Crows (11 page)

Robert drove for a mile without saying a word. They came to a small town of odd one-­way streets that required his concentration to get through. His silence ran on, filling the warm air in the car. Robert needed Ben there to tell the story; Ben had all the answers. He had none of Robert's doubts that a skeptic could pick at. Robert could hear Ben's voice as he grew excited telling the tale. In telling the story of the crow trial Ben had said the crime was murder.

“Finish the story,” Duke said. Buzz shifted in his seat, but he did not protest.

“In fact,” Robert said, “crows have a very structured moral sense. They have conscience, guilt, love, devotion, dishonor. A very advanced moral code.”

“Dad told you this?”

“Yes,” Robert said.

Buzz asked softly, “Why didn't he ever tell us?”

“Maybe he wanted you to get a little older,” Robert said; but he had often wondered the same thing. Why hold these stories from his family?

“What was the crime?” Buzz asked.

“The crow was on trial for murder.”

“What bullshit,” Buzzard murmured; but his head was turned away, frozen in attention.

“This is the story your father told me,” Robert said. This final stamp placed upon what he had to say, Robert continued without interruption into a rapt and sorrowful silence.

“The crow was charged with the murder of another crow. The trial was held in a clearing in the woods. Crows came from miles around to take part. One hundred thousand crows, give or take. They formed a loose, chattering circle around the accused, who had a small circle of clear ground to himself within the larger circle. In the center of this small circle was a tree stump and the accused crow stood atop it. He didn't try to fly away. That would be useless. Among crows there is a very strong code of honor. Crows aren't supposed to cheat other crows. They share food. They watch for danger and pass the word. This crow, if he tried to fly away, would be admitting his guilt. It would be hard to outfly one hundred thousand crows.

“Now the trial began. A case was made against the crow. Some crows were present to testify. The rest were there to listen and watch. They would also judge. Crows know they are smart, and they don't think any one crow is smarter than any other crow” (here Robert thought of the Smarter Crow, who had discovered forgetful sleep, but chose to keep the tale simple) “so crows have no judges, no presidents, no one to govern their lives. They would pass judgment as a group.

“The story told about the crow on trial was basically this: He loved another crow's mate and killed that crow so he could have her. A simple story, not uncommon. He was a large, strong bird, handsome even by crow standards, who consider themselves the most beautiful birds in existence. This crow had no trouble attracting female crows. But he wanted the female who belonged to another crow. He told his friends how badly he wanted this female. His friends testified against him at the trial. They told how they saw the accused chasing the other crow relentlessly, picking at his eyes in mid-­air, beating at his wings, the two of them flying far away until even the other crows could not see them. And finally—­only the accused returned.

“Witnesses said he took up immediately with the female crow he loved. She loved the missing crow, but little by little she forgot about him. Little by little she fell in love with the crow on trial for murder. The accused told her the other crow had run away.

“Word spread about this crow. In time he was approached and ordered to stand trial for murder. If he refused, he would simply be shut out of the society of crows everywhere.

“At the trial, when it was his turn to speak, he proclaimed that he was not a murderer. He was frightened because the crows who had testified against him had been very convincing and believable. He admitted that he did indeed love the female crow, but he had not murdered her mate. He had only chased the other crow across four states until, exhausted and frightened, he agreed to stay away if only the accused would leave him in peace. He was alive somewhere, living among other crows.

“And that was the end of the trial. It remained for the crows assembled to judge the crow's guilt or innocence. It took only a moment. What convicted the accused was his assertion that a crow would actually stay away from a loved one out of fear of another crow. This was unthinkable.

“Then like a thunderhead one hundred thousand crows descended on the accused and killed him. With that done, the crows flew away. Soon all who were left in the clearing were the female crow, the witnesses, and the dead crow. His eyes had been picked out so that if he came back as a crow he would be blind.

“But high up in the trees was one more crow. He had been there all along, just watching. He flew down and landed and asked what had happened to his enemy. The female crow began to cry. The witness crows were happy to see him, but they were shaken by the wrong that had been committed. A crow had been executed for murder—­and now the crow he was supposed to have murdered had returned. This crow kept silent while it was explained to him the terrible injustice that had taken place. He said he had been so exhausted after being chased by the crow that he had fallen asleep and forgotten where his home was. It had taken him this long to piece his past together and make it back. Then he flew away with the woman.”

They crossed the line back into Mozart. He swung by his parents' store and it was closed; bust mannequins in T-­shirts stared out the window at him. He picked up Oblong Lake and followed it around, past the Good-­Ee Freez, past summer cottages shut for the winter. They would be dark and cold inside, with dampness starting to settle, and insect husks on the windowsills. It made Robert shiver. Up and down hills, through the trees close by the road, the darknesses spaced by streetlights, and at last into the driveway of Ben's house.

“What do you mean,” Buzz asked in a low voice, “he fell asleep and forgot where his home was?”

Robert turned off the engine. He thought Duke was asleep but in the mirror he saw his eyes eager for an answer to Buzzard's question.

“That's
another
crow story,” Robert said. “It's about something called forgetful sleep. And also about a crow called the Smarter Crow. I'll tell it to you some other time.”

“And Dad told you that one, too?” Duke asked, his voice raw with disbelief.

 

E
THEL BEGAN DRIVING
an extra half shift because her children were in school all day and the family needed the money. On her best days she made runs to Madison or Fond du Lac or even Milwaukee. She left for work in darkness and returned home in darkness. She began to look strange to Robert, Olive, and the boys. She was always tired; she had a cranky impatience with her children. Each night before going to bed at 8:30 she apologized for her crossness, her tiredness, and the turn their lives had taken.

Robert was sometimes still awake when her alarm sounded at 4:30 a.m. He would be reading downstairs and the burr from Ethel's room would startle him. The house dim and quiet, nothing moving outside, time stopped, then Ethel's alarm to remind him it had not stopped at all.

Ethel was quick to rise. The house's chilly rooms demanded it. She would glare at Robert from the kitchen as he looked at her across the top of his book; the idea of someone choosing to be awake at that hour was a source of infinite aggravation for her.

“What do you have planned for today?” she asked. “Besides sleeping?”

“There are leaves to rake,” Robert said.

“When will you begin looking for a job?”

“Soon.”

“You passed ‘soon' months ago—­
years
ago. I can't afford to have you living here with just an odd contribution now and then.” She walked out of his sight, deeper into the kitchen. He heard the coiling spring sound of the toaster. Steam rose off a coffeepot.

She reappeared. “What happened to you and Olive?”

He thought: it isn't cold enough, yet. When winter took hold of that leaky house, especially his fourth-­floor room, he and Olive would welcome each other into their arms, her bed.

“We're just friends,” Robert said.

“Why do you stay then?”

“Where have I to go? I like it here.”

She poured coffee, spilling some, burning her fingers. “I never liked you two sleeping together in my house,” she said. She kissed her burned fingers.

Robert lowered his book. The early days of sleeping with Olive had been times of imagined stealth; he could still hear the groaning boards of the floors and stairs as he traversed the dark space between his room and Olive's. They probably had fooled no one. There never had been an open admission of their affair.

“Why should I have to knock on my daughter's door to tell some man he has a phone call?” Ethel asked.

Robert laughed. “
That
never happened.”

“It did. Several times. Nobody calls you anymore—­because you've moved out of the mainstream of human interaction—­but it
did
happen in the past.”

“Forbid me to see O. I'll obey your order.”

“You wouldn't, if I did,” she said. “And she's old enough to make her own mistakes. I just warn her.”

“Of what?”

“Of biology.”

She sat in the kitchen eating her breakfast. Robert sat down across from her at the table, reading.

“Find a job, Robert,” she said, rising to rinse her plate. “I won't kick you out yet, but we need money and you're not in the family, so I won't stand for you sucking me dry.”

She left for work and he climbed the stairs to bed. When she returned home he was raking leaves by the back-­porch light.

“Did you look for work?” she asked, before going into the house.

“Yes,” he lied. He had spent the day reading and raking leaves. There were so many leaves the job was rewarding. The rake rolled up huge, loose waves of leaves. Most of their color was gone: gold to white, red to pink. A billion on the ground and another million on the trees waiting to fall. The hanging leaves had color, though not in that light. The colorless leaves on the ground had bulk and substance, and when removed they left behind a patch of clear ground: his reward. He had worked for three hours and filled seven large plastic garbage bags; they were taut green floats out at the curb. The leaves that remained glowed in the dark.

He worked for another hour after Ethel got home, until he felt his efforts made it safe for him to go inside. He put the rake and the empty bags in the garage. The back door opened. Ethel stepped out.

“Tell me about the trial of the crow,” she said.

Robert smiled but her look was frosted, skeptical; she might have caught him passing pornography to her sons.

“It's a story,” he said. “Unverifiably true.”

“It's nonsense. The boys said you told them Ben had told you that story.”

“He did.”

“Don't lie,” she said. “Ben would never come up with something so ridiculous.”

“It's true. He had a million of them. He was fond of crows, he believed in them. I think the reason we saw no crows when we went hunting was that Ben was watching over them and telling them to stay clear. He knew we were murderous.”

He could tell she believed none of this. She angrily pushed him in the chest, rocking him back; he was reminded of being kicked out of the tree. She went quickly inside and locked the door. He ran to the front of the house but she was ahead of him and threw the bolt and chain, glaring at him through the door glass.

“Hey!” Robert shouted. “It's what he believed.”

For an hour he circled the house. He rapped his knuckles on the doors and windows. He could not believe she had finally put him out, and over a crow story of her late husband's.

They began dinner without him. He could see a corner of the kitchen table and through this thin slice of vision passed hands bearing bowls of mashed potatoes, string beans, corn, a plate of pork chops layered as thick as sandwiches, a pitcher of tea, salad, bowls of chocolate ice cream. He watched this for nearly an hour and his stomach squeezed. What had he done all day that he should be hungry? The window fogged.

Didn't any of them miss him?

H
E WAITED ONE
more hour, then decided to go into town to look for something to eat. The Good-­Ee Freez was shut for the season, painted plywood sheets fastened over its glass face.

He followed the lake road downtown. He cut over to Booth Street, to his parents' shop, but they were closed. A light burned in a nook behind the counter; it was faint as the first hint of a car approaching over a hill, but he could see it by a selection of stencils on the wall behind (mostly rock group logos, giant red tongues, two eggs sunny-­side up that would be positioned over a girl's breasts, smile faces, the Brewers, and the Pack), stacks of blank colored shirts on the wall behind the counter, organized according to size. The T-­shirts on the mannequins in the window read:
BABY UNDER CONSTRUCTION
(with a downward pointing arrow);
I'M WITH STUPID
(with an arrow pointing to the right);
YOU CAN PUT PICKLES UP YOURSELF; WHY DIDN'T GOD MAKE ME RICH, INSTEAD OF GOOD-­LOOKING?
; and
I DON'T HAVE A DRINKING PROBLEM—­I DRINK, I FALL DOWN, NO PROBLEM!

Del Cobbler was in his eyeshade in his newspaper store. He sat on a stool, his legs drawn up like a jockey on a bad mount. He was working a crossword puzzle and chewing his nails.

“I'm closed, Rob,” he said.

“Your door wasn't locked.”

“An oversight. I'm awaiting a magazine delivery.”

“At this hour?”

Del pointed a moist finger. “Don't be a wise-­ass.”

Robert advanced into the store, fighting against Del's glare of disapproval. He reached the counter and leaned against it as though it were a raft.

“I'm really closed, Cigar.”

“You got anything to nibble on?”

“My fingernails? They've got my dinner under them! Now
scram.
”

“Give me a ­couple bags of beer nuts.” He put three quarters on the counter. Del swearing, angry at having to dismount, got the bags of nuts from their hook behind him.

“Take them,” he said. “Keep your money. You need it more than me. Beat it.”

The door to the shop opened. A bell Robert had not heard on his own arrival sounded. A woman came in. She was unaccustomed to the light, and held her hands above her eyes in mimicry of Del's green shade, which in the past moments had disappeared from his head.

The woman's name was Gloria Kissoot. She sold real estate only often enough to keep herself interested. Her husband worked at something in Madison. Their daughter was a pretty girl Robert's age, a little plump like her mother, and with her mother's air of something being just slightly askew in her life. Robert had dated her twice in high school, and the outings were so uneventful he could not recall her name.

“Hello, Robert,” the woman said, blushing at being caught in the store's papery light, all those yellowing athletes looking down upon her from the walls.

“Hello, Mrs. Kissoot. Del's closing, so I'll be on my way.”

She touched his hand as he tried to pass. “I saw your father today at the Optimists' luncheon,” she said. “He gave the funniest talk.”

“Yeah?” Robert stopped, intrigued. “About what?”

“It was supposed to be about fund raising and membership drives. But it got around to what it's like doing business in Mozart. Then life in general. He's just so
smart
about life's ups and downs,” she said. “He has such a good head on him. I don't think anything bothers him. If only he and your mom weren't locked into such a poor location. Your father'd make a killing, given a fair chance.”

“Nobody's keeping them there,” Robert said.

“Sandy asks about you all the time,” the woman continued, her voice dipped in a false sparkle. “She works in the Sears Tower in Chicago—­the tallest building in the world?—­and her office is three floors underground! Isn't that depressing?”

Sandy. Robert remembered their one kiss at the end of their second date: it had been a very dry kiss, without a future. He wondered if Sandy felt the weight of that building's glowering height pressing down on her, like a boss looking over her shoulder. “Say hi to her,” Robert said, turning sideways to edge past.

“I will. I'll tell her we talked.”

Del Cobbler locked the door behind Robert. He had left the beer nuts and his quarters on the counter.

He went on to the college. He followed the dark walkway through Rapist's Woods, the mock-­moon lamp at the center of the cluster of trees cutting shadows and frightfulness into something that did not deserve them. He emerged by the sciences building. The ground-­floor exterior wall was constructed of tinted Plexiglas that looked in on a long hallway running the length of the building. Students sat on couches studying in this hallway, whose high ceiling caught footsteps off the tile floor and doubled them back. The students smoked and tapped their ashes into imitation brass urns filled with white sand. The glass wall was tinted blue.

Robert tried the door. Like a jeweled vault it swung open. Puffs of heated air kissed the cold spots of skin beneath his eyes. One or two students glanced at him, but said nothing. He fit in. Opposite the glass wall were the classrooms, the sweeping amphitheaters where Ben had taught Robert biology, where Robert had first seen Olive. The classrooms were like small arenas, seats fanning back from the front lectern, from the teacher, and beyond the teacher that inner warren of tunnels and stairs Ben had revealed to Robert.

Robert went down the hall listening to the night classes. He climbed the stairs to the third floor. He had not been up there since Ben disappeared. There had been a rumored dispute over what to do with Ben's papers and hordes of biological minutiae and jars of specimens. Being in the sciences, his colleagues had had trouble with the indeterminacy of his death. Should they give up his office? Who would care for the living creatures he had collected? Two years after Ben vanished in Oblong Lake, the teachers who taught his classes were still officially classified as substitutes.

Ben's office door was closed, but a light burned through the strip of opaque glass set like a perfectly straight and rippling stream in it. Robert knocked.

As the door swung open he experienced an instant of anticipation, nearly of panic: perhaps Ben had been hiding out there the past two years, free to do as he pleased among his treasured biology, presumed, as he was, dead.

But it was a sleepy-­eyed woman who greeted Robert. She stood leaning to one side in the doorway with a sweater over her shoulders and a red pen in one hand. With this hand she brushed her hair back off her forehead.

Robert knew her. She had shared the office with Ben in those days Robert had visited.

“Yes?” she said. The light at her back shadowed her face.

“I'm a friend of Professor Ladysmith's.”

The woman blinked, but nothing more; she stepped back and aside and motioned with the red pen for Robert to enter. She was grading tests; her fingers were slashed with red ink, like nicks, and she took her seat and faced him with knees held primly together.

She had kept the same desk. She had not expanded the space she had occupied when Ben shared the little room. Ben's desk was buried beneath castellated papers, potted plants, texts, an ant farm, a stuffed ferret, charts explaining photosynthesis, the dark reactions, and, with its wing now repaired, the skeleton of
Corvus brachyrhynchos.

“You have a leaf in your beard,” she said. She reached and plucked a perfectly formed birch leaf from his face. It slipped from her hand and he caught it a half foot off the floor.

“I recognize some of his things,” Robert said.

She said, “Yes, he was a popular man and . . . without a body I think some of us harbored a faint hope he might return to claim these things. So I—­we . . . have been slow to remove his possessions. The living creatures were divided among the rest of the faculty to be cared for—­or killed, as the case may be. Many didn't share Ben's passion for living things. Rumor has it the jar of cockroaches was emptied in the home of the department head. A rumor, I'm sure,” she said, smiling for the first time, “but one can hope.”