The Mystery at the Desert Aviary
Here is a short story murder mystery I wrote.
The Mystery at the
Desert Aviary
Before birds,
Bernard’s great passion was the dinosaur. When he was nine, his bedroom walls
were adorned with posters of various mighty dinosaurs. There was a snarling
T-rex in one corner and a stoic Apatosaurus in another. But then he found a
baby bird lying helpless and fragile on the grass. Any stray cat or clumsy foot
could easily kill the small creature. Bernard hunched over the baby bird while
she looked up at him and chimed a low chirp. Bernard scooped up the bird in his
own small hands and climbed the tree to find the bird’s nest. Throughout the
rest of spring, he would climb the tree and check on his baby bird. He watched
as the little fledgling grew bigger, braver and stronger. Ever after, he forgot
all about dinosaurs and instead cared only for birds. The T- Rex on his wall
was replaced with a picture of a crow. Instead of the Apatosaurus, The American
Robin stared proudly from its illustrated perch.
He was grown now,
surrounded by the desert and living in a sun-bleached and sand splattered
house. Next to his house, Bernard had his own aviary. He built it himself. It
was a dome, made out of tinted glass, wire mesh and wood. Inside, he planted
small trees and shrubs for his bird. Bernard’s birds all sat on different
branches. They chirped and cawed and squawked and squeaked.
The aviary made
him famous in the small town where he lived. It was a town full of eccentrics,
but ‘Bernard the Bird Man’ was many townsfolk’s favorite eccentric. Bernard
felt pleased that his name went so well with the word ‘bird.’ It was a word
that made him calm, and when mumbled in the mouths of others, his own name made
him calm too.
Bernard loved all
birds, from the plainest house sparrow to the ostentatious peacock. His
favorite parts of the day were the mornings and evenings when he fed his birds.
He liked to see them swoop down from their perches and collect the scattered
seeds he left for them.
With his bag of
bird seed tucked under his arm, he shuffled in slippers from his house, past
the cacti, toward the aviary. He could always hear bird songs as he walked
toward the aviary, especially in the mornings. But on that day, they were more
vocal than usual. He heard one of the crows cawing angrily.
“It’s okay.” Bernard
cooed as he walked in. But as he stood at the entrance, he noticed something
strange. In the middle of the aviary was a slumped figure. When he walked
closer, he saw the figure clearly. A dead girl. Or woman. It was hard to tell.
She was young, anywhere between the age of fifteen and twenty-two. He leaned
down and tried to find her pulse. Before his fingers pressed her flesh, he
noticed red in her palms. Blood, Bernard thought. But when he looked closer, he
saw that in each hand were small red jewels. When Bernard pressed his fingers
against her right wrist, the jewels tumbled from her palm and scattered on the ground.
As soon as his fingers touched her, Bernard shivered and felt nausea swell in
his stomach. The girl was so still that Bernard felt the need to move. He
squirmed and shifted his weight around. He knew the girl was dead, but he
wanted to bring her closer so he could cradle her and tell her that everything
would be all right if she only try a little harder to breathe.
Some of the birds
flew down from the tree branches and picked up the jewels between their beaks.
As they flew back toward the leafy branches with their trinkets, Bernard stood
up from his crouched position and walked back toward his house.
Inside, Bernard sat
on his couch. It was an old green couch that smelled of spoiled pudding, but it
was soft. He picked up the phone on the end table and dialed the police.
“There is a dead
woman in my aviary.” His throat ached when he said it. After the words were out
of his mouth, he analyzed their tone, feeling flustered at the flatness. He
waited and listened and answered the phone operator’s questions.
After the police
arrived, they took the girl away in the ambulance. Bernard remembered the
girl’s cold skin and knew there was nothing an ambulance could do for her. He
imagined the EMT sitting next to her in the silent ambulance, a frown on his
face as his empty hands rested on his lap like two sand bags.
For the rest of the
day, officers and investigators combed over the aviary in search of clues.
Bernard felt anxious when he thought of all the strangers disturbing his bird’s
habitat. He imagined the birds hiding in their branches, staring down at the
top of heads as the people mulled about below them.
Eventually, a
detective came inside Bernard’s house to interview him. She sat cross legged
with a pen in one hand and a pad of paper in the other. Bernard sat on his old
couch while the detective sat across from him in a cushioned chair covered with
pillows and a crocheted blanket. After sitting down, she picked up one of the
pillows and examined the embroidery on it.
“My late wife made
that.” Bernard said, “She was so talented. She could make anything. She made
the blanket you are sitting on too. Would you like to see a picture of her? I
have several on my mantle.”
“That won’t be
necessary Mr. Merchant.” The detective said but Bernard saw her glance toward
the mantle. His wife, through the decades, smiled back at her.
“She was a
beautiful woman.” Bernard said.
“Mr. Merchant, I need to ask you a few questions.” The detective said.
“No need for formalities. You can call me Bernard.” Bernard
said with a slight smile that created crinkles in his sagging cheeks. There was
no way for Bernard to know, but he looked maniacal for a moment with his half
smile and arched eyebrows. The desk light was on and it created shadows in his
face that were not normally there. Bernard saw a fleeting expression pass over
the detectives face but he couldn’t make out what the expression meant.
“Where were you
last night?” the detective asked.
“I was here. I spend all my nights here.”
“Can anyone account for your whereabouts?”
Bernard wondered if anyone besides police detectives used
words like ‘whereabouts.’
“Well no.” Bernard answered. “Now that my dear wife Tilda
has passed, I am usually alone. Except for my birds of course.”
The detective sighed. “Okay Mr. Merchant. You are going to
have to come down to the police station with us for further questioning.
Bernard looked out his window toward his aviary and thought
about his distressed birds. He thought about the girl, who must be at the
morgue by now.
“Okay.” Bernard said. “Anything I can do to help.”
Bernard felt
exhausted when he came home from the police station later that night, but he
couldn’t sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes, he thought about the unnamed girl
in his aviary. He thought about her delicate face, slack and blank in death. He
wondered what sort of expressions she use to make when she was still alive. He
wanted to cry for the girl and all she had lost. But after his wife had died,
he promised he would never cry for anyone else again. It was a final gesture of
love and commitment he had made to Tilda. He had allowed himself to sob for
her. While he sobbed, he felt close to her again, like she was still alive. He
remembered what she use to look like when they were young, and how they use to
go on picnics together. How her hair glowed gold in the sunlight and how the
collar of her dress flapped around her neck in the breeze. When he sobbed for
here, he could even smell her, that familiar scent of lavender and powdered
soap. So Bernard would let his heart break for the girl he found in the aviary,
but he would no cry for her.
Later, Bernard
would find out her name was Mabel. Mabel Roxanne Smith of Missouri. And she
wasn’t a girl at all, but a woman of thirty-three, the same age as his own
daughter. He didn’t know how he could have been over a decade of in his
estimation of her age. He thought death must take something out of people to
make them look young again. But then he remembered Tilda in her coffin and how
she looked two-hundred years old.
Mabel’s murder case
went to trial. Bernard, the only suspect, was convicted and sentenced to life
in prison.
After his trial,
Bernard told the news camera’s he was innocent. Then news crews all looked at
him and smirked.
As he was being led
away after the trial, Bernard saw the detective who had admired his wife’s
embroidery. She was looking at him and biting her lower lip. Wind blew loose
strands of hair around her face. Bernard tried to reach up his hand to wave,
but he couldn’t. His hands were cuffed and a police officer held stiffly to his
left arm.
The only way to get
into Bernard’s aviary was with a key. There was no sign of a break in on the
day Mabel was found. The prosecutor argued that Bernard was the only one who
could have put Mabel’s body in the aviary. There were other potential suspects.
A friend of Mabel’s said she was seeing a new man who could have been involved.
A coworker said she was unnerved by an overly friendly neighbor. But in the
end, it was Bernard who was convicted.
“Circumstantial
evidence!” Bernard’s lawyer yelled. But Bernard saw the faces of the jury. They
were furious that a young woman’s life could end so violently and abruptly.
Some of them had daughters of their own. Some of them were women with their own
brushes with the dangers of the world. And no one else was there to scowl at
except Bernard. So throughout the trial, the jury scowled until the trial ended
and they convicted Bernard.
Bernard spent a
year in jail before an appeal set him free.
The first thing
Bernard did when he arrived home was to check his aviary. All he saw were bird
bones and two skinny crows who cawed at him anxiously. Bernard knew what the
bones meant. The town believed he was guilty. If they thought he was innocent,
someone would have come to save his birds, but instead they were afraid to show
any support for Bernard, so they let his birds die.
“Poor things.”
Bernard whispered. He brought the two crows inside with him and let them eat
stale bird seed of his counter top. His unused house smelled of old cigarettes
and strangers.
For his first day
of freedom, Bernard ordered a large pizza and ate slice after greasy slice
while watching sitcom reruns on TV. The crows flew around his house, landing on
picture frames and the tops of lamps.
Every night in
prison, Bernard had dreams about Mabel although he knew nothing about her. He
wanted to learn more about her, but he was not allowed too. Through his dreams,
he learned that she liked blueberries, that she often forgot to cover her mouth
when she sneezed, and that she liked to read nature magazines which she always
read back to front. In his dreams, she never spoke, but sometimes he would hear
her laughing. Her laughter always sounded like a bird chirp. It was strange
hearing the familiar bird sounds coming from a woman’s mouth.
Now that he was
free, he wasn’t sure exactly what it was he wanted. Maybe to solve the mystery
and discover who really murdered Mabel. But maybe he just wanted to know who
she was. Their lives were intertwined now.
Bernard went to the
library to research Mabel. He had no computer of his own. He had grown up in an
era where people found out things through the pages of books and he still felt
more comfortable learning surrounded by pages even if he wasn’t using them.
Before heading to
the library, Bernard called his daughter, Sheila. The phone rang and rang, the
signal bouncing around somewhere else, in the empty air. Bernard imagined his
daughter’s phone buzzing inside the hollow of her purse while her attention was
elsewhere. On her baby or her husband or the minutia of life.
While sitting in
front of one of the library’s computers, Bernard learned about Mabel. When she
was still a very young woman, she moved away from Missouri to Northern
California. She made the move shortly after losing her parents. Mabel’s own
parents died in a car accident. Before her death, Mabel worked as a
receptionist at a dentist’s office. But in her spare time, she painted
landscapes. She liked to take walks in nature with her watercolors and a pad of
paper. Someone had made Mabel a webpage
to memorialize her and this is where Bernard learned the most about her. He
looked at her paintings. They were beautiful pictures of meadows and forests
and the seaside, all places she had been to in her real life. Bernard learned
about her pet dog, Spot, who now lived with her brother. He learned about her
best friend, Lily. He learned about how Mabel volunteered at an after school
reading program. But all the written descriptions of Mabel didn’t help Bernard
the way he had hoped.
Bernard hoped that when he learned about Mabel, he could be sure she really had lived once. He wanted to feel her presence in his bones. Instead, reading about her best friend and her dog felt like reading about a book character. Her paintings were the only thing he truly connected with. Looking at her depictions of the sea crashing on the rocky shore or a forest of tall trees made Mabel feel like a real tangible person, but only fleetingly. So to Bernard, the mystery was no longer ‘who killed Mabel,’ but rather ‘who was Mabel.’ He decided the only way to find out was by traveling to the places she had painted. Although Bernard was not artistic, he decided to bring paints with him so he could try to see the world in a different way.
Bernard felt his
quest was especially fortuitous, as if some higher force was smiling down at
him in kind encouragement. Mabel had lived in the same part of California that
his daughter currently lived in. He had not seen Sheila in several years, and
he now had a granddaughter to visit. He packed his car with a suitcase and his
two crows. The crooning crows perched on the head rest beside the drivers seat.
Bernard headed toward California.
His daughter sounded
tired when he called to tell her of his visit. Bernard remembered when Tilda
was a new mother. The exhaustion had worn her down. She was dazed with fluctuation
of weariness and joy.
“Dad,” Sheila said
on the phone, “I’m really too busy with the baby for visitors.”
It wasn’t all she
said. She thought it was weird and unhealthy, ‘his fixation’ as Sheila referred
to it. But Bernard knew it was the right thing for him to do. He had a
reservation for a motel near both Sheila’s house and the woods Mabel use to
explore with pen and paper.
On the drive,
Bernard sung along to old rock classics on the radio. Sometimes, his crows
cawed from someplace in the car. He stopped at a gas station and bought himself
coffee and a pack of peanut butter cookies for his crows. The flat desert began
to morph. The landscape curved into hills, the straight roads arched and turned.
Bernard looked in his rear view window at the last bits of landscape that could
actually be called desert.
People who are not
from the desert don’t know what it is like to leave it. It is hard to leave a
place so obviously lonely and stoically proud of its desolation for somewhere
else, crowded with friendliness but still lonely.
While driving,
Bernard thought of the strangeness of Sheila and Mabel had living in the same
town. Maybe they had even passed each other on the street, made eye contact and
nodded a ‘hello.’ The town was a small coastal town, nestled in the redwood
trees. Bernard could understand why Mabel would want to live there. Everywhere
he looked, there was scenery of nature that must have inspired the amateur
landscape painter. But Sheila, who moved here because of her husband’s job, was
not the outdoorsy type. Sheila liked contained and comfortable places.
Bernard arrived at
his motel shortly before dinner. He made plans to meet up with Sheila and her
family for dinner at the restaurant near the motel.
“Hi Dad,” Sheila
said when she arrived late to the restaurant. Her curly hair was forced
straight and shimmered like a blond stream parting her back. In her arms, she
held Bernard’s grandchild. The little girl was pudgy and rosy cheeked. Her
little hand was in her mouth and she sat gnawing with her toothless gums at the
fingers. Her husband, Alan, stood next to her. Alan had been handsome as a
younger man, but now he was ordinary. His belly expanded outward, his eyes were
heavy and tired. Though, there was still something mischievous in the eyes.
Sheila and Alan
sat down in the booth across from Bernard with the baby in a high seat at the
end of the table. Bernard marveled at his granddaughter, her tiny hands, her round
face.
“She looks like you
did when you were a baby.” Bernard said, in between bites of bread stick.
“She’s got Alan’s
eyes though.” Sheila said.
They were quiet for
a moment. Sheila gazed at her daughter. Alan took a large bite of pasta.
Bernard could hear the background murmur of other families talking. He could
hear the sound of people chewing near him. He thought it sounded like a great
beast, the murmur the beasts breath, the chewing the sound of the beast
anticipating his next meal.
“So Bernard,” Alan
interrupted the silence. “How are your birds?”
“Oh, I only have a
few crows now.” Bernard said. He couldn’t talk more about his birds now. He
couldn’t talk about his still skinny crows, hopping or swooping around him,
cawing but trying to say something coherent. Or how he had dreams of the
sparrows and the peacocks at night, just bones, with feathers attached here and
there. They rattled and rasped and leaved trails of withered feathers behind
them. Bernard instead started to tell an anecdote about a man he met in prison
named Blinky-Blue. But Sheila interrupted, trying to sway the conversation away
from prison talk.
“The baby, her
first word was mama, just like me.” She said over Bernard’s description of a
bizarre tattoo on Blinky-Blues forearm.
“Your first word
was mama, wasn’t it? I remember how proud Tilda was. She was so happy to hear
your little voice call to her.”
“Dad, you know this
is weird, right?”
“What’s that,
Sheila?”
“This mission you
are on to find out more about Mabel. You are free, you should let it go.”
Bernard sighed. “Maybe I should, but I can’t.”
“Are you trying to
find the person to seek revenge since you had to spend a year in jail for a
different crime?” Alan asked.
“No.” Bernard said but his cheeks flushed red at the
question.
“Are you trying to find out who the murderer was to clear
your name? Because you know, those people in your town will never be convinced
of your innocence. They will always think it was you now, even if they find
video of someone else doing it.”
Bernard’s cheeks flushed even redder. He thought of his
abandoned birds. “No. Mabel and I are connected now. I owe it to her. I found
her, she was in my aviary.”
“But Dad-,” Sheila started to protest.
“Did you catch the football game last night?” Alan
interrupted. This time it was his turn to have red cheeks. Neither Alan nor
Bernard liked football much. But it was the first thing he could think of.
Bernard was grateful
for the change of topic. “No, but I heard it was an exciting game.”
For the rest of the dinner, Sheila seemed sullen as she
stared out the window. Alan and Bernard talked about things neither were very
interested in- more sports, the expense of plane travel, and who they thought
would be the next president.
That night while
Bernard tried to fall asleep in the squeaky motel bed, he worried about Sheila.
He wondered how things would be different if Tilda was still alive. Sheila had
sunk into a sullen moodiness at the age that many kids do, but she had never
quite come out of it. It didn’t take much for her to withdraw, to fold her arms
across her chest and to stare off into space.
The next day,
Bernard drove to a forest where Mabel had painted several pictures of trees.
Bernard walked into the forest admiring the trees. The tree trunks were rough
and full of cracks and crevices, but soft paddings of moss skirted on the
bottom of the trees. Everything was beautiful in the woods, the curling ferns,
the shimmering slugs that inched across the trail, the sorrel with their heart
shaped leaves. He inhaled deeply and smelled the moist earth, the pine and the
decaying leaves. Bernard found a particularly beautiful tree. He sat down in
front of it and brought out his sketch book. He tried to draw the tree, but
soon he was distracted by a bird humming on one of the tree branches. Without
even meaning to, he drew the bird instead of the tree. The bird on his page
looked nothing like the bird in the tree, but he liked it anyway. He was proud
of his drawing, his odd bird with disproportionate features and a strange look
in its eyes. As she walked further into the woods, he drew more birds until he
had a stack of funny birds tucked under his arm. Back at the motel that night,
with the buzz of an old sitcom on the tv warming the room, he painted the birds
with watercolors, making them more fantastical then before.
Bernard continued following in Mabel’s footsteps and the next day Bernard went to a beach that Mabel use to paint at. Again he drew the birds. Seagulls with beaks twice the size of their heads, ospreys with tiny wings the shape of a baby’s cradle, sand pipers with legs like sky scrapers. When he returned to his room again, he taped his paintings onto the wall alongside printouts of Mabel’s work that he had brought with him.
Bernard continued following in Mabel’s footsteps and the next day Bernard went to a beach that Mabel use to paint at. Again he drew the birds. Seagulls with beaks twice the size of their heads, ospreys with tiny wings the shape of a baby’s cradle, sand pipers with legs like sky scrapers. When he returned to his room again, he taped his paintings onto the wall alongside printouts of Mabel’s work that he had brought with him.
He called Sheila
earlier in the day to set up another time to meet. He told her about the birds.
Sheila said, “Dad, you are not going to solve the mystery of Mabel by painting
birds.” She said it in a callous tone. Bernard thought she must have forgotten
that Mabel was once a real person.
She was right though, Bernard would not solve the mystery of
Mabel. Although maybe he almost would.
Before falling
asleep, he had been thinking about his old birds, but he had been dreaming
about the sun when he woke up. Something had woken him up, the sound of
birdsong. His crows sat above him on the head board of the bed. They were
silent and looking toward the paintings on the wall. Bernard looked too. The
murky glow from the streetlamps were streaming into the room, illuminating the
wall with a glow. He saw that the birds in his paintings were moving. They were
dancing and flapping their wings. The birdsong he heard were the birds in his
paintings. Soon, the birdsong turned to voices. Bernard could make out actual
words. “Bernard, Bernard,” they said, “Look in the basement, look in the attic.
Under the floor boards where the bird bones rest.” Bernard shuddered, but he
was compelled by his curiosity and disbelief. He got out of bed to have a
closer inspection of the birds. “Look in the basement, look in the attic.” They
hummed as Bernard stood right in front of them, examining them. He blew on the
pages. The pages rustled along with the birds feathers. “Under the floorboard,”
they said, “Where the bird bones rest.”
“It
wasn’t a dream.” Bernard thought with certainty when he awoke the next morning,
even though now the painted birds were still and silent. He didn’t know of any
basements or attics to look into. He didn’t know if the birds were giving him
clues or just singing an ancient bird song that he never before could
understand the meaning of. But he didn’t want to look anywhere. He thought that
maybe he didn’t want to know. He thought maybe it would be better to just let
Mabel always be the beautiful girl found dead in his aviary. The young woman
who painted pictures of the sea and pictures of trees. A mystery that would
never be solved.
Bernard
tried to not think about the talking birds later in the evening when at his
daughters house for a barbeque. It would probably be one of the last truly nice
days of summer. When he got to the house, Sheila was in the back of the house
with the baby.
“She’ll be here in a moment. She
is nursing the baby.” Alan said.
Bernard
and Alan sat outside on lawn chairs. “Have you found anything out about Mabel?”
Alan asked.
“No.”
Bernard said, not wanting to tell Alan anything about the bird paintings.
“I hope
you find something out.” Alan said, “I never told you this and I really don’t
know if I should now, but I met her once.”
“You
knew Mabel?” Bernard asked.
“I
didn’t know her. I went to the dentist office she worked at. I talked to her
once. Not about anything important. Just the sunny day. But I remember her
though. She seemed nice.” Alan said.
“It
wasn’t me, you know. I wouldn’t. I mean I couldn’t do anything like that.”
Bernard said.
“I know
Bernard. I never thought it was.”
Bernard
wished he felt relieved by Alan’s faith.
They
heard the shuffle of Sheila coming down the hall. When she emerged into the
kitchen where the two men stood in silence, she stared at them
suspiciously. But then the baby in her
arms started to ramble incoherent baby wisdom and Sheila smiled down at her
baby’s soft head.
On the
back patio they played cards while drinking lemonade or gin and tonics. Bernard
looked at his daughter from across the card table and wondered something he had
wondered many times before. He wondered if Sheila knew that he wasn’t her
biological father. He had met Tilda when Sheila was already inside her. Just a
bunch of cells the size of a peanut. And by the time Sheila was the size of a
grapefruit, he already loved her. Both of the hers: Sheila and Tilda. And when Sheila
was a watermelon in his new wife’s stomach, he would press his hand against the
spot she liked to kick to feel the little thump-thump of her developing feet.
And finally Sheila was in his arms, a little person. His little person.
But as she grew, she sometimes
didn’t seem like his little person at all, but like a little stranger. Her
narrow eyes weren’t like his or Tilda’s. Her blond hair cascaded down her back
like a cloak from another tribe. Someone else’s face was hiding in Sheila’s features,
and sometimes it scared him.
But
then she would do something that was ‘him’. She would use an expression of his.
She would profess the same enthusiasm for peanut butter and sliced strawberry sandwiches.
And Bernard would know that it didn’t matter. That everyone’s child seemed like
a stranger sometimes, but Sheila was his daughter.
But what
Bernard didn’t know was that it was a different secret Sheila knew. A secret
that made Bernard seem like a stranger to her. When Sheila was fourteen, she
had seen her father once with another woman.
Sheila and her
mother had been at the ice cream parlor, waiting in line when they saw Bernard
with the woman. They noticed the woman first. Her hand was on Bernard’s back.
She had a ring on every finger, but on her left ring finger was the largest
ring, a red ruby that looked familiar to Sheila. The man turned to look at the
woman. They saw the man’s face. It was Bernard.
Just as
Bernard was leaning in toward the woman’s face, Tilda grasped Sheila’s hand and
hustled her out of the shop.
So when
Bernard worried that Sheila was lost to him, part of her had been lost. She
didn’t trust her father any more.
It was the worst thing Bernard
had ever done in his life, to cheat on is wife. He still loved his wife while
he was cheating. But the worst part for Bernard was that he loved the other woman, Clara too.
Years later, he still wondered about her, still lusted for her and still missed
her. But still, he loved Tilda more.
Sheila never found out what her
mother thought of the betrayal. Her mom had stayed with him, so that was answer
enough. Her mother had forgiven him. But Sheila never fully could. Not for her
sake or her mothers. She couldn’t understand why her mother was so willing to
pretend the whole thing had never happened.
Now his
Sheila was a grown woman full of her own secrets, Bernard thought. He looked at
his daughter from across the card table.
“You
are a lot like your mother now.” Bernard said to her.
“I am
nothing like her.” Sheila said.
He was
going to argue, to tell her that they were similar in so many different ways.
But he was tired and he could tell Sheila was too.
“I
should go, sweetheart.” Bernard said.
“I’ll
walk you out.” Alan said.
“Bye
Dad.” Sheila said, and watched her father walk away. After he closed the screen
door behind him, she sighed and stared up at the sky where she saw the stars
faintly glittering, millions of light years away.
The screen door clattered when they
opened it to go back inside. Bernard grabbed his jacket, his keys and a plate
of leftovers with plastic wrap covering it. The baby was somewhere in the back
room sleeping.
“See
you soon, Bernard.” Alan said. His eyes were bloodshot with limp bags
underneath.
Bernard
mumbled a reply. As he walked along the kitchen floor, his shoes squeaked and
sounded like birds chirping.
It used
to be that Mabel only visited Sheila in her dreams. But one day during dinner,
Sheila felt something brush against her ankle. When she lifted the table cloth
and peered underneath, there was Mabel’s ghost. She had her legs bent, her arms
wrapped around them and her chin resting on her bare knees. Mabel’s back was
resting against Alan’s legs, but Alan didn’t seem to notice. He had been eating
dinner as usual. Spaghetti sauce splashing against his face, a noodle or two
dangling from his mouth before he slurped it up.
When
Mabel noticed Sheila staring at her, she placed her finger in front of her
mouth. “Shhhh.” She ordered.
Sheila
screamed.
“What’s
wrong?!” Alan said, and put his head under the table to see. But Mabel was
gone.
“I
thought I saw a spider. It’s gone now.”
But
Mabel wasn’t gone.
Later that night, Sheila woke up
and felt something cold pressing against her back. She thought it was Alan
until she turned over and found herself staring directly into Mabel’s ghostly
eyes. Mabel’s head was resting in the crook of Alan’s arm.
“Mine.”
Mabel said. “MineMineMineMine.”
“Go
away.” Sheila said and held her breath in hopes it would stifle the hum
building in her chest.
But
Mabel shook her head and flopped her arm across Alan’s chest. She burrowed her
face into his side.
“Go
away.” Mabel said, repeating Sheila’s words.
Sheila
ran to the window and opened it. The cloth curtains swayed and the sound of
buzzing wires and street lights came into the room. Sheila grabbed a newspaper
from Alan’s night stand and shooed it at Mabel, as if she were trying to get a
bee out of the room. Instead of flying
out of the room, Mabel began to disperse like smoke until she was only empty
air.
After
the barbeque, Bernard went back to his motel room and lay down in his squeaky
bed. The crows had made a nest on top the lamp out of scraps of motel
stationary and pieces of sheet they had ripped with their beaks. While Bernard
tried to fall asleep, he thought of all the women he had loved. Not just Tilda
and Clara, but Sheila and his own mother and his first girlfriend. He had loved
many people in his life, but he was alone now.
Bernard
woke up in the middle of the night. He heard the same flutter of feathers from
his paintings. The birds were flapping their wings and flying around the pages.
Sometimes they flew slightly outside the page, a tip of a foot hanging slightly
outside the picture or the edge of a wing brushing against the motel wall.
“Bernard.” They said, “Was it you, was it you? Was it you, Bernard?”
“No.
No!” Bernard said. “It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me.”
One of
Bernard’s crows cawed from some dark corner and Bernard rested his face in his
palms and sobbed into the calloused flesh.”
At the
same time, Sheila woke up because she thought she heard her baby crying. But
when she pulled herself fully out of sleep, the house was silent. Alan was
still asleep beside her. His mouth slightly open, one arm reaching toward her,
the other anchored on his chest. Despite it all, she felt a surge of love for
Alan.
Sheila
got up to check on the baby anyway. Her baby lay peacefully in her crib, dreaming
of colors. Sheila leaned down and whispered “Things will be better for you, I
promise you that, little one.”
Sheila’s
baby opened her eyes. They didn’t flutter open gently and slowly, like a baby
awoken from sleep. They opened quickly and in a flash. But Sheila was not
looking into her babies eyes, she was looking into Mabel’s eyes. Her babies
face was changing too. It was morphing, the plump red cheeks hollowing and
draining of color, the little nose elongating. The face that stared up at
Sheila’s was not that of her babies anymore. It was Mabel’s face. “Mine.” Mabel
said. “Mine, Mine, Mine, Mine.”
Sheila realized then that it was
true. Her daughter would grow up to be exactly like Mabel. Sheila realized that she would
never be able to protect anyone, not even her own daughter.
When
Mabel was little, she was the type of kid who took home stray animals. Once she
found a blackbird mauled by a cat. The bird was lying in the middle of the
sidewalk, washed out chalk pictures of heart and smiley faces surrounding it.
He was on his side, his body limp and crooked, but his little yellow eye
blinked. When Mabel got close, he tried to flee. His wings jittered
frantically, his yellow eye orbited around, searching for an escape. Mabel knelt
down. She scooped the bird up in her hand. With her index finger, she lightly
pet the top of his head. She cooed “it’ll be okay.”
Mabel
brought the bird home and nursed it back to health. Once the bird was healed,
she set him free even though she wanted to keep the bird as her little pet. But
for years afterward the bird would visit her. She would be outside reading or
drawing and the bird would land on her shoulder. She always had birdseed in her
pocket that she kept for her bird friend.
One
summer evening, Mabel woke up one the middle of the night and saw the blackbird
sitting on her bed’s footboard. The bird stared down at her with his yellow
eyes. She felt a shiver of dread convulse her body. The little bird looked
sinister in the dark. His eyes looked angry, like coal glowing in a fire.
“Get
out.” Mabel said, the sleep still congealing in her throat. “Get out, get out!”
The
blackbird still stared at her. The bird remained motionless. He did not even
flinch at the sound of her words. It seemed as if he wasn’t even breathing. Mabel
picked up a pillow and threw it at the bird. The bird flew away, out the open
window. Mabel felt relief surge through her. She never saw the bird again.
Years
later, when she was an adult, she would forget about the night she found the
bird in her room. She would only remember that when she was a kid, she saved a
blackbird. She remembered that the bird would sometimes visit her in the
garden, but then it mysteriously stopped visiting her. “Maybe it died,” she
thought, “Or maybe it flew off to some other part of the world.”
A week
before Mabel died, she went to the beach with her best friend Lily. They walked
along the shore, picking up shells occasionally, and kicking the sand with
their bare feet.
“The
first time I ever saw the ocean, I was with my grandma. It was an amazing sight
after all those years of just seeing Missouri. Mabel said.
“I
can’t remember ever not seeing the ocean.” Lily said.
“When
I’m here, I feel like everything is going to be all right.”
“Everything
is going to be all right.” Lily said and put her arm around her friend. Mabel learned
her head briefly on Lily’s shoulder.
“Someday,
when we are very old, let’s move to France, adopt twenty cats and become
eccentric old bohemians together.”
“Okay,”
Lily said and laughed, “France, 2060, see you there.”
“See
you there.” Mabel replied.
Above
them, seagulls swooped and squawked. Behind them, the sound of footsteps
shuffling through the sand.