Outside in the fading light, the snow fell in striations of white against the black, and through the window, Sean watched the particles pass through the faint light bending from the room above.
“Then a letter came. New Mexico. They were heading for California the whole time, but she got lost along the way, thank God. I expected her to have so much more to say, but it was just cold and factual. Not to a mother, but to a complete stranger, and that's when I knew they had brainwashed her, filled her head with their radical ideas. When nothing followed, I came to resent her again, came to wish—sometimes—that I hadn't heard from her, would never hear from her again because she chose to exclude me from her life, she chose to leave with him, she chose to reject me after … Still. If she walked through that door this very minute, all would be forgiven and restored. This is what love brings you to.”
Tears welled in his eyes, and he tightened his lips, contorted the muscles in his face to avoid crying altogether, before turning away. She spoke his name, and he broke down. “He's never coming back, is he?”
She held out her arms, and he rushed into the space, laying his face against her breast, his small hard frame shaking with tears. With every breath he drew, he cried for his father. Margaret crushed his body against her body. “Sean, Sean, I am so sorry.”
19
The man standing on the sidewalk in the bitter cold appeared to be regarding something only he could see, or perhaps he looked at nothing in particular but was merely listening to the sound of the wind, the passing vehicles sluicing through the slush, and the gentle susurrus as the showers landed upon the street, upon the parked cars, upon the meters like a row of cemetery crosses, upon the few souls stirring in the gloom. Had anyone paid more than cursory attention, he would have been puzzled by how long the man stayed in place absorbing the chill against his unprotected skin, in the folds and ridges of his coat, in the dish of his hat. But he was nothing more than a figure out in the snow to passersby an obstacle on the sidewalk as they hurried home or made one last dash to the drugstore or the tavern. Madman, to be out in such a storm. He watched them come and go until at last he followed her into the bar at the corner nearest the bridge.
Few ventured into the night, and fewer still had sought out a drink. A man in a baseball hat stared at him from a perch at the rail and then renewed his acquaintance with a half-finished beer. A threesome—father, mother, son—munched on a plate of fries smothered in gravy. In the corner, a young woman appeared to be talking to herself, as the bartender ignored her and watched the basketball game playing on the suspended television set. Easy to find, the woman, even in the dimness of the bar, for her ears and nose glowed red from just having come in from the cold. Seated at the bar, she had draped her coat and scarf on the adjacent stool, so he chose the next available space, and she reached out with one hand to steady her garments when he sat. His coat was unbuttoned and hung like a robe around him, and with great care, he set his wet fedora on the counter to his right, and then turned to the left to see if the woman might acknowledge his presence. Not a nod or even a glance.
With a damp towel the bartender, a fellow called Jocko Manning, swiped at the space in front of the man. “What's your poison?”
“Something to take the chill off.” He paused, considering the man's accent. “An Irish coffee.”
When the drink arrived, he blew into it, and a cloud of steam formed and rose to his face, separating into two columns that wreathed his head before dissipating.
“Hey, look,” Jocko said, “Santy Claus.”
“Nice trick,” the woman said.
The man swallowed a mouthful of coffee and set the cup back on the mahogany. “Do I know you?”
“I don't know, do you?” She studied him carefully, not the usual suspect for a bar such as this, and in that context, she could not place his face, though familiar. A type, she finally decided. Well dressed, polite, old enough to be her father. A gentleman who could be entrusted with her name. “Eve Fallon.”
“Fallon.” He shook her hand. “Do you have a younger brother? A boy around eight or nine years old? In the third grade at Friendship Elementary.”
“That's no brother, that's my son.”
“No, you're much too young.”
She laughed helplessly. “You sure know how to flatter a girl who's about to start drinking.”
Behind her the man in the baseball cap crossed to the bathroom, his eyes fixed on the threesome at their late dinner. On the television set, Duquesne tied the score, and Manning raised his fist in triumph.
“What brings you out,” he asked, “on such a miserable night? Is Mr. Fallon with you?”
“Flew the coop.” She toyed with a swizzle stick. “Last year, but it's not too bad. I mean, it's hard money-wise.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, though I can't see how any man in his right mind—”
“Harder on my son because that rat doesn't even bother to call or visit anymore, and Sean's been kind of withdrawn. None of his little buddies from school come round anymore, and he was just listless for the longest time, like he wanted nothing more out of life.”
The man ran his finger along the brim. “Children often go through a kind of emotional winter in times of personal crisis. But they are stronger than they seem. Resilient.”
Eve straightened her spine and perched higher on the stool. “He'll pull through, I'm sure. There's this new kid who kind of sought him out just recently, it's so cute, a little girl. In fact that's where he is tonight, spending the night. First chance I've had to go out in ages, and wouldn't miss it. Cheers.”
He lifted his mug to her glass in salute.
“Nice kid, from what I know of her. She's got a way of bringing him out.”
“It wouldn't be that Quinn girl?”
“That's right, Norah Quinn. It's so sweet. Do you know her?”
“We're acquainted. But you do know the family history …”
“ ‘Course I do. Her grandfather was my doctor. Nothing wrong with the Quinns.”
“No dire implications. None at all. The child, I'm told, appeared out of nowhere. Do you know the grandmother?”
“Margaret? Not well, just to arrange the kids’ get-togethers. Why all the questions?”
“Curiosity.”
“Killed the cat, mister. What did you say your name was? Why are you so interested in the Quinns?”
Throwing a five-dollar bill on the counter, he reached for his hat. “I didn't, I'm not.” Hiding beneath the brim, he rose to leave.
She lifted the glass to her lips and closed her eyes to take a sip. “Who are you?” she asked, but he was already gone. The door appeared to have never opened, and the other people in the room took no notice of his departure. “You know that fella?” she asked the bartender.
Engrossed by the basketball game, Jocko shook his head and flipped his towel to the other shoulder.
A moment's indecision scuttled any chance she might have had, for when Eve stepped through the doorway, she found nobody on the streets. The snow had stopped, and the temperature had dropped by ten degrees. Shivering, she walked as far as the bridge, within earshot of the waters far below lapping against the pilings. The sky, broken by clouds that hid and revealed the stars, closed heavily on her head, and she scanned the empty sidewalks for some sign of him. But the footprints in the snow jumbled into one inscrutable rutty path, and there was no diminutive man receding to the horizon, no coat and hat, not a thing. The doorbells jingled when Eve walked back in, and the bartender glanced once from the basketball game. The man in the Pirates cap had ordered a fresh beer. The family had finished their plate of fries and relaxed in their booth, fully sated, flipping through the jukebox playlist. The girl in the corner carried on her imaginary conversation. The bartender gave up on the home team and switched over to an Irish folk concert on PBS. Chilled and sullen, Eve cursed her ex under her breath and sat back on her stool, her whiskey sour acrid and foul. The stranger's coffee mug stood in place, and she was
startled to find a thin slick of ice skimming the dark surface. Why had he asked about her little boy's friends? Thoughts of her son and his stillborn pain swirled in her mind.
Once upon a time, Sean had been just and fully hers, the child she bore, the infant at her breast in the middle of the night, the boy she taught to speak and walk, who began to leave her—imperceptibly at first, and then later he orbited into school and found friends, and she found the blank mysteries of his mind and heart too much to bear. This way of his becoming. The sense of loss of her only son washed over her, and Eve wondered whether Sean would ever be the same, whether the boy she knew and loved would ever come back to her.
20
Crossing the silent neighborhood at nine on Saturday morning, Sean was struck blind by the brilliant sunshine reflecting off the ice and snow. He squinted to see, cast his eyes first skyward toward the sun and then at the whiteness all around, shut his eyelids and chanced a few steps in comforting darkness, and then tried to focus on the path for as long as he could bear. His mother had warned him, before she left for work, to wear a hat with a brim, but Sean had ignored her advice, and halfway to Mrs. Quinn's, he felt he could not turn back despite the pain. Desperate for relief, he headed for the woods, though that route would add minutes to his journey, to find some shade, however sparse among the bare sweet-gum, hemlock, and oak.
Quiet at that hour and in such brutal cold, the forest sounded only of his passage, but at least he could keep his eyes open. He found it easier to concentrate on Norah and remember the outlines of their deception, the jump through the ice, the phantom illness. She would be waiting for him, eager for news.
Such conspiratorial thoughts hastened his steps, kindled his own eagerness to see her, and he did not notice the first bird alight on the path, ankle-deep in the snow some thirty feet ahead. Only when a second crow and a third landed nearby did he sense anything unusual. The crows seemed to watch as he drew near. Black feathers and jet beaks, fathomless eyes. Sean walked not four feet from the one on the ground before it hopped and winged to the others in the low branches, croaking a warning. He stopped beneath a beech and watched them watching him. The perfect exhilaration of solitude shattered, and he began to want someone with him. From a hole in the canopy another bird appeared, and then a pair glided between the trees to join the gang. Three more snuck up behind him, trilling and rattling deep in their throats. More birds flew in from every direction and settled in the trees or strolled about in the snow like a mob of priests in their cassocks, hands locked behind their backs, plotting some misdeed. As long as he did not move, Sean thought, they did not see him or pay him any heed. Fixed to the spot, he watched the dark assembly. One of the larger birds jumped from a low branch to the path, cocked its head left, then right, considering what might be done about the trespasser. The crow cawed once and filled the woods with echoes. The leader's caw set off a chain of vocalizations, a raucous call and response, and as it grew louder, the sounds joined together, mixing from cacophony to harmony. In an almost human voice, they spoke his name: Sean, Sean, Sean.
Beyond the murder of crows, on the point where the path of escape rose and crested, stood Norah, diaphanous in white, the glasses gone, the ragged smile replaced by perfect teeth, her hair brilliant as a halo. Through the din of his name came her voice, a simple command in a language he did not understand, and at the order, the birds stopped as one. The outliers in the high branches took off first, and then the others in twos and threes, chattering among themselves, lifted away muttering and grumbling, and he watched until the big leader hunched his shoulders and beat the air beneath his wings to disappear from the woods. When Sean looked back down the path to find the girl, she had vanished. A ring of perspiration dampened his scarf, and his hands were hot and moist in his mittens. He took one step on the rise toward her house. There was nothing in the woods. No sign the encounter had ever happened, and he did his best along the way to erase the impression that it had.
Mrs. Quinn answered the door, her eyes dark with shadows, fluttering nervously as she ushered him in. Her hands shook when she took his coat and scarf, and it took several moments before she could find her voice. “She's much better this morning,” she said. “You kids gave me a fright. A fever and that cough, you'd have thought she would bring the house down.”
With a quick hand she smoothed Sean's cowlick, and stopped to look at him for a moment. “She's upstairs if you like, but don't get too close and don't wear her out.”
He was four steps up the stairway.
“And don't stay too long. She needs her rest.”
He tiptoed into Norah's room and waited for her acknowledgment. Propped up against the pillows, she lay like a queen in her velvet robes, the down comforter barely revealing the contours of her thin body. Beside her on the nightstand teetered a pile of paperback novels—Little Women, Black Beauty, Charlotte's Web, The Jungle Book—and on top of the books a box of pastel chalks. Spread across her lap, an open sketchbook. He was surprised to see her there, wondered if she could be in two places at once. Norah started to smile before lifting her gaze from the paper.
“What news do you have, my spy?”
“Are you still sick? You want me to get some chicken soup?”
She raised her eyebrows and crinkled her lips in puzzlement. In the cathedral of her bedroom, sunlight rushed through the openings between the slats of the drawn blinds, suffusing the space with a pale yellow. Bedazzled, he did not know what to do next.
“How do you do those tricks?” He edged to the foot of the bed. “Where did you learn that magic?”
“Not magic.” Bending to her drawing, she scribbled furiously, the pencil a blur in her hands. “Miracles and wonders. All part of the plan.”
Uncertain whether to believe her or not, he fidgeted with a crocheted loop that threatened to unravel from the bedspread. He remembered what day it was. “Do you think the groundhog saw his shadow this morning? If he sees his shadow on the second day of February, that means six more weeks of winter. No shadow, we get an early spring.”
“Hah! Superstition.”
“You don't believe?”
“Don't mess around with matters of faith, amigo.” From under the blankets, she pulled out ¡En Espanol!, an old high school Spanish textbook with Erica & Wiley inked on the deckle edge of the pages. “I'm practicing my Spanish in case Aunt Diane quizzes me on New Mexico. And see—” On the sketchpad, she had drawn a large brown bird with a dead lizard hanging from its sharp beak. When he inspected the drawing more closely, Sean could see in the lizard's lifeless eyes three reflections of the sun.
“That's good,” he said. “What is it?”
She flipped the pad around to her lap and added, with the edge of her pencil, a shadow cast by the bird's tail. “A roadrunner, see? You're probably thinking of the cartoon, but the real thing looks nothing like it. Only it is fast. Very very fast.”
“Meep, meep.”
Without lifting her head, she rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue.
“The part I like best,” he said, “is when the coyote is tricked by the roadrunner into chasing it over the edge of the cliff. When he realizes he's standing on nothing but air, he looks at us—for just a second—before he falls. Just long enough to hold up a sign that says ‘Help!’ And when he falls it's always a long, long way down.” He whistled the sound of a falling bomb. “Then a puff of smoke at the bottom of the canyon, and then he comes climbing out of a coyote-shaped hole all dirty and wobbly.”
Norah picked up his story. “If he was standing on a rock teetering on some impossibly pointy point, that rock is going to fall too. But coyote falls faster than the rock, so that just as he climbs out of that hole, looking like a wreck and stars going round his head, just that moment, wham.” She slapped her hand on the pad. “Wham, it crushes him again.”
They both laughed at the memory.
“Just like life, amigo.”
The furnace kicked on with a bang, and hot air curled through th
e registers, cooking the scents in the room—warm flannel and baby shampoo. The smell of her hair brought memories of his mother leaning over the bathtub, sleeves rolled to the elbows, working his scalp and then supporting the back of his head as he arched beneath the running tap to rinse, her hands caressing the last suds from his hair. He wanted to tell her about the crows, about seeing her in the woods, but he felt that she would just make fun of him.
“What do you know about her?” Norah asked.
“My mother?”
“No.” Norah crossed her eyes. “What did you find out about my mother?”
“As far as I can tell, she ran away from home with a boy. And your grandmother still misses her. When she ate the cherries, she felt happy again, but not for long or for good. Your mother was very pretty.”
“That's it? That's all? You need to find out more.” The sheets snapped as she whipped them from her legs, and she slid out of bed to pace the floor, carrying on an internal monologue, gesticulating wildly, trying to contain her fury. Sean waited patiently for her to speak, but she spent her anger by pounding her bare feet upon the wooden floor. At a spot near the window, the floorboard creaked with her every footfall, and he amused himself by anticipating the sound with each turn about the room. He did not look at her but merely listened, and when she became aware of what he was doing, Norah stopped and stared at him. “What about her boyfriend? Did you learn anything about him?”
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