In the Shadow of Blackbirds(58)

I shook my head. “I don’t know anything. His brother said he died a hero’s death over in France. He never said anything about him coming home.”

“I wonder if he died during transport. Maybe it was the flu. The family could be misinformed. The army gets antsy about the men whose minds leave them.”

“He died somewhere, somehow. I went to his funeral.”

Stephen’s friend got quiet. I snapped out of my shock enough to realize I’d just informed a drastically injured boy his close friend was dead.

“I’m so sorry I had to tell you that news,” I said.

“He was a good fellow.” Tears blurred his visible eye. “A really good fellow.”

“Yes.” I nodded. “He is. Was.”

“Some of the other soldiers gave me trouble because my father was born in Germany and my last name’s Spitz. They called me slurs like Kraut and Boche. But Stephen …” The boy’s eye brightened a moment. “He would tell them all to shut their damned mouths. Oh … sorry …” He lowered his head. “There goes my language again.”

“It’s all right. I’ve heard words far worse than damned—sometimes from Stephen.”

The soldier wiped away a tear and sniffed. “Oh, Christ, what a waste.” He shook his head and squeezed his eye closed. “Such a waste. I hope he went quickly and didn’t have to keep suffering.” He leaned his elbow on the chair’s arm and rested his head against his fist. Another tear spilled from his eye and glistened against his mask.

“What’s your name?” I placed my hand around his upper arm, feeling the soft satin of his sleeve and the lack of nourished flesh beneath.

His meager muscle relaxed beneath my fingers. “Paul.”

“I hope you heal soon, Paul. I hope the nightmares stop bothering you and your pain leaves your wounds.”

I moved to take my hand off him, but he tensed again and said, “Can you keep touching me a little longer? Again, I don’t mean that in a flirtatious way, especially now that I know you’re Stephen’s girl. But … you remind me of something I experienced after that shell went off next to me.”

“I do?”

He nodded. “I thought I’d died for a while and went somewhere peaceful. I’d forgotten what that felt like until you touched me.”

I held his arm again and watched his eyelid fall.

“Can I ask you one last question, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Did Stephen ever seem to be afraid of birds when he was over there?”

Paul didn’t answer, and for a minute I thought he’d fallen asleep. I gave up waiting for a response and shifted my legs to get more comfortable, when he drew in his breath and replied, “None of us liked the crows. They ate us when we died. They hovered on the edges of the trenches and stared down at us, watching us, waiting for us to get shot or bombed. Sometimes we even had to fight them off the boys who weren’t all the way dead.”

My stomach tightened. “Oh. God. I’m so sorry.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just a strange dream I’ve been having. I’m sorry I brought up such an unpleasant subject. Please rest now, and heal.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry to be so blunt. I think … I’ve forgotten … how to speak in polite—” His tongue sounded like it had grown too heavy to finish his sentence. His chin sank forward on his chest, and he dozed off.

We sat like that for at least a quarter hour, amid the restless chirps of the flitting canaries, the tinkle of teacups on society women’s trays, and the soft swish of cards flipping at the poker game several feet away. Paul’s body relaxed until his gentle breathing indicated he was in a deep sleep. Quiet snores snuck out from beneath his mask.

I remained next to him, touching him, holding on to a tangible piece of Stephen’s life, haunted by his words. And even when I moved along to the other men and finished reading Tom Sawyer, all I could think about—it consumed my entire being—was the image of Stephen shivering in the shadows of hungry dark birds while his mind crumbled.





SOMETHING MOVED ON AUNT EVA’S PORCH.

I snuck up the front path with noiseless footfalls and craned my neck to see beyond the post that blocked my view. I could make out the shape of a crouching person.

“Who is that?” I asked.

The person shot up with a cry of surprise, and I spotted a pair of large round spectacles balanced above a sagging flu mask. Brown hair grew from the top of the stranger’s head like a thicket of grass.

“Is that Grant?” I shielded my eyes from the setting sunlight. “Stephen’s cousin?”

“That’s right.” Grant slunk down the porch steps.

“What are you doing here?”

“Julius wanted me to bring you something.” He nodded backward to the porch.

“Why didn’t he bring it himself?”

“He’s busy at his studio.” Grant stuck his hands in his pockets and slithered away from the house. “Plus I think he’s afraid of you.”

“Julius isn’t afraid of anyone.” I grabbed Grant’s arm before he could dart away. “Hey, wait. I need to ask you something.”

“What?”