The Magpie's Return

by Peter Wright

  The reds settle in. A few of the younger girls cough, the windows closed and the sharing of germs. The Deacon pauses and allows the silence to lengthen. Make them wait, a showman’s trick. In another life, he might have been a theater professor, a colleague of her father. The Deacon’s voice a tool of his craft, the volume that rises and ebbs. The hands that lift from the podium and cradle his holy book, gestures to the heavens, a finger pointed at his audience, a palm planted over his thankful and humbled heart.

  “We’d like to welcome our latest arrival today. Samantha will be in red pod three, but as soon as the workmen are done, she and a few other young girls will be moving to a new pod.” He smiles at Samantha who sits with Nurse Amy in the first row. Nurse Amy’s hand rubs the girl’s thin shoulders. “Our family continues to grow, and we’re happy to welcome another soul to our flock. Remember—my door is always open.”

  Betty whispers, “And my mind is always closed.” Linda and Chris cover their mouths.

  The Deacon continues. “I’d like to take a moment to thank the white pods for their volunteering to help with the banners and posters we’ve been hanging around the school.”

  “Next he’s going to thank us for volunteering to do their chores,” Betty leans back and crosses her arms. “You just wait. This sister has faith.”

  The Deacon glances over the glasses that have slid down his nose. “The banners say ‘purity.’ And that’s the focus of the government’s kickoff campaign from the new Bureau of Culture and Tradition.” His chest swells, and he breathes a muscular vitality into his words. “Purity of actions. Purity of thought. Purity of faith. And here’s the beauty of this gift I’m offering—all of you have the chance to claim it.” He holds out his upturned palm and draws his fingers together. “Even if you’ve lost it, you can still take it back—”

  Betty fakes a cough, her fist covering her mouth. “That’s good news for Donna.”

  Heather lowers her head and hides behind a curtain of hair.

  “—we can reclaim purity as individuals. We can reclaim purity as a society. In the coming weeks, I urge you to ponder the notion of purity. I want you to find where it resides in you, and when you do, I want you to nurture it. Together, we’ll help each other on the journey. We’ll find its wellspring within us. Together, we’ll drink from its waters.”

  Another fake cough from Betty. “Or we can drink some booze, thank you.”

  “Let us bow our heads.”

  Morning classes. The Monroe Doctrine. Manifest Destiny. Kayla guides her podmates through quadratic factoring. Betty shakes her head. “We might just start calling you Einstein instead of Oakmont.”

  “We don’t really call her Oakmont,” Linda says. “We call her Kay—”

  “Shut up,” Betty snaps. “Jesus.”

  Lunch. Whispers of a sheet cake for the whites, the scent of baked sugar. Crumbs on Heavy Metal’s shirt. Kayla and her podmates tense, but not a peep from Betty, her exit made with a wave and a parting call to the guards and cafeteria ladies: “Have a nice day, lunch friends.” Her animation saved for outdoor rec. The wind’s sting, and the girls shiver in their thin coats. The sisters coax the new girl to join the kickball game. Kayla and Heather and Betty with a kickball of their own. The Deacon laughs as he shoots basketball with Donna and the redheads on the playground’s sunny end. The younger whites gather, goading until the Deacon agrees to dunk. The rim rattles. The girls cheer. The board’s quaking shadow flickers over him as he bows.

  “That’s pretty pure.” Betty produces a stub of white chalk from her pocket. “Pure motherfucking shit.” Bent double, she sketches a rectangle on the macadam. The chalk flakes, and Betty speaks as she draws. “You think you’re as good at ball as you are with numbers?”

  “Probably not,” Kayla says. “Definitely not.”

  Kayla’s hands in her pockets. A shuffling to keep warm. Her jacket pinches her chest, and the buttons’ strain makes her self-conscious. Stares from Heavy Metal and Panda Bear, even the Deacon. “I played a couple winters. I was a forward.” She doesn’t mention she only signed up because of Fran’s cajoling or that their team lost more than they won. Doesn’t confess she found the game claustrophobic, a surrounding of wood and walls that made her yearn for a green field and the sun’s warmth.

  Heather dribbles the kickball. Side-to-side, between her legs, feats made difficult by the ball’s airy bounce. She dribbles one-handed as she tucks her hair beneath her collar. Then a return to her stunts, a spin move around Kayla, a few strands already escaping, frames for the widest smiles Kayla has seen her wear.

  Betty stands in the rectangle’s center. “Here’s the paint.” She walks to the rectangle’s top. “And here’s the foul line.” She paces ten steps to the fence. “And here’s where the basket would be.” She stands with a foot on the outline’s edge. “I’m low post. You’re high post. Heather’s going to work the perimeter.” She points the chalk’s tiny nub at Kayla. “You know how to set a pick?”

  “Yes,” Kayla says.

  “Better plant your feet wide and cup your crotch. Those redheads aren’t ballerinas.”

  Heather dribbles behind her back. “That’s the truth.”

  “So here’s the plan,” Betty says. “Oakmont, you’re high post. You’ll go side to side and set picks for Heather. Donna’s going to guard her, so make sure you throw a good elbow for me.”

  “And me,” Heather adds.

  “But keep it close.” Betty holds her arm as if it were in a sling, her elbow pointed just beyond her side. “Like this, then a short pop.”

  Heather dribbles between her legs. “But a good pop.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Betty says. “Now after you poke that bitch, Heather will either kick it out down to me or drive the paint. If she does that, you step out to the clear side. She’ll take it to the rim or if she gets doubled, she’ll pass it off to the open man, which will probably be you more than me. Got it?”

  They practice. Betty calls out the partnerless dance, announcing double teams and switches. The ball fed inside, a feigned shot or a kick out to Kayla. Heather’s skills sharp. The ball an extension of her body. Betty helps Kayla find her place. A step out to screen. A dash to the weak side. The movements come back to Kayla. The footwork of pivots and block outs. The memories waiting in muscle and bone.

  Panda Bear blows his whistle. The whites wild as the Deacon dunks once more, a smile afterward, his arms raised, the pose of his beseeching prayer. “Pure,” Betty says. “Pure motherfucking assholes.”

  The Saturday morning of the basketball tournament. The chairs folded up or pushed aside. Kayla and Heather and Betty allowed a five-minute shoot-around after Donna and the redheads are done. The Deacon stretches on the sidelines, his hands unable to reach his toes, the hanging sway of his lassoed whistle. Theirs the tournament’s final game. The youngest reds losing by one, a marathon of air balls and beneath-the-basket scrums. The middle reds falling by five after the Deacon benched their best player for saying, “Goddamn.”

  Linda braided Kayla’s hair as the younger girls played. The braid thick and tight, the way Kayla liked it. “Thanks.”

  “You have nice hair,” Linda said. “Bet you’ve heard that before.”

  Two balls for the shoot around. Heather claims one, jab steps and feints. The ball’s rapid twang, Donna and the redheads watching. Kayla and Betty work the high-low, kick outs and bounce passes. Betty practices her spins to the hoop, her turn-around jumper. Kayla hears her old coach’s words—line up, follow through, position. She divides the floor, a chessboard’s squares. She steps out, a pass across the paint. A twinge as she crosses the center’s red-white divide.

  The younger reds sit cross-legged on the floor. The clapping originates with them, two pine-board slaps, a quick clap. The standing reds join in, the slaps replaced by foot-stomps, the vibration building until the Deacon blows his whistle. He turns to Kayla and her teammates. “One minute.”

  Nurse Amy chats with the youngest on both si
des of the divide. Yesterday she told Kayla she delivered the letter to her stadium contact. “I can’t promise anything,” she said, a squeeze of Kyla’s hand. Kayla hearing only this: there was hope. Hope, headier than a whiskey sip, a pinprick of starlight in this gloom. Last night, the girls shared a cigarette and swigged the pint’s last offerings, and when they were done, they huddled to the lighter’s flame and reread the pamphlet Chris had plucked from the Deacon’s trash. The Movement’s promise to overthrow the theocracy. The return of freedom of the press and speech. The release of jailed dissidents, and the mobs’ murderers brought to justice. Threats, vengeance—currents Kayla knew her father would have disavowed but which buoyed her here in this place where she felt so raw and lost.

  The Deacon blows his whistle. “Game time, ladies.”

  Kayla and Betty and Heather huddle at the top of the key. Heather tucks her ponytail beneath her scrub’s back collar. She lifts Kayla’s braid and does the same. “Gives them less to pull on.”

  “I’m betting these bitches don’t play the polite CYO ball you’re used to, Oakmont.” Betty puts her hand in the center, and Kayla and Heather pile on. “Let’s light these fuckers up.”

  The Deacon calls the teams to the foul line. The armpits and collar of his USA T-shirt already sweat-darkened. Betty and Heather pick up their heels, the soles of their sneakers brushed. They crane their necks and wring their shoulders, their hard gazes returned by Donna and the redheads.

  The Deacon holds the ball. “Game’s to eleven, win by two. Missed shots have to be taken back past the foul line. Three fouls and you’re out.” He rests the ball against his hip and pulls a coin from his sweatpants pocket. “Heads or tails?”

  “Heads,” Donna says.

  “Figures,” Betty says.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Betty raises her eyebrows, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek.

  “Cut it out, both of you.” The Deacon flips the coin, Donna glaring as he catches it and slaps it on the back of his wrist. “Heads it is. White ball. Let’s have a clean game, ladies.”

  Donna handles for the whites. Her eyes alert, deft crossovers and the squeak of sneakers. She changes direction, lowers her shoulder. Heather half-a-step quicker, her hands raised, her body blocking Donna’s path. Donna steps back and calls a reset. Ashley on Kayla, or so Kayla gleans from the chatter, the twins still indistinguishable to her. Ashley pushes off with her backside. Kayla counters her deficits in height and weight with quicker feet and a hip check of her own.

  Donna drives. Ashley steps to the top of the key, a hard pick and a groan from Heather. Donna pulls up. Kayla jumps with her, the shot deflected and snagged by Betty. “That’s my girl, Oakmont!”

  The first point comes when Betty puts back her own miss. The second when Donna threads a bounce pass to Amanda in the post. Heather with a long rainbow. Donna with a shot fake and a drive down the lane. Kayla takes a ten-foot jumper that bounces off the front rim. Ashley pushes off, her forearm hard against Kayla’s back, her hand grabbing her shirt when they’re close. Curses under her breath. Kayla’s first basket less satisfying than Ashley’s cold stare-down.

  The game tied at five and again at seven. The red cheers raucous, the youngest girls dancing with each basket, a display snuffed by the Deacon’s threat to send them back to their pods. The Deacon’s whistle silent for the whites but put to use for a hand check against Heather, a charge on Kayla. A timeout for the whites, a respite followed by a choreographed play. Donna drives the lane, the way cleared by Ashley’s jersey tug and the sharp elbow Amanda delivers to Betty’s gut.

  Betty holds her stomach. “Damn, Deacon, open those eyes the Lord gave you.”

  He blows his whistle, his hands gesturing an emphatic T. “Next foul and you’re gone, Betty.”

  “Foul for what?” she demands.

  “Your attitude.” He takes the ball. “And your blasphemy.”

  “Are you kidding? Je—”

  Heather clamps a hand over Betty’s mouth. “We’re good, Deacon. How about we take our last timeout now?”

  The girls huddle, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Their voices low and the gym awash with chants. “We’re not going to get any whistles here,” Betty says. Sweat glistens on her brow. “We’ve got to win this on the floor.” Betty puts her hand in the circle’s middle. “Time for a little purity of our own, ladies.”

  They break. Heather waits for a ball check at the foul line, but the Deacon waves her off. “Possession changes on a technical.”

  “What?” Betty cries. “Are you just making this up as you go along?”

  He hands the ball to Donna. “It’s called sportsmanship, Betty.”

  Betty turns to Heather, then Kayla. “On the floor, ladies. No other way to take this.”

  Donna dribbles at the top of the key. A scrum in the high post, Kayla returning Ashley’s jabs and holds. Donna’s jumper clanks off the back iron, and the ricochet sails over Betty and Amanda’s outstretched hands. Kayla breaks away, Ashley still holding her shirt, and Kayla’s collar pulls against her throat. She bends down and cradles the ball, a shielding from the twins’ gropes and whacks. Donna in front, a reach in and a poke in the eye. Kayla curses and shoots up, a rising that kindles sparks around the room’s lights and faces, a flush of blood. Her poked eye shut and teary. She raises her arms with the hope of kicking the ball out to Heather. Then the bony smack against her elbow.

  Stillness. Gasps. The cheers swallowed back and the swatting hands gone. Kayla with one, watering eye, an imperfect witnessing. The Deacon pushes Betty aside, the shrill call of his lip-clenched whistle. The numbness in Kayla’s elbow radiates to her fingers. She drops the ball, and it bounces, unclaimed, until it rolls to a stop.

  Nurse Amy runs onto the court. A muffled moan behind Kayla. The Deacon calls, “My child, dear lord.” Nurse Amy fishes gauze from her pack. Ashley holds a hand over her nose. Blood runs down her chin and between her fingers. Blood streaks on her white top. On the floor, a growing constellation of red stars.

  Nurse Amy grips Ashley’s wrist and eases her hand from her face. A blood bubble fills and pops beneath her nostril. The blood on her cheek mixes with her tears. “It’s broken.” Her words cast through a pained filter. “That bitch broke it.”

  Amanda turns from her sister. A dullard’s fire in her eyes, yellow and red and tinged with bile. A squinting rage that distorts her freckled cheeks. A step forward, her fists balled. Her momentum snuffed when Betty steps in front of Kayla. A bumping of chests. Betty holds her ground. “Easy there, big fella.”

  The Deacon snags Betty’s arm. Donna by his side, a finger jabbing the space between them. “That was deliberate! You need to throw her ass out!”

  Kayla’s jaw slack. Her injured eye blinks. In her, the numb awareness of the dentist’s chair, the distance between her and the others blurred. She wants to apologize, to say she didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but she’s both mesmerized and unashamed by the sight of blood and the guilt that ties her to its flow. Nurse Amy’s arm around Ashley’s waist. A towel held over her nose and a splotched trail over the hardwood as they shuffle to the exit. The Deacon scoops up the ball and orders the guards to take the reds back to their pods.

  “What about the game?” Betty says. “They can substitute. We can finish two-on-two. Or—”

  “Game’s over,” the Deacon says.

  “Then we should be the winners,” Donna says. “If she hit—”

  “Fuck that!” Betty snaps.

  “No one wins.” The Deacon points to the exiting reds. “You three join the others.”

  Betty turns, a backward walk, a final taunt. “We had you, pretty girl.” Her finger wags. “We had you and you know it.”

  Panda Bear grabs her, a hard push back into line.

  “No need to get all huffy, big man.” Betty straightens her shirt and rests a hand on Kayla’s shoulder. “Seeing that cow bleed might have been better than winning anyway. Maybe I’ve under
estimated you, Oakmont.”

  Kayla stands guard outside the cafeteria supply closet. Delivery day, Heather inside taking inventory. Three days since the basketball game. Whispers each morning as the reds file into convocation. Donna pointing at Kayla and nodding. Ashley’s swollen nose topped with a pair of black eyes. “The raccoon,” Betty said, “Panda Bear’s ugliest woodland cousin.” They laughed, but beneath, the understanding there was a score to settle. Kayla hadn’t meant to hurt anyone, all of them bent low and scrambling, a scrum’s close focus. Part of her wants to apologize—not so much for her elbow’s wild swing as for the backstories that have rendered them more alike than different. All of them damaged. All left to cobble together families among the misfits and strays.

  Kayla steps from the alcove when she hears the clatter of wheels on tile. Donna and the twins and two other whites. A trio of rolling mop buckets. The girls’ jaws work mouthfuls of gum. Heavy Metal their escort, but he abandons the girls for his customary visit with the lunch ladies. His voice carries as he steps into the kitchen. “I’m smelling something good today!”

  Kayla glances into the closet. Heather kneels before the box with the red dot, its top opened, crinkled paper on the floor. “Donna’s coming. Her crew, too.”

  Heather slides the pint bottle and cigarettes into her panties. “Guards?”

  “He peeled off. A kitchen stop.” The rolling wheels closer. The pop of gum bubbles.

  Donna stops short of the alcove. A glance back before approaching. She holds a spray bottle and a dirty rag. The twins flanking her. Ashley with her black eyes, her sister’s dull stare. The other whites behind them, their mop handles gripped tight. Donna blows another bubble and nods to the supply closet. The alcove sugary with the gum’s scent. “Heather in there?”