Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(22)

“I said, I’ll call your lawyer and set up a meeting for us . . .”

The widow is staring out a window, at the rear of the house; a short distance away, down a slight incline, the wind-rippled lake reflects the light of late afternoon.

“Claudia? Are you all right? You’ve been listening, I hope . . .”

The brother-in-law’s voice is edged with annoyance. The brother-in-law is not a man to be slighted. He is wearing an open-necked shirt of some fine, expensive material—Egyptian cotton perhaps. The shirt is a pale lavender as his cord trousers are a dark lavender. His shoes are canvas deck shoes. He makes it a point to be well-dressed though his clothes are usually tight and he looks crammed inside them, like an ill-shaped sausage.

The widow recalls how, only a few days before her husband was stricken and hospitalized, the brother-in-law, at a family gathering, had approached her when she was alone and stood uncomfortably close to her, as if daring her to acknowledge his sexual interest and push past him.

Been missin you, Claudie. You’re looking terrific.

Always, insultingly, the brother-in-law has felt obliged to comment on his brother’s wife’s appearance. As if there were some competition between the brothers’ wives, of which the wives themselves were not aware.

Since the brother-in-law has gained access to the house, and has been sitting in the living room, repeating his rehearsed words to the widow, the widow has been observing the movement of waterfowl on the lake—ducks, geese. Predators have not gobbled down all of this season’s ducklings and goslings. There are even several cygnets, for there is a pair of resident swans on the lake. Dazzling-white swans of surpassing beauty and calm.

When she is feeling very sad, very lonely and distraught, the widow escapes the house in which the telephone is likely to ring, and walks along the lake shore counting ducklings, goslings. Cygnets.

She has sometimes seen the great blue heron, a solitary hunter. By day, the heron does not seem quite so terrifying as it has seemed by night.

“Oh, there!”—the widow speaks excitedly seeing a large rail-thin bird lift its wings suddenly and rise into the air, with initial awkwardness, alone over the lake.

“What are you looking at, Claudia? What’s out there that is so damned interesting?”—the brother-in-law turns to look over his shoulder, his chin creasing fatly.

The great blue heron is a prehistoric creature, of a strange and unsettling beauty. The widow stares entranced as slowly and with dignity the heron flies out of sight. But the brother-in-law doesn’t seem to have seen.

“Well, that’s quite a view. You’re lucky, to have such a lakefront property. Jim had the right idea, this property is quite an investment . . .”

The widow objects, more sharply than she’d intended: “James didn’t think of it as an ‘investment.’ It was—it is—our home.”

“Well, sure! I didn’t mean . . .”

“We chose the house together. James and me. I think you know that. It wasn’t the decision of just one of us.”

“Right! No need to get upset, Claudia.”

“I think—I think now that you should leave. I have many things to do . . .”

It is maddening, the widow hears her apologetic voice. Though trembling with dislike of the intruder yet she feels she must speak to him in a tone of apology.

The brother-in-law smiles, half-jeering. “’Many things to do!’ Exactly, Claudia. Things you should certainly be doing, that I could help you with.”

“No. I don’t think so . . .”

“What d’you mean, ‘I don’t think so.’ Jim would be concerned about you, Claudia.”

The widow is stung by the casual way in which the brother-in-law has been uttering her husband’s name as if it were an ordinary name to be batted about as in a Ping-pong game.

“No. I said—no.”

The brother-in-law blinks at her, and raises his eyebrows, in a pretense of mild surprise. She is in danger of speaking shrilly. She is in danger of betraying emotion. She knows how closely the brother-in-law is observing her, how he will report to others. Claudia is looking awful. Obviously she hasn’t been sleeping. Hope she isn’t drinking—secretly. Can’t imagine what Jim was thinking of, naming that poor woman executrix of his estate!

The visit is over. But the brother-in-law is slow to leave.

He has set down his whiskey glass, which he seems to have drained. His face is flushed and ruddy, the little ant-eyes gleam with a malicious sort of satisfaction, yet aggression. For the brother-in-law is one to want more, more.

On their way to the door the brother-in-law continues to speak. The widow is aware of his hands gesturing—always, the man’s gestures are florid, exaggerated. He is a TV sort of person—he could be a TV salesman, or a politician. The widow takes care not to be too close to him. For (she knows) the brother-in-law is considering whether he should lay his hand on her arm, or slide his arm across her shoulder. He is considering whether he should grip her hard, in an unmistakable embrace, or simply squeeze her hand, brush his lips against her cheek . . . The widow is distracted by how, though her backbone seems to have been broken and splintered, she is managing to walk upright, and to disguise the discomfort she feels.

The widow sees with a little thrill of horror that the front door has been left ajar . . .