Boy Who Shoots Crows (9781101552797)

by Silvis, Randall;

  “I mean, what if Denny comes back? I wouldn’t want him coming here to get me.”

  Charlotte’s chest ached. Her throat felt clogged. She wanted to run to the bathroom and throw up, but she doubted she had the strength to do so. When she spoke, she thought her voice sounded odd, dusky and thick. “Denny won’t dare come to my house. He’s surely not that stupid, is he?”

  Charlotte waited for the answer, but there was none. Instead she heard or maybe only felt Livvie approaching, felt her standing there behind her. Now Charlotte turned away from the closet, and there was Livvie with a wistful, small smile, a still-crooked smile from the swelling that had not gone all the way down. She had the little spiral notebook in her hand. “Can I show you this?” she said. “It’s one of those flip books, you know? Just peel back the bottom corner and riffle through the pages.”

  Charlotte’s hand was shaking when she took the notebook, so she moved quickly, hoping Livvie wouldn’t notice the trembling. She held the notebook in the palm of her left hand, used her right thumb to expose the sketches in the pages’ corners.

  “Isn’t that clever?” Livvie said. “That’s supposed to be me hanging up clothes on the clothesline.”

  “He’s got the laundry basket, the clothespins, and everything,” Charlotte said.

  “He was always making things like that for me. I only brought a few of the things back with me.”

  Charlotte looked at her and smiled and felt sick to her stomach. She handed the notebook back to Livvie, who returned it to its place atop the dresser.

  “You don’t think that if Denny does come back,” Livvie said, “he’ll destroy the things I left there, do you? Just out of spite? I mean, all of our clothes are still there. All of Jesse’s clothes and most of mine.”

  “If you want to,” Charlotte said, though even as she heard the words she knew they were a mistake, “we can go back tomorrow and get everything. This dresser is still empty, right? There’s plenty of room. And there’s a whole other bedroom.”

  “I probably would if I was going to stay longer.”

  “Maybe you should consider it,” Charlotte said, though the sense of having made a mistake grew stronger with every word, the confusion in the repetition she heard inside her head, the voice asking, What are you doing here, Charlotte? What are you doing? She blinked and looked at the far wall, and everything looked strange to her then, familiar yet not at all, the pale green paint on the walls and the corner of the lace curtain. She slid her gaze to the right and looked out the window below the half-raised blind, saw her backyard extending out to Mike Verner’s field, the clothesline stretched across the sky. From where she stood, she could not see the barn or, just beyond it, the other leg of the L-shaped field, but she knew they were out there, always out there. Past the barn and the field were the trees where the crows roosted. It never changed, never would. The scene was the scene, she could not paint over it. Put a new blank canvas on the easel and the old picture would bleed through. That’s why she couldn’t paint, she realized. Because no amount of paint could ever cover the old picture. That constant scene. That one irredeemable moment.

  She turned and looked at Livvie, who was standing there now, hanging up the rest of her clothing. She watched Livvie place the last hanger on the rail and then turn to her, smiling, and Charlotte felt the tightness in her neck and at the base of her skull, and all she wanted was to call Livvie to the window and have her look out, have her see what Charlotte always saw out there . . . have what must happen happen . . . let everything come to its end.

  And Livvie told her, “This is the nicest bedroom, Charlotte. I can’t believe how nice it is.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” was as much as Charlotte could manage.

  51

  WHAT were you thinking? Charlotte asked herself again. It was the same question she had been asking all through the evening, during the light supper of canned soup they shared, during the clean-up and awkwardness of silence that followed. They had tried to watch television for a while, but the bottle of wine did nothing to calm Charlotte, only made her more restless and anxious, so that at not yet nine, she went into the powder room and switched on the mirror light and looked at herself in the glass, wondered how all that frenetic activity beneath her skin and inside her skull could not be visible somehow. She felt as if every cell in her body was racing around aimlessly, drunk with fear. Her skull felt as if it must soon burst apart from the pressure. Yet in the mirror Charlotte appeared calm, still, so self-contained. Charlotte looked at that woman and asked, a whisper, “What were you thinking?”

  She returned to the living room and opened her hands to Livvie. Two Ambiens lay in her right palm, a Vicodin in her left. “Take your pick,” Charlotte said.

  Livvie touched the Vicodin. “This is the one that made me feel so spacey?”

  “Right,” said Charlotte. “The other ones will help you sleep.”

  “I feel like I’ve been sleeping all day,” Livvie said.

  “I know, but trust me. You don’t want to lie awake all night. You’ll just lie there in the darkness and relive everything.”

  Livvie picked the Ambiens out of Charlotte’s hand.

  Charlotte popped the Vicodin, on top of the Ambiens she had already taken in the powder room, then lifted her wineglass to Livvie and toasted, “Chin-chin.”

  52

  AND now, alone in her bed at half past eleven, the house quiet but for the usual ticks and creaks, the occasional hum of the furnace blower, Charlotte felt a pleasant heaviness in her body but no sleepiness. Her cells, at least, had ceased their mad racing about, and she felt the peculiar sense that her body had lapsed into a coma, her limbs motionless and content to remain that way while her mind continued to grind on, though without the anxiety now, in a kind of reconciled acceptance of the sadness of its thoughts.

  Charlotte understood now what Livvie’s son had meant to her. How she must have clung to his every smile and kindness, and how he must have clung to hers. They had been alone in a world filled with malice and threat. But at least they had been alone together. But now . . .

  Ever since the candlelight vigil, Charlotte had been struggling to adjust to her jarred perception of the boy. Until she saw his sketches, she had been able, most times, to think of him as just a nasty little boy, sullen and angry, destined to perpetuate life’s misery. But when she had been forced to see his talent, his sullenness took on a different hue. Maybe, she thought, he was sullen because he felt different from his peers, different from those rough-and-tumble boys who only want to fight and play football. Jesse wanted to draw pictures. And now Charlotte had met his mother too—Had brought her here, for God’s sake! Charlotte, what were you thinking?—a woman who was sad, yes, but sweet to the bone, and with such a mother, Jesse surely must have dropped his mask of sullenness. Maybe, to a lesser degree, with his art teacher too—the woman who had organized the candlelight vigil and had put his pictures on display. Had he been sweet with her, his teacher? Charlotte wondered. Had he trusted her? Had he smiled at her with no trace of anger in his eyes?

  Had Jesse and his mother snuggled together in their tight little trailer? Charlotte wondered. Had they played Yahtzee, worked on his homework at the kitchen table?

  Had Jesse been the one to comfort her in the wake of her husband’s violence, the one to take her hand and stroke her hair, to soothe her as she no doubt soothed him after his own beatings?

  It must have been so, Charlotte told herself. They had each other, whereas you . . . You had your art, or so you thought. You had color and light.

  And do they comfort you now, Charlotte? Do they give you what you need?

  53

  CHARLOTTE dreamed that the man made of shadow came toward her in her backyard. He came close enough that she could see him motioning with his hand, telling her to come with him, follow him. She rose out of her lawn chair and walked behind him through the darkness. They walked past the barn and into the field, and as they walked she could hea
r more and more clearly the woofing of the vultures. Just after the man entered the trees with Charlotte close behind him, she looked up and saw the branches heavy with crows, and she wondered, How is it possible that I can see them so well in the darkness? There were so many crows that they completely obliterated the sky, yet she could see each crow distinctly, the oily, blue-black feathers, the shining yellow eyes. Then she smelled the carcass, the dead opossum, and the scent was overpowering, sickening and palpable, greasy on her skin. The man said, “Here,” and she looked at him and saw that he was smiling. She could feel the vultures milling about her feet, their long feathers dragging through the leaves, their red-skinned heads brushing against her legs. “Here,” he said again, and nodded toward the ground. But she would not look down because she knew that she should not. “Just let me look at the crows,” she told him. The man’s smile faded then, and he backed away from her, and one of the vultures walked between her legs, and because her legs were naked now, because she was suddenly naked, the scrape of its feathers startled her so that her body went rigid, and she wanted to scream but could not, she wanted to run but could not, and when she awoke suddenly, gasping and sitting up, the scent and the taste of the rotting opossum still filled every breath, so that she rolled off the bed quickly and grabbed the little trash container beside her bed and knelt there heaving with the dawn’s light falling in through the window and onto her back.

  54

  AFTER she had emptied the trash container into the toilet, had flushed the toilet and rinsed out the trash container in the tub, after she had rinsed out her mouth and gargled and returned the trash container to its place beside her bed, she sat on the edge of the bed for a while and wondered if she should climb back beneath the covers or whether she should get up. If you get up, she told herself, what are you going to do? Should you make breakfast?

  You have to get her out of your house, she thought. You have to get her away from here.

  She rose quietly and put on a pair of jeans, a pink T-shirt, and a long-sleeved Nautica shirt that she left unbuttoned. She put on clean socks, the thick, heather-colored Ralph Laurens that kept her feet warm. You should take her out to breakfast somewhere, Charlotte thought. Then stop by the trailer on the way back. And maybe she’ll want to stay. You can bring up her work, the people in town she cleans for. The generating plant. Talk about how important it is to keep busy. To keep ourselves occupied. You can lend her the Jeep if necessary. If necessary, you can buy her a car.

  Once she had made up her mind about how the day would progress, Charlotte felt better. The dream still lingered, but she told herself, It was only a dream. The morning was cool but already bright at just after seven. The grass was damp and a vivid green, and this morning, the sound of the crows waking each other in the trees did not fill her with grief.

  She reminded herself of what June always said. What is, is. If you can’t accept what is, you can’t move on.

  She washed her face and brushed her teeth and ran the brush through her hair. She made little attempt to be quiet and, in fact, hoped that her actions would wake Livvie. As soon as she heard Livvie stirring, she would go to her room and say, “I’m really hungry for waffles this morning. Let’s go up to Carlisle to the IHOP.”

  But no sounds emanated from Livvie’s room. Charlotte stood outside the closed door, held her own breath, and listened.

  She put her hand to the knob. A slow half-twist. The latch clicked out of the strike plate. She eased the door open, winced at the creak of hinges.

  The bed was empty. Neatly made.

  Immediately Charlotte’s heart began to race. “Livvie?” she said, then pushed open the door. The room was empty.

  Charlotte hurried downstairs. “Livvie?” she said.

  She checked every room. Every room was empty. She stood in the kitchen between the counter and the table, her heart beating wildly now. You wanted her gone, she told herself, but this is different. Her things are still here. But where did she go?

  She could feel the window behind her, the light on the window that looked out on her backyard. She turned and stood with her hands on the edge of the little table. What if she went out there? she asked herself. What if she’s out there?

  And the longer she stood there looking out, the more she convinced herself that Livvie had awakened early, had lain awake in her bed and listened to the darkness talking to her. Maybe the man made of shadow had come to her last night after he walked away, disappointed with Charlotte. Disappointed because she had been afraid to look down to see what the vultures were squabbling over. So the man had gone to Livvie instead. And now she was out there in the back where he had told her to go.

  Charlotte told herself, If the back door is unlocked, that’s where she is.

  She went into the mudroom and put her hand to the door and tried to jerk it open, but the door remained locked. Okay, she told herself, but you can lock it from the outside too. You can press the little button and then step outside and pull the door shut behind you and it will be locked. So whether it’s locked or not doesn’t mean a thing, does it?

  Charlotte slipped her feet into the Timberlands. She looked down at the loose laces and told herself that she should tie them, but then she asked herself, Why bother? What difference does any of it make now?

  She knew what was coming now and what had been coming all along, and she knew that she had no choice but to accept it. What is, is, she told herself. Accept what you cannot change.

  She went out onto the back patio and stood there looking across her yard. How I loved this place, she thought. Not another house in sight. I thought everything was perfect here.

  She went out onto the grass and started walking toward the barn, where she knew Livvie must be. It was only natural that Livvie would be drawn there. A mother’s instincts. A mother’s intuition.

  You should have had children, Charlotte told herself as she walked. You wouldn’t be here now if you had had a child of your own. None of this would have happened.

  Her chest was aching now, made sore with every breath. She could feel her shoelaces dragging, could feel the way they pulled at her. Why didn’t you have children? she thought.

  Her face was wet with tears by the time she reached the corner of the barn. Her eyes stung and she sucked hard with every breath, but her lungs felt empty. She moved like an old woman now, bent forward and hollowed out, brittle with sorrow. Every exhalation carried a small whimper of regret. It hurts too much, she told herself. It hurts too much to live.

  When she saw the fenced-in pasture behind the barn, she knew she could go no farther. There was no strength in her legs, no air to breathe. She saw the tall grass, the weeds on the other side of the fence, and she told herself, That’s where you fell down.

  And she remembered the feeling then, the feeling of crushing disbelief that had dropped her in the weeds, the sear of astonishment that had brought to an end her mad race for something like escape.

  “Livvie!” she tried to cry out now, but it was little more than a grunt, an exclamation of pain as sharp and senseless as the caw of a crow. All she wanted was to fall into Livvie’s arms now, but Livvie did not come running, nobody heard or answered her cry, and she dropped to her knees in the short grass and then fell forward onto her hands, still gasping and trying to call out, “Livvie! Livvie!” as all the colors ran dark and the light was extinguished.

  55

  SHE awoke to a clanking sound and also a chuffing, as if a little boy were pulling his wagon and pretending to be a train coming toward her. Above was blue sky, a vast, far emptiness. She rolled her head to the side and saw two men in blue scrubs jogging toward her, a gurney in tow. One man, the bearded one, was overweight and puffing loudly.

  She tried to sit up but a hand pushed her down. “Lie still,” Livvie said. “Just lie still and wait.”

  Charlotte looked up at her. “I went looking for you,” she said.

  “I just went home, is all. I forgot my toothbrush.”

  The
paramedics took over then. They moved Livvie out of the way, took Charlotte’s blood pressure, and listened to her heart. The bearded one laid his hands on both sides of her neck, held her neck as if to choke her, but, leaning close, asked, “Do you feel any pain anywhere? Did you fall or lay down on your own?”

  She could smell his breath when he spoke, coffee and cigarettes, but she watched only Livvie; Livvie standing three feet away, one hand to her chest, the other hand kneading the knuckles. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said.

  Livvie held up both hands. “Shhh, lie still. Just let them check you out.”

  “Is she on any medication?” one of the paramedics asked.

  Livvie told him, “Sleeping pills last night. And a Vicodin, I think. I don’t know what this morning.”

  “I was coming to see you in the barn,” Charlotte said.

  Livvie said, “Shhh,” and moved closer, stretched out an arm past the paramedic, and squeezed Charlotte’s hand. “I wasn’t in the barn. I went home to get my toothbrush.”

  A brace was placed around her neck, and she was looking at sky again. She was staring straight up into the center of it but she could see the way it curved out on the edges of her vision, could see it curving down to enclose them.

  At the same time the paramedics lifted her onto the gurney, a crow cried out from the trees and Charlotte sucked in a breath and began to tremble. She felt the straps tighten and she could not stop shivering. Livvie walked beside the gurney and held on to Charlotte’s hand and looked down at her and tried to smile, and Charlotte kept her eyes on Livvie all the way to the ambulance in the driveway, and all the way there she could see blue sky rolling past behind Livvie’s head, could see the sky turning all around them as if they were inside a bubble, motionless, while the shimmering surface of the bubble itself kept slowly revolving.