Long Made Short

CROWS

She went outside, came back in, pounded her head with her knuckles several times, went outside again, looked and looked, nowhere to be seen, couldn’t imagine what had happened, yelled “Henry,” and he appeared, his voice did, from the cellar. “Yes, what’s up? I’m down here.” “Thank God,” she said and held onto the doors folded over and then the walls as she went down the stone steps. “Don’t leave me like that anymore, please.” “Leave you how?” he said. “Like that, like that,” pointing upstairs. “Like what, like what?” he said, painting a lawn chair, looking up at her for a second. “Like leaving me. Tell me next time. You know how I am.” “No, I really don’t, or not exactly. How are you? You’re fine, I can see. But you were worried. Don’t be.” “I was worried. When I call for you, look for you, go up and downstairs and outside and down the road and around the house for you? Well, I only called that one time and I didn’t go down the road looking for you, but I almost did.” “Did you by chance ever think to call for me earlier or to look down here? When you see the cellar doors open, assume I’m down it.” “You could have been elsewhere while airing the cellar out.” “That’s true,” he said, painting, “you’re right. I forgot that’s what I do and it’s just the kind of day for that.”

She looked around. “I think we should build a staircase inside the house to the cellar. Then you could go up and down with ease, even evenings if you’d like, for there’d be a railing and light. And also not get wet in the rain if it’s raining when you want to come here, or have to put boots on if it’s snowing. And I wouldn’t be searching franticly for you. I’d open the door to the cellar in the kitchen, let’s say, and know by the sounds or the light on that you’re down there.” “Then we’d call the cellar a basement. I never want to have a basement in this house. Then we’d fix it up, put in a convertible couch and lamps and fixtures on the walls for more lamps and insulate it so guests would come, or for when they came, and a place to dump the grandkids when they were being too restless or loud. And fancy windows and then bars on the windows to protect our valuable lamps and grandkids from vandals and thieves. And the walls would have to be plastered smooth and then painted bright to cheer up the room, and the furnace would have to be concealed because it’s an eyesore. And a drop ceiling to make believe we have no overhead pipes, and pictures in frames and so on. A mirror. A dehumidifier. A wine rack instead of the boxes the wine comes in I now use. Never. My parents had that, right down to the bar with two stools and a carbonated water tap, and it was disgusting. They had to clean it every other week. The floor — I forgot the floor — was linoleum, and when we left scuff marks on it we got reprimanded for it. I like the way it is. I open the cellar doors — clement or inclement weather, who cares? Climb down, do my work, single bulb dangling over the table, furnace like a furnace, no electrical outlets but the extension socket the light bulb’s in, my sweater or vest or both if it’s damp or cold, and once a year I use the old broom to brush away the spiders and spiderwebs and cobwebs.” “But I get worried for you.” “Then I’ll tell you what, ask yourself why you do.” “Because if I can’t see or hear you I sometimes think something awful’s happened to you.” “Ask yourself this then: What could happen to me? I’m healthy. A heart attack? Hell, I could have got one when I was forty or fifty, and statistics say there was a better chance then, or is that just with a stroke? And I know my way around and don’t risk injuries and accidents. If I got pains someplace that might seem unusual, and I know where those places are, I’d recognize the signs. So from now on, if you want me, look for me further. Upstairs, downstairs, outside, in. That’s not much looking. Down the cellar — now that’s looking, or down the road.” “But you weren’t down the road.” “I was, this morning, for the mail.” “Was there any?” she said. “Nothing useful. Ton of junk mail as usual. And a letter from Nina. I read it and tore it up.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t,” and pulled it from his back pocket and gave it to her. “That was unfair, holding it from me this long.” “I got disoriented. Distracted, I mean, or involved in something — that’s it. Came back, had read it on the way back — there’s absolutely nothing new in it, by the way. Jeremy Junior’s fine, hiccuping more often, that’s all. Jeremy’s busy at work and thought he was getting the flu. Sunny weather, stormy weather, a film dealing with values and serious moral questions that we also might want to see on VCR, and her book’s going well. But then I saw the cellar doors, opened them because I thought of painting the chair. Now I’m finished,” and put the brush down. “One thing we can use down here is running water so I can clean my brushes and hands, though not at the expense of converting this dungeon into a shaped-up basement. Bringing down a pail of water and leaving the liquid soap here does the trick just as well.” He cleaned the brush, then his hands, dried everything on his pants. “Maybe a paper-towel roll would help too, but not a rack for it please. The pail was from a few days ago, if you’re wondering.” “I’m not,” she said, reading the letter. “Is what she says in it any different than what I said? I tend to miss things, and not read between lines. Oh, this is getting us nowhere. Let’s go upstairs.” “What’s getting us nowhere?” she said. “I don’t know. I just said it to get us out of here,” and he shut the light.

He grabbed her elbow and moved her to the steps. They went up them, she holding onto his arm till she was able to grab the edge of one of the folded-up cellar doors. When they reached the top, a bird swooped down on them. “Duck,” he said, pushing her head down till she was on her knees with him. The bird came a few inches from hitting them. “That crow was aiming at us,” he said. “Where’s my gun?” “You have no gun,” she said. “I don’t, huh?” He pointed his finger at the crow, which was circling about fifty feet up, followed its movements with his finger for a while, then said “Bang-bang, you’re dead, you bum.” The crow’s wings collapsed, and it dropped to the ground some twenty feet from them. “I don’t believe it. Did you see that?” “I saw it,” she said, “and I don’t believe it either.” “With this gun,” holding up his finger. “Do you think if I pointed it your way and said bang-bang, I’d knock you off too?” “Why, you want to? Anyway, don’t try.” “But it’s ridiculous. Just by going bang-bang, I killed that bird. And I had a bead on him too. ‘Bead’ is the word they use for it — out West or in criminal or law-enforcement circles — right?” “You’re asking me?” “Bead, a bead, or maybe it’s ‘draw a bead,’ but like you’re aiming.” “The beads I know are little stones and ornaments around the neck and droplets and so on. Of sweat. I still can’t believe what you did though.” “Neither can I. I aimed my finger at it — like this,” and he pointed his finger at her, “and then when it seemed to be closest to me and my hand wasn’t shaking so much, I fired. Bang-bang. I didn’t pull any trigger, though, meaning, use another finger as if I were pulling one.” He still had his finger on her. “Maybe I should move it away from you just to be safe.” “Don’t be silly. We both are. It was a coincidence. The crow died of a heart attack, but not one brought on by you, or something like that when you pretended to shoot it. Pull it if you want. Shoot it. Go bang-bang, even bang-bang-bang. Three shots for the price of two. Suddenly today I’m feeling very brave.” “Bang-bang,” he said. Her face got distorted, hands sort of stiffened into claws, and she fell to the ground. “Darling,” he said and got on his knees. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, and he put his ear to her chest, moved it around above her breasts, her back about where he thought her heart would be behind, then her nose and mouth. He didn’t hear or feel anything. He did it again: chest, back, nose and mouth, and then put his mouth on hers, kept her mouth open with his hands, and breathed into it, took his mouth away, took in a mouthful of air, breathed into her again, pulled away. “Oh Christ, what have I done? What have I done, goddamnit?” he screamed out. He stood, forced his fist into his palm, screamed “What the hell have I done? I’ve killed my wife. It can’t be so.” Got on the ground, listened to her chest, mouth, put his hand on her neck where he thought her pulse might be, was none, felt around her neck and temples, didn’t try her wrist because he was never able to find it there, turned her over on her stomach, straddled her, did what he thought was the thing to do to get someone breathing again. Pushed down with his hands, sat up, pushed, sat up. Lay down next to her and put his ear to her mouth; turned her over and put his ear where he thought her heart was. Nothing. He pointed his finger and pressed it into his forehead. “Bang-bang,” he said. “Bang-bang. Bang-bang.” I’m not shot, he thought. Not even hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, you got to be kidding.” He sat her up, held her while he listened to where he thought her heart was. Thought he heard something. Touched her neck. He felt something. Forced her eyes open. They looked alive. She smiled. “You,” he said, “you nearly gave me a heart attack there.” “You’d kill yourself for me? I peeked. Oh my dearest,” and she hugged him. “Yes I would,” he said. “I was so full of guilt and everything else. Sadness. I suddenly believed…well, who wouldn’t after he shot that bird down? The bird,” and he stood up, helped her up and ran to where the crow had landed.

It was still there. “I don’t want to put my head near its heart or beak, for those things can bite. No wonder I hit it. Look at its size.” “Kick it,” she said, walking over. “You mean nudge it with my foot. Okay. But if it jumps it’s going to startle me.” He touched it with the tip of his shoe, then jabbed it. The crow moved but didn’t seem alive. “Think it’s alive but just pretending?” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt it — Seriously,” she said, “I don’t think so. I think it got that heart attack or the cerebral equal of one — a flying stroke or something winged animals get only when they’re flying, and not particularly when people below are shooting their fingers at them, but that’s all. Your bang-bang and its fatal heart failure or stroke are only coincidental, one chance in a million, and it came up today.” “I hope so. Because I wouldn’t want to personally kill anything living like that. But come on, crow,” he said to the bird, “move, move, get up, fly or walk away. Do your messy garbage-bag biting and picking, your squawking, keeping us up when we want to take afternoon naps or sleep late. Do what the hell you’re supposed to and don’t make me feel bad, because the one-in-a-million coincidence I can’t prove.”

The crow began fidgeting, stood up — they backed away — flapped its wings, seemed to be testing its feet out on the ground, flapped some more, tried to fly, looked at them, walked backward away from them a few feet, flapped harder while it walked frontward even farther away from them and took off, flew a few inches off the ground several yards, then up to the sky. He pointed his finger at it, held his wrist while he got a bead on it. She said “Don’t chance it; not today. Maybe you did kill it and then your little entreaty before brought it back to life, and you won’t be so fortunate the next time.” He said “Just a test to prove my supernatural or whatever-you-want-to-call-them powers — powers I never had that I know of but am now naturally curious to see if I do — Hold it. Steady, steady. I’ve got it. Bang-bang. And bang, just in case.” The crow flew on, settled in a tree. “Maybe I missed.” “Or you wounded it,” she said. “Well, I’m not going to find out. In fact, no more games or tests like that. In fact, I’m throwing away my gun,” and flicked his hand to the side. They heard a clump in the grass about ten feet away in the direction he’d flicked to. “You believe that?” “It must be a rabbit or squirrel,” she said, “or a mouse.” “Probably a mouse.” “But then again, who knows? Though we should try to find out.”

She went over to where they’d heard the clump. Nothing moved. “Maybe it’s already gone,” she said. “Or it could have been something that just went down a hole, didn’t need to go through the grass. But we won’t tell anybody about all this, okay?” “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a good story to tell, raises lots of interesting questions, puts what you didn’t think you thought right out there, right? And we’re having dinner with the Chamberlains later and they’re so dull that they’re wonderful to shock, so why not?” “It might be somewhat off-putting to them. They’ll think we’re getting loony and they’ll tell people, and then everyone will think we’ve become peculiar.” “Let them,” he said. “If they don’t like it, let them ostracize us too. Then we won’t have to return the dinner invitation to the Chamberlains and all our other dull neighbors who sort of force us to socialize more than we like. Let the whole town know, for all I care. It’ll give us more time to ourselves and what we really like to do. Like reading, for God’s sake. I’m going in to read. Like a good cup of hot tea, or a drink?” “I’ll make it for you,” she said. “No, it was my suggestion, and what I want to do, and you put up and will probably still have to put up with all my antics today, so I’ll make it for you.”

A crow in the tree that their crow flew in crowed. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be the one you shot at,” she said. “That’s a favorite resting and gabbing place of theirs,” he said. “In fact — I just figured it out — I bet it’s nesting there, or protecting a nest of another crow there. That’s why it swooped down on us. Because I’ve never seen one so aggressive, except with dogs and cats.” “It could be sick,” she said, “distemper, or whatever crows get.” “No, it looked too healthy on the ground. Children, wonderful, just what we need around here, more crows. But I like the idea of an animal protecting its young or soon-to-be young or someone else’s.” A crow crowed from the tree. “See, it agrees with me. We won’t tell the Chamberlains this part, because it’s getting too silly. But this, yes,” and he aimed his finger at the tree and said “Bang-bang-bang, bang-bang, bang, bang, bang-bang,” moving his finger around to different places in the tree. He imagined several crows dropping out. “Ah, wonderful, a longer sleep tomorrow morning, maybe even after that a caw-free afternoon nap. Actually, I’m glad I didn’t hit any. Some of them might have been young. Let’s go in before we truly get silly.” “Did we shut off the cellar light?” she said. “I don’t remember. I’ll see you inside. Put up the water, or take out the ice tray,” and he headed for the cellar. A crow crowed from the tree. “That a boy,” he said, “or that a girl. Whatever you are, crow, crow.” What I’d like to know, he thought, peering into the cellar and seeing it was dark, is why I didn’t hear her breathing or feel her neck pulse or her heartbeat when I checked. The pulse, even in the neck, can be a little difficult to find, and I was nervous. Even her heartbeat, but her breath? He flipped the cellar doors closed with his feet. They made a loud double bang, and she yelled from kitchen window “What’s that?” “Just closing things up,” he said, “and the light was out. You do it? Because I don’t remember I did,” and he went inside.