On the mantel and bookshelf beside the table are over thirty hoods. Small, jewel-hued, snakeskin-crested, feather-topped, one entirely of rabbit fur that looks like a pom-pom. Dainty things, and an art the boy might like.
The front room has been empty all morning and still the air around the couch smells of his brother’s daughter’s son’s minty hair soap, or, loath to think, the boy’s perfume. A comfort in the scent, regardless.
The freshness in the air — the snow has brought down all the exhaust and dirt of the highway. Crows are about. A teed-off school of them alights in the poplars by the road and suddenly it’s as if the trees have leaves, there’s that many birds. They’ll need to piss off. They create too much distraction. Them, and Milo tearing down the fence around the slurry in the dairy yard — there’s a bad idea if she ever saw one.
“You know who else bred falcons?” she says. “Hitler. Bred them to kill Allied carrier pigeons. Nazis gave it up after bringing down their own doves.” She tucks her thumbs in the armpits of her vest. “Fuck him. We’re training the white.” Cody reaches his hand through the net wall and unlatches the door’s lock from outside. Hilarious. “Don’t let Axel catch you breaking in.”
He blushes and backs out. She grabs his sleeve. “God — I was kidding. Come in.” His jeans are wet and dark from the shin down. She’d send him back in for boots but doubts the kid has enough nerve left to ask Axel to loan a pair. Anyway, it looks like he’s wearing his entire wardrobe — jeans, kilt, hoodie, orange fleece under the hoodie. He’s probably layered enough socks in his sneakers to keep his feet dry.
“Go on. Grab a glove.”
He brushes his bangs out of his face, takes a step to the equipment shed, and pauses to bite a hangnail. His cheeks are still red, as well as his nose — he looks like he’s been scrubbed. His eyelashes — they’re long enough to paint with. What a sorry kid. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the Nazis to him. Germans would have been better. She should cut back on swearing, too. But, damn it, today she deserves her cuss words. Her poor truck. Fishtailed every tap to the brakes. The way she lifted off the slippery lick of driveway was plain spooky. Somewhere under the ice there should have been gravel, but the rear end spun and floated and, whoops, she was looking up at snow syphoning down from the clouds. And it’s still falling.
There’s a good, weighty, foot and a half of drift in front of the wood door to the flight pen. So Axel shovelled the screen door clear and fed the birds, but hasn’t handled them today. Nice. The white should still be hungry enough for a few short flights in the training yard. Nothing tricky. Post to fist. She shovels the snow from the pen and opens it.
The white sits neat on a low perch. Kendra pulls her glove out of her belt and flexes stiffness from the fingers — dried blood, cold leather, and yolk-sack. “Good girl,” she says. “Come see this.” She shoulder-checks. Cody’s picked up two gauntlet-cut gloves.
“They’re both lefts.” He holds the gloves toward her.
She reaches into a vest pocket and fiddles out a feed chick. “You just need one.” She rips a bit off and tucks it into her glove. “Hup, hup!”
The bird shifts on its perch but doesn’t make the jump to her arm. Only six inches. Come on. Black eyes — the only colour on it. White feet, white nails. Not even the usual faint turquoise dusting the root of the beak. And a female, a big girl. She calls again. The bird tilts her head but stays put. Okay. She rubs the chick against the white’s beak, then lets the bird step rather than hop. “Why’re you not jumping?” The grip on her glove—no lack of strength there. “Hey girl? Being lazy?” Wings spread around her fist in a feathery tent. Lovely. Just lovely.
She carries the bird to the centre post in the training tent and tucks another ripped chick into her glove.
What’s wrong? “Hup.” The bird does nothing. Not overfed. Axel was planning on training her today, so he wouldn’t have given enough to make her fat.
Cody tucks the wrist of his sweater under his glove. “What’s it doing?”
The wrong thing, to be honest. A bird sees the meat, it jumps to the meat. Especially after a taste. Natural. The second step in training after carting it around on the fist for a day, and Axel did that yesterday.
“She’s not doing much.” Could be the crows. Every so often a flock sights the farm and gets pissy. It was worse when she car-hawked — drove around tossing a red-tail out her window at ducks in sloughs off the highway. The crows had learned to recognize her truck, and the vehicle was always covered in turd. “Hold out your hand.” She lifts the white from the post and passes her to Cody.
“Wait.” Cody stretches back from his arm, like he’s trying to leave it.
“Don’t let go.” She wraps the jesses around his fist and thumb.
“Wait, please?”
“Hang on.” She unearths the pellet gun from the shed. The crows, attracted by her earlier collapse of the snow roof and by the falcon, have flocked over. Falcons from the other pens shriek and jingle. The white doesn’t seem to notice. She sits, imposing but docile, on Cody’s fist. The kid holds the bird out from his body like flames. Like a firework or a sparkler. Like it might go for the eyes.
“How’d you like the couch?” She got him set up last night before she left. He’d said, “You’re leaving?” And she’d replied, “What, you think I live here?” Not that the prospect of staying at Axel’s was disturbing; she’s stayed on the couch in other winters when the roads were bad. Fuck. She’ll have to stay today if she doesn’t get that truck out of the ditch. Huge piss-off. She loads the pellet gun and scopes a parked crow. Misses.
“All right,” he says.
“Survived the night, I suppose.” She lines up another shot. Shoots. The crows scatter from the netting and batter around the barn and house. “We can clean out that room.” The jerk birds land on the roof again and she takes a shot through the netting.
The boy’s bird arm sags and rises. He grabs the arm with his right hand and tries to keep the bird stable.
“Axel — I know he seems tough.” Is tough. “How long you here?”
The kid cringes — bends a bit at the knees — and says, “Well.” He lets go of his arm and tries to reach into his hoodie pocket.
“Just a minute.” She takes the white and sets it on the post. Then takes the postcard Cody offers and hands him the pellet gun. “Line up the notch with the groove.” The postcard hasn’t been through the mail, doesn’t even have a stamp. Golden lab puppies sit in a basket on the front of the card. Big yellow ribbons tied in bows round their necks. Corny, but cute. She flips it over.
Hey Cody, my best lad,
Hope you’re loving that farm! I want to be honest with you, but don’t worry, okay? I can feel your worry from here. Now here goes: my holiday is not a fun one. Can you believe it but there is more than one meaning of “lab?” Turns out I mixed up Labrador retriever with laboratory testing. I need to be in the hospital. I know you’re sick of that joke. It’s for me. Your Aunt Jen is here.
P.S. I’m glad you’re doing your school work.
The writing is tight and blue, cramped by the end, and the postscript is written around the edge of the card like a frame. Kendra flips the card back over. The puppies are all ears and oversized fluffy feet. The kid hasn’t taken a shot yet. “You won’t hit one. Go on.”