound. Half-forgotten family stories came whispering back.

  Some of us have been known to die and stick around. When Grandpa Matusek passed, he kept showing up for months. Grandma would hear the bedsprings in his room squeak as if he’d stepped out of bed, then she’d hear footsteps. She’d go up and look, but no one would be there. Other times, she’d hear him talking
upstairs. She’d peek up the stairwell, and he’d be sitting on the bed carrying on a conversation with someone or something. To her, he never said one word. She was so unnerved, she thought for a while she’d have to move out. But then his visits stopped.

  Then there’s the case of Great Aunt Flo. After her death, her house was sold outside the family, and for a while strange things happened. No one ever saw Aunt Florence herself, but the new owners confided to my cousin Althea that they’d be awakened at night by the light in their room turning on, and the sound of tables and chairs moving around downstairs. When they’d get up to check, nothing was moved. But every light in the house was on, from the basement to the attic. Or they’d come home and find one leaf clipped from every potted plant. “The leaves are placed carefully beside the pots,” they said, like they really didn’t think Althea would believe it. “Straight cuts, not like some insect bit them off.”

  The whole thing perplexed us. Maiming plants wasn’t like Aunt Flo. She’d been a well-mannered person. Now, California can keep all that New Age nonsense . . . but I know there’s things going on we don’t control. I figured it would be just my luck for Marcus to decide to hang around.

  I heard the ambulance coming long before it showed up, and then it did, and then the police car. I took them out back. I knew from the slow way the paramedics did things, I was right. Marcus was gone. The woman sat back on her heels, glanced at her partner, and shook her head. He looked up at me and said, “Sorry, Mrs. Talbot. . . . Has your husband had a history of health problems?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  The police officer got in on it. “There will have to be an autopsy, ma’am. In cases of unexpected death, like this, the coroner gets involved.” He took me by the elbow. “Would you like to go inside, where it’s warm? It may be a while before this is wrapped up.”

  I guess I nodded, because the next thing I knew, I was being guided up to the house. Marcus and I never leave loose ends. We prearranged everything at Gunderson’s. I expected, when one of us dropped, Charlie Gunderson would back his white hearse up to the door and take care of things. It would be simple and clean. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “Anyone you’d like to call, Mrs. Talbot?” The officer sat me by the kitchen phone and pushed it at me like I ought to use it. He smiled encouragingly and gestured toward it again. His eyes drifted over to the table that Lorna left so beautifully set, and he shook his head. Half to make him feel better, I picked up the phone and hit “0” for the parsonage.

  It seemed like the thing to do. Cross picked up after a number of rings, with his usual elevator-boy tone. Despite myself, I almost cracked. I had a hard time finding my voice. But then I pulled out of it and gave him the short version of the story. It was the least I could do, have him come for Marcus. He said he’d be right over.

  I don’t know why, but as I waited, I started to get mad. The thought went through my mind, It’s just like Marcus, to up and die. He was probably howling down in the game room over the trouble he was causing, ready to sling his knapsack over his shoulder and head for the tracks. Now I wouldn’t be able to make it to opening night, and Claire was counting on it. She’s been talking about the play for weeks. I kept seeing her big green eyes, how happy she was when she said, “Hug me for luck?”

  Then I started to get mad that Marcus was laying out in the yard. It was freezing out there and getting darker. I kept seeing him the way he was the day we met. He walked into the Bottomless like he owned the place. His clothes and shoes were the finest you could buy. His back was ramrod straight, yet he moved like a lynx. One flash of those blue eyes, and the rest was fate.

  Just because we’ve had hard times doesn’t mean I won’t do right by him. It’s only human decency. The fact that a person’s dead doesn’t mean he should be treated like a block of wood. The world gets you, coming and going. Who’d have guessed you have to stand in line even when you’re dead? After I was sitting there awhile, I realized how insulting the whole thing was. The way it was being handled, you’d think I poisoned him or something.

  I don’t know how it happened.

  I heard the oven click and remembered the food keeping warm in it. All of a sudden, those damn potatoes popped into my mind and my eyes flipped over in my head and took a look inside. Damned if there wasn’t a six-year-old in there, crying and shaking like a leaf on the back porch swing. I heard her thoughts and felt her quaking like she was connected to me at the end of a long tunnel.

  That’s when Cross arrived. The front doorbell rang, and when I opened it, he was standing there looking like Mama and Daddy rolled into one. His lips pressed together. He shook his head. “Oh, Lucy,” he said. All he did was say my name, and Lady Luna was gone. He held his arms out—and I’ll be damned, I stepped right into them. I started to shudder.

  “There, there,” Cross said, patting my back. “There, there now, Lucy. Even the best of scrappers needs to let it out, once in a while.”

  The damn man knew just the thing to say.

  I bawled like a baby.

  Mirrored in the Sky

  It was full dark now. The kids at the convenience store had gone. Some, home to their families. Others, to private rendezvous. Leaves from the tall maple tree at the edge of the parking lot had blown up against the door. Their colors, the blood tones and sun tones, were muted in the artificial light. When someone opened the door, the leaves scattered with a grating sound.

  At the Larkspur Theatre, halfway up the long hill from the lake to the bluff, the curtain was about to rise. Paired headlights ascended and descended the hill and waited patiently to enter the lot. It was cold enough now that smoke blew away from the tailpipes. But one set of lights kept straight on—it went down the hill and did not turn. It was the ambulance, no lights or siren now. Above the hill, on a mirrored hill in the sky, the pelican flew low, then high.

  Inside the theatre, the cast was coiffed and garbed. They waited. Ticket takers worked the doors. The theatregoers were in high spirits. They laughed and talked, then took their seats and leafed through programs. Some were finely dressed, others in jeans. All were unaware of the stage manager running his track—something needed to be handled in the lobby, the box office, the dressing rooms. There was always something, backstage. As he ran, he kept one eye on his watch—everything was ready.

  Now the magic would start.

  Claire Collier

  When you’re a child, you’re afraid of the dark. But when you grow up, you love it. No—you love the almost dark. Even a small light, in the distance, keeps fear away. So you can taste the dark. Breathe it. Wrap it around you like a robe and relax into it. Without dark, you wouldn’t know light.

  Backstage was dark—and electric.

  Ten minutes earlier, the whole cast had been telling jokes and had gotten the lightning giggles. But we were so close to curtain now, we were dark. In the last minutes, you’re wondering how you got yourself into this. Jack and Patrice had to go on first—they were deep in their own worlds. Jack was off in a corner doing stress-relieving exercises. The sleeves of his smoking jacket billowed in the blue light as he swung them through butterfly circles. Trice was walking back and forth and bouncing up and down on three-inch heels, shaking her fear out her fingertips.

  I’ve never been able to decide if it’s harder to open the action, or wait. The character I’m playing now doesn’t make an appearance until scene four. So I filled the time and my mind repeating my pre-curtain prayer. Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a poor sinner.

  It seems strange, maybe, to say those words backstage of a play, especially one called Murder, Et Cetera. But it’s always worked for me. It calms me down. The theatre is a place of superstition. Everyone has their own habits and rituals. Gordy wears the same shabby sneakers to Call—I’d guess they’re vintage 1970. “There’s always duct tape,” he says. “I’ll wear these until the soles fall off.” His girlfriend, Vera, has a different vibe going on. I use that word because it’s so them. Vera ke
eps a statue of the Buddha on her dressing table and rubs its belly before going backstage.

  Some traditions you’ll find everywhere.

  You’re never supposed to say the name Macbeth inside a theatre. If you’ve got to say it, you say the Scottish play. If you forget and say the forbidden word, you have to spit, swear, and go outside and turn around three times. Who knows where the spitting and swearing came from. But the magic number three and the circles are understandable. You’re not to whistle in the dressing room, and you can never say “good luck.” You have to wish broken limbs on one another, instead.

  Phil bolted through in his stage-manager frenzy. His shirt was white and glowing in the dim light.

  “Two minutes to places,” he whispered. “Break a leg, everyone. Two minutes.”

  We all gathered and hugged and whispered. “Break a leg. Break a leg. Good show. Good show, Claire.” Then we waited. We’re not professionals. But we do a good job. Trice and Jack were so focused, the whole backstage seemed to collapse into them.

  Finally, Phil uttered the crucial word.

  “Places.”

  No backing out now.

  The house lights pulsed down to black—onstage, they went up to blue. Jack made his way out and struck a suspicious-looking pose at the top of the staircase. Trice arranged herself elegantly in the armchair by the fireplace, her back to him. When the lights came up, we were in a different world. The Jack Berry we knew—the wild man in mirrored Vuarnets and three-season Bermuda shorts—had been replaced by scheming Biff Summers. And Patrice Bukowski, small-town mother of three, didn’t even look like herself. She was the beautiful and entitled Mariah Mayweather. Rehearsals were such a hoot, I’d expected opening to be riotous and fun. But here it was, and my spirits were lower than low. No one I’d hoped to be there had come.