Consider the Crows Read online

  2

  RAIN PATTERED SOFTLY at the kitchen window and Carena Egersund, at the round oak table, looked up from the calculus exams and watched wavery streaks trickle down through her reflection. She’d planned to get the exams finished up this evening: so far she’d managed a lot of coffee drinking and no exam grading. Her mind, with equal parts irritation and uneasiness kept jumping back over the ugly scene with the vice-chancellor. Dr. Kalazar had been furious with her, furious and threatening. Confine your interests to statistics and probability theory or you won’t teach at Emerson next year.

  So much for your new life, lady. She raised her cup in a toast and took a sip. Uck. Cold. She thought of her ex-husband and wondered how his new life was going. Well, Jerry, all you dreamed it would be? She raised the cup again. May the blue bird of happiness—or as my father would say, der blau vogel von gluck—fly up your nose.

  The doorbell rang and coffee sloshed over the exams. She glanced at the clock radio. Eight o’clock on Saturday night? Tossing down the pen, she stood, tugged the gray sweatshirt down over the sweatpants and flopped toward the door in her fuzzy slippers. On the way past, she switched on the lamps at either end of the couch, then the porch light.

  It shone down on a damp waif with a floppy hat, faded jeans and blue down jacket. “Hi, Dr. Egersund,” she said with a smile so careful it was almost painful. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  She seemed familiar, but Carena couldn’t place her. A student? Not one of mine, Carena thought as she unlatched the storm door and invited her in. Probably selling tickets for something or other, tickets were always being sold for something or other; or wanting to know if a math course would be available for next term. Students couldn’t seem to grasp that monumental decisions could wait until office hours.

  “What can I do for you?” She relieved the young lady of the jacket and draped it over a dining room chair.

  The down jacket had given the girl an illusion of bulk. Without it, she looked about fourteen, small and thin. Snatching off her hat, she shook out her blond curls and her green eyes stared gravely at Carena with unnerving steadiness. She opened her mouth to speak, seemed unable to come up with anything and cleared her throat instead.

  Carena was curious. Students, in general, weren’t this nervous when confronting a professor, even if they were arguing about a grade they knew they deserved. If she was reduced to thinking about her ex-husband, Carena figured she ought to welcome any distraction. “Maybe we could start with something simple, like your name.”

  A quick spark of humor glinted in the green eyes. “It’s Lynnelle. Lynnelle Hames.”

  The name meant nothing to Carena, but Lynnelle waited as though it should. When the silence stretched to awkwardness, Carena offered coffee. Lynnelle accepted with a grateful nod, and let her eyes drift over the furnishings; the rose and white brocade chair and matching couch, the painting of autumn trees on the wall above, cherrywood bowl on the coffee table, pale rose rug, the wooden rocker. She smiled as if she’d satisfied something for herself.

  In the kitchen, Carena dumped her cold coffee, refilled the cup and poured a second one. She looked through the cabinet, hoping to find a cookie or two—ever the mother, milk and cookies—but was out of luck, then ferried both cups back to the living room.

  Lynnelle was planted in the chair by the fireplace, her chin firmly high; a young lady with her mind made up; whatever the cost, she was determined to get on with it.

  Carena handed her a cup and sat on the couch opposite. “Are you enrolled at Emerson?”

  “No.” Lips pursed, she sipped tentatively. “I work in the English department. Clerk-typist.”

  Ah. Probably why she looked familiar. “You wanted to see me about something?”

  Lynnelle set the cup down, scooted forward in the chair and fixed her gaze on Carena’s face. “You don’t know me, but I’ve thought about you a lot.” The words came out as though they’d been rehearsed, then all of a sudden she seemed to forget what came next. Her glance slid away and landed on the mantle. With a soft smile, she stood to look at the small ceramic ghost crying over a broken pumpkin, a Mother’s Day gift from Michael when he was little. Lynnelle held it in the palm of her hand and looked at it from all sides. “Boy, I hope this isn’t an omen. Your great important moment in life and you break the pumpkin.”

  Carena started to feel uneasy. Her mother always said this habit of picking up strays could one day be dangerous. There was something a little looney-tunes about this young lady.

  Lynnelle put the ghost back and peered at the framed picture of Michael in cap and gown for high-school graduation. “Picture of your son.”

  “Do you know Michael?”

  “I know a lot of things.” Picking up the snapshot tucked in the frame, she studied it closely; a snapshot of a much younger Carena and a baby Michael.

  Carena was beginning to think maybe she’d better hustle this girl right on out. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No.” Lynnelle started to say something and once again seemed to lose her place.

  “Why are you here?”

  Lynnelle turned, squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I thought you might like to meet your daughter.”

  Oh my oh my oh my oh my oh my. Take a breath. Well then, she knew how old this young lady was. Twenty-one. “Oh, Lynnelle. No. Child.”

  Lynnelle stiffened, her face went blank as though she’d been slapped. “Your very own baby. You gave away like some—puppy you didn’t want. And never wanted it to turn up again. Well, guess what.”

  “Lynnelle, no—”

  “You ever think about me? Wonder how I was? What I looked like? What the people were like you gave me to? He died, you know, my father, who I thought was my father. He fell. He was a builder. Scaffolding. Some kind of scaffolding and he fell. And she married again, my— my— I was fifteen. He’ll be a father for you.” Her voice took on a singsong quality. “He’ll love you and you’ll love him too. You’ll see. We’ll be a family again.” Abruptly, she turned and stared down at the cold ashes in the grate, back rigid, fists clenched.

  “Lynnelle—”

  She spun fiercely, like a small animal at bay. “I know about the fight with Dr. Kalazar. She wants to fire you. Maybe she’d like to know. How you had a baby and you weren’t married and you gave it away. I could tell her, you know. I—” Tears glistened in her eyes. Angrily, she rubbed at them with the back of a hand and darted toward the door.

  “Wait.” Before Carena could get her mind working and her muscles lined up to respond, Lynnelle had flung open the door and nipped out. Carena went after her, but by the time she got to the street the VW was already speeding away. The taillights sparkled in the light rain as they disappeared around the corner. She felt Lynnelle’s pain. That lashing out with the silly threat to tell Kalazar had come from deep hurt. Lynnelle had been obviously nervous when she arrived. She’d probably thought a long time before she’d worked herself up to it; played it out in her mind, memorized the dialogue.

  Oh, you poor child. I’m so sorry. I handled that very badly. I don’t think fast on my feet.

  Back inside, Carena noticed the down jacket still hanging over the dining room chair, the shoulders spotted with raindrops. You can’t run around without your coat. She checked the pockets and found crumpled Kleenex, a stick of gum, and a paperback book, Summer of the Dragon by Elizabeth Peters, with an envelope as a bookmark. It was addressed to Lynnelle Hames, Seven Creighton Road, Hampstead, Kansas. Nothing inside. She reinserted it at the appropriate page and stuck everything back in the pockets, then wandered into the bedroom, where she stacked pillows at the head of the bed, kicked off her soggy slippers and stretched out to stare at the ceiling.

  Here is this child, turned up after all this time. What should I do? I don’t know. That’s not good enough. I’m afraid of what this will mean. That won’t help either. Oh God.

  God? Remember me? Yes, it’s me. I realize you haven’t heard from
me in a long time but, you see, there’s this problem.

  She sighed. Maybe God got bored with having it all and periodically looked around for some amusement. When she’d accepted the position at Emerson, it had seemed like some cosmic bad joke; it put her, at forty, right back in the very spot she’d spent the first eighteen of those years trying to get away from. And now here was this child.

  Maybe God had an even more complicated game in mind.

  Rain spattered against the window. She’d hesitated to accept this position, but she wanted to get away from Boulder, Colorado, where her ex-husband was, and jobs weren’t that easy to find. There was the little matter of a roof over her head. She looked at her watch. Only eight-thirty; it felt like midnight. Swinging her legs over the side, she sat up and picked up the telephone receiver. Holding it against her chest for a moment, she took a breath and with a shaky hand punched in the number.

  In Topeka, thirty-five miles away, the phone was answered by a young male voice. “Hello, Stevie, this is your Aunt Carena. Is your mama around?”

  “Yep, she’s here.”

  A clatter came through the line as the receiver was dropped and she heard Stevie yell, “Mom?”

  A moment later, Caitlin said, “Carena, I’m glad you called. It’s been a while.”

  “I guess it has.”

  “What’s wrong?” Caitlin’s ability to pick up on the emotional climate was phenomenal.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Carena hesitated. “It’s just that—” She told her about Lynnelle appearing on the doorstep.

  “Oh Carrie.” Silence. “How did she find you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But what was she doing in Hampstead?”

  “She lives here.”

  “In Hampstead? Where?”

  “Somewhere out on Creighton Road.”

  More silence, then Caitlin spoke in a soft voice. “What does she want?”

  “I don’t know, Caitlin.” Her mother; a teary reunion, stunned disbelief and joyous embraces.

  “What do you think she’ll do?”

  “Maybe nothing. I was so surprised, I just sat there with my mouth open. That might have turned her off the whole thing.” Not likely.

  “Do you think so?” Caitlin’s voice faded and she said something Carena couldn’t hear. “Will you find out?”

  Carena felt suddenly tired. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I will.”

  “Carrie?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it, Lynnelle?”

  “Yes, Caitlin. Yes, it is.”

  After she hung up, Carena put on her heavy robe and dry socks and fixed a cup of peppermint tea, which she carried out to the screened porch off the kitchen. Sitting in the dark in a white wicker chair, she listened to the rain patter against the roof and breathed in the aroma of the tea. She thought about that awful hot summer twenty-one years ago. Was it all going to come out now? Somewhere, an owl cried and a bit of Shakespeare came to mind.

  A falcon, towering in her pride of place,

  Was by a mousing owl hawked at and killed.

  She shivered, took one sip of scalding tea, then got up, left the cup on the kitchen cabinet and went to put on her shoes and coat and find her car keys.

  * * *

  Lynnelle tossed the few pieces of dry wood she’d been able to find—on top of everything else the furnace had conked out—into the Franklin stove and then sat cross-legged on the small white rug in front of it. She picked up the guitar and strummed softly. Thunder rumbled, muted and distant, and the big white Samoyed stretched on the floor beside her raised head from paws and gave her an anxious look.

  “Stupid, sentimental shit,” Lynnelle told the dog. “Believing in fairy tales. And they all lived happily ever after.”

  The floor lamp next to the gold plush chair threw a circle of light on the ceiling. Rain leaked from one corner with a steady plink, plink, plink into a coffee can.

  “She didn’t even want to see me. Boy, didn’t she even want to see me. Sat there looking like I’d punched her in the stomach.”

  Bending her head, Lynnelle brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and sang harshly.

  “She’s tied it in her apron

  and she’s thrown it in the sea;

  Says, Sink ye, swim ye, bonny wee babe.

  You’ll ne’er get mair o’ me.’

  “I cried,” she ground out through clenched teeth. The tears made her madder than anything. Weak, pathetic little shit.

  She dropped the guitar back in its case, uncrossed her legs to get to her knees and buried her fingers in the dog’s thick fur. “Alexa, it’s just you and me, baby. A couple of rejects. We don’t care, do we? We don’t need anybody else.”

  Her fingers tightened on the dog’s fur as she pictured Carena Egersund’s shocked face. Alexa yelped. “I did it all wrong. Just blurted it out. I should have worked up to it. I meant to. It just—”

  Suddenly, the house felt suffocating. Air, she had to have some air. She rose in one quick movement and padded in stockinged feet to the kitchen. The dog scrambled up and followed. Heavy boots sat drying on a newspaper by the door and Lynnelle pulled them on, snatched the poncho from its hook, whirled it around and over her head. While she rummaged in a drawer for the flashlight, Alexa waited eagerly by the door.

  “I like to walk in the rain,” Lynnelle told her. “You don’t.”

  Alexa waved her plumy tail and dashed out when the door was opened. She started down the steps, stopped and gave Lynnelle a reproachful look.

  “I told you so.”

  Alexa backed up, tucked herself well in under the overhang and collapsed with a sigh. Lynnelle laughed, stooped to ruffle the hair on both sides of the dog’s neck, then snicked on the flashlight and set off along the irregular stones on the muddy ground under the big oak tree. An old rope swing hung from one branch; she gave it a push as she went by and headed across the open field to the woods.

  Lightning flickered and thunder rumbled. The trees were thick overhead. In the three months since she’d moved in here, she’d spent a lot of time walking these woods and sitting by the creek watching the water gurgle past. There was an old cottonwood she liked to sit under with branches that reached up over the water.

  The night was full of sounds; the spatter of rain, the moans of the wind, the squish of undergrowth beneath her feet, a rustling that suddenly stopped, then a long haunting note that sent nerves crawling along her spine.

  It’s only an owl.

  A twig snapped, louder rustling, then the owl spoke again. Hair seemed to rise on her neck and she thought of all those old movies, Indians gliding from tree to tree, alerting each other with the voice of the owl, stalking the unwary. She stopped, shined the light behind her; trees and shadows and tangled growth on the ground. The air smelled like damp and dead vegetation.

  She shook her head irritably. Afraid of the dark too? There’s nothing here but trees and low, tangled vines and dead leaves and small furry things like squirrels and mice. She plodded on.

  Lightning splintered the darkness. For an instant, she saw, clear as day, a dark figure against a tree trunk.

  She froze. Her breath caught, her heart thudded.

  The figure came toward her.

  “Oh.” Lynnelle pulled in a deep breath. “You scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

  They walked through the dripping trees and, shaky with relief, Lynnelle babbled on and on. God, I sound like a dreep. “Do you ever think that life’s just a cheat? All promises that never come true? I mean, good things are supposed to happen, aren’t they? Sometimes? How come they never do? How come you plan and you look forward to, and you hope and then it’s finally there and then—” She raised her head and let the rain run down her face. “You end up crying over a broken pumpkin.”

  A crackle of lightning lit up the sky just as they reached the creek. Recent rains had swelled the usual trickle into a rush that fountained up over rocks and fall
en branches.

  She sensed movement behind her and felt a moment of fear. Before she could turn, a blow smashed against the back of her head. Intense white pain zigzagged through her mind and the owl cried again just as she felt herself falling.

  3

  HUNCHED OVER THE steering wheel, Carena tried to see through the windshield as the wipers struggled courageously against the rain. When she pulled into the dark garage, she relaxed and turned off the headlights and motor. She rattled down the overhead garage door and, head bent, sloshed through the driving rain toward the house. From the corner of her eye, she caught movement inside the lighted screened porch but before she could gather her wits, the screen door opened and a man in a ski jacket trotted, loose-jointed, down the steps. In the dark, he looked huge.

  “Michael?” She was taken by surprise that this large person was her son. When had he gotten so adult?

  “Where have you been? I’m going to have to speak to you about staying out so late. Irresponsible parent. Now you listen to me. There’s no reason why you can’t let me know—”

  She hugged him and he squeezed her tightly, lifting her off her feet.

  “And furthermore—”

  Vigorously, she rubbed the top of his blond curls with her knuckles. He released her and, one arm over her shoulder, shepherded her inside.

  “When did you get here?”

  “An hour ago.” Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it over the back of a chair.

  She picked it up and hung it along with her own on hangers over the bathtub, then replaced her wet shoes with down booties and went back to the kitchen. “How’s everything in Boulder? Classes okay?”

  “Great.” Michael, in white sweatshirt with University of Colorado printed on it, sprawled in a chair, stretched his long blue-jean-clad legs halfway under the table. “Anything to eat? I’m starving.”