Bird box

“I talked to Duncan about it. My brother’s face was painted with ridiculous camouflage. By then he was truly infected with Kirk’s ravings. He didn’t believe Frank was a threat. Frank who bugled phrases like mass hysteria and psychosomatic idolatry as Kirk and the others pantomimed target practice, weaponless, in the basement. Everyone dismissed Frank as a useless pacifist.”

Gary runs his hands through his hair again.

“I set out to find out what Frank was up to in his room. I began looking for an opportunity to read his secret writings.

“What do you think would happen to a man who is already mad if he were to see the creatures outside? Do you think he’d be impervious to it, his mind already fractured? Or do you suppose his madness would reach another, higher echelon of insane? Perhaps the mentally ill will inherit this new world, unable to be broken any more than they already are. I don’t know any better than you do.”

Gary sips from a glass of water.

“My moment presented itself in this way. Kirk and the others were occupied in the basement. Frank was in the bath. I made my decision to snoop quickly. I entered his room and found his writings in the desk drawer. This was no little feat, as, by then, I was frightened of the man. The others may have dismissed him, found him laughable, but I suspected more brutish possibilities therein. I began reading. Soon I was overwhelmed with his words. No matter how long ago Frank had begun writing, it seemed impossible that he had already written this much. Dozens of notebooks, all in various colors, each more angry than the last. Tiny cursive couplets were followed by giant highlighted phrases, all declaring that the creatures were not to be feared. He referred to the rest of us as ‘those with small minds’ who ‘needed to be exterminated.’ He was dangerous, indeed. Suddenly, hearing him rise from the bath, I hurried out of his room. Maybe Duncan wasn’t so wrong to fall in with Kirk. Those notebooks showed me there were much worse reactions to the new world than his.”

Gary breathes deep. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

“When we woke up the next day, the drapes had been pulled down.”

Cheryl gasps.

“The doors were unlocked.”

Don starts to say something.

“And Frank was gone. He’d taken the notebook with him.”

“Oh fuck,” Felix says.

Gary nods.

“Was anybody hurt?” Tom asks.

Gary’s eyes grow watery, but he maintains himself.

“No,” he says. “Nobody. Which I’m sure Frank would have included in his notes.”

Malorie brings a hand to her belly.

“Why did you leave?” Don asks impatiently.

“I left,” Gary says, “because Kirk and the others talked at great length of tracking Frank down. They wanted to kill him for what he had done.”

The room is quiet.

“I knew then I had to get out. That house was ruined. Plagued. Yours, it seems, is not. For this,” Gary says, looking at Malorie, “I thank you for taking me in.”

“I didn’t let you in,” Malorie says. “We all did.”

What kind of man, she wonders, would leave his brother behind?

She looks to Don. To Cheryl. To Olympia. Has Gary’s story endeared him to those who voted not to let him in? Or has it justified their fears?

Insanity fuss.

Tom and Felix are asking Gary questions about his story. Jules pipes in, too. But Cheryl has left the room. And Don, who has something to say about everything, isn’t speaking much. He just stares.

A divide, Malorie thinks, is growing.

Exactly when it began doesn’t matter to her. It’s visible now. Gary brought with him a briefcase. A story. And, somehow, a divide.

twenty-nine

Malorie wakes with her eyes closed. It’s not as difficult to do as it once was. Consciousness comes. The sounds, sensations, and smells of life. Sights, too. Malorie knows that, even with your eyes closed, there is sight. She sees peaches, yellows, the colors of distant sunlight penetrating flesh. At the corners of her vision are grays.

It sounds like she’s outside. She feels cool open air on her face. Chapped lips. Dry throat. When is the last time she drank? Her body feels okay. Rested. There is a dull throbbing coming from somewhere to the left of her neck. Her shoulder. She brings her right hand to her forehead. When her fingers touch her face, she understands they are wet and dirty. In fact, her whole back feels wet. Her shirt is drenched in water.

A bird sings overhead. Eyes still closed, Malorie turns toward it.

The children are breathing hard. It sounds like they are working on something.

Are they drawing? Building? Playing?

Malorie sits up.

“Boy?”

Her first thought sounds like a joke. An impossibility. A mistake. Then she realizes it’s exactly what’s happening.

They’re breathing hard because they’re rowing.

“Boy!” Malorie yells. Her voice sounds bad. Like her throat is made of wood.

“Mommy!”

“What is going on?!”