Page 4 of Four Calling Birds

“I’m gonna need help getting the package in,” he flicked a thumb over his shoulder to the Audi A6 with blacked out windows idling in my driveway.

I stepped out into the frozen night. The air smelled like it was about to snow, but not quite yet.

The stars twinkled overhead. The leaves had all turned and fallen, blanketing the ground with yellow, red, and brown foliage that I hadn’t bothered to rake up. There was no homeowner’s association to get on my ass out here, so I preferred the natural cycle of things. Other than mowing the lawn in the summer, I liked seeing the seasons this way. A stark reminder of the circle of life.

The tree branches of barren seasonal flora pointed towards the sky, silhouetted by moonlight, like the twisted, thorny forest within an old fairy tale. Why did I know that? Well, because my former wife liked that kind of shit. Loved them, in fact. Old books and stories were her hobby. Not the Disney shit, either. The Grimm, disgusting, violent, bloody tales that should give you nightmares.

I can’t imagine why that love affair didn’t last,I thought bitterly.

“The place is a shithole!” Brett said as he jaunted down my front porch steps towards the back seat of his car.

“Go fuck yourself, Brett.” I begrudgingly followed, looking over my shoulder to where I had opened up the pull-out couch and dressed it with fresh linens. That should be plenty comfortable for a man on the mend. I was going to stick him on the floor, but then I realized that it wasn’t his fault he was associated with this fucking asshole. My better angels took over.

Brett opened the back seat of his car, and I was floored. She was the last person I ever thought I’d see again. Charlotte. My little Lotte…

She was hunched to one side, a bloody bandage covered a half-naked torso, the jacket over her shoulders like a cape.

There was so much blood. Dried. And the yellow of iodine tainted her tan skin. Brown, gorgeous eyes peered up at me. Almond-shaped, and upturned at the ends. Her chapped lips opened in surprise and delight. Then she frowned.

Her bleary eyes were cloudy with pain as she looked up to Brett. Then to me.

“Is this a joke?” she whispered, her breaths labored and harsh. She sounded like she was in pain.

It was. It was a sick, sick joke. A hallucination. A bit of insanity. Maybe I was dead. Maybe I had hit my head while running after Bruce, and I was somewhere in a coma, and this was all a dream. I should pinch myself, to see if I still felt pain.

No. No, I had a better idea. I turned to Brett, and in one large motion, punched him right on his smug mouth. He fell backwards on impact, his hand flew to his nose, his other hand braced his fall as he slid on the gravel. He shook his head out, as if I had rung his proverbial bell. Blood dripped from his nostrils, into his mouth, outlining his teeth in red, as he looked up at me with a shit-eating grin.

In one smooth motion, he rolled up to his feet, put his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“Okay,” he said with a laugh, “maybe there’s a small catch.”

“You think?” I screamed, my voice echoing off the distant trees. Birds flew from their nests in fear, and I heard the distinct holler of a far-off coyote. “You son of a bitch.”

I swept into the back seat and picked the woman up bridal-style in one smooth motion. A move I had done before. Back when she was, in fact, my bride.

“Get the fuck off my property, before I shoot your sorry ass,” I warned.

“Meds and instructions for her care are in the jacket pocket. Happy Holidays!” Brett chuckled as he rounded his car to get to the driver’s seat. “See you, Charlie.”

Charlie? How dare he give her a nickname. And a shitty one at that.

My steps faltered halfway up the stairs. Itwasthe Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I had forgotten.

Holidays don’t have any significance when you’re a hermit. My parents lived nearby, but they were taking a cruise for Turkey Massacre Day, and would drop by when they got back. So, I was solo.

Wasbeing the operative word.

“Go fuck yourself, Brett.” I walked into the house, and kicked the door shut.

“Mack…” the woman in my arms whispered, as her head lolled onto my shoulder, her eyes shuttering closed.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I whispered into her hair.

She smelled like antibiotics and disinfectant. Like she had just gotten out of surgery.

She was completely asleep by the time I got her into the main bedroom. I tucked her into the bed, pulling off the jacket from around her and letting it fall on the floor. The distinct sound of pill bottles rattled on the new hardwood. I tucked her under my red, plaid quilt, pushing her hair from her brow. I cupped her cold cheek, running a thumb over the smooth skin. There were wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Her shoulder had some marks and scars that I didn’t remember.

But in so many ways, she hadn’t changed at all.

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