My Best Friend's Exorcism(33)

Abby felt self-conscious as five pairs of eyes swiveled up to her, and widened.

“Isn’t she precious!”

“That is too cute!”

The women all giggled, and Abby descended into their midst, inhaling an eye-watering cloud of Liz Claiborne and Opium by Yves Saint Laurent.

“Let me just squeeze you,” Mrs. Lang said, wrapping her arms around Abby, who went with it.

Mrs. Lang had to be pretty drunk because she generally wasn’t a hugger. Mr. Lang came out of the TV room to say good-night to the ladies, his forefinger holding his place in The Cardinal of the Kremlin; Abby was gently bounced from one cooing southern lady to another as she made her way to the front door. Gretchen’s singing cut through everything.

“Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton!” Gretchen sang in a loud, clear voice, and everyone looked up.

She stood at the top of the stairs, one hand on the black metal bannister, chest out, chin raised. Abby always thought Gretchen had a beautiful voice, and now she was projecting, really pushing air through her diaphragm, filling the entire stairwell with clear tones. “Old times there are not forgotten! Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!”

Everyone paused because no one knew if they should be delighted or insulted. Was this sarcasm or a serenade?

“In Dixie Land where I was born!” Gretchen continued, getting louder, beating out time with the heel of her hand. “Early on one frosty morn! Look away! Look away! Look away! Dixie Land!”

“That’s enough, Gretchen,” Mr. Lang said.

“What have you done to your hair!” Mrs. Lang gasped.

The ladies were suddenly abuzz, flustered, bumping into one another in the crowded hall, realizing they were in the middle of a family squabble.

“I wish I was in Dixie!” Gretchen shouted, swinging her arms wide. “Hooray! Hooray!”

“Don’t make me come up there,” Mr. Lang warned, his face turning purple. “Enough.”

“In Dixie Land I’ll take my stand/to live and die in Dixie!” Gretchen shouted.

Mr. Lang pushed past Abby and headed up the stairs. Abby felt someone claw her shoulder, and she turned to face Mrs. Lang’s wild eyes.

“Did you do that?” she demanded. Her lips were wet and her eyes glassy. She was loaded. “Did you ruin my daughter’s hair?”

“Away! Away!” Gretchen shouted. “Away down south in Dixie!”

“I’m not her babysitter,” Abby said, struggling out of Mrs. Lang’s grip.

“Away! Away! Away down south in DIXIEEEE!”

The sound of scuffling and a smack came from the top of the stairs. The ladies gasped. Abby looked up and saw Gretchen holding her cheek and staring at her father.

“That’s enough,” he said, then turned an apologetic smile to the hallway full of women.

Gretchen started up again. “Hooray! Hooray! To live and die—”

Mr. Lang grabbed her arm, yanking her to one side. Gretchen straightened and somehow Mr. Lang lost his footing. He slipped off the top step, arms windmilling, and tumbled backward. It happened in an instant, but Abby was sure she’d seen Gretchen push him.

Mr. Lang thudded into the wall, his breath slapped out of his lungs in a single shout. He landed hard on his butt, then fell backward down the stairs, his legs cartwheeling over his head. He almost took out Abby when he smashed into the landing.

A moment of silence followed. Gretchen stood frozen at the top of the stairs, her eyes blazing with wild triumph. Abby was white-knuckling the bannister with both hands. Mrs. Lang was opening and closing her mouth. The book club ladies were all frozen. No one dared to move.

Mr. Lang struggled into a seated position.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I—”

BANG!

Everyone turned toward the living room. The wall at the far end was made of glass, and lying at its base was a flapping pigeon that had broken its neck. Just as Abby was about to turn away, another BANG sounded and a seagull hit the window, smearing blood on the glass. TOK! TOK! TOK! Three sparrows smacked into the glass, one after the other.

One of the ladies began to recite the Lord’s Prayer as bird after bird flew into the window; within minutes the concrete walkway was littered with stunned seagulls wandering in circles, dragging broken wings, dead sparrows on their backs, talons slowly curling, twitching pigeons, a pelican in a heap, beak open unnaturally wide, slowly turning its head from side to side.

The house vibrated as birds dove into upstairs windows, the skylight, the side windows—one after the other without pause. It sounded as though invisible hands were knocking all over the house, saying, “Let me in, let me in.” Three of the women held hands and prayed. Mrs. Lang raced to the enormous window at the end of the room and waved her arms, trying to shoo away the birds so they wouldn’t fly into the glass, but they kept coming.

Two owls swooped out of the darkness and landed among the stunned and dying birds, their talons digging into soft bodies. They strutted through this morbid buffet, dipping their beaks into feathered breasts.

“Dear Jesus,” one of the ladies said.

The two owls cornered the pelican, which put up a fight until a third owl dove out of the shadows, talons pinning the pelican’s neck to the ground. It tried to get away, thrashing its wings, but the owls were pulling it to pieces. One of its wings streaked blood onto the huge window.