Girl in Snow(57)

So alone. He was so alone. Cameron found a spot on the forest floor and curled up there, trying not to think about Dad and how huge he must have been, hitting that girl over and over again with his sweaty Dad hands. And then Cameron was stumbling back to the campsite, where everyone had gone to sleep; he didn’t know what time it was; he didn’t know whether hours had passed and, if so, how many. He could see everyone’s tents, like a little village in the moonlight. Next to Mrs. Macintosh’s tent, Pauly’s cage.

For a while, Cameron stood beside Pauly’s cage. Pauly slept, nestled into his own neck. Usually, Pauly made Cameron feel peaceful, but he could not fathom peace tonight.

Mom had always told Cameron it was important for a man to be gentle. Anger was unfamiliar to him. He picked up a stone from the ground near his shoe and squeezed it so hard its edges were sharp against the bones in his hands. He felt no better.

Quietly, Cameron unlatched Pauly’s cage. Pauly’s eyes opened. Like Cameron had done so many times before, he stuck his arm inside, making sure to keep his fingers as still as possible, marble Statue fingers. He waited. Cicadas sang their unflinching songs.

Pauly shifted his weight. Hopped lightly onto Cameron’s outstretched arm.

It occurred to Cameron that Pauly’s body was just like all the others in the world: the same stupid things kept him alive. Connected bones and muscle and tissue, and blood running through it all. These things were inconsequential—ephemeral, transitory, so easy to take.

Something collapsed inside Cameron. He was cupping Pauly’s quivering back with his right hand; he was thinking how nauseating this world was. Pauly’s wings were flapping now, he could sense something was wrong, but Cameron held them close to the bird’s fragile frame. Cameron was filled with something that felt too old for his body—it built and built and built, it was deeper than a sadness or a rage, it was a hunger and he could not rid himself of that bubble, that thrash. In one easy motion, Cameron curled his left hand over Pauly’s chaotic beak and his right across Pauly’s neck. He twisted, just once.

Later, Cameron would read a statistic saying that suburban house cats killed 3.7 billion birds a year, and he would feel a little better. He would read about sparrows, members of the passerine bird family. They didn’t need much food to survive. Then, he would Google How many sparrows exist in the world, and he wouldn’t find an answer, only that there were billions, too many to count. He would find a Bible quote. Matthew 10:31: Even the very hairs of your head are numbered. So don’t be afraid: you are worth more than many sparrows. He would dig out Dad’s copy of The Map of Human Anatomy and he would read about a different inch of the human body every night.

Mrs. Macintosh made the announcement the next day, as they were disassembling their tents. Sometime in the night, Pauly escaped, she said. He’s back in his natural habitat now.

Cameron remembered only fragments of the rest of this night. How the sun peeked nervously over the tips of the mountains, then cracked over the earth like an egg, running yellow over dewy morning. He remembered digging a shallow grave at the edge of the forest, just out of sight of the campground, while the other kids huddled in their sleeping bags. He remembered Pauly’s spine, thin as a toothpick, snapping between his fingers, oily feathers warm against his unfurled palm, and the distinct feeling of lightness that followed—like he had rid his own body and Pauly’s of the sickness that plagued the forest.



In the drawing at the back of Dad’s closet, Lucinda’s eyes were open.

She stared up at the ceiling, eyes like an abandoned home. Angry black slashes cut across her cheeks. Her hair was matted—charcoal had been ground violently into the paper, knotting her usually sleek hair in clumps. She was not smiling. Her neck was out of line with itself, like a horror movie. The background was black, pools of powder charcoal spread around her angelic, deformed head. In the top right corner, Cameron could make out a small, rigid bump. The carousel’s platform.

Two smudged wings jutted from the outer corners of her lashes. Those smiling eyes—it was Cameron’s thumbprint. His signature.

For the first time in three and a half years, Cameron started to cry. The tears were hot on his cheeks. They dripped onto the portrait, creating lakes where there had been only paper. Cameron could only do such realistic portraits of things he had seen, and Lucinda dead on the carousel was one of them.





Russ





Ronnie Weinberg had given them Lucinda’s diary.

I saw my art teacher with it, Ronnie had said.

Your art teacher?

Mr. O, Ronnie said. He teaches at Jefferson High.

Can you tell me exactly what you saw?

The diary was wrapped in a sweat shirt, and he carried it out to the parking lot. He put it in the glove compartment of his car.

You’re sure? Russ asked, though he’d slid behind the receptionist’s desk and one hand was already dialing the lieutenant.



The art teacher drove a dented Honda Civic. Detective Williams had wrenched open the door in the Maplewood Memorial parking lot. He would later claim the glove compartment was open already—they could see the purple suede book, lying in a sea of technical manuals and spare change.

They zipped the evidence tight in a plastic bag. Pulled off their latex gloves, clapping powder from their hands, which Detective Williams streaked across the thigh of his black pants.