“You’ve made some leaps,” she says.
She pulls onto a path, beaten down to tire tracks, navigating the dense woods with a concerning precision. When branches smack against the glass William expects shattering. But never. The windshield moves the branches, and William watches, through the rearview mirror, leaves vibrate until still.
She stops the car and directs William’s gaze along with hers to the single tree in the middle of the clearing.
“So you asked,” she says stepping out of the car. William follows.
Like a flooded graveyard the bodies of birds float from everywhere along stiff currents. A few carcasses bob and twist, obeying rocks and sticks along the makeshift streams. This was a paradise to him once, a place he came to hunt for messages, the birthplace of understanding. So many times he’s belonged to this clearing, taking from it what it let him take, and now he steps from a leaking car and watches so many birds float through his legs.
The bones of forgotten birds dance along the waterway, and he wonders if they believe in their single path, if they believe that the world was built only to carry them away. William empties his pockets and kneels to rip every message from every bird that he can. So many they almost mean nothing.
“Just step over them.” Mrs. Rose’s voice bellows in the open. “They’ll be there tomorrow. They’re not going anywhere.” She stands at the tree and waves William over. “Here,” she says.
He limps toward her. Mrs. Rose looks down to a fresh soup of mud.
“…well, most of her,” she says.
He slides a single foot to the muddy patch and shifts his weight. The pull starts slow but quickens as William panics. He is knee-deep into the earth before finally reaching out to Mrs. Rose for help. She grabs him and pulls.
“You did some work with the back of that gun,” she says sliding mud and a nearby pile of saturated grass onto the disturbed grave. She packs it with her foot like it was once something perfect.
“It was the van,” William says.
“Oh come now. Humility is a desperate killer.”
William leans against the tree, lifts his muddy leg. He grabs his shin and slides the mud from his pants, palming the results. When he throws the mess, it slaps hard against the bark of the tree.
“Talk,” Mrs. Rose says. “About?”
“You’ve got to be feeling something.”
He is, but he dodges remorse for fear of what verbalizing it might do. All of it seems just a logical truth, anyway. He settles and dives deep for something else.
“The law, I suppose.”
“Good. That’s a rational fear.”
And one that never occurred to him until letting it out. He thinks of police, prisons, pointing fingers, no audience for his explanations, no one who will listen. He breathes heavy. Air isn’t abundant enough to keep his lungs satisfied. His throat collapses.
“Calm down,” Mrs. Rose says. “We’ll be fine.”
She walks away, her feet driving through the mud. Each step echoes with penetration and suction. The sound loses momentum as the distance grows. It isn’t until this moment, when William is able to look freely over the clearing as it soaks up rain and mixes mud, that he notices an unusual absence of
grass. Hardly a single blade.
“You know, people like the two of us…” Mrs. Rose says from long steps away, her face dark and her clothes hanging dead over sharp joints. She looks taped together, random pieces fitted without concern to the way the world might react, confident only in that it would. “…they aren’t as uncommon as you might think.”
Chapter Eleven
William leans against the passenger glass. He steals moments of rest between potholes and divots.
“You were a father,” Mrs. Rose says.
The tires, pulling moisture from the road, hum like his father would when trying to calm Tiny William, who might have hurt his toe, who might have lost a fight, who might have disobeyed his father ’s strict instruction. Metal snaps and spits
She pulls onto a path, beaten down to tire tracks, navigating the dense woods with a concerning precision. When branches smack against the glass William expects shattering. But never. The windshield moves the branches, and William watches, through the rearview mirror, leaves vibrate until still.
She stops the car and directs William’s gaze along with hers to the single tree in the middle of the clearing.
“So you asked,” she says stepping out of the car. William follows.
Like a flooded graveyard the bodies of birds float from everywhere along stiff currents. A few carcasses bob and twist, obeying rocks and sticks along the makeshift streams. This was a paradise to him once, a place he came to hunt for messages, the birthplace of understanding. So many times he’s belonged to this clearing, taking from it what it let him take, and now he steps from a leaking car and watches so many birds float through his legs.
The bones of forgotten birds dance along the waterway, and he wonders if they believe in their single path, if they believe that the world was built only to carry them away. William empties his pockets and kneels to rip every message from every bird that he can. So many they almost mean nothing.
“Just step over them.” Mrs. Rose’s voice bellows in the open. “They’ll be there tomorrow. They’re not going anywhere.” She stands at the tree and waves William over. “Here,” she says.
He limps toward her. Mrs. Rose looks down to a fresh soup of mud.
“…well, most of her,” she says.
He slides a single foot to the muddy patch and shifts his weight. The pull starts slow but quickens as William panics. He is knee-deep into the earth before finally reaching out to Mrs. Rose for help. She grabs him and pulls.
“You did some work with the back of that gun,” she says sliding mud and a nearby pile of saturated grass onto the disturbed grave. She packs it with her foot like it was once something perfect.
“It was the van,” William says.
“Oh come now. Humility is a desperate killer.”
William leans against the tree, lifts his muddy leg. He grabs his shin and slides the mud from his pants, palming the results. When he throws the mess, it slaps hard against the bark of the tree.
“Talk,” Mrs. Rose says. “About?”
“You’ve got to be feeling something.”
He is, but he dodges remorse for fear of what verbalizing it might do. All of it seems just a logical truth, anyway. He settles and dives deep for something else.
“The law, I suppose.”
“Good. That’s a rational fear.”
And one that never occurred to him until letting it out. He thinks of police, prisons, pointing fingers, no audience for his explanations, no one who will listen. He breathes heavy. Air isn’t abundant enough to keep his lungs satisfied. His throat collapses.
“Calm down,” Mrs. Rose says. “We’ll be fine.”
She walks away, her feet driving through the mud. Each step echoes with penetration and suction. The sound loses momentum as the distance grows. It isn’t until this moment, when William is able to look freely over the clearing as it soaks up rain and mixes mud, that he notices an unusual absence of
grass. Hardly a single blade.
“You know, people like the two of us…” Mrs. Rose says from long steps away, her face dark and her clothes hanging dead over sharp joints. She looks taped together, random pieces fitted without concern to the way the world might react, confident only in that it would. “…they aren’t as uncommon as you might think.”
Chapter Eleven
William leans against the passenger glass. He steals moments of rest between potholes and divots.
“You were a father,” Mrs. Rose says.
The tires, pulling moisture from the road, hum like his father would when trying to calm Tiny William, who might have hurt his toe, who might have lost a fight, who might have disobeyed his father ’s strict instruction. Metal snaps and spits
Similar Books
