I snort. Lon is as mysterious as a man who offers to show you the puppies he has in the back of his beat-up van. Everything cool about him is suspicious. Leather jackets, old paperback books by important men. Cigarettes that smell like long-dead grandfathers. All things that can be bought. A bit considered. I like my crushes artless. And with pens.
‘He’s kind of desperate,’ I say. ‘You could have that anytime you wanted, then send it back like a bad sandwich.’
‘Ah now,’ she says, but I can see her smiling. It’s nice to be desired. Or so I’ve heard.
We go downstairs for dinner. We are pretending that we are fitting in more than we are. It is very easy. Mam and Brian are all about each other. Cooking together. Going for mountain walks. Watching television curled like kittens on the sofa. It is extremely unimpressive and I hope it will eventually stop.
I’m happy for them though. It’s weird to think of this being a house for only Brian. All the space; you’d get lost in your thoughts. So isolated. I don’t think that it would be good for me. If I were him. Which clearly I am not.
And he is fine. Enjoying his roast potatoes, and the lamb, drizzled with a glaze they made from scratch. His voice is high for a man’s, and quiet. But when he speaks my mother listens, her face intent. She’s made a new best friend. And it is lovely. But it used to be the three of us, and now it feels like we are two and two. On different teams.
I bite into the lamb. It’s tender. I can almost taste the jumping little muscles. I love meat. But I know where it came from. Me and the lamb, we’re made of the same stuff. I clean my plate.
Raven tongue on raw meat. Dew on grass.
Mam wipes a little sauce from Brian’s chin.
‘We’re thrilled you girls are getting on so well,’ she tells us. ‘We’re proud of you.’
‘We are,’ he says. He smiles. I grin right back. I mean, it’s weird, the new dynamic. But he’s good for her, even if he’s a little nondescript. You’d meet him and you mightn’t remember exactly what he looked like, until you’d met him once more. Maybe twice. It’s nice to have another boring person in the family. They’d only been going out six months when he proposed. He asked us first, all awkward in the kitchen. ‘I’d never want to take your father’s place,’ he said, as we eyed the massive diamond he’d picked out, ‘but I love Sheila, and I want us to be family. In a way you’re comfortable with.’
It was probably the most we’d ever heard him say at once. We hugged him and gave him our blessing. He does things by the book. He gets it right. Mam needs that in her life. Romantic drama is kind of better when you’re our age. I can see how Brian would be appealing to my mam. I think she feels that we are safe with him. His house is the most interesting thing about him.
‘If I were to get with Lon …’ Catlin says, as we clear up the dishes.
I make a face at her.
‘What?’ she asks. ‘He’s hot. He is objectively hot. And I’m not saying I’ll fall in love with him or anything. But, like, it’s something to do. Just as, like, an experiment. To see if having a boyfriend would make things easier.’
‘It wouldn’t make things easier for me,’ I point out.
‘It might,’ she says. ‘You wouldn’t have to talk to Lon as much. Because I would be kissing him. On the face.’
‘On the stupid face,’ I tell her.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The stupid, handsome face.’
‘Don’t leave me alone though, here. With all the people?’ I say. It comes out whinier than I intended.
‘I won’t,’ she says. ‘You know I have your back.’
It’s true. She always does.
Later, in bed, I count leaves and faces on the hard, dark wood, trying to sleep. It takes a while.
A woman’s face – asleep or maybe dead.
A man with a very small mouth.
Ivy choking round, through hair and hollows.
I think of Brian and Lon. And our dad, Tom. I think about this book we had at home. I think it had been Dad's. It was full of lore and superstition. One of the things that stuck with me was about how certain people believed that getting remarried was a sin, once you'd been widowed. Because, in the afterlife, both husbands would be there, and they’d both want you. They described a woman screaming, sawn in half by demons. Caught between two worlds inside a hell.
I venture to the window and open it a crack. There’s an old nest in the corner of it. Feathers woven soft through twigs and dirt. I put my hand on it. It feels solid. The breeze is cold, although the floor is warm. Almost too warm. It doesn’t feel like winter in this house. The lavender plant I brought with me sits on my desk. I feel for it in the murky dark.
Sometimes it dies in winter. I keep it in a clay pot and only water it a very little.
So far, so good.
It likes the warmth, this soothing little life.
I break a piece off and murmur, ‘Thank you.’
Fall asleep while focused on the scent.
7
Bird Cherry/Hackberry
Last night, Catlin woke up with a fever. I heard her coughing, groaning through the walls. She is a terrible patient. Even a mild chill turns her into a Victorian heroine, wasting away in bed while her husband is off fighting in the war. Only with more demands for toast and sympathy. The walk up the driveway on my own was OK. I saw Bob eating what was either a dead cat or a stray binbag. I am becoming increasingly suspicious of the birds here.
I narrow my eyes at a scrawny robin watching from the wall, as Layla and I wait. Our breath misting through the air so white it’s almost solid.
‘Corpse of the day,’ she says, and gestures down. I see another robin, lying there. There is a deep wound in the centre of his fat red breast. His claws in the air are twisted like the little branch that’s left when you have eaten all the grapes. I trace the downy underside of his wings with my finger. It’s delicate as lace. A little frosty. A thing that small would not be hard to kill.
‘When we were younger, Mam used to tell us he got the red chest from bringing water down to souls in hell,’ I say.
‘That’s dark,’ Layla says. ‘Your mam sounds metal. No wonder Brian married her.’ I look at her, trying to gauge whether or not she’s joking. With her voice, sarcasm can be hard to detect. It always seems to be there. Lurking like a hidden predator.
‘Brian is the least metal person I know, Layla. He wears socks and sandals,’ I point out.
‘Appearances can be deceiving,’ she says, narrowing her eyes at the robin, like a cat about to pounce. ‘Our mam used tell us that they were spies for Santa.’
‘We got that too,’ I say. ‘Little feathered narcs.’
‘Maybe that’s why the other lad killed him,’ Layla says, her aristocratic face serious. ‘Because he was a grass.’
‘That tiny little brain knew far too much,’ I say. ‘Do you really think the other robin, like, murdered him?’
‘It’s what they do,’ she says. ‘They’re vicious things, birds.’ She sighs. I notice something pulsing underneath the robin’s feathers. I kick it with my toe. One lonely maggot dribbles out. A fat, white, hungry thing.
‘Nature is cruel,’ I say to Layla. ‘Cruel and disgusting.’
‘As a teenage girl, I endorse that statement,’ she says back, rubbing her stomach ruefully. ‘And bleurgh.’
We move away. Closer to the clear grey road. I watch our breath cloud misty. No matter how early or late we are for the bus, we always end up waiting. It is like it’s playing hard to get.