The Blackbird Season Read online

  “Then you need to stay checked in.” Alecia held up her hand as he started to protest. “Don’t deny it. When things get hard, you find a way to check out: a pile of tests to grade, a parent to call, a baseball meeting, the bathroom for God’s sake.” She took a deep breath, calmer. “I’ll tell you more if you stay here. In the muck, with us.”

  “Maybe I’m jealous. You should have seen your face when he walked in here holding that model. He couldn’t have cared less about showing me. He wanted your pride, not mine.” Nate looked into the living room and shoved his fists into his jeans pockets.

  “Are you jealous of me? Or Gabe?”

  Nate took a step back and shook his head. “I really have no idea.”

  • • •

  She went shopping, leaving Nate with Gabe-related checklists. Shopping! It seemed as unfathomable as a Caribbean cruise and just as exotic. Not food shopping, but clothes shopping. For herself!

  She wanted new yoga pants, maybe a T-shirt. She wandered the department store, the heady scent of perfume sample sprays hanging on her clothes, her hair, as she aimlessly picked through racks of blouses. She remembered blouses; she used to own zillions of them. All dry-clean only, soft and silky, in rich colors that pinked her cheeks or sparkled her eyes or brightened her highlights. She remembered pencil skirts and skinny belts, three-inch heels and tights with boots. She ran her hand along a sheer, blowy sleeve. The blouse was coral, with silver, sparkling buttons. Would look perfect with the gray tweed skirt. On a whim, she pulled both off the rack, size eight. In the dressing room, she dressed quickly. Everything fit, her body had bounced back, seemingly with no effort after Gabe, although it had taken awhile. Sometimes she blamed the anxiety, the way she’d stand over a stove, stirring and simmering, scrambling to fix the perfect dinner for Nate. For Gabe. Then she’d sit down, stare at the food that somehow turned to slime on her plate. If anything, she was thinner now than she’d been before she had Gabe. She was lucky; everyone said so.

  She pulled the tags off and tucked them into her palm.

  She wandered into the lingerie department, lace and padding, or sheer with silk ribbons. Garters and thongs, push-up bras and fishnets. She remembered this, too. She had a drawer filled with satin at home. She never touched it; most nights she was asleep before Nate even came home. But she remembered. She remembered lighting candles, Nate’s first baseball season, when she was pregnant but barely, only the tiny swell of belly over red lace where it used to be flat. The feeling when she splayed out, waiting, of her back against silky sheets, a lethally high red heel on each foot. His footsteps in the hall, the look in his eyes as he stood at the foot of the bed, the weight of him between her thighs, his hands hot on her hard belly, a pulse of life beneath his palm. How fast it was over.

  She stood in the middle of Macy’s, wearing a two-hundred-dollar outfit she had no use for, holding a black-and-red lace teddy she’d never stay awake long enough to wear. Even if her eyes would cooperate, her body wouldn’t. Alecia couldn’t remember her last orgasm.

  She felt an unwelcome stab of pity for Nate. He was stuck with them, her and Gabe, a lousy lot in life. Guilt filled her throat and her face flushed with shame. He was lucky to have Gabe. But Nate still had her as a wife, and lately she’d been falling apart, which admittedly made no sense. Gabe was getting better, inasmuch as someone with autism can “get better.” They’d figured out therapy most days. His medicine cocktail (mostly) kept all the tics at bay. His meltdowns had gone from three or four a day to only one every other day, if that. And those were minor. She should have been sailing into the prime of her life, Gabe in elementary school, days free, maybe going back to work. But instead she’d felt precariously balanced on the edge of a cliff, one foot off.

  She thought about how she used to be somebody: ran meetings and took minutes, used buzzwords like synergy and influencer and marquee client. She commuted to North Jersey, outside the city, an hour and fifteen minutes each way, sometimes even taking a train into New York for a meeting. Those were long, exhausting days, but days she felt good about later, taking off her heels and letting Nate run his thumbs along the arches of her feet while she told him stories about clients with bad hair and he told her stories about students with bad tests and they laughed at all the badness of the world, while theirs felt like such goodness. And when Gabe came, she took a hiatus, just a year she promised both Nate and herself. When the year was up and Gabe still wasn’t walking or talking or doing any of the things the books said he should, of course she couldn’t go back to work if there was something wrong.

  One year turned to the next, turned to the next like a slow, lazy river, so blended she hardly noticed it until one day in the shower, she realized with a start she could hardly remember all those buzzwords. She’d repeat them to herself—dynamic, paradigm, deliverables—her vocabulary her last tether to the corporate world she belonged in, not this messy, dirty, vomit and shit and therapy and meltdown world she actually lived.

  On a Good Day, though, she could hold it all together. Today, she was unmoored, her thoughts black. There would be no prime of her life. There would be no empty nest, no golden years, no deep-breath-get-through-it, no reward at the end, no prize from the game. The interminability of it got to her. She was Sisyphus on a forever-climbing mountain. When she gave in to self-pity, which wasn’t often, she could wallow better than anyone. Wallowing was a skill, really. Some did it with drinking, or drugs, even chocolate or soap operas. Before Gabe, Alecia wallowed at the mall.

  She wound her way to the register, plucking a pair of gray pumps along the way. The tags were bent and damp from her hand, and she handed them to the clerk who thankfully rang them up without any patter. In the mall, Alecia stopped at a kiosk. Bright lipsticks and blushes and powders and creams.

  “You like?” The attendant smiled, a flash of white teeth against creamy red lips. Alecia nodded and sat in the chair, the leather cool under her thighs. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was on her lunch break. That Rick wanted a balance sheet for last quarter for the Smithfield account, that she had to hurry up so she could work some creative accounting with the rest of her lunch hour. That she had to pick up a birthday card for Tanya from marketing and get it circulating. And maybe a cake.

  When the attendant was done, Alecia opened her eyes, and all she saw was her own reflection, unrecognizable.

  “I look happy,” she blurted.

  “It’s not magic. You must be happy.” The other woman laughed and pushed small jars into Alecia’s palm. Alecia held out her credit card and watched her swipe it. She felt sick. What was she doing? She added it all up in her head. Over four hundred dollars. That was a half a month’s worth of copays for Gabe’s medication. A week of yoga therapy. Three days of horse therapy at a hundred bucks a pop.

  In the parking lot, she sat in her car with the door open. The air was hot for April, too hot, but the parking lot was empty. All those fucking birds had scared everyone away. She sat in the driver’s seat with her head between her knees and vomited onto the pavement. She moved her feet, keeping her new gray heels out of the mess. When she was done, she turned on the car, blasted the air conditioner right into her face.

  She picked up her phone and dialed. “Hi. I miss you and I might be cracking up. Can I come over?”

  • • •

  Bridget’s house was a home. A sweeping wraparound porch that enveloped everyone inside like a hug, drooping wisteria framing the door, filling the air with a sweet, flowery perfume. Painted a sunny yellow, the house had twin turrets, a rickety second-floor balcony, and wide stained-glass windows. While Alecia had always struggled with decorating, Bridget seemed to embrace it like some kind of goddamn earth mother.

  Alecia and Nate’s small townhouse sat in a busy development, picked as a starter home when, with her burgeoning belly, she thought a neighborhood kid was in her future. She envisioned her son, at ten years old, taking off on his bike till the twilight hours, circling the endless
cul-de-sacs, while the parents drank margaritas and grilled steak.

  When it was obvious that Alecia wasn’t going to become the suburban housewife she’d always dreamed about, she stopped caring about their home. No, that’s not right. She still cared. It was clean. It was reasonably put together. The furniture was mostly of the Target and Walmart variety, the Pottery Barn catalogs collecting dust in the corner until they found their way to the trash can. It was hard to justify spending a thousand dollars on a coffee table when Gabe would probably just break it anyway.

  Bridget tackled homemaking like a hobby, collecting unique, expensive antique steamer trunks and butter churners. An entire wall in her kitchen was hung with nineteenth-century small appliances: whisks and egg beaters and salt boxes and bread peels. Little clanky metal things that Alecia didn’t know the names for. The wide-plank floors were covered in braided rugs and every flat surface held a knickknack. The house always smelled like freshly baked muffins, even though Bridget swore she couldn’t bake a premade cookie.

  Alecia rapped twice on the front glass and let herself in. She met Bridget in the hall and they hugged, Bridget’s bone-thin arms strong. Alecia felt the tears in her eyes and blinked them back.

  “Are you okay?” Bridget asked, not letting go, whispering it into her hair. Bridget gave long hugs, without discomfort. She’d strong-arm you in a hug, swaying side to side. Then she’d pull you inside her cocoon of a house and make you tea and serve you store-bought baked goods.

  “Yes. No. Yes.” Alecia took a deep breath. “I should be fine.”

  “No one should be fine. That’s a stupid thing to say.” Bridget waved her hand around and rolled her eyes. She led Alecia through the living room and into the kitchen. A tea kettle was whistling and she busied herself with two mugs while Alecia pulled a stool out from under the heavy wooden island. Bridget sat down opposite Alecia and plunked a tissue box in front of her on the counter.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Alecia said. She hadn’t seen Bridget for a while.

  “What stage of grief is it where all food looks disgusting?” Bridget wrapped the string around a spoon and squeezed the teabag.

  “Aw, Bridge, I’m sorry.”

  “It feels never ending, that’s all. Some days, it’s like Holden died yesterday. I didn’t expect that, for it to go on forever.” She shrugged. “Mama said time heals all wounds. I’m waitin’ around, that’s all.”

  Alecia felt stupid with her petty problems, with her son, who despite all his issues, still existed and her husband, despite his shortcomings, was still alive. She shouldn’t have come. She stirred more sugar than necessary into her tea and blew across the top.

  Bridget broke the silence first. “I saw news vans the other day! ABC and WKLP both at the ball field. Crazy, right?”

  “What the hell is going on?” Alecia was grateful for the change of topic. “I saw them, too. And the EPA and Department of Environmental Protection. Everyone is staying inside with their windows shut. Well, except you.” A breeze lifted the curtains through the open screen above the sink. “It’s like the whole town doesn’t know what to think.”

  “I don’t know. Everyone is talking. Some people think it was some kind of air poisoning from the old paper mill, but that thing hasn’t been operational in ten years. What, does a building suddenly belch toxic gas?”

  Alecia giggled. “When is school opening again? It’s been a tough week.” In some ways, she couldn’t wait for Nate to go back to work and yet, at the same time, she dreaded it.

  “They say Monday, that by then the air and water testing will be done.” Bridget shook her head, no nonsense. “Maybe the birds all ate something? Could it be that?”

  “I’m sure they’ll figure it out. They have a thousand bodies to autopsy. If it’s poisoning of some kind, we’ll know.”

  “What does Nate think?” Bridget asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  Bridget appraised her. “You look nice.” She took in Alecia’s new outfit, her shoes, her fancy makeup. “Job interview?”

  “Nope. Just your everyday four-hundred-dollar nervous breakdown, that’s all.” Alecia’s cheeks flamed red under Bridget’s gaze.

  “Everyone loses their shit, darling. There’s no shame in it. I almost wish I could, some days.” Bridget grasped her hand across the island, her long, bony fingers entwined with Alecia’s. “Do you want me to say something to Nate?”

  They’d done it before, years ago, run interference with each other’s husbands during fights or in-law disagreements. Theirs was a friendship of ease, almost too close, in each other’s lives and houses, sometimes without knocking, the kind where you can open each other’s fridge or mix yourself a drink. Then Alecia was consumed with Gabe and Holden died and Nate closed up and they scattered like pool balls hit with the cue.

  “No.” Alecia toyed with her spoon, passing it between her fingers. Outside the window, a woodpecker worked a tree trunk with a rap rap rap rap like machine gunfire. She smiled at Bridget. “This was nice. I think I just needed this. To sit, to be with someone, talking about something other than . . . medical records or whatever.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, swear. Let’s do this again. Like on a monthly basis. I’ll come over after school. I can get a sitter for Gabe.”

  “What about Nate?” Bridget raised one eyebrow at her.

  “Or Nate. Whatever.” Alecia stood. “It’s four o’clock. I have to go. Gabe has ABA tonight,” she said. ABA was applied behavior analysis, a specialized therapy for autism spectrum disorder. “Nate . . . he doesn’t really know what to do. It bugs him. He thinks they treat Gabe like a dog . . .” She even cringed occasionally at the parallels, waving a marshmallow or a magic marker in front of Gabe’s face until he complied with the smallest command. Point to the circle.

  Bridget stood with her. “Come back. Next month. We’ll have tea. You can wear your pajamas if you want.”

  They hugged and Bridget’s hair smelled like the coconut oil she used as shampoo. Alecia opened the front door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A woman stood alone, leaning against the door of her car.

  “Can I help you?” asked Alecia, thinking about the birds, those fluttering little bodies.

  “Maybe. Are you Mrs. Winters?” the woman asked. She was tall, black hair cut in a bob. She looked severe, perhaps a scientist here to ask about the birds. Alecia was a witness at the ball field that day. Maybe they were talking to everyone?

  “Yes.” Alecia stood straighter, her jaw clicked.

  “Mrs. Winters who is married to Nate Winters?”

  Alecia narrowed her eyes. Strangers called him Nathan. Nate felt friendly, intimate. “Yesss,” she drew the word out, cocking her head. She realized that maybe this woman was no scientist. In her hand she held a small digital recorder. A reporter? How would she have found her here? At Bridget’s?

  “Would you be willing to talk to me about your husband, Mrs. Winters?”

  Alecia was confused. “Sure, but he doesn’t know anything. He’s a math teacher, not a science teacher.” She felt like maybe she and this woman were speaking different languages. “Wait, who are you again?”

  “I’m Rowena White with the Harrisburg Courier.” She touched a button on the digital recorder and it turned red.

  “Nate doesn’t know anything,” Alecia repeated. “About the birds?” When she looked back at the house, Bridget stood at the screen door, watching them, her hand splayed flat against the mesh.

  “I’m not here about the birds, Mrs. Winters.”

  “Oh. Did they find anything out?” Alecia asked, her mind churning.

  “Mrs. Winters, I was hoping to talk to you about your husband’s affair.” The woman inched closer; the digital recorder hovered around Alecia’s shoulder.

  Alecia’s arms and legs went ice cold. “What? What are you talking about?” There was no affair. Nate was home, with Gabe, watching SportsCenter. “He’s been home all week, with me and my son. The school was
closed.”

  “I just need five minutes of your time.” Rowena held up her right hand, her fingers spread wide. Her nails were long and deep red. Almost black.

  “I don’t understand, you’re a reporter?” Alecia felt thick in the skull, her tongue tangled. Her thoughts finally came together, clear as glass. “Nate isn’t having an affair, but even if he was, how would this concern you? Affairs aren’t news.” She started to push past the woman, her hand on the car door. She’d just drive away, that’s all. People had affairs all the time, they didn’t make the paper.

  “Mrs. Winters, please stop. Just talk to me.” She sighed, resigned, and clicked off that red button. Tucked the recorder back into her purse. “This affair? It’s with a student.”

  You,

  We are linked, you and I, tethered together in transient world. Where everyone is so connected with their phones, texting and instagram and twitter and facebook and yikyak and snapchat, but we are all lost.

  You are my comfort. You have no idea.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bridget, Sunday, April 26, 2015

  Bridget was dead asleep when the phone rang, the kind of heavy, dreamless state where you wake up and can’t place the day. She loved that sleep; it was her favorite. There was no crushing blow once she opened her eyes and realized the Holden of her dreams was just that, a fantasy. There was no quick gasp for breath, clutch at the bedspread, no stab behind her eyes. Just a peaceful wakening, followed by the cloudy sadness that she didn’t get to see him last night. Or the night before, come to think of it. The dreams were getting further and further apart now and maybe one day they’d stop altogether. The idea left Bridget a little dizzy.

  “ ’Ello,” she mumbled into her phone, not sure who would be calling at this hour of the night. Her clock blinked 11:13, which seemed irrationally late unless there’d been an accident.