Wingbeats, Part III

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***

The next day Arianne can hardly move. Two sleepless nights have taken their toll. She ignores calls from her mother, her friends, her husband’s publisher. She wants to rip the phone cable out of the wall and throw it into the ocean. Around noon, unable to hold herself up any longer, she collapses on the couch. His book sits on the glass coffee table, bookmarked to page five. She hates looking at it but lacks the strength to throw it away.

Black and white, she thinks. A black and white living room, with white walls and a black couch, black bookcases crammed with volumes, a black and white grand piano. Alan loved the way she tinkered on the piano. The simple harmony of two notes together, he said, was more beautiful prose than he could ever write.

Her mother said she should try to play, after he died. She said it might help with the pain. But the notes fall in single file, discordant and rhythmless. She hasn’t touched the piano in weeks.

There, on the couch, she slips into sleep. Her dreams return, strong and angry and brutal, and she cannot escape them. When she finally wakes, thrashing and shouting, she’s covered in sweat and the afternoon has come and gone. She’s shaking.

She manages to eat. It makes her feel sick.

When night falls (mercifully late, with high summer approaching) she goes up to the bedroom with its dark furniture and its crisp white sheets and lies down. She does not move, and she does not sleep. The sky turns purple as night blooms and the world outside goes to sleep.

When the tapping comes, she is not startled. She is not surprised. It is 4:32. She slides out of bed, fetches the glass of water, and opens the window. Tonight it is a dove that alights on her wrist. It is lighter than the touch of a child, she thinks. And it is not afraid of her touch.

“Why have you come?” she asks. “Why don’t you sleep?”

The dove watches her, and waits. When she sets the water on the table, it steps down delicately and drinks. Its head bobs back and forth in a nodding motion.

She wants to speak to it but she doesn’t know what to say. It’s just a bird, but why is it visiting her? Why now? She and Alan never got birds like this, stepping through their windows, drinking from their kitchenware.

Alan. Even thinking his name brings tears to her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she chokes out as the water rolls down her cheeks. The dove pauses. It watches her with one bright eye.

She still feels somehow at fault.

They were walking along the edge of the river, one of the many paved paths in the tourist district. Alan loved walking beside the river. He took her every day, pointing out the new shoots that edged their way out along silver-brown branches, daffodils poking up sunny faces, all the sights and smells and sounds of life emerging after the winter’s sleep. The river was swollen from spring rains and the current poured over stones, creating rapids and little whirlpools in its haste to reach the ocean.

She recalls his smile, vibrant and infectious. It was a smile she couldn’t see without smiling herself. It grew wider as he pointed out the robin building her nest, or bent down to pick her one of the season’s first wildflowers. It faded when he saw the woman on the bridge, tremulously putting one foot on the rail. He started shouting when she stood, balanced like a dancer. When she dove, he broke into a run.

He leapt into the icy water. He was an excellent swimmer, and the current carried him down to her. She was fighting the water, bobbing up and down like a cork in her panic. When he reached her he picked her up and struggled to the river bank. She was able to grab hold of a tree root that had been exposed by erosion. He was not.

The last thing Arianne saw of him was his hand, reaching up as if in farewell. Sunlight flashed off the golden wedding band.

His body was never recovered.

“Sometimes, after the dark dreams, I have another. I’m floating down that river. The current swirls like a storm but I’m moving so slowly. It’s a warm day and the sky above is blue, bluer than the ocean, without a single cloud. I know I’m following him because I can hear his voice. He’s singing for me. And his voice gets nearer and nearer, but all I see is the sky, and before I reach him – ” She breaks off. Before she reaches him, she wakes. And every time she wakes she fears she’ll never have the dream again, and he’ll disappear forever. “I want to join him so desperately,” she whispers.

The dove hops into her hand. As she brings it up to her face, it leans forward, pressing its forehead against her own. Then it flaps away, through the window into the gray night.

Birds that act like men. Men that loved birds. Her hand comes up to her mouth.

***

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Wingbeats, Part II

Click here to go to the beginning of this story.

She tosses and turns that night, unable and unwilling to sleep. Her red-rimmed eyes itch from exhaustion but the notion of sleep terrifies her. She grips her wrist until the bones grind together and sallow bruises appear under the skin, but the pain isn’t enough and she slips into a fugue state, entering the strange twilight world nestled between the realms of asleep and awake, living and dead. She slowly becomes aware of a soft breathing and her eyes fill with tears beneath their lids. He’s so close to her – yet when she reaches out, she cannot touch him.

A tap on the windowpane jolts her into full wakefulness. It’s 4:32. The breathing was her own.

She wipes her eyes on a corner of the sheet and goes into the bathroom. She comes out again with a glass of water, then goes over to the writing desk and opens the window.

A pure snowy owl steps delicately from the windowsill onto the smooth tabletop. Feathers ripple down: white edged with black, shadow and light. Tawny eyes settle on her face. When she sets the glass of water down, the bird drinks briefly.

“You must be a long way from home,” she murmurs. The soft rustle of feathers is her reply.

Hesitantly she runs a finger along the soft down of its back. She’s heard that owls can bite, and bite hard. But this one allows her to stroke its back and wings. Her hand – so pale when twined through his tanned fingers – seems so dark against the predominant white of the owl. “White and black,” she muses. It was the color scheme for their wedding. Her parents had thought it strange, but her favorite color was black, and his white – and the more they thought about it, the more perfect it became.

“I was a night owl once,” she says. She gets the same sense of attentiveness from the owl that she got from the crow. It wants to listen to her. “I thought that the shadows were my place, that the daytime would only show everyone how dull I was. But Alan reveled in the sun. He wanted to show me how things could shine in the light…and so I wore black to my wedding, and he wore white. He said it was a union of opposites.”

The wedding featured in his novel. He told her she could read it when everything was finished. He said that it should be a surprise for her.

“White and black for the wedding,” she says. “But just black for the funeral.”

The owl leans forward and takes a strand of her long dark hair in its beak. She winces in anticipation of a sharp pull, but with great gentleness the creature lets the hair slide. Alan used to run her hair through his fingers like that.

Then it hops away. The wings flap like heartbeats and a few moments later it has disappeared in the gloom. A low fog has risen around the base of the trees outside. Tomorrow will probably be rainy, a day to stay in. But she never leaves the house anyway. Her nest, her prison, her future.

***

Continue to Part III

Wingbeats, Part I

The night is stifling, as it always is in the summer. Humid air rolls in through the window and makes everything clammy and sticky. She had to buy a special nightgown for the summertime. In the wintertime Oregon is cold and rainy, and drops fall from the sky like liquid ice. But from late May till August the rain falls just the same, but it is tepid and whenever she reaches her destination she feels like she needs to take a shower. Hot or cold – she needs the temperature change.

In the summertime her sleep is filled with nightmares. She wakes with the sheets tangled round her legs, like giant hands ready to pull her under. She wakes with his name on her lips.

He had to beg her to get the house. But he always got his way, especially where she was concerned.

“It’s too big,” she laughed as he nuzzled her neck in the little hotel room.

“It’s just the right size,” he whispered. “A perfect house for us and our kids.”

She hates and loves remembering that night. Just as she hates and loves him.

When she wakes on these wet summer Oregon nights, her face streaked with water (tears or sweat? Even she cannot tell), she lies, near catatonic, full of rage and hurt. How dare he, she tells herself. How dare he leave her in an empty shell of dreams and futures that can never come about? No children, no husband, no long journeys around the world. Just this great big west coast house, an empty chrysalis, a place in which something living was harbored. But nothing emerged come springtime.

Arianne rips the sheets from her and staggers out of bed. In the bathroom she pours herself a glass of water, then splashes some more onto her face. Its coolness is refreshing and helps her push the nightmare away. He died by drowning, but in all her dreams it’s something from his novel that kills him. Shadows like the ones his villains lurk in reach out with hands as dark as midnight to pull him down. He drifts away from her and even though she screams his name and tries to pull him back, he fades.

As she goes back into the master bedroom she checks the bedside clock. 4:32. She’ll get no more sleep tonight. Instead of going back to the bed, that hated place, she takes a seat at the old cherry-wood writing table. The wood is dark and flawless. She loves running her hands over its surface. The motion soothes her.

A sudden rustle at the window causes her to look up. Outside the trees are black silhouettes, paper cutouts in the gloom of the pre-dawn. The moon has slipped below the horizon and the stars are fading. And standing on her windowsill, watching her with one black eye, is a crow.

Crow and woman stare at one another. Arianne opens her mouth to shoo it off, but her voice doesn’t come. She feels as though her throat is a sheer mountain that the voice can’t climb. The crow, for its part, cocks its head. It lets out no caw or screech. Unnatural silence and stillness stretch between them. When at last she puts out her hand to undo the latch on the screen, the crow waits patiently for her and then hops onto the writing table when the way is clear.

It fluffs its glossy black feathers and lifts one black leg experimentally.

Water. Alan would give it water. She rises hurriedly and goes to  refill her glass at the bathroom sink. When she returns and sets it before the bird, it dips its beak in gratefully. It still says nothing.

“My husband would like you,” she murmurs.

At the sound of her voice, the head comes up from the water glass. The eye stares, unblinking.

“He always had a soft spot for animals,” she continues. “When his book became a bestseller he promised me he’d get a kitten. After everything in the house was settled.” A kitten. One of the things she hasn’t bothered to think about since his death.

She gets the funny sense the bird is listening.

“We even met over a bird. Not a crow. A pigeon. A dead pigeon. I think he hit it – I was walking on the sidewalk when his car swerved up on the curb in front of me and nearly knocked me down. I was so mad, when he jumped out of the car. I was ready to give him a slap on the face. But I saw him pick something up from the edge of the road. He stroked the pigeon and murmured to it, and a couple of moments later it flew off. I knew right then I couldn’t yell at him for that. So I let him take me to lunch instead.”

Tentatively, she slides her hand, wrist up, along the table toward the crow. “His novel was even about flight,” she whispers. The novel. She never finished reading it. Alan was reading it aloud to her and they were halfway through when he died. She tried to pick it up a few times. When others said how proud they were of the legacy he left in the world. But every word on the page, every syllable was pronounced in his stark Midwest accent, his measured baritone voice. The weight of that voice crushed her. She’s never been able to finish a page.

The crow suddenly sticks out one black scaly foot and presses it into her outstretched palm. It presses down lightly, then its wings emerge and it flaps once, twice, three times. The breeze it makes is refreshing; the steady thump is like the beat of a heart. The crow lifts away from the writing table, turns, and flies through the open screen back out to the gray world. It left no mark on her palm – it didn’t even scratch the surface of the writing desk.

Arianne stares after it for a long time.

Continue to Part II