Boy Who Shoots Crows (9781101552797)

by Silvis, Randall;

  56

  CHARLOTTE did not see Livvie again until the doctor in the emergency room was through scolding her, warning that she could do irreparable harm to her organs if she wasn’t careful, that dehydration was a serious matter. “Wine is not a good substitute for water,” the doctor said. Charlotte smiled up at her and asked, “Then why did Jesus turn water into wine and not the other way around?”

  The doctor was a tall woman with thick, black hair and dark eyes that seemed to catch the light when she smiled. She said, “Listen, young lady. I like a glass or two of Lambrusco myself every night, but the organs need water.”

  “Turn me loose and I’ll drink a gallon of water,” Charlotte said.

  The doctor told her, “Ask me again tomorrow.” She turned and grasped the blue curtain and drew it open.

  In the lounge, the doctor spoke with Livvie for a few moments, told her that Charlotte was being moved to room 217 and Livvie could see her there. Livvie took the elevator to the second floor, then stood by the window in the empty room, and looked down on the parking lot. She was still there when the sheriff’s car pulled into the lot and Marcus Gatesman climbed out and crossed to the entrance.

  A few minutes later Gatesman appeared in the doorway. He looked at Livvie standing with her back to the window now, looked at the empty bed. Livvie told him, “They should be bringing her up any minute now.”

  He said, “I heard it on the scanner. I didn’t know if it was you or Charlotte.”

  “The doctor said she’s dehydrated and malnourished. They want to keep her overnight and give her more of that glucose drip, get her electrolytes back to where they ought to be.”

  “It said on the scanner she passed out in the yard. A woman unconscious on the ground is actually what they said. I take it you called it in?”

  She told him how she had left the house in the gray of dawn, went back to her trailer and gathered up a few small things, then walked back to the farmhouse through the trees when the light was full. How she had seen a body on the ground behind the barn and had run to it as quickly as she could. She did not tell him how her own heart had suddenly raced at the sight of that crumpled body and how breathlessly she had sprinted toward it, only to slow, disappointed, instantly drained of hope, and then pushed herself forward again. She said none of that, yet somehow, he knew.

  “You thought it was Jesse,” he said.

  “At first I did.” She looked away then, stepped up to the bed, picked up the pillow, turned it over, and laid it back down. Then stood there looking down at it, unable to meet his gaze.

  He told her, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I understand exactly how you must have felt.”

  She looked up at him then, saw that he was smiling. She smiled in return.

  “After the accident with Patrice and Chelsea,” he said, “I can’t tell you how many times I thought I saw them in a crowd somewhere. How many times I went chasing after some woman with a baby in her arms. It was totally irrational of me,” he told her. “But totally natural too.”

  She nodded.

  He said, “Anyway, I’ll go hang out in the lounge for a few minutes.”

  She said, “I should probably step out of the way too. Let them bring her in and get her settled first.”

  “There’s a coffee machine in the lounge, if you’re interested. My treat.”

  “You keep it up,” she said as she crossed toward him, “you’re going to end up in here too. You people and your caffeine all the time.”

  “You want me to drink water this early in the morning?”

  “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Ask your kidneys.”

  57

  BY the time they returned to Charlotte’s room, a half hour had passed. She was dressed now in a hospital gown and had a glucose drip feeding into her left arm. Livvie appeared first in the doorway, and then close beside her, Marcus Gatesman. Each held a bottle of water from the vending machine. Livvie looked in at Charlotte and smiled, then said to Gatesman, “I’m going to step into the ladies’ room. You go ahead and say hello.”

  Gatesman walked in smiling. “I never took you for a pagan,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I had just gotten onto I-81 when it came over the scanner. Beautiful woman, facedown in the grass. That’s part of your morning ritual, I take it?”

  The word beautiful did not escape her attention. How long since any man had referred to her as beautiful? She felt a flush of heat in her face. “Only when there are no virgins to sacrifice,” she said.

  “Which must be most of the time these days.”

  “They’re getting harder and harder to find,” she said.

  He stood beside the bed, smiled down at her. So calm, she thought. So still. She envied his stillness and wondered how he had managed it. Could he teach it to her?

  “So from what I hear,” he said, “you’ve not been taking very good care of yourself.”

  “Is that what you hear?”

  “It’s all over the hospital.”

  “Vicious rumors,” she said, “nothing more.”

  He stood there smiling. She nodded at the bottle of water in his hand. “So what is this, some kind of conspiracy? I saw Livvie had one too.”

  “Apparently she’s the only one between the three of us who has any sense.”

  He seemed a different man now than the one who had stood at her porch steps like an awkward teenage boy. The one who, when she had broken into sobs, had been so tentative and uncertain. She could tell from his smile that he knew nothing of her morning but what Livvie had told him, and that Livvie knew nothing but what she had seen. No one had been able to see into her heart and her mind. Her thoughts and her fears were still hers alone, and the latter were somewhat abated now, as if the flood of panic had washed away the debris, leaving behind only a small, still pool of fear. In this relative tranquility she allowed herself to see Gatesman not as an enemy in waiting but as the opposite.

  “Where were you headed on 81?” she asked.

  “Harrisburg,” he said.

  “Ah, yes. Harrisburg.”

  “My meeting’s not till one, though. I’ll still make it. I only left so early because there’s this place I was going to stop for lunch.”

  “The sushi place?”

  “Naw, I’m saving the sushi for later.”

  “I’m envious,” she said.

  He smiled and said nothing for a while, and she could see him thinking. And she told herself, Maybe it’s the glucose, I don’t know. But maybe I could. I mean, why shouldn’t I if he asks?

  She looked at him and felt his calmness, felt that slow, deep stillness that he had somehow achieved. She wondered what it would be like to have such a man lay his hands on her. She could not imagine that he would be in a rush, no matter how long it had been for him. In fact because it had been so long, he would take his time and savor every minute, she was sure of it. She imagined that he would put his hands to her face first, he would lean close but not yet try to kiss her. First he would lean close enough to smell her hair, allow his cheek to graze hers. One hand would slide from her cheek to her neck, and then very slowly, that hand would come down over her breasts, and probably he would turn now and kiss her neck, and stand in just that position, his mouth motionless against her skin, as his other hand made its way over her shoulder and so slowly down her back . . .

  It was then, Livvie returned to the room. She said, “You’re getting your color back. That’s good to see.”

  She stood at the foot of the bed.

  Gatesman looked at her and smiled. To Charlotte, he said, “Would you believe that she’s never tasted sushi?”

  Charlotte looked from Gatesman to Livvie. She said, “You should take her to Harrisburg with you.”

  A few moments passed. Then he said, “That’s been discussed already. Motion vetoed.”

  Charlotte turned her gaze to Livvie. “Why wouldn’t you go?”

  “I plan to stay here and keep you company. Make sure you
do what the doctor says.”

  Charlotte saw a sheepishness in Gatesman’s smile now, and she thought it distasteful. She told Livvie, “I appreciate your concern for me, I really do. But to be honest I’d prefer to be alone for a while. As alone as a person can be in a place like this.”

  “Oh,” Livvie said. She lifted a hand off the foot rail. “Okay.”

  Charlotte looked up at Gatesman. “Is there a museum or a mall or something near where you’re having your meeting? Some place she can hang out and be comfortable?”

  “Dozens of places,” he said.

  “Then you’d better get going. Don’t let her tell you no.”

  Now Charlotte looked to Livvie. “Did you drive the Jeep here?”

  “Yes,” Livvie said.

  “Leave me the keys, okay? I doubt very much I’m going to spend the night here. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Gatesman said, “We’ll bring you some sushi.”

  She reached for the TV remote beside her pillow, aimed it at the TV mounted on a shelf near the ceiling, depressed the power button. “Have fun,” she said.

  58

  ONE glucose bag emptied, another attached.

  You fraud, Charlotte told herself. You despicable fraud.

  In the afternoon, a nurse drew blood. An hour later she returned with another bag of glucose. “We’re getting there,” she said.

  “Where is ‘there’?” Charlotte asked.

  “Where everything looks good again.”

  “Trust me,” Charlotte told her, “we’re not even close.”

  59

  AT half past six, with the light in the window turning gray, Charlotte could lie still no longer. She climbed out of bed and found her clothing in the little cabinet, took it into the bathroom and changed. Ten minutes later she appeared at the nurse’s station. “Do you have something for me to sign?” she said. “I’m going home.”

  “You can’t go home until the doctor releases you,” the nurse said.

  “Good night,” Charlotte said, and turned toward the elevator.

  60

  SHE was in her bed but awake when the headlights filled her window. She heard the slow crunch of gravel, then heard it stop, heard the engine fall silent. There should be two car doors, she told herself. He’ll at least walk her to the door.

  One door closed, a soft thud, followed by another. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. 10:19. Long dinner, she thought.

  Two voices whispering in the foyer. First hers, then his. Her footsteps light and graceful on the steps. Charlotte’s bedroom door squeaked open. “We’re home,” Livvie whispered. “Are you awake?”

  Charlotte said nothing. She stared at the darkness that now filled the window.

  “Good night,” Livvie whispered, and eased the door shut.

  Voices in the kitchen. Murmurs, soft laughter.

  Charlotte told herself it did not matter. She told herself she was happy for Livvie, happy for Gatesman.

  She told herself, You reap what you sow.

  61

  EMPTINESS everywhere, darkness and dreams. She awoke to the sense of somebody in the room, though it was not Livvie, of that she was sure. She lay listening, alert, waiting for a sound. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said, though she was.

  After a few minutes she rolled to the side, reached out to the lamp on the nightstand. Turned on the light, looked from corner to corner. No shadow but her own.

  She sat in the chair by the window for a while. The light from her room lay in a trapezoid on her lawn. She kept waiting for a figure to step into the light and look up at her. Are you coming out? he would ask. Or should I come up?

  But the minutes passed—fifteen, then thirty—and no one appeared. She sat there and shivered and felt she had never been so cold. She climbed back into bed but could not get warm. What’s wrong with me? she wondered. Why can’t I stop shivering?

  She decided that she needed something to help her sleep, something to quiet her nerves. It did not matter what the doctor had said. The doctor did not know. She went into the bathroom, and without turning on the light, she found the bottle she needed and shook two tablets out into her hand. She put them in her mouth, took a swallow of water. Yet still she shivered. So empty, so cold.

  62

  THAT night, for the first time, she dreamed of Jesse. Jesse walking the tree line just off the lane, heading home. In her dark sleep, Charlotte steps off her rear patio and walks out to meet him. He sees her coming and turns back into the woods, disappears into the dark branches. But Charlotte knows where to find him, and he is there waiting, sitting on the fallen tree, unafraid and still. The tree trunks are black with a recent rain and the ground is shiny-wet. The rain falls from the canopy in heavy drops that thump against her head and shoulders but make no sound. The crows sit overhead, silent, too, waiting for a gunshot. And Jesse sits there with the shotgun standing between his legs, his small, wet hands on the black, wet barrel. Charlotte’s footsteps make the only sound in this dream. The soft, wet crunch of leaves beneath her boots. She is so very cold in this dream, she is shivering, unable to control the violence of her shivers, rattling like a skeleton. She moves close to him, needing warmth. He watches silently with a strange, crooked smile on his mouth. His eyes are the darkest things in the woods, blacker than the crows. Charlotte wants to speak, wants to break the woods’s silence, but she can only shiver. She feels the strangle of words in her throat, but when she opens her mouth, nothing but a raspy grunt is possible. Jesse blinks a slow, sleepy blink and his crooked smile widens just a bit. Then he looks up into the trees, and with that, the crows come down off the branches. They just step forward and come down with wings spread, drifting down in a beautifully slow and silent descent. They land at Charlotte’s feet until they completely blanket the ground. Others follow from the treetops to land on her shoulders. Their weight is peculiarly soft but heavy. More and more crows descend to land atop her and pile up at her feet. The ones at her feet sit motionless while looking up at her, hundreds of small, bright eyes. Soon there are too many on her shoulders, and she is leaning forward from the weight, yet they descend, they settle on her back now, driving her lower. Then she is on her knees, yet more crows drift down, as many as the leaves themselves, and she realizes suddenly that the leaves are falling and turning into crows as they fall. She is pushed onto her hands and knees, struggles to hold her head up. Jesse isn’t even watching now; he is staring up into the canopy, up through all those black, denuded branches to where a pink glow rises, the first blush of morning. Charlotte watches all this in a kind of slow motion as one elbow collapses from the weight on her back and she falls to the side. Now she turns her head skyward, and all she can see is a beautiful, graceful cloud of black wings descending, and then everything is a soft, fragrant black atop her, fragrant with the scent of a misty night sky.

  It is not a frightening dream, but so crushingly sad. The weight of the crows as they cover her is the weight of sadness. Breathing becomes more and more difficult, but she does not panic; this is what she wants, to be subsumed by the blackness.

  The only unpleasantness is the chill. The crows should be warm, she thinks. The bodies should be warmed. And now that her consciousness has turned to the chill, the chill becomes everything, the only sensation. The chills and the breathlessness, the suffocating sadness. She cannot breathe, but she is shivering violently, her bones like ice, body rattling in the wet leaves. Christ, the cold, the cold, she thinks, I can’t stand the cold . . .

  63

  SHE awoke gasping for air, her body curled tight beneath the comforter but covered with goose bumps, the comforter pulled over her head and down over her face. She exposed her head and sucked in the air, but she could not stop shivering. She told herself, You’re freezing to death. What is wrong with you?

  There were more blankets in the empty bedroom down the hall, so she switched on the lamp on the nightstand, climbed out of bed, and made her way to the door. Her bare feet felt numb
on the hardwood, toes curled and stiff as if she were walking on ice.

  Stepping out of her own room, she faced Livvie’s. The door was only partially closed. Charlotte moved closer, peered through the opening. The sibilance of breath, regular and warm. She eased the door open wider, a slow, soft creak that did not disturb the rhythm of Livvie’s breaths. The light from Charlotte’s room flowed softly into Livvie’s.

  Charlotte moved closer, walked lightly on her heels, and came to stand beside the bed. Livvie lay sleeping on her side, her body open and facing Charlotte, knees slightly bent, one ankle atop the other. She lay uncovered in pink pajamas, faded flannel in the shape of her body. How can she sleep like that, uncovered? Charlotte wondered. She must be warm, she must be so warm.

  Livvie’s lips were parted just slightly, and Charlotte could hear each breath escaping, a whispered shhhh, a mother’s shhhh. The sound itself was warming, the warmest thing she knew. Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed as delicately as she could, moved only an inch at a time, measured her own breaths against Livvie’s. Finally she lay beside Livvie and brought her legs up, leaned so close that her toes touched a flannel pant leg. She could feel the breath from Livvie’s mouth now and moved her own face even closer, wanting to breathe Livvie’s breath, wanting the warmth and life in her. And when the breaths alone were not enough to warm Charlotte, when still she shivered, she moved closer still, hands reaching softly, feet reaching for Livvie’s feet.