Grave of Hummingbirds

by Jennifer Skutelsky

  “So that’s it. You’ve made your decision.”

  “For now. Mom, I don’t get it.” He reached over, picked up her wineglass, and took a sip. “Mmm, this is good. I just got trainee in one of the best companies in the country. Now you want me to do something else?”

  “Finn, no, I’m proud of you. But your grades are good and they shouldn’t go to waste.”

  “I got a B in history,” he pointed out. “And I didn’t exactly ace Spanish.”

  “You got straight As in AP math and science.”

  He shrugged. “So when I’m ready, I’ll go work for NASA.”

  Sophie chugged her wine and waited for the server to fill their water glasses. “You’re gifted in ways I could only dream of, Finn. You’re good with animals. You could become a vet.”

  “Please can we drop it?” He picked up his phone.

  “Put down the damn phone.”

  He dropped it back on the table and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, so talk. Tell me what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to think past ballet. I’m not saying give it up—God knows I’ve been encouraging it all these years—but one injury, Finn, and it could all be over. It’s precarious.”

  “So then I’ll do something else. For now it’s what I want.”

  She’d taken him at seven years old to see The Nutcracker, and then and there, he’d told her he wanted to be the Snow King. He wanted muscles.

  Just a couple of years ago, he was all long bones and skittish features, eager as colts new to the track and unsure when to surge from the gate. His nose with its high, gently curved bridge leaped out ahead, then stopped and waited for his mouth to catch up. Desert-brown, black-flecked eyes were his one feature that remained constant through every growth spurt. Now, at seventeen, the muscles he’d wanted were making their debut.

  Sophie watched him eat. “I love you, Finn,” she said.

  “I know, and you want what’s best for me.”

  “I do, I do, really I do. I don’t want things to be hard for you.”

  “Like they were for you.”

  “I didn’t say that, but now that you mention it, yes.” People jokingly said she had made him on her own, since he bore no resemblance to the father he’d never met. “Maybe if I’d made better choices, I wouldn’t be stuck with a teaching job that drives me nuts half the time.”

  He stopped eating and stared at her. “I thought you loved it.”

  She flapped her napkin and put it down, picked up her fork again. “I just mean . . .”

  “What you mean is, if I hadn’t shown up, you’d have spent more time in the field.”

  She grabbed his hand and held on tight as he tried to pull away. “No. Don’t say that. It’s not what I meant. Going back into the field is something I can still consider.”

  Sophie had been part of a team of anthropologists sent by the United Nations to excavate mass graves in Rwanda and Bosnia. In Africa they had matched up skeletal remains found near a small church on the eastern bank of Lake Kivu. Most of the victims were Tutsi women and children who’d sought refuge when the Hutu majority started the 1994 genocide. Based on evidence the team unearthed, the pastor and a member of the presidential guard were prosecuted for the massacre. In Bosnia, Sophie and other scientists had exhumed two of several mass graves along the Serbian border.

  She became a forensic anthropologist because she believed that no life should be overlooked. Bones never forgot their secrets, and the process of learning their stories and piecing together their puzzles gave her a sense of relevance that she never got from teaching, even though her students were smart and engaged. Amid musty fossils and the sterile odors of formaldehyde and chlorophyll, she taught them to unravel mysteries, but always felt something was missing from the life she’d settled for.

  “So what did you mean?” Finn asked.

  She’d meant her choices in men, not that she’d let anyone get under her skin since his father. She didn’t respond.

  “I get it. You mean my so-called father.”

  Whenever her thoughts turned to the man, Sophie processed them quickly and moved on. She felt no particular loyalty to him, a self-proclaimed guru who’d adopted random tenets of various philosophies and mixed them into a concoction that included commitment phobia. Two years after leaving her to join an ashram in Mumbai, he’d returned to San Francisco, disinclined to be a part of his son’s life.

  “I got lost somewhere along the way,” she said. “Maybe I forgot what I wanted. Other things took priority.”

  “Like me,” Finn said.

  “Yes, you took priority but not in a bad way. My life is about you in the best sense. I can’t imagine who I’d be without you.” Sophie smiled. “You’re my center, Finn.”

  “Aw, Mom.” He looked touched and uncomfortable.

  She took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Maybe you should meet your father when we get back. Do you want to?”

  He looked at her incredulously. “Are you kidding? Why would I?”

  “Well, you know, he’s your father.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s the last thing I’d call him.”

  Sophie stared at him, at a loss for words.

  “Forget him. I don’t want to talk about him. You should do what you love, Mom. And maybe go on a date. You know, when two people go out, have a drink, maybe dinner . . .”

  She narrowed her eyes and mock glared at him. “Seriously? Do you see any prospects lining up, besides the taxi driver?”

  “How do you expect to meet anyone? You never go out, except with me or to Trader Joe’s and work. It’s like you’re waiting for your life to happen.” He avoided her stinging gaze. “You could be a lot less . . . passive about the things you want.”

  Sophie bit back a sharp retort. His observation, brave and cutting, was also accurate. She often stayed late at work, stepping along empty corridors, past lecture halls that smelled of old sandwiches and disinfectant. Other than work, she made excursions to Trader Joe’s and Walgreens, carrying home bags with Tums for heartburn, aged vanilla root beer for Finn, organic vegetables, seed bread, provolone, and a bottle of cabernet.

  Her life lacked agency, and something else. Tenderness. She couldn’t remember when last she’d felt someone trace a finger down her cheek and gaze into her eyes. Had anyone ever done that? She’d let the years go by, waiting, as Finn said, for things to happen. As long as she could keep the two of them afloat, as long as she could duck curveballs, she could live without the forensic work that really called to her. “Okay, as soon as we get back, I’ll try dating. But in the meantime, genius, we’re on vacation.”

  “You started it.”

  “Yes, I did.” She picked up one of the menus the server had left at the edge of the table. “Let’s have dessert.”

  NINE

  After lunch they found a street market. In the soft rain, vendors packed their goods away into boxes: fruit and vegetables, pottery, alpaca sweaters, tapestries, coffee beans, and clocks. A man wearing khaki trousers that were rolled above his muddy gum boots wrapped ornaments in newspaper and Bubble Wrap before placing them in a wooden crate.

  Sophie and Finn were just in time to see a ceramic bull with an exaggerated head and neck struggling under the gashing beak of a condor. The bird was tied to its back with red ribbons, and bits of clay flesh dangled from its beak. Finn stared. The vendor quickly unwrapped the sculpture to show it off.

  Finn took it from him. “We’re really going to see this?” he asked Sophie.

  She touched the bull’s flank. “I guess so. It’s what you wanted.” She smiled at the vendor. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean for you to unpack it.”

  He nodded and shrugged.

  In halting Spanish, Finn spoke to the man.

  Sophie picked up the words Colibrí and fiesta before she succeeded in drawing Finn away from the stall.

  “There’s a bus that leaves for Colibrí at ten a.m. from the Plaza de los Condenados. It’s a five-minute wa
lk from the hotel,” he said.

  “Yes, well, maybe we should reconsider. It’ll only upset you, Finn. We can’t take on another crusade, and we’re not here to judge. We’re strangers . . . guests . . .”

  “When was the last crusade you took on?” he asked softly.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. Where are we going?”

  “I have no idea. Where are we anyway?” She stopped, and he almost ran into her. “What do you know—a museum. Let’s go in.”

  “The Museum of the Inquisition. Perfect. Exactly what we need to liven things up,” he said. “Okay, okay, ignore me. After you.”

  In the last half hour before the museum closed, they wandered past bleeding wax victims who screamed in the grip of unimaginable devices of torture. They stood before the mummified remains of someone important, at which point Finn took out his phone and put in his earphones.

  Sophie walked through the grisly displays alone, trusting him to follow a few steps behind. She shut them out—the chains and metal spokes, the wheels and spikes—and told the scientist in her, who was tempted to analyze exactly what was happening anatomically in each scenario, to give it a rest.

  They went to bed early that night, despite the thump of disco music across the street.

  TEN

  Finn woke at midnight. He raised his head and peered over at his mother.

  “Mom,” he whispered, “are you awake?” He got no response, so he crept out of bed and dressed, quietly slipping out of the room to find a staircase.

  There was no one at the front desk. He wandered through the lobby into a small dining area, tables adorned with white cloths and flatware for the morning’s breakfast. At the end of the hall, he came to a bar, where fewer than ten people sat drinking. A couple dressed in raincoats laughed at something the barman said, the woman’s hair dark gold in the subdued light.

  “Hello, American. Looking for someone?”

  He heard her voice and saw the open top buttons of her frilly forest-green shirt before he recognized the dark-rimmed eyes. She’d taken the pins out of her topknot, and her copper hair teased the owls that sat on her earrings.

  Standing by the entrance to the bar, she waited for him to speak, a soft smile lurking.

  “Me? Uh . . . you know . . . just exploring.”

  “Buy me a drink?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean I can’t,” Finn said, feeling his face heat up and turn what he knew must be lobster red. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any money.”

  “Hmm.” She gave him a slanted look.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and pushed his hands into his pockets.

  She leaned in close and whispered, “If your mother knows you’re out and about, I’m sober, and since I’m not sober, you shouldn’t be in here. But you know I won’t tell her if you won’t.” She slurred her words. “Why don’t I buy you one?”

  She hooked her arm through his and drew him to a table against the wall in the shadows of an alcove, where she sat him down and stood over him. She smelled of smoke and alcohol and tired perfume and something else, something feral, like hunger at the back door of a restaurant. A pink tongue tip rested against slightly parted teeth and lips. She’d taken off the black bra and soft, full breasts fell against her shirt, so he could see her nipples. The loosened cleavage of a woman who had lost someone called Alejandro brought the center of the universe into Finn’s pants.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke,” he croaked.

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “Um, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “Good man,” she said.

  Good man, she’d said.

  She moved on unsteady legs to the bar.

  This kind of thing happened only in movies. Never in his wildest dreams could Finn have hoped to get this lucky. He watched her lean on the bar and pay for their drinks, then weave her way between tables to get back to him.

  “My name is Rosita,” she said and pulled her chair up close to his. “I got you a Coke after all. Wanna know what I’m having? I’m having a Lottalittle. Lotta gin, little bit of tonic. Gin makes me cry. Do you mind?”

  “Do I mind?”

  “If I cry.”

  “No,” Finn said as she breathed all over him and he inhaled, nostrils flaring. “I mean, you can if you want to.”

  “You’re sweet,” she said.

  He gulped his Coke.

  Rosita dipped her finger into her drink and lifted it to his lips. “Try some. I won’t feel so bad if you just . . . taste a little bit.”

  It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her hand and biting it softly, sucking the drink off her fingers, spilling the rest all over her and licking it off.

  “I like your hair,” she said, stroking his earlobe with a fingertip.

  He ran his hands through the thatch on his head that he hadn’t thought to fix before leaving the room.

  “Bed head,” she murmured and closed her eyes. “Will you dance with me?”

  “Dance? Here? There’s no music.”

  “Ah, but I can fix that.” She opened her eyes very wide, as though she had to focus hard to stay awake. “Wait here. Don’t move.” She made her way to the back of the bar, and seconds later, the notes of a Spanish love song filtered across the room through hidden speakers.

  Rosita pulled Finn out of his chair and placed one of his hands at her waist, the other on her shoulder. Her forehead brushed his cheek as she snuggled in and rested her head. At first, she had to push him around in an uneasy shuffle, but soon he got caught up in the singer’s throaty romance, and they began to sway gently. When he tightened his arms around her, she relaxed and let him lead.

  “You know how to dance,” she murmured, peering up at him. “How to hold a woman.”

  Finn tipped her backward over his arm, then deftly turned her away from the bartender’s sudden interest. Her breath caught, and he traced her spine with the palm of his hand.

  “Where did you learn to move like this?” she asked.

  “I do ballet,” he said. “It’s not the same, though.”

  Rosita held him at arm’s length, suddenly shy, and said, “You think you can lift me?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Laughing softly, she bent her knees and Finn picked her up. At the peak of the lift, she collapsed against him, and as he lowered her gently to the floor, he felt every outspoken curve slide against him.

  Back home, his pas de deux partner was sixteen years old and lanky in her pink tights and pointe shoes. Her butt had only recently started to take up more space on his shoulder.

  Lately he’d gotten stronger and could scoop her up, straighten, and raise her above his thighs, up past his ribs, up beyond the level of his chest, where he seated her safely on a resolute shoulder that usually gave way. She was able to lengthen her back for the first time at this height, to slowly lift one arm above her head into attitude, and to raise one shapely leg above the other, holding the position without shaking.

  Rosita’s body was a whole new experience for Finn.

  Every part of him shook as his hands settled on her hips and she leaned into him. His muscles bunched and growled and twitched and begged, and he quickly tried to disengage.

  Rosita’s glazed eyes opened wide.

  She pulled his head down toward her and whispered, “I excite you that much?”

  Then she kissed him, and as he felt her tongue, he buried his hands in her hair and mashed his teeth against hers. He pushed her up against the wall into the corner, where a wooden partition hid them from the rest of the bar, and she opened her legs to squeeze his thigh.

  All it took for him to know he was going to lose it was the feel of the bunched fabric of her lifted skirt, the press of her breasts against his chest, the tops of her stockings (who wore stockings these days, for God’s sake, but fuck, he was glad she did), and the swell of her thighs above the lace edges.

  She pu
shed his hand into her panties, where she was wet as the inside of her mouth. He easily slipped two fingers inside and felt her, found the hot, slick folds he had seen only on a screen, stroked a fine line of hair softer than his own down there. Nestled just beneath lay what he’d seen on websites and in the anatomy book his mother had bought him after she’d tried to explain how a woman’s body worked.

  But what should he do? Was he doing it right?

  And he must have been, because she moaned and rubbed against him and writhed, bit his ear and lower lip and ran her hands over his butt . . . and that was all it took. Finn cried out, muffling the sound against her neck as she whispered, “Shhhhhhh” in his ear while he held her, as his heart banged against his ribs . . . as she waited for him to keep still so she could draw away and drop her skirt.

  “Don’t go,” Rosita murmured. “Not yet. Stay with me. Just for a little while.”

  They sat down at the table and he sipped his drink, his longing to say good night and take a shower overwhelming.

  Embarrassed now to look at her, Finn had to when she began to whimper. He asked whether she was okay, and she let out a wail, flung her head onto her arms, and sobbed.

  Finn touched her shoulder.

  At last, she raised her head. Her face looked as though it were melting. Black streaks ran down the sides of her nose and cheeks; her dark-pink lipstick had migrated to her chin, and her naked lips looked swollen.

  He had no idea what to do for her, so he squirmed and sat with his hands cupped over the belt of his jeans.

  Rosita wiped her nose with the base of her thumb and sniffed. “My boyfriend died on Tuesday night. He was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry,” Finn said. “That’s terrible.” It really was. Bizarre. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. The owls on her earrings swung. “You’re very young. I wouldn’t be surprised if your mother tucked you in bed an hour ago.”

  “I’m not that young, and my mother definitely doesn’t tuck me in. Anymore.” That night she actually had, or she’d tried to. She’d lifted the quilt over his shoulder, kissed her fingers, and brushed them against his cheek as he turned over in his bed to face the wall.