Shelia continues drying the rim of her eye socket. She coughs and sneezes into the napkin.
“Sorry again about the air. All that stuff back there actually has a lot to do with these things I believe. I’ve seen a lot of what’s left when people die. I’ve seen recliners with human-shaped stains, TV’s still on, dogs waiting by where the feet should be. After that smell these chemicals back there don’t bother me much.” William returns the mirror to himself. “I’ve cleaned blood from cars and trees and the road. I’ve seen animals just chowing down. They get hungry if they’ve lived on the streets long enough. I saw a wall covered in sixty-seven bullet holes once—in the shape of a person, I swear to God. I’ve seen blood in churches, and supermarkets, in basements—” then a shout. A man appears at the corner of the windshield, thumps the hood of the car and yells muffled words filtered by his full beard. William slams on the brakes, instinctively reaching out in front of Shelia. He catches his excitement for a moment. “Sorry,” he says. “Goddamn homeless run this town.”
Shelia balls the napkin in her palm and passes the sweaty, hot mess to William who tosses it out the window. Shelia’s chest grows with a deep breath and shrinks slowly. “Mrs. Rose sounds nice,” she says. Her voice comes young and smooth.
“She is, very nice. She’s the principal at Harold Straton Elementary. Been doing it awhile. She knows a lot about children. She helps out with adoptions part-time.”
“It’ll be nice to see her,” she says and turns away to the passenger window. The glass fogs under hot breath, something so hidden about her. Beyond the breath, fields stretch out against the still gray sky. Everything passes, but slowly.
Mrs. Rose is feeding pigeons when they arrive at her house. Her gravel driveway seems to stretch for miles, and for its entire duration, William keeps one eye cornered to Shelia, waiting for a sudden attack, a grand finale jump from the van window. Bashing her face into gravel.
A final attempt
, Mrs. Rose calls it— doing whatever it takes to clear regret.
But she just bobs to the dips in the road until stopped at Mrs. Rose’s door. When coaxed she stays stiff, defiant. He assures her that Mrs. Rose can’t wait to meet her, but Shelia doesn’t move. “Wait here, then,” he says, leaving the door open.
“I want you to meet someone,” he yells to Mrs. Rose. Her pigeons’ screams outweigh William’s voice. “Been doing a little gardening?”
She places a bird into its cage and dusts off her hands. She carries more dirt than usual, hands a deep brown and black under her fingernails. “I love to see things grow,” she says and wipes her hands on faded jeans. “I told the school I was sick. Truth is this problem of yours seemed a bit more important than my administrative duties.”
William turns to the van. “She’s nervous,” he says. “Couldn’t get her out.”
“She has every reason to be, doesn’t she?”
They walk together to the van, feet sinking gently into the damp dirt below them. Each footprint seems a grave plot for small a creature.
“You are going to like this girl,” he says. “She’s been a bit loopy since the hospital, but it’s wearing off.”
“Hospital?” Mrs. Rose says.
William reaches into the van, over Shelia’s lap, and pulls the newspaper from the center of the seat. He slams the door and tosses the paper to Mrs. Rose. She glances through a few pages, asks what it is she is looking for.
“Page D2,” he says. “A small brief in bold. The one about the abandoned house and the body.”
With Shelia trapped in the van and Mrs. Rose occupied by the newspaper, William takes a detour to one of Mrs. Rose’s many pigeon cages. These birds exist without a clue as to their role. He smiles and puts a finger between the thin rungs. A pigeon snaps, misses. William smacks the top of the cage hard enough to force the entire flock into a struggle for balance atop their perches. “Fucking birds,” he says to himself.
Mrs. Rose offers a stern stare, a warning it would seem to those unaware of her and William’s unusual history, but between them, animosity is always superficial. “Bring her inside,” she says and tucks the newspaper under her arm.
She waits at the door for Shelia, helps her inside the house, and for that small moment when Mrs. Rose and William stand alone she leans into him and says, grinning, “You’ve been shooting my birds again.” He struggles to deny the fact, but she interrupts: “Messenger pigeons aren’t free, you know. I keep a pretty strict inventory.”
She was a tall woman when they first met in the clearing, though crooked with age, and over the months gravity seems to have strengthened. The burdens of both her growing years and her intimate care for the pigeons have pulled her closer to the ground. Lifting cages. Lifting feedbags. She’s constantly massaging her wrist, but never complaining of all the writing she does, those messages she sends out into the world.
“I wouldn’t kill…” William begins, but he stops. He looks down to his wrapped hand and hopes that Mrs. Rose will overlook it fearing a story made up on the spot might fall flat under her scrutiny. He understands that their developed friendship is reason not to kill the birds anymore, but he justifies this pleasure by telling himself,
she’s never told me to stop
. She’s never threatened him. She has only pressed with knowing smiles. He takes her lack of confrontation as simple compassion, a mutual understanding of the pleasure that comes with domination. A hunter and a school principal sharing more than genomes. He could take a higher road and dismiss the thrill of the kill, but he doesn’t. He continues because nothing else feels like a perfect shot.
“And you’ve got blood on you.” She points to a small stain at his hip.
He glances down, careful not to concern himself too much. “Not your birds’,” he says with pride and nods toward the kitchen where Shelia stands admiring the photos along the wall. “It’s her boyfriend’s blood.”
After Mrs. Rose, the connections on William’s wall came easier, though still never completely. Her being the leader of the pigeon ring allowed a tangible reference from which to assign strings. Subject matter, similar handwriting, and paper type can only stretch so far. And his color coding system—blue thread connecting messages about diseases, red thread for a sender who calls himself The Mourner, green for the growing group of funeral notes—it helps to keep things organized, but organization is only part of the wall. He must read motivation behind the words. Since meeting Mrs. Rose, he thinks about the people she might know and the conversations she might have.
Why would a message be sent discussing, in detail, the sender’s concern of physical discipline as a viable means of development?
As an
elementary school principal, Mrs. Rose believes that children require a certain degree of motivation and guidance. With this understanding, the message shifts on William’s wall from his “Battered Children” group to the more poignant yet more esoteric “Growth” group.
William steps into her home and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Rose already has her hand to Shelia’s shoulder. Her house is quaint. Candles with wicks still coated in wax sit atop a layered doily tier on the kitchen table; the chairs lacquered thick; the floor looks rough enough to splinter; and family portraits are stuck firm to every wall like the world was built around them. And the notion feels entirely possible. Mrs. Rose has a way of making the world seem pliable.
Why would a man who signs his name with only a curly “C” want people to know about his emotional trauma?
Mrs. Rose volunteers part time as a counselor at a small office in Alexandria, guiding parents through the emotionally dense process of adoption. She believes that context develops a child, that a parent must truly want the responsibility if the child is to reach its full potential. So, the once ambiguous message becomes clear.
The early afternoon has aged into a later, darker day. William steps into Mrs. Rose’s kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. He suffered sporadic sleep the night before, it teased at best, and this coffee, though weak, is enough to keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t miss a moment of Mrs. Rose. She provides motivation that he has trouble developing and maintaining on his own. She sympathizes with his unwanted child predicament and has promised to help in any way she can.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Rose whispers into Shelia’s ear. Their eyes drip. “What happened to you should never have happened.”
Outside, metal interrupts loud through an open kitchen window. The pigeons explode inside the cage, coughing stirred dust, growing vocal enough to drown the shared sobs. Mrs. Rose acknowledges the arrival with a small grin. “Maybe it’s time for some good news,” she says and releases Shelia from their embrace.
William sips his coffee. Mrs. Rose’s walls, covered in portraits, her ceiling painted the same blue as accents: toaster, microwave, refrigerator, even William’s own clothes blend at every sip to a single muddy hue as steam clouds his eyes. He wants to ask Mrs. Rose if she has any ideas, any final suggestions to convert Julie, to show her the odds against a healthy child caught between two conflicting parents, but anything she might suggest has likely already been said.
The pigeons throw themselves against the cage bars. Mrs. Rose suddenly curses, which usually means a cut deep enough to be wrapped. She jumps back into the house, shuffles to the sink with a firm grip on her thumb. Blood has pooled her palms and dots a trail from the door. “Bastards,” she says and smiles because somewhere, William knows, she is proud of their strength.
“Everything alright?” William asks.
She has her thumb in her mouth for a moment, bathing the cut with spit, then pulls it out, examines the wound, pride still floating in her grin. She glances to Shelia, who walks the walls slowly, taking in the portraits, then turns back to William and whispers: “has Julie come around yet?”
“No,” William returns and begins to elaborate, but Mrs. Rose is already sliding back toward Shelia. She gives her hand a final shake over the sink, and William watches pooled water cloud from clear to pink and the dirty dishes marbleize with the old woman’s blood.
“Keep at it,” she says.
William joins the two women at the wall of photos. He says to Mrs. Rose, all of their eyes to the portraits, “So can you help her? Shelia?”
Without an ounce of ceremony Mrs. Rose nods, says, “You go home. We will be fine. You have a fiancée to get to and a child to take care of.”
A child to take care of
. William rolls the words around his tongue, speaking them softly as the two women walk away, shoulder to shoulder. Upon their exit, the screen door slams, reviving the birds’ screams.
A child to take care of
. The clouds release pellets of rain. The metallic flavor of the water coats his tongue, and moisture fattens the gauze around his bitten hand. He remembers the message in his pocket, the one that spawned last night’s dream, and briefly considers running inside to ask Mrs. Rose about it. He feels the sentiment of thanks is one she would certainly appreciate, but he does not move. Instead, he climbs into his van, forgetting about the silent, dead version of Shelia he has come to know. The message he will save for another day.
Chapter Nine
The floor creaks to Julie’s step. She and William have known since conception that Julie’s size could contribute to a premature birth, speeding labor by days, possibly reducing the birth itself to little more than a lunch hour endeavor. Books told her this. Cashiers at supermarkets told her this. Strangers on sidewalks told her this. But even when it happens, sweat and nerves still dominate. Amid the hysteria, William steals a moment to note the change in the room; when Julie’s water breaks, the smell turns the air to vinegar and salt.
She limps into the kitchen from the nursery, the floorboards straining, holding a white sheet with a small spot of red in the center. She shoves the fabric in William’s face bracing her weight with legs spread just wider than her shoulders. William asks if bleeding is normal.
“It’s not mine,” she says. Her posture warns of the impending labor, knees buckled, her forehead wringing sweat. The suffocating air adopts the heat.
“Then I wouldn’t touch it,” he says.
“This is where that girl slept,” Julie says. “She’s done something, William.” Julie’s pants are dark in the crotch and growing darker.
“So she bled,” William says, searching both pockets for a lighter. “Girls do that.”
“Look closer.” She thrusts the cloth into William’s face. In the center, surrounded by radiating creases formed by the heat of Julie’s upset fist, the blood patch takes a unique shape against the creamy white fabric. The dulled red forms the print of a tiny foot. Brought close enough William sees toes as small as mosquito bites—parts of Shelia’s baby stamped into the cloth. He stuffs a spoonful of bitter cereal into his mouth, slurping the milk, and begins with the line, “Shelia isn’t Philip’s sister…” but Julie backs away. She leans against the kitchen counter and cradles her stomach with her hands.
“Contractions,” she says, her anger turned to pride.
William’s plan has always been that if labor comes before Julie’s conviction, call Mrs. Rose. He reaches for the phone. Julie groans and she sinks to the floor, sitting with her knees toward the ceiling. William turns to her, puts his finger to his lips, and calls—
“William…”
—and calls Mrs. Rose, speaking through breakfast cereal paste.
“You’ve got to do something,” he says.
Mrs. Rose immediately questions the background screams. William tells her —
“Put the phone down, William.”
“—It’s the baby. Julie’s going into labor.” He is as calm as Mrs. Rose has taught him to be.
“This should last for hours,” Mrs. Rose says. “Labor isn’t usually quick. We have time.”
“I hope,” William says. “She looks bad, though…” and Julie screams more, pulling a pot from the sink, throws it across the room. He exits the kitchen.
“I’ll be right over. Don’t move,” and she hangs up. Her voice stays. It moves through William’s head—
“…Fuck, Fuck…”
—like rehearsed instructions. He takes comfort in the words, extracting confidence.