The Blackbird Season

by Kate Moretti

  Bea floated away, on to greet the next guest. “Does she really think he can just wander around unattended?” she asked Nate, annoyed. “He’s two.”

  Nate stared at her, a hard penetrating gaze, without smiling. “Alecia, do you think for one night, you could lighten the hell up? It’s a party.” He gave her a smile then, a small, forced smile, and Alecia blinked. He’d never talked to her that way before and she felt her insides shrink up. She bit her cheek, wanting to cry and wanting to leave. Gabe flapped his hands, up and down, his new habit that he seemed to adopt whenever he was stressed, which was mostly in public. Alecia, red faced and sweating, pushed down on his hands and between her teeth gritted, “Gabey, calm.” Miraculously, he calmed.

  A woman in a deep red dress, looking like she’d just come off the runway, approached them and leaned in to kiss Nate’s cheek. Alecia eyed her, her deep neckline with not a wobble in sight, a slit up her thigh revealing long, tan legs and a silver, sparkling stiletto. A stiletto! Alecia’s toes curled inside her two-inch pumps.

  “Alecia, this is Jennifer Lawson. Jenny, this is my wife, Alecia.” Nate cleared his throat. Jennifer gave Alecia a smile and smooth handshake, her dark hair glossy as a raven’s back. Jenny?

  “Oh, Nate you’ll never guess who actually came. Here, let me show you.” She giggled, her fingertips curling around his arm, and pointed.

  Nate leaned backward, toward the kitchen, and laughed at their shared inside joke. Alecia almost asked to be let in, asking who was in the kitchen?

  She was interrupted by Peter Tempest. He greeted Nate with a firm handshake and a booming voice and said a quick hello with a swift peck in Alecia’s direction, never acknowledging Gabe. He was tall, towering even, and positioned himself between Nate and Jennifer.

  “Mind if I steal your husband for a moment?” Peter asked, already guiding Nate’s elbow away to the media room, where the men stood around the television watching football or something else that Alecia couldn’t care less about. Jennifer paused a moment and then wandered away without a word, leaving Alecia alone in the foyer with Gabe.

  Gabe gazed up at the looming crystal chandelier, sparkling and throwing rainbows through hanging prisms, fixated. “Come on, Gabe,” she whispered to no avail because he was in the zone, as she liked to call it. When he took off toward the formal sitting room, the only empty room where the lights were dimmed low, Alecia chased behind him, breathless.

  In under two minutes, she had snatched a glass candy dish, a crystal vase, a set of candlesticks, and an expensive-looking ceramic sculpture that vaguely resembled a vagina from Gabe’s thick fists. In five minutes, she’d pulled him off the couch, leaving one slightly damp footprint on the blue suede. In ten minutes, she’d settled him in front of the enormous wooden coffee table, spreading out his wooden number set that she’d stuck in her purse before she left. He arranged them in order, correctly, every time, which was kind of amazing, and Alecia kissed his forehead, damp with perspiration.

  “Have you ever had him evaluated?” The woman leaned against the doorway, a stemmed wineglass in one hand, watching them. She gave Alecia a kind smile.

  “For what?” Alecia breathed deep, filling her lungs, closing her eyes.

  “Autism spectrum disorder?” She raised her eyebrows and Alecia felt the back of her tongue go sour. She’d never considered it.

  “No. He’s fine. He’s just . . . he likes what he likes.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. Like she wasn’t exhausted by Gabe and his likes and dislikes and his vehemence and enthusiasm for both.

  “I’m a psychologist at the middle school. I’d be happy to give you some names. I know some wonderful social workers—”

  “He’s fine, thank you.” Alecia’s voice was curt, even though she didn’t mean it to be. She watched Gabe pull the wooden numbers and put them in order, one chubby finger after the other, over and over again.

  “It’s incredible that he knows his numbers like that. He’s . . . two?” The woman knelt down in her pencil skirt, delicate and perfect, and removed the number four with a single French-manicured nail. Gabe pounded the table and howled. He moved the four back to its rightful place and held it here, defiant. She then removed the eight and placed it before the one. Gabe sat silent for a pause, and Alecia held her breath, her heart hammering in her throat. He picked up the eight and threw it against the wall, the hard edge of the wood leaving a tiny, almost unnoticeable divot in the drywall.

  The woman stood and put a hand to Alecia’s arm and Alecia stared at it like it was an alien thing.

  Alecia stood abruptly, scooping up Gabe and gathering his numbers into her purse. She gave the woman a thin smile, and tried to say thank you, thank you, but she couldn’t get the words out and her nose began to run as she bent down and picked up all the debris of being Gabe, so she put an elbow to her face and rushed out the room, feeling her cheeks flame red and hot.

  Alecia found Nate in the living room, a tumbler of scotch in his red fist, his Irish complexion glowing ruddy with alcohol. He was laughing with a group, and Alecia tugged on his sleeve like a child.

  “Nate, we have to go. I have to go. This isn’t working.” She talked into his shoulder to hide her tears.

  “What? We just got here. Alecia, it’s a party. Let Gabe go upstairs for God’s sake. Let him play with other kids for once.”

  Oh God, not here. Not this conversation, not like this, not now.

  “Nate, he doesn’t play with other kids. Have you ever watched him? He’s never, not once, interacted with another kid. He just doesn’t.” Her voice pitched up to a wail; she could hear the high note, even as the crowd quieted around her.

  “Alecia.” Nate’s voice was low, his teeth gritted. “People are starting to stare. We can talk about this at home. We just got here. Come stand here, next to me. Let Gabe play on the floor. Have a glass of wine. Here, have my whiskey.” His voice edged up, louder, and he gave a wide smile, to the nervous titter of the women—Alecia suddenly realized it was all women, so typical—around him.

  Alecia’s eyes searched for Gabe, standing in the brightly lit, noisy living room and found him under the tree, his hands over his ears, rocking. Alecia watched him, a sense of dread creeping up her spine, her hand to her mouth.

  Gabe began to scream.

  • • •

  The car ride home was as quiet as the ride there, with Gabe humming loudly from the backseat. Nate tried to shush him but gave up, and twenty minutes later they parked in their driveway.

  “I’ll get him to bed. It’s late anyway and you know how long it takes,” Alecia said, gathering up her purse, her coat. “Sorry about the night.”

  “Alecia, it’s fine. It’s not your fault, I just wish . . .” Nate’s voice faded in the dark, his fingertips drumming on his knee. “I just wish he didn’t upset you so much. I think he feeds off of you, that’s all. I think he feels your stress.”

  She was too tired for this. Maybe he was right, who knows? It was possible. But mostly, this conversation felt old and tired and she felt old and tired and she just wanted to sleep for days.

  “I forgot my coat,” Nate said suddenly. “My sport coat. I need it for Monday, I’ve got that baseball luncheon.”

  “Okay,” Alecia said.

  “I’ll be right back. Just go in, I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Forty,” Alecia corrected, but shook her head and waved her hand.

  “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m sorry.” He hopped over the console to the driver’s seat and Alecia hesitated with the keys for a second. How many whiskies had he had? It might not matter, Gabe’s meltdown sobered everyone up quick.

  He backed out of the driveway as Alecia ushered a tired Gabe inside, his head drooping under her palm. She changed him into jammies and got him into bed, tonight without protest. His tantrums seemed to exhaust him lately, and for once, Alecia was thankful.

  When Gabe was asleep, she flopped facedown on the bed, peeling off her pumps and replaying
the night in her mind. The woman in the pencil skirt. Bea’s long blond hair and carefree smile. Jennifer Lawson’s calculating eyes, her private jokes with Nate. Finally, she thought of Gabe, screaming under the Christmas tree, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut. Her heart twisting for the discomfort of her child and yet, at the same time, hating that he couldn’t just be a normal kid for one night. They never seemed to be able to just go places, do things, like other families. It was all so hard, or maybe it just seemed that way and she wasn’t doing a very good job. That’s how Nate seemed to feel.

  Alecia closed her eyes, so tired. She just wanted to sleep, to end the night, to have it be tomorrow; it was bound to be better. She drifted off almost immediately, so fast, so hard that she didn’t hear her phone buzz. She didn’t see the incoming text until the next morning.

  1:42 a.m.: Took Jenny home. Burt left her at the party, they had a fight. Drama! Will explain tomorrow. On my way back now.

  As she read the message, she looked over at her soundly sleeping husband, wondering what time, exactly, he had gotten home.

  CHAPTER 19

  Lucia, a year ago

  Like everywhere else, there was a hierarchy to baseball games, where the crowd sat. Parents and teachers perched in the bleachers, backs pressed against cool metal, lined up, expectant along the bottom few rows. Coaches’ wives sat higher up, showing up all at once, coordinated through text messages. As if there was an unsaid requirement to attend a certain number of games to be supportive, and they’d fill it by God, but they’d do it together, and are those new shoes? Most of the kids sat along the fence: they wanted to yell, hoot, and catcall. Whistle and insult. Andrew’s crew sat up on the grass hill, behind the dugout, but high enough to watch him, face pinked and shining, his arm like a rocket.

  Mt. Oanoke had baseball. The football team limped along in last place, fraught with ligament sprains and concussions, the consequence of too much weight, too little speed, and half-assed training. Basketball did okay, but they hadn’t made postseason in as long as Lucia could remember. Most of the kids felt like Taylor did about track: it was something to do.

  No one felt passionate about anything. Except baseball.

  Lucia watched Coach Winters, his face scrunched and red, as he bounced on the balls of his feet, watching Andrew. Pick his hat up, run his hand through his hair, put it down, resting back on the tuft of his blond-brown curls, the sweat down the back of his neck, and Lucia wanted to dip her finger in it.

  She watched the boys in the dugout vie for him, just for a second to feel the heat of his eyes, so intense, cut you right to the center like you weren’t fooling anyone, to feel the thrill of being called out on your own bullshit.

  Some days she’d trade anything for that, even in a class as boring as statistics. She’d started to hang around after, seeking it, that look in his face, the way he’d say Lucia! What sort of interesting discussion do you have on probability today? His eyes twinkling, like something out of the paperback romance novels she saw at the library, where every man’s eyes sparkled and twinkled like they were all made of glittery icing or pure goodness, and that’s what she started to think about Mr. Winters. That he was made of goodness.

  Her eyes darted to Andrew, his arms and legs tangled up, so fast and long, that ball coming like buckshot across the dusty white plate. Batters up, then down. So fast you could hardly count them.

  She sat behind them, Porter and Riana whispering. Taylor twining her gum around her finger, her phone in her hand, thumbs flying over the keys, glossy lips laughing. At what?

  Lucia had no idea. Taylor had asked her in the hall, an offhand comment, you coming? So quiet she almost didn’t hear it. Andrew’s mouth had smirked at that, Porter elbowing him in the ribs. This is how she got invited to things now: last minute, a guilty sigh, a laugh she didn’t understand. Ever since last year.

  That fucking bird. She fucked a good thing up with them. Even Taylor had been different, shifting hot and cold with the wind since that bird. Lucia held fast to the denial, but Taylor knew, her eyes flicking around Lucia’s face looking for the lie.

  Lucia had a temper, Jimmy used to tell her that. She knew they called her a witch. Fuck them, she’d be a witch then. You become what people expect. Who said that? Lucia pulled her journal out of her bag, scribbled it on a page, and shoved it back into the front pocket. She’d look it up later.

  She glanced up to see Taylor, as if seeing her for the first time. She smirked, leaned over to Josh, a light tickling of his arm, and whispered in his ear.

  Lucia didn’t know why she kept coming to these things. So desperate to be invited that she’d put up with this kind of shit? Not knowing what to do with her hands and her eyes or even the muscles around her mouth; they felt stiff and like they weren’t really hers.

  The back of her head tingled and itched and she wound a tendril of hair around her index finger, pulling just to the point of pain, just enough to stop the urge. Taylor watched her and shook her head, a short burst, with a roll of her eyes. Don’t you goddamn dare.

  She stood, too quickly, the pricks of stars dancing in her eyes, her legs swaying, and for a moment she thought she might pass out. Jesus God do not pass out.

  “Where you going?” Taylor kept her eyes to her phone, her fingers dancing, those French-manicured tips white and bright over the glow of the screen as a smile played at her lips, the kind of smile she used to give Lucia but was now giving the nameless phone person, and Lucia almost, almost slapped that new iPhone right out of her hand. She was this close to it.

  “Home.”

  Her head snapped up and she snorted, a quick burst of air through her nose. “For what?”

  The bitch of it was, she didn’t have an answer. Lucia looked out onto the field. Mr. Winters was pressing his palms against the ceiling of the dugout now, the hem of his shirt inching up, a soft stripe of skin there. Andrew’s face was a sheen, glowing, on fire. The whole crowd was quiet.

  “You know he’s working on a no-hitter, right?” Porter pointed into the stands, his voice a whisper, the recruits with their radar guns clicking. “They’re watching him. He’s a sophomore. And they’re watching him. Fucking amazing.”

  Lucia didn’t know. She thought of Andrew, that mouth against hers, those big-knuckled hands against her back, in her hair, her scalp tingling. That openness in his face that she never saw again, his eyes closed up tight now, those lids like curtains. It could just make a person so goddamn tired all the time, all this effort.

  She looked back at Taylor. Her fingers waggled in her direction, bye, see ya, go now, but she didn’t look up, and then suddenly she laughed and leaned over, showed Riana her phone and Riana laughed.

  Later she’d learn that Andrew finished that no-hitter, the second in Mt. Oanoke history. That later, because of that game, UT Austin would come, watch him try to repeat it and fail, but they’d offer him a full ride anyway. Because he was Andrew, no one expected any less.

  But all she’d remember is their laughter at some inside joke. A big fucking mystery. Some inner circle she couldn’t understand and she’d never be part of again. She was so sick of wondering what they were talking about, laughing about, and how to figure it out, if she was doing the right thing or the wrong thing, and whether she was everything that was wrong or nothing that mattered at all.

  That was the worst part: trying to figure out if she mattered at all.

  CHAPTER 20

  Nate, Tuesday, May 5, 2015

  Tripp’s couch might as well have been made of cement. Nate tossed one way, then the other, punching the square, knotty throw pillow in his sleep. In his dream, Lucia came to him, sat on his lap, his head resting on her shoulder. She kissed his cheek, stroked his hair. She held out her closed fist and he took it, kissed her knuckles, cold against his lips, and when she opened her hand, a starling lay half rotted and paper-boned in her palm. When she laughed, the inside of her mouth was black, like fur.

  He sat up, his heart hammering inside h
is chest. The room was dark, only the faintest light peeking out through the curtains, a thin, pink beam. It seemed like morning but the clock read 2 p.m., his brain thick with fog, his mouth tacky.

  The night before came back in a rush. First the argument with Alecia. He’d just gone to pick up a few things: a new shirt, a pair of jeans, another pair of sweatpants. To say hi to Gabe.

  “Will you stay for dinner?” she asked, her back to him in the kitchen while Gabe played with his toys at the table. He lined up the metal construction vehicles, according to an order in his head, and Nate watched him, fascinated. On the refrigerator stuck his worksheets from the week. His name, painstakingly printed in block letters. He used to write, get frustrated, scribble and tear the paper. The letters had to be exact, which was beyond his capability. These letters were perfect. He was getting better, advancing.

  “Gabe, you’re doing great, buddy. Look at this!” Nate pulled a thin red-and-blue lined sheet from beneath its magnet. “It’s almost perfect.”

  Gabe hummed but smiled to himself. He’d heard his father and that gave Nate a beam of pride. He crossed the kitchen and hugged Gabe from behind. Gabe liked affection, but mostly only from Alecia and a few select therapists. From Nate, he sought approval.

  To Alecia, he said, “Do you want me to stay for dinner?”

  She shrugged and stirred something on the stove.

  “I shouldn’t. I told Tripp I’d meet him.” A lie.

  “Whatever. Do whatever, you’re not obligated to be here.” Alecia brushed past him into the living room, picked up the remote, and scrolled through the channels. She was a fidgeter when she was mad. She couldn’t sit still, brood like a normal person. He doesn’t know how many fights they’d had over the washing machine, or the kitchen mop. She needed to move her body, expend her energy. He loved that about her. Her movement. The way her arms and legs were strong from fifteen years of childhood gymnastics classes, when she filled out after Gabe was born to a soft curve, so new and supple, and then later, when Gabe was diagnosed and she was such a nervous wreck she lost it all, the weight sloughing off of her like a skin. Today, in the living room with the twilight sun across her face, her fingers shaking as she pushed up, up, up on the remote, and cursing under her breath, she looked like a paper doll.