The Blackbird Season E-Book

Kate Moretti

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

New York Times​ ​bestselling author Kate Moretti​'​s​ (The Vanishing Year)​ latest ​novel ​is the story of a scandal-torn town and the aftermath of a troubled girl gone missing. Where did they come from? Why did they fall? In a ​quie​t​ town, a thousand dead starlings fall onto a high school field, unleashing a horrifying and unexpected chain of events that will rock the close-knit community. Beloved coach and teacher Nate Winters and his wife, Alecia, are well respected throughout town. That is, until one of the​ ​reporters investigating the bizarre bird phenomenon catches Nate embracing a student, Lucia Hamm. Lucia soon buoys the scandal by claiming that she and Nate are ​having an affair, throwing the town into an uproar and leaving Alecia to wonder if her husband has a second life. And when Lucia suddenly disappears, the police only have one suspect: Nate. Nate​'​s coworker, Bridget Harris, is determined to prove his innocence. Bridget knows the key to Nate​'​s exoneration and the truth of Lucia​'​s disappearance lie within the walls of the school and in the pages of ​t​h​e missing girl's journal. The Blackbird Season is a haunting, psychologically nuanced suspense, filled with Kate Moretti​'​s signature chillingly satisfying twists and turns.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also available from Kate Moretti and Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also Available from Titan Books

THE BLACKBIRD SEASON

Also available from Kate Moretti and Titan Books

The Vanishing Year

THE

BLACKBIRD SEASON

KATE MORETTI

TITAN BOOKS

The Blackbird Season Print edition ISBN: 9781785656316 E-book edition ISBN: 9781785656323

Published by Titan Books A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd 144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: September 2017 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

© 2017 Kate Moretti. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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For Chip

The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.

—from Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, Wallace Stevens

The day the birds fell, I dealt the tower card. Everyone always said to never read your own cards, but who the hell was gonna read mine?

People believe, though. I don’t, but other people do. I was more interested in the idea that there was magic in the world at all. I found a book in the library and I’ve been reading my own cards every morning since. But two things happened at once, two days in a row, and you should know about them. First, I found a blackbird, just like the others. Perfect. Smooth. Soft. Like it had just stopped breathing. Except, this one had a hole where its left eye should have been. I’ve never seen that before. The next day, I did a reading and dealt the tower card, the one with that one-eyed raven on it. And then, just when I thought the world was mocking me, it rained starlings.

I try not to believe in signs. But sometimes they’re just so goddamn obvious.

1

Nate, Monday, May 4, 2015: Two weeks after the birds fell

The rain came in sheets, like a wall, forming wide rivulets down the windshield. The wipers swished and couldn’t keep up. They were old, needed to be replaced, and left streaks across the glass. But this was Alecia’s car and she hadn’t told him. His job was the maintenance, sure, but he wasn’t a mind reader. He smacked the lever up a notch.

He squinted against any oncoming headlights, the few there were. Winding pavement and black towering pines combined with the lack of streetlights made this stretch of road, up into the Pocono Mountains, a hazard regardless of the season. The Lackawaxen River rushed by to his right, a mere fifty feet over a guardrail, engorged with the deluge of rain, more than typical for spring in Pennsylvania. He slowed to thirty miles an hour and leaned forward, his headlights bouncing off the white line, the yellow centerline almost invisible, faded with age.

His phone rang, the display flashing. He ignored it. Could be Tripp, but he’d gotten into it with Alecia and she likely wanted to keep it going. He’d been so distracted he’d forgotten his pillow and would be stuck sleeping with a throw pillow on Tripp’s sofa, mildewed and lumpy. He wasn’t even sure the bag perched next to him on the passenger seat had enough to get him through the week. He’d been unfocused, just shoving things in: jeans, socks, underwear, shirts. Things you need when you have no job, no wife to go home to.

The phone rang again and he took his eyes away from the road for a split second. Alecia. He almost picked up, but tightened his hands on the wheel. Pick it up, don’t pick it up? Her pecking and pulling at the threads of their marriage wasn’t new; it was as old as anything he could remember. She just had so much more to pull at now. Not just Gabe, although always, always Gabe.

His headlights caught on a figure in the distance, a hand waving in the air, panicked. He slowed the car, pulled over, until he was next to her, hair plastered to pale cheeks, black clothing rendering her almost invisible in the night, had it not been for her gleaming white hair. He felt the cord of muscle up his arms tighten in a spasm. He rolled down the passenger-side window, but just a crack. Maybe two inches. He’d be damned if he was letting her into this car.

“You’re going to get yourself killed. What the hell are you doing?”

“I need help.” Her eyes were wild, wide and doll-like against her face, and her hands, red chipped fingernails, cupped her cheeks, pushing her hair back. Fingers wound up into that bright white hair at her temples and she shook her head back and forth and back and forth, like a dog shaking off water. That hair, a regular topic of conversation with the students, impossibly exotic but just so weird. Teenagers these days aimed to stand out, and that bright whiteness still gave them all pause.

“I can’t help you. You know that.” There it was. He was finally, finally angry. Everyone had been asking him, are you angry? In an accusatory way, a way that really meant why aren’t you angry? As though this alone was proof of his guilt. He wanted to capture the moment, record his voice right now, because seeing her, finally, he realized he was really, really angry. “Get out of here, Lucia. Go home. Where you belong.”

She leaned against the car so her mouth was even with the window opening, her body pushed against the window so he couldn’t see her eyes. Only that mouth, that lying little mouth. She wore a white T-shirt, soaked through, and he could see the outline of her nipples, pressed against the glass. Where was her jacket? It had to be fifty-five degrees. Not his problem. He looked away.

“I don’t belong anywhere.” And when she leaned her forehead against the door trim, he could finally see her eyes. They were bloodshot and her pupils dilated like black Frisbees against a cerulean sky. Fear could dilate your eyes, he knew that for sure. Or was she on something? Pilfered from that brother of hers?

He didn’t care.

He picked up his phone. Pressed the numbers 911.

“I can’t help you, Lucia. I’m calling the police and I won’t leave until they get here, but you cannot get in my car. I can’t do anything for you.” His voice was gentler than he’d intended. He’d always had a soft spot for her and those like her: the damaged, pretty girls. The smart girls with no guidance. The lost girls. There had been others; Robin Hendricks came to mind, but none who’d gotten him to this place before.

He hit send. Ring. Ring. “Pike County Police Department.”

“Hi. This is Nate Winters. I need help on Route Six.”

“Sure, Mr. Winters, what appears to be the problem?”

“I’m here with a Lucia Hamm. I was driving and I found her walking along the road. She might be on something but I can’t drive her anywhere. Just send someone, please.”

She stared at him, her mouth twisting. She backed up slowly, away from the white line, her eyes narrowed at him, the side of her face illuminated by the headlights.

“Lucia!” He called through the slight window opening. “Don’t you dare go anywhere. Stay right there.”

She stepped around the front of the car, his hazard lights blinking red against her face. Her mouth curved up in a wicked smile and his insides coiled. She leaned forward, palms flat against the hood of his car, eyebrows arched seductively.

“Mr. Winters?” The voice on the other end was deep and slow. “Is everything all right?”

She blew him a kiss.

He rolled his window down all the way and leaned out. “Lucia!” He called again, his voice dying in the wind.

She turned and walked away, along the white line, the headlights of the car flanking her retreating figure. She wore a short, black skirt and knee-high boots, and her hips swayed.

“Shit.” He ran his hand through his hair.

“Mr. Winters? Are you still there?”

She turned, then, maybe ten feet from the front of his car, braced her feet on either side of the white line and gave him two middle fingers. Then she cut right and ran into the woods.

“Mr. Winters.” The man on the phone was stern now, angry about having his time wasted. “Are you still there? Do you still need someone to come out?”

“I don’t know.” He felt sick. No matter what happened now, everything had just gotten worse. All the pieces he’d been clinging to had flown apart, scattering what was left of his life in a million directions. He was in trouble, he’d been in trouble, but now he was more than in trouble, he was as dead as a person could be while still being alive. In one heartbeat, he envisioned Alecia and Gabe huddled together on the couch, himself in prison, a 20/20 special. His dinner rose in his chest and he took a deep breath to quell the panic.

He had no way of knowing that this moment would become the linchpin, the moment that all the moments after would hinge upon. The papers would call him a murderer; the police would come to him; his ex-friends, his gym buddies, the guys who knew him for God’s sake; and say, Nate was the last one to see her alive, right? The last one is always the guilty one.

He couldn’t know all this. But he could still feel it, like something physical chasing him and gaining ground, his heart beating wildly, a skittering pulse up the back of his neck. It was more than a feeling. It was a portent, something tangible, almost corporeal.

“She’s gone,” he said quickly, and hung up, dropping the phone on the seat. He should have just driven away. Everything in his body told him to just drive away.

He opened the car door and stepped into the rain.

2

Alecia, Tuesday, April 21, 2015

A month before Nate was fired, nearly a thousand starlings fell from the sky. Not fluttering to the earth like snowflakes, but plummeting, like quarter-pound raindrops. They fell hard and fast in the middle of the third inning of opening day at Mt. Oanoke High field. The first one Alecia saw bounced off Marnie Evans’s shoulder and hit the gravel with nothing more than a soft rustle. She screamed, her fingers threaded through her hair, get it out! Get it out! Get it out! Like it was a trapped bat. Alecia didn’t mind watching Marnie Evans freak out; in fact she kind of enjoyed it, so she just covered her mouth with her palm. Marnie Evans treated minor hiccups—missing basket bingo cards and off-color varsity jacket orders—like national disasters all while chewing Xanax like Pez.

But adversity builds muscle, and since Alecia chipped and clawed her way through every day, it took so much more to rattle her than the Marnie Evanses of the world, and a few little birds weren’t going to do it. So she didn’t mind watching Marnie at all. She hadn’t even expected to be at the game. Nate had asked her out of the blue. It felt nice to be so spontaneous. The day had a fresh-air, college-kid-out-on-the-green feel to it, summer break looming, with all its newness.

It was just a regular Tuesday, except that it was a good day. And all of Alecia’s days were divided clean down the middle, it seemed. Good Days (capital G, capital D) and Bad Days. The deciding factors were variations on a theme: whether they were able to get through a grocery trip, whether Gabe got through his therapy without freaking out, whether she got a call from a bill collector.

Gabe actually did remarkably okay with change, perhaps because Alecia didn’t fight against every wrong turn, every slight schedule adjustment, like some of the women in her special-needs-moms’ group. But it was always easier when things went according to plan. Today there had been no tantrum, no horrific trip to the store, no bill collector. When the phone rang at two, after Gabe’s nap (a record thirty minutes), she picked it up, sort of excited and breathless.

“Hey.” She thought it was amazing that her heart still skipped when she saw Nate’s name come up on caller ID, and on a Good Day, she might count herself as belonging to the apparently few happy marriages left.

On a Bad Day, she thought about packing a bag, leaving Nate to deal with Gabe, to let him see, for once, how it really was. To fully recognize Gabe and all his cracks and scrapes and bruises and bumps and imperfections. No more I’m sure you’re overreacting, hon, or, He’s just his own person, that’s great! To understand her frustration when everyone, including Nate, said, but he looks normal! Or are you sure kids aren’t just kids? To live with autism in a way that wasn’t a blue T-shirt or a charity walk or a foundation, but to live with the ugly. On a Bad Day, she wished all the ugliness on her husband and nothing but windblown freedom for herself.

“Hi!” Nate exclaimed, both happy and surprised that she was happy.

Alecia pulled the phone away from her ear and adjusted the volume.

“Good day?” Nate asked, a note of caution in his tone that lit a quick fire under Alecia’s skin and then settled. The answer to that question would dictate the rest of the conversation: whether Nate would stay on the line and chat, or scamper off with some well-thought-out excuse.

“Yep, so far. He’s just waking up.” She could hear Gabe, his too-heavy-for-a-five-year-old stomps around his bedroom.

“Come to my game this afternoon? Please?” He pleaded with an unusual edge of desperation. Nate asked so little of her, always wanting to be mindful of her time, of her energies, worried about her stress levels and how he could make her happy, to the point of dancing on eggshells. She knew that she couldn’t say no, this one time, even if it meant dragging Gabe into unfamiliar territory. He’d know some of the people but not all. In Mt. Oanoke, people never change: the baseball crowd, the dressed-to-the-nines gym moms, the coaches’ wives, the athletic association groupies. Nate’s mother would probably be there, too.

Maybe Bridget would go. It had been months. Bridget Peterson was one of Alecia’s only friends who didn’t stem from a support network. She was a teacher, with Nate. She wasn’t a special-needs mom, or even a regular-needs mom. She wasn’t a therapist or a sympathetic nurse or a doctor. She was just a person, and sometimes Alecia forgot what that was like, to have friends who were just people.

Years ago, before Gabe, when she and Nate first got married and moved to Mt. Oanoke, Bridget and Holden Peterson were Nate and Alecia’s first real couple friends. They’d spent long, boozy nights at local pubs, laughing till their sides hurt, drunk on cheap rum and Cokes and the golden, sparkly potential of their infant marriages. Before infertility (for Bridget) and special needs (for Alecia) and then, later, the unspeakable.

“We’ll see how it goes,”Alecia said to Nate, noncommittal, because anything could and sometimes did happen at the last minute. We’ll see was a standard translation of yes, unless I let you down.

“That’s a no.” Nate huffed into the phone.

“That’s a maybe.” Alecia sighed, her annoyance creeping in. A crash from upstairs, followed by a quick, air-stabbing wail. “I gotta go.” She hung up the phone and took the steps two at a time.

Gabe stood at the foot of his bed, his lamp cockeyed in front of him on the floor. He turned to Alecia and pointed to the mess, the shattered bulb and fragmented plastic lampshade. The lamp was a gift from Violet; “Vi” everyone called her. Nate’s Mom. Over half of what they owned was a gift from Vi and most of it had been broken by an energetic, well-meaning Gabe. While Vi loved her grandson, Alecia dreaded the quick flicker of disappointment in her eyes when she inevitably asked where the lamp went.

“Oh honey, what happened?” She bent to pick up the pieces, shards of plastic interspersed with razor-sharp glass. “Back up!” She pointed to the doorway and Gabe scampered in bare feet. He sulked, hands over his ears. Her sharp tone, even a hint of it, could send him reeling, and she took two deep, calming breaths. He hummed to soothe himself.

Still, it was just a lamp, and a fairly cheap one. Vi had picked it because Gabe liked the colors, the red, yellow, and blue fluted plastic splaying bright light on the ceiling and the walls, and also because it was hardy, but no matter. They could get a new one. Maybe next month with what was left of the first baseball check.

“Hey, buddy.” Alecia pushed the hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, the broken glass and plastic pinched between her fingers. Gabe hummed louder, covering his ears, so Alecia said it again, a bit more forcefully, this time meeting his eyes. She smiled. “Hey, buddy.”

He stopped humming. Smiled back at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and for a brief second, worry-free. She pantomimed a deep breath and he took one, too. Their little inside joke, breathe, Mama. Breathe, Gabey. It’s just breathing, easy peasy.

“Do you wanna go see Daddy? He has a baseball game. Remember?”

His eyes flicked away, disinterested.

She tried again. “Gabe, let’s go see Daddy.” He brightened. She tried again. “On the way we can stop at the construction site. We can’t go in, but we can look.”

“Yes!” He jumped up and ran to her.

Alecia yelped, pointing to the spot with possible shards of glass. “I have to vacuum! You’ll cut yourself!”

Instead, Gabe lifted off, jumping over the fallen lamp and landing heavily on the bed, where he bounced crisscross-applesauce and whooped. He recoiled off the far edge of the bed, making a big show to avoid the mess and giving Alecia a pointed look. She laughed. Gabe made her laugh every day, not so much with his words, which sometimes were few and far between, but his wry sense of humor. The way he outright mocked her. No one else could see it. In many ways, Gabe was textbook: standard comedy failed him, TV shows were filled with nuance he neither got nor appreciated, humor in any regular way went over his head, or more likely, he just didn’t care. But to Alecia, he was funny and warm and she walked that frustrating tightrope, stretched taut between content and flailing every minute of every day.

With her free hand, she leaned over and plucked a small metal toy front-end loader off the ground and waggled it in his field of vision. “Sneakers on. Right there.” She pointed to where he stood and he looked down at his Velcro Nikes. He sat, working the Velcro straps, his eyes on the toy in her hand. When he was done, he stood with his arms out and his back straight. Alecia tossed the toy gently and it landed softly on his comforter. He snatched it up, rubbed it against his cheek, and stuck it into his pocket.

“Go, Mama.” He gave her a big toothy grin. The vacuuming could wait.

So they went.

And everything was just fine. Gabe was fine. Alecia was fine. She watched her husband, leaning against the wood frame of the dugout, his thumbs hooked into the pocket in his navy blue athletic pants, his hat low on his brow, looking no older than any of his boys, his eyes only on the batter, and flicking periodically to two men in the upper corner of the bleachers. Recruiters. They came around to one of the first games every year and made Nate pace. His boys. His seniors being shunted away to major colleges, maybe, one day, major leagues. He’d always hoped, anyway.

He hadn’t even looked up to see her there before the birds started.

As they fell, dead or barely alive, two small ones landed between second and third base, four on the infield, one between home plate and the pitcher’s mound, and more than a smattering of black bodies against the green grass of the outfield. Alecia shielded her eyes against the sun and surveyed the sky. A cloud of black birds, thousands and thousands of them, swarmed like mosquitoes. The whole cloud seemed to hover, suspended on some invisible air current while the crowd murmured. The pitcher, Andrew Evans, paused, his hand clutching the ball high in the air and then sort of wilting as a starling hit his feet, his face tipped up to the sky, wondering what the hell?

Then, pandemonium. Everyone tumbled, panicked and screeching, running for the small overhang under the concession stand, or the dugout, or their cars. Even the players ran, as strong and tough as they liked to pretend they were. Everyone pressed together. Parents and coaches and players and teachers, people who sometimes could hardly stand to be in the same room together, stood next to the open concession window, the smell of hot grease and pretzels thick, and all you could hear was the thunk, thunk, thunk of starlings as they hit the dirt, their wings twitching.

Alecia had the sensation of watching something huge, momentous, but on television. Removed and staticky, a broken broadcasting voice through the haze. She looked around, and even the recruiters—men in sports jackets or windbreakers, with clipboards, their radar guns tapping nervously against their thighs—watched the sky with an open-mouthed, gaping wonderment.

The whole thing lasted no more than three minutes; three whole minutes during which even Gabe was quiet, pulled in against her hip, although Alecia knew he had no real grasp of the situation. He wasn’t scared, he wasn’t picking up on the cues of everyone else, and she barely had time to be grateful for that before it was all over.

Everyone looked up and started talking again, whispering, really, stunned and reverent, blinking back into the light, as though they’d weathered a real storm, and surveyed the damage. Hundreds of small black forms, crumpled and fluttering in the wind, like wrinkled carbon paper.

Someone called 911 and a few people scurried away, gathering up their sons and hustling them to their minivans away from some presumed noxious invisible gas cloud. Alecia stayed and waited for Nate, watching Marnie Evans sweep two small carcasses from the front hood of her Pathfinder with her peep-toe sandal, hopping around on one foot. It would almost be comical if Alecia’s stomach wasn’t so twisted, or she didn’t feel like crying, or the back of her tongue didn’t taste metallic and bitter.

They were small birds and could have fit in the scoop of her hands had she desired to pick one up. She imagined that—cupping its small, broken wings underneath its still warm body, its eyes shocked open in fright. Where did they come from? Why did they fall? The question would be asked a thousand times over the course of the next month.

Until, of course, more important questions arose, at which time everyone promptly forgot a thousand birds fell on the town of Mt. Oanoke at all.

3

Bridget, Wednesday, March 25, 2015

The comforting thing about high schoolers was they never changed. Every day they were as self-absorbed as the day before, their phones perpetually inches from their faces, fingers flying over the screens, sending Snapchats and text messages and tweets. Drama over boyfriends and best friends and boyfriends-slash-best friends. Bridget kept her ear to the ground: she knew who were BFFs and baes and whose mom was popping pills and whose dad was sleeping with the biology teacher who wore the short skirts.

Even when Bridget had bad days, really, really bad days, when she missed Holden with every breath in her body, when her very cells seemed to vibrate with missing him, with the way his flat, wide thumb used to slide up her arm with a smooth, gentle pressure. It was the little gestures that popped into her mind and stole the air from her lungs in the middle of class, in the middle of a sentence half the time. She swore the kids thought she’d lost her ever-loving mind. Maybe she had. But even then, on those days when she could barely string two sentences together and they all looked at her, mouths agape like catfish, they never let her down. They concerned themselves with her for about one hot minute before they kept on keeping on with their oh-so-gripping soap opera lives.

It was too cold for March. Sneaking up on spring break and still hovering around the thirties and forties. Her Georgia blood wasn’t used to this nonsense, and she wondered for about the billionth time why she didn’t go back, now that Holden wasn’t keeping her here anymore. Maybe because it still felt like he was here, only nine months later. Hardly any time at all, and she could still sense him in the bare, crackling trees in the front yard, their leaves scattered and killing what was left of his precious lawn. She could, what? Feel his aura? Oh, if her mother could hear her thoughts. Ain’t got the good sense God gave a rock, that’s what she’d say.

“Earth to Bridge.” Nate Winters stood in the door to her empty classroom, only three minutes after the bell, but long enough into her prep period to catch her sitting, hands folded in her lap, staring at the far wall of chipped and peeling cinder block.

She gave him a big smile, shaking her head to clear it. “I’m here. I was . . . thinking.”

Nate crossed the room in two easy lopes, turned a chair backward, and sat. “You? Nah.” He rolled his eyes and she swatted at him.

They used to joke about that, Bridget’s hamster-wheeled brain, the thing that never stopped. Even when she was drinking, she’d stand up suddenly, her whiskey and Coke sloshing over the edge onto Alecia’s new carpet (and you could tell she had a small heart attack about it), and proclaim to have an idea. This was back when they thought they could do things. Nate and Bridget were teachers. Holden was a doctor. Alecia was in public relations. They were a dream team for some not-yet-established charity that helped children and bought them shoes or taught them to read or gave impoverished girls tampons. They had potential, dammit.

Bridget straightened the papers on her desk, just for something to do, her mind slipping dangerously on the thin ice of the past, the way it sometimes did. Some days she never really found her footing. But Nate made it more bearable. He touched her arm.

“How’s Alecia?” She brushed her hair back off her shoulders, sat up straighter, and gave Nate another bright smile. “Gabe?”

“Oh, you know. Ups and downs.” He shrugged, and Bridget wondered how many of the downs Nate really got to see up close.

“Give them my love.”

He nodded and pulled out a folded index card. “I stopped by because I wanted your advice on this.” He pushed it across the desk at her.

The ravens came in sets of three One for each sword, drawn down, unfreed Fearless Until nightfall when he’d cower Washed with the blood of a thousand kings

Bridget read it twice, three times. It made very little sense; it wasn’t even symmetrical, poetically speaking. The rhythm was wrong. But something about it crawled around in her brain, skittering across her unfocused thoughts.

“Who wrote this?” She flipped it over, not expecting a name.

“I’m not sure, but I found it on the floor, near my desk after last period.” He leaned back, pulling on the chair back. Nate was a fidgeter, not much different from the long-legged boys in her classes, their knees bopping, cracking their knuckles. “It weirded me out. You don’t think it’s weird?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m a creative writing teacher. You should see the shit I read. They’re kids. Some of them truly think that what they’re going through on any given day is the worst pain they’ll ever have in their lives.”

Nate gave her a sad smile. “Aw, Bridge.”

“No. You don’t get to feel sorry for me. That’s not your job.” She waved her hand at him. She studied the card again. Something in the last line, the thousand-kings part, jumped out at her. She snapped her fingers and flipped through the journals on her desk.

She’d made them keep a handwritten journal. Some days it was classwork, some days it was homework, but it couldn’t be typed. In her view, journals were meant to be taken to bed, scrawled in while tucked under the blankets, a private enclave of thoughts.

Their handwriting was atrocious and they whined incessantly about the assignment. Most of them wrote about what they did, which was boring as all get-out, even documenting what they’d eaten for breakfast. The girls often confessed their weight, a long-held secret, bursting out of them like jelly from a doughnut. They turned them in on Fridays, and Bridget might check to see that they were complete, but didn’t grade what they wrote. Sometimes she gave them topics in class, sometimes it was open-ended.

She grabbed the black leather one; she knew which one it was by heart. Lucia Hamm wrote about death and dying—a lot of them did. But most of them glossed over it, or mused about what it was like to die, what happened or how it would happen to them. Some of them were scared. But Lucia Hamm seemed to fly toward the subject, undeterred by her teacher losing her husband almost a year before to cancer. Lucia tackled pain and death clinically, a biology lab dissection. As if Bridget’s hurt could be pulled apart like little frog’s legs, pinned back to the wax, sliced clean down the middle, and simply exorcised. Bridget had seen it before, a death fascination; that’s not what bothered her. It was almost mundane to be Goth. But Lucia got under her skin.

She flipped through until she found the page. A drawing, three blackbirds along the top, feathered over a wire, three swords pierced through a beating heart. No kings. Huh. She flipped it around to show Nate. He studied it.

“Gotta be, right?”

“I’ve given up trying to figure her out.” She shrugged. “She sees birds.”

Nate cocked his head, moved his hand in a circle, like go on.

She sighed, the idea exhausting her. “She finds dead birds, she says. She’s written about it. She says they come to her and she knows bad things will happen.”

Lucia, on the fringe, but exotically, unsettlingly beautiful. Crazy white hair, black-rimmed eyes and bloodred lips. She’d been held back in kindergarten, something about emotional and social readiness, so she was a full year older than the other seniors. She had a way of speaking, clipped and certain, her gaze level and steady, like she was humoring you. Bridget always looked away first, couldn’t take the directness. Every conversation felt like a confrontation.

She handed the card back to Nate.

“I think there’s something going on. Lately her grades have been tanking. She comes in, looks like shit. No makeup. Haven’t you noticed?” He tapped the card against his knuckles and twisted his mouth. “She’s got that godawful brother, you know?” Bridget vaguely knew. Her brother, Lenny, a dropout, and her father, Jimmy, had skipped town.

Bridget eyed the journal, suddenly ashamed. She hadn’t really been paying attention. This was her job, not just the teaching, but to observe them. In that way, Nate took it more seriously than she did.

Nate had anonymous social media accounts. He never posted anything, just scrolled through the newsfeeds. He followed his students and they followed back, not knowing who he was. So stupid, Bridget thought. Didn’t they know the creeps who were out there? But Nate knew who was fighting whom, where to be, when to be there, who was getting bullied, who was doing the bullying. It made him a better teacher, he defended. He’d never abuse it, she knew that, but still. She told him she didn’t want to know anything. Leave her out of it. She wondered if Alecia knew that when she lay in bed next to her husband at night, he scrolled through his phone, spying on the lives of his students like they were his own personal miniseries. It was a moral gray area, she admitted, but Nate did it for the all the right reasons. In the drama that played out at school each day, the stage was set online the night before.

“I just don’t have it in me. Not this year. Other years, I’ve been with you. Fighting for them. Against the administration, against their parents, against themselves half the time. Not this year. I’m barely hanging in.” She opened Lucia’s journal, fanned through the pages, and realized for the first time how many of the entries were drawings. Half of them, at least. She’d have to talk to her about that. This wasn’t art class.

Then, a glimmer of recognition as she turned the book one way, then the other. She’d known once what it all meant, although her skills felt rusty. Aunt Nadine had taught her how to do a reading when she was barely ten, perched on her lap while a cigarette snaked down to the butt. But that was a long time ago.

The last reading she did nearly ended her marriage.

She pushed the book across the desk and pointed.

“Nate. They’re tarot cards.”

* * *

Bridget had a cat. A petite gray-and-white stray that she adopted a month after Holden died, an ill-advised decision. She named her Sunny, after the prostitute in Catcher in the Rye. It was her own simple, obtuse memorial to her husband, but also she loved irony. The cat was both gray and grumpy. So, Sunny she was, or more likely, she wasn’t. No one ever got the joke, but then again, most people didn’t get Bridget’s jokes, with the exception of Holden.

Lord, how she missed him.

It had been less than a year since his death. Two years since his diagnosis, and ten since they married. Bridget liked to imagine her life in timeline form, and sometimes, if she’d had enough to drink and it was late enough at night, she envisioned it hovering there above her head. A single line with dots, like a subway map, green up to the fall of 2012, red and bloody for that year between 2012 and 2013, and muddy-water brown thereafter with a blinking red You Are Here somewhere along the interminable brown. She couldn’t see anything past today.

There was a tiny bit of freedom in being alone. She popped a frozen dinner into the microwave, waited the requisite two minutes, and pulled it out with two fingers, dropping it onto a paper plate. She poured white zinfandel into a red Solo cup because she hated doing dishes, and took her dinner to the living room. Holden would have died, had he been alive. He liked expensive cabernet, from certain regions in France—she had no idea which ones. He was also a particular eater and had specific, bizarre notions of what could and should not be eaten together. Steak and potatoes. Pasta and pork. Chicken and rice. Only in those two combinations. In restaurants, she’d feel endlessly irritated at his requests: whole potatoes, not mashed, no garlic, extra pepper.

Now she could eat whatever she wanted. Strange how she’d welcome back in a heartbeat all the things she used to wish away. When she talked to him, which she did sometimes, not enough to be called often, she didn’t look at his picture or up to the ceiling. She talked as though he was right there next to her.

“Tomorrow I’ll cook something, H. I promise. Maybe.”

You never make promises to the dead that you don’t intend to keep. She wasn’t religious, but Mama’s voice often floated up from the swamps of Georgia just to smack her in the head.

Sunny kneaded at her leg, bucking his head under Bridget’s chin. She ran her nails down the cat’s back, scratching just above his tail. She popped the last bite of gluey mashed potatoes into her mouth, took a deep drink of wine, and reached across the sofa cushions for the journal.

It was black; many of them were. They could pick their own, a request they’d all initially groaned at. But later they’d come in with leather-bound notebooks that reflected their personalities, handing them in shyly as if a glitter-pink cover or gilded pages revealed something otherwise unknown about their souls. They were teenagers; black and angsty was their jam. The class, creative writing, held both juniors and seniors as an elective. The seniors were edging toward college, the sweet lick of freedom bittersweet on their lips, so they weren’t as moody as the juniors who were stuck in Mt. Oanoke for another eighteen months. The seniors were coming full bloom, all the things that had seemed so confining starting to take on the rosy glow of nostalgia. High school was in their rearview mirror.

She flipped the pages. Lucia’s journal was erratic, with changing handwriting, drawings, and block letters filled in with pen. She didn’t read all the entries in anyone’s diary. The exercise was more for the idea of journaling, writing down their brainy, brilliant thoughts, just to get them on paper. She didn’t care about the content, just if they were done on time. They’d ask her, did you read mine? For all their complaining, they seemed to crave the approval.

I’m not a virgin. That’s a joke, right? No one thinks that. I’m a slut. A skank. A witch. A fetish. Never a real person. Except to you. And maybe Taylor, although she’s been flaky. Cares more about Kelsey and Riana and, depending on the day, Andrew.

I couldn’t care less about any of them. I care about you, though, so there’s that.

Bridget closed the journal. She’d never heard anyone call Lucia a whore, a slut. Most of the girls steered clear of her with her sharp, red mouth and sharper tongue. She was more likely to be the one flinging names around. The boys mostly avoided her, but some hung around a bit, too. She clung to the edge of the right crowd—Andrew Evans and Josh Tempest—Taylor clicking up behind them, double step to keep up, and Lucia hanging back. Andrew always watching her, his eyes sliding around, his mouth with that sideways smirk that the girls fell all over themselves for.

A lesson from science class: in nature, the prettiest things are poisonous.

Bridget was tired. It was only seven thirty, but she was always tired. Sleep was both an escape from the everyday weight on her chest and a possible chance to see him again. Touch his soft stubbled cheek, if only in a dream. It was worth the crushing moment in the morning when she realized none of it was real. Maybe it was worth it.

The old house brayed and whistled in the wind. She’d moved in hating this house—an inheritance from Holden’s great-aunt—everything it represented, the cold, unforgiving north, the life she’d left behind. They moved, ostensibly to fix it up, sell it. Move back south. Give it one year. If you want to leave in one year, we’ll go. I promise, back to the swamps and the bogs and the heat and the y’all. We’ll go. Then she’d gotten a job as a teacher and they stayed. They met Nate and Alecia and she made the house her own and the year came and went with hardly a whisper. That was almost eight years ago.

The house sat back from the road, the original farmhouse for the land that had since been developed. Three-acre lots with three-thousand-square-foot McMansion developments on either side. Commuter families, driving to North Jersey or New York City, coming in late in the evening but with hefty paychecks. Unlike when they’d first moved in, when the town was still reeling from the closure of the paper mill. Now they had neighborhoods with kids and bikes and winding cul-de-sacs and neighborhood barbecues. Mommy nights out and golf games and Super Bowl parties and first birthdays.

There Bridget sat, high above them all. Keeping vigilant watch over a life that wasn’t hers to have.

4

Alecia, Saturday, April 25, 2015

School was canceled for the rest of the week. The EPA vans came, testing air and water. The Pennsylvania Department of Health collected little black birds in Ziploc bags all over town, mostly from around the baseball diamond—437 at the field alone. People stayed inside, not in any official way— there was no curfew, no police or health official directive— but the eeriness of it all kept people peeking through their curtains rather than sitting on their front porches. The bikes lay in empty lawns, their wheels spinning in the wind.

Alecia’s phone rang like crazy. Libby Locking, whom she’d met briefly when Gabe attempted preschool and who’d stuck to her like a bur ever since, wanted to know what Nate thought killed the birds.

“Libby, how would Nate know?” Alecia asked, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her dry hand. She was cutting chicken, her fingertips coated slick, and she kept the phone pressed between her cheek and her shoulder as she sliced.

“Because he’s smart. Ask Nate.”

“Nate, what killed the birds?” Alecia called into the living room, where Nate was easily on his third hour of SportsCenter.

“How would I know?” His eyes never left the television.

“He doesn’t know, Libby.”

“You know the Marshalls? Earl put plastic on their windows. They think it’s the mill. That the air is poisoned. Isn’t that nuts?”

“That’s crazy. But Earl’s crazy.” Alecia, distracted, scooped the chicken into a pan of oil and watched it sizzle. She washed her hands, the water burning, turning her knuckles red and pulsing.

“This whole town is crazy.” Libby clucked her tongue, a soft click across the line.

After they hung up, Alecia tucked the phone into her back pocket with the ringer turned down.

She should have been glad Nate was home. On paper, it seemed easier. She had another set of hands, someone to occupy Gabe, and Gabe’s hero to boot. She could have had a nap, maybe a long shower, gotten a manicure. Except half the town was closed, so forget the manicure.

But Nate was stressed. School being closed for a week, the first week of baseball, made him batty, pacing around like a caged animal. His phone rang off the hook, and Alecia could hear the panicked squeal of parents through the speaker. With games being rescheduled, even outright canceled, Marnie Evans called almost daily.

“He can throw eighty-five as a goddamn junior, Alecia. This kid, I’ve never had one like him.”

She could swear Nate loved Andrew Evans more than Gabe most days.

Linda, Gabe’s therapist, came every day from nine to noon. Every. Damn. Day. In her house, in their space. Rain, shine, snow, but not ice; Linda never drove in the ice. She’d announce this in singsong because Linda announced a lot of things in singsong. She blew in with bags of stuff, odds and ends, toys and string and plastic figurines and blocks and letters and numbers. She carried it all in giant gingham-checked plastic laundry totes she’d gotten from Argentina (Alecia knew an awful lot about Linda’s life; she talked more than anyone Alecia had ever met).

Gabe loved Linda. Alecia, on most days, loved Linda. Linda was extraordinarily tall, over six feet, with a loud booming voice and long blond braid down her back that Gabe liked to touch. Sometimes Linda let Gabe touch her braid, tap it to his cheeks, even, grossly, kiss it—truly Alecia almost protested this one—as a reward. Linda could stand to erect a few boundaries.

Instead of staying or watching or learning, Nate would go upstairs. Away from Linda, away from her singing, her relentless talking, her bubbling theories about Gabe. Maybe it was her sheer enthusiasm, for which Alecia felt profoundly grateful most of the time. Nate seemed to want nothing more than to flee from it. The patter of all the things that would burn his paycheck and maybe only marginally fix his son.

But today, Linda had come and gone and Gabe was theoretically napping. Alecia stomped around the kitchen as she listened to him pace. Step, step, step, step, a heavy boom at the end where his hand slapped at the wall. Step, step, step, step, boom. Step, step, step, step, boom. Step, step, step, step, boom. For fun, she matched her steps to his, wallowing.

“Why isn’t he napping? He was up half the night.” Nate was suddenly behind her. She wasn’t sure if he’d crept up on purpose or if she’d just zoned out and didn’t hear him over the patterned racket above their heads.

“He never really naps. I put him up there to get a break. Sometimes he actually does fall asleep.” Alecia pushed back her shoulders and chewed on her lip.

“Well, that’s ridiculous. Maybe he’s too old for naps. He’s five.” Nate put his hands on his hips and eyed her. “Should I go take care of him? Maybe he needs more discipline. Tell him if he doesn’t lie down, you’ll take away his toys.”