It Wasn't Always Like This by Joy Preble Page B

straightened.
    Glen Walters was strolling up to the aviary entrance. His dark suit—the one he always wore, even in this primeval heat—clung to his tall and lanky frame. He was sweating, but he had an easy saunter, as though he were a tourist or just an ordinary man out for an afternoon’s walk. Except for his blue eyes. They were blazing.
    “This is private property,” Charlie said. He positioned himself in front of Emma. “Is there something you need?”
    “Just paying a social call,” Walters said. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Those are beautiful birds you have here.”
    “Yes, they are,” Charlie said.
    His voice was tight but f irm, his posture straight and composed, and Emma could feel his muscles coiling.
    She forced herself to be brave like Charlie. She said, “Bird shows are every afternoon on weekdays and Saturday.”
    Walters smiled. “Good to know,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t count on every afternoon.”
    Only when Walters had turned and walked slowly out of sight did Emma realize she was clutching Charlie’s hand tight enough that all their f ingers had gone white.
    •
    AFTER THAT, THINGS happened very fast, the way things do when the world is falling apart. The Church of Light organized a boycott on the Alligator Farm and Museum. And the people went along with them. Even the tourists—all those obscenely wealthy folks from the northeast who didn’t believe in anything but money—stopped coming. Rumors spread that the alligators were poorly housed and dangerous. A THREAT TO THE COMMUNITY , read one newspaper editorial.
    Then the museum was vandalized. At f irst just eggs thrown, like boys might do on All Hallows’ Eve. Then rocks through the windows. Shattered glass. Then worse. The birds let loose from the aviary. Charlie’s favorite goshawk, the very same one who’d landed on Charlie’s arm that day Emma knew he was her love, was found dead.
    They reported it all to the police, of course. But nothing was done. The town was watching. Fingers were pointing. Tongues were wagging. And through it all, Emma could see that no one in St. Augustine really knew what to do with a bona f ide miracle except label it as an abomination. Nothing ruined the exclusive promise of eternal life, Emma learned, like f inding out someone could get it and still remain in the here and now. Especially if you weren’t that someone.
    In February, shortly before Emma’s birthday, Art O’Neill leaned forward at the dinner table—his face pale, his voice f illed with emotion—and told his family that it would be time to leave soon.
    “We need to get away from here. We need to make a plan. They’ll never leave us alone.”
    Emma had already known that, even though it would be another few days before she witnessed Baby Simon guzzle that bottle of benzene, left on the table by their father after stripping the paint on an outside museum wall defaced by vandals with awful, damning words.
    A FEW WEEKS later, Art O’Neill retained a lawyer—a fellow named Abner Dunn—who kept an off ice in a brownstone in Brooklyn. Together, they set up a trust for each of the O’Neill children. They were not hugely wealthy, but there was enough family money that had been kept aside for emergencies. Emma, his oldest, was named executor. She was the only one who knew. In the end, it wouldn’t matter. She was the only one who survived.
    “Something’s bound to happen, Em,” Art O’Neill told his oldest daughter. “I know I told your mother that it would all go away. But I . . .” Her father rested his hands f irmly on her shoulders. His voice quavered, but only for a moment. “If it does,” he went on, his gaze f irm on hers, “promise me you’ll contact Mr. Dunn.”
    At the time, Emma told herself he was wrong. That if she had Charlie, nothing bad could get to her. Not really. But she looked at her father and promised.
    She had learned many things since her f irst seventeenth