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If on Thursday the CrowsAuthor(s): Timothy WalshSource: The North American Review, Vol. 292, No. 3/4, The Annual Summer Fiction DoubleIssue (May - Aug., 2007), pp. 3-7Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25478894 .

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If on Thursday the Crows A STORY BY TIMOTHY WALSH

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By the time he was seven, Stephen had gotten so used to

the crows that he expected one to be there whenever he looked back over his shoulder or up at a tree. The

crows always followed him. Ever since he was in kindergarten, crows would appear in the sky wherever he was. They'd perch on the chain-link fences near where he played kickball and settle in the birch trees outside his classroom windows. On his

way home, the crows would call out raucously from the branches of oaks as he passed by on the walkway below.

By his ninth birthday, Stephen knew he was king of the crows. It was not something he could tell anyone. It was not

something anyone would understand. His mother, he knew,

noticed the crows?how could she not??but she never said

anything. "Damn crows," she would say once in a while, as if everyone

had a constant escort of crows.

Now he was almost ten?just a few more days to his

birthday!?and Stephen realized for the first time that one

day soon he would be big. In the murky haze beyond his tenth birthday, he realized that at some point he would become a grown-up?that he would walk around, tall and

serious, and look down at the small children that had sprung up to take his place.

Stephen had jet-black eyes and jet-black hair. His eyebrows were thick and black and grew together above his nose. His hair was long and black, and the way it tufted over his ears felt to him like feathers, like crow feathers.

Stephen had bad eyes. His glasses were thick and awkward. Without them, he could hardly see at all. When he took his

glasses off, he looked out at the world and saw a mass of

shapes and colors, contours and blobs of brightness. It was

not a world you could make your way through easily, but it

FIRST PLACE KURT VONNEGUT FICTION PRIZE

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was a world that seemed more his own than the world he saw through his glasses.

Sometimes, walking home from school, he'd take off his

glasses and follow the calls of the crows. He'd look down toward his feet at the blurry sidewalk below him or off into the haze of trees and sky, listening to the traffic swoosh past, close by in the street. He'd walk across the enormous green lawn of the

nursing home where a cluster of tall

pines made a sort of small woods or

make-believe forest. Without his

glasses, the tall, tapering pine trees looked like towers and spires, like an enchanted evergreen castle.

Stephen would stop in the pines to

play. The crows would fly with him and settle high up in the trees where the wind made the sharp needles sing. Stephen

would collect pinecones into piles until the sticky resin coated his hands and turned his fingers black. He'd walk around on all fours like a forest creature, the soft and spongy pine needle carpet reassuring him how wonderful it would be to have four legs. Usually, Mr. Frederickson would be out on the patio, and

he'd call down to Stephen. "Stephen, is that you? Come up and sit awhile." Mr. Frederickson was old and walked with a cane. He could

not see very well, even with his glasses, and could not hear well. He had family in Virginia who visited once a year.

Stephen would sit with Mr. Frederickson and they'd talk. The crows would swoop over from the pines and settle on the

nursing home roof.

Mr. Frederickson would talk about whatever came to mind,

mostly things he remembered from when he was young. "In my day, there was no Little League," he'd say. "We'd just

choose up teams and play. No uniforms. No coaches and

umpires. Just us kids. It was more fun that way. Now every

thing is organized and scheduled. Kids' games should be for

kids, not for parents."

Stephen would sit in the metal patio chair or water the red

geraniums in the clay pots. When he walked home, he did not take the most direct

route, but went a more roundabout way along the lake so he could walk by Thor's house.

Thor was an old golden retriever. Mrs. Wentzel said he was

eighteen, which was a lot in dog years. Thor had gray hair all around his snout and moved slow. But Thor would come

slowly down the porch stairs as Stephen approached and would stick his head through one of the gaps in the white picket fence.

Stephen would sit on the sidewalk and pet Thor, and Thor would stretch out on the other side of the fence, his head

resting on Stephen's knee.

Sometimes they'd sit there for a long time. While he petted Thor, Stephen would tell him little things about his school day.

"Hector pushed me at recess," he'd say, or, "Mr. Paulson

gave me a prize for my weather poster," or, "We had a fire drill

Sometimes they'd call down to him. As he walked along the streets, they'd swoop from tree to tree. . . .

I

during science class today. A fire truck came, and a fireman came and gave everybody lollipops."

The crows would settle in the trees or on the garage and roof gutters. If Stephen stayed a long time, they'd glide from tree to tree and call to each other and sometimes call to him that he'd be late.

Most days, Stephen would play with Lucas and sometimes Simon. Lucas

lived just a few doors down. They'd play basketball or whiffle ball. Lucas had his own dog. Sir Galahad was

mostly cocker spaniel but was really a mutt. When he wasn't with Lucas, Sir Galahad was usually out on the front lawn chasing squirrels or digging holes

in the wood chips beneath the yews. He was on a long leash that did not let him quite reach the sidewalk, but allowed him to have the run of the grass.

Lucas and Stephen would sit on the front stoop and throw a stick for Sir Galahad. Sir Galahad barked a lot more than Thor, but it was a happy bark. Sir Galahad always liked to wrestle for the stick before allowing Stephen to have it back. Stephen could feel the small bundle of fur-covered muscles tugging at the stick, pulling him forward, and it made him laugh as if someone were tickling him.

Back home, his mother would usually leave a note about what he should eat:

"Microwave fish sticks in freezer." "Leftover spaghetti. Microwave 2 minutes."

"PB&J or make tuna."

His mother worked at least until six, and sometimes she had to work late. Sometimes she went out with people. Usually, she

was back by Stephen's bedtime, but sometimes she called from wherever she was to remind him when he had to be in bed and to let him know she'd be home later.

"I love you," she'd say.

"Love you too," Stephen would say, running the syllables together as if it were one word.

On Monday, his mother was home right at six. She made

bagel pizzas and fruit salad.

"Just two more days to my birthday," Stephen said. "And just five more until my birthday party."

"That's right," his mother said as she spooned out the syrupy fruit into their bowls. They were having the party on Saturday to make it easier.

"Where do the days of the week come from?" Stephen took a

bite of his bagel pizza and wiped the sauce from his lip. "I mean

the names for the days?" "I don't know," his mother said, flipping open a magazine

and turning a page. "From history, I guess." "Mr. Paulson said that Thursday means 'Trior's day,' and

Monday means moon's day,' but he couldn't remember the rest."

"I'm sure Mr. Paulson is right," his mother said.

"Why are there just seven days, and then they begin over

again?" Stephen asked.

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TIMOTHY WALSH

"I don't know." His mother flipped another page. "What did Mr. Paulson say?"

"I didn't ask."

"Why don't you ask him tomorrow?" his mother suggested. Stephen poured himself more milk without spilling. "If a bird flew in the same direction for a long, long time, it

would end up back where it started, right?" Stephen asked. "I suppose it would," his mother said. "Then maybe that's why the days come around again." His mother smiled. She reached over and tousled his hair.

"Stephen, I swear, you're too smart for me."

Later, his mother put on a sparkly dress and stood in front of the mirror fixing her hair and putting on lipstick.

"I'm going out with Vivian," she said to Stephen, who was

watching cartoons on TV. "Just for a couple of hours."

"Okay," Stephen said, not looking away from the TV. "You be in bed by ten, okay?" "Okay

Up in his room, Stephen made a castle with his Legos. Why did Sunday go back into Monday again? Why didn't Sunday go into something else? Why should the days make a circle? The week must be round, like the world, Stephen thought. Round like a bicycle tire.

Stephen could just barely remember his father. He remem bered him as somebody big and strong, but he could not remember his face. When he looked at old photos, he could

pick out his father, but the face did not trigger anything in him. He vaguely remembered when his father used to take him for one weekend a month. But that was long ago. Now he told everyone his father was in Alaska, though he really did not know where his father was.

"He's in Alaska," he'd say, "working on a fishing boat."

Each time he said it, it became more real to him, more and more vivid, so that it gradually became more of a memory than something made up. He'd seen a show on television

about the fishing fleet in Alaska?so dangerous and exciting and full of adventure. He thought if his father was gone, this was the sort of thing he should be gone for?almost like a soldier fighting a war on the far side of the world.

"He's off in Alaska," Stephen would say, and he said it so much that he could picture it as if he had a drawer full of letters and postcards in his room.

He remembered Bessie, his father's big black dog. Stephen remembered Bessie better than he remembered his father. Bessie always had a slobbery green tennis ball that she wanted

you to throw. Over and over again, she'd chase it down and

bring it back. The cold, slobbery ball was yucky to hold but fun to throw.

After school on Tuesday, Mrs. Wentzel let Stephen take Thor for a walk. She took the leash from the hook by the back door and attached it to Thor's collar.

"Don't go too far, now," she said. "He's an old dog, so take it

nice and slow and be careful crossing at the corners."

Thor and Stephen walked off together, the dog staying close by his side, matching Stephen's pace, step for step.

Stephen loved taking Thor for walks. A little ahead of them, the crows swooped from tree to tree like an advance guard.

Later, Stephen told Mr. Frederickson that Wednesday was his birthday.

"So tomorrow you'll be ten?" Mr. Frederickson said. "Ten is

an important birthday."

"Why is it important?" "Because once you're ten, you can never go back." Mr.

Frederickson laughed. "Once you're ten, you're in double

digits forever. Someday, you'll look back and think about how nice those single digits were."

Stephen picked up the square-front broom he liked so much and began sweeping up the patio. Mr. Frederickson had his garden cart out, which was full of dark, black dirt. He

pulled a plant out of its pot and loosened the roots with his

fingers. "What's that?" Stephen asked.

"I'm repotting the bay tree," Mr. Frederickson said as he filled a newer, larger pot partway with the dark, black soil.

"Why do you have to repot it?" Stephen asked. "It was beginning to get pot-bound," Mr. Frederickson

explained. "I could tell it needed a larger pot." "What's 'pot-bound'?" Stephen asked.

"That's when a plant's roots completely fill the pot, and

they have no more room to grow. You need to give it a bigger pot if you want it to keep on growing." Mr. Frederickson

placed the bay tree in the larger pot. "Here," he said to

Stephen, handing him his garden trowel. "You can fill the pot with soil all around the edges."

Stephen carefully shoveled soil into the new pot. "There," Mr. Frederickson said as he gently tamped down

the soil with his fingers. "Now you can water it. Water it good so that the soil fills in any air pockets." Air pockets, Stephen thought as he watered. Air pockets. A crow landed on the lamppost not far away, and three or four

others filled the sky between the nursing home and the pines. Mr. Frederickson looked at the crows. "Alice Erfurth died

last night," he said.

"She did?" Stephen stopped watering. Alice was very old. Once in a while, she sat out on the patio covered with blan

kets even on a warm day. "What did she die of?" "Old age." Mr. Frederickson shrugged. "We all die someday,

sooner or later. It's just the way it is. We all get old. Everyone here at the home is old, so we're all closer to it. It's just the way it is. Most nights, an ambulance comes."

Stephen picked up the square-front broom again and continued sweeping.

All the way home, Stephen kept thinking of the idea of air

pockets. There was air in his pockets. There was air everywhere. Lucas was out front with Sir Galahad throwing a stick.

Stephen stayed out playing with them for a while. For dinner, they had fish sticks. "Why are there so many fish

in Alaska?" Stephen asked his mother. "I don't know." She spooned out some tartar sauce on his

plate. "Maybe they like the colder water."

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"Can a tree ever get pot-bound if it's planted outside?"

Stephen asked.

"No," his mother said. "Because it's not in a pot, is it?"

Stephen looked out the window and thought about the classroom globe in Mr. Paulson's class. Wasn't the world like a

pot? Like a big, big pot for all the trees? Outside, a crow landed on Mrs. Helgesen's bird feeder next door and looked in at Stephen. The crow cawed to tell him he was right?that the world was a big flowerpot for all the trees.

On Wednesday morning, Stephen woke up and his first

thought was today I am ten. It's my birthday, and now I am ten. His mother made him a special lunch with a chocolate

cupcake. The cupcake was from a two-pack. "You can have the

other one tonight at dinner," his mother said. Most mornings, his mother would rush around to make his

lunch, still in her robe, her hair in curlers. Besides the diago nally cut sandwich, she would include a small bag of chips, a

bag of baby carrots, and another of cookies?though today it was a cupcake. She always sent him off with a good lunch and took the time to turn down the neck of the brown paper bag so it always made a perfect handle.

Stephen poured himself a bowl of cereal without spilling. He read the comics, humming as he read, hardly tasting his cereal as his eyes walked him from one cartoon panel to the next.

Most of the other kids arrived at school on yellow buses, but Stephen lived close enough to walk. As soon as he stepped out the front door with his backpack slung on his shoulders, he took a deep breath and looked up. Every morning, the crows were there, waiting for him up in the trees. Sometimes

they were up in the big elm right in front of their house. Sometimes they were farther down the block. But they were

always there, somewhere close, waiting for him.

Sometimes they'd call down to him. As he walked along the streets, they'd swoop from tree to tree like an escort of fighter planes. The crows made him feel good. They made it so he never felt alone. He knew the crows were there to protect him,

to protect him as a band of knights protected their king. Sometimes, he'd look up at the crows and give commands.

"Fly!" he'd shout?but never out loud, only so that the crows

could hear?and the crow on the branch overhead would

spread its wings and fly. "Come!" he'd command silently, and from somewhere a crow would come, settling on a branch

somewhere near.

Stephen liked walking to school. He liked walking through the

neighborhood past all the familiar houses. They seemed like a roomful of old people slunk down in comfortable chairs. The windows of the house fronts looked like eyes, the front doors like

noses, the front steps, lips that smiled as he passed. After school on Wednesday, Thor was not on the back porch.

Stephen stood awhile at the white picket fence, but Thor did not come out. Mrs. Wentzel's car was not in the driveway, so he

walked on, feeling as though he'd lost something. Stephen walked back to the nursing home, across the

enormous green lawn over to the castle of pines. Mr.

Frederickson was not out on the patio. He was usually only

there sometimes, but Stephen was worried. He felt the near

ness of what the crows were there to protect him from. He sat on Lucas's front stoop throwing a stick for Sir Galahad.

Stephen was worried about Thor and Mr. Frederickson. Not even Sir Galahad's happy barking helped. Lucas came out and asked if he wanted to play basketball, but Stephen said no.

He warmed up the leftover macaroni and cheese, as his mother's note instructed, and ate it while he watched TV.

At 6:30, his mother called to say she'd be late. "Make sure you're in bed by ten o'clock," she said.

"Okay," Stephen said.

"I love you," his mother said.

"Love you too."

When Stephen hung up the phone, the silence felt not as comfortable as before the phone rang.

By eleven o'clock, his mother had still not returned. Stephen lay awake in bed with the covers drawn up around his chin. There was a big moon outside that filled the room with powdery light. The red numbers of the clock beside the bed made him think of when his mother washed his cut finger in the sink.

Stephen could not stop thinking about Thor and Mr. Frederickson. What if Mrs. Wentzel had to take Thor to the vet? What if the ambulance had come for Mr. Frederickson? From somewhere far away, he heard a siren echoing through the night. He knew the siren was for somebody. With his

mother driving the empty streets alone, his bed felt smaller and smaller. The longer he stayed awake, the smaller it felt? small enough that something could easily devour it, snapping it up as easy as a cracker in the darkness.

Do the days really go around, or do we just think they do? What if they really went straight, forever and ever? What if

they didn't come back to where they started but just kept on

going? What if each day had its own name, not the same names repeating over and over? But the days do circle back around. Everyone knew that. Just like a bicycle wheel.

When the clock said 12:03, he put his glasses on and got up from bed. He walked over to the window and looked out. It

was still warm enough that the window was open a crack. He

could feel the night seeping into the room through the screen,

ruffling past his pajama legs. There was a big tree just a little

way from the house. It moved in the breeze, swaying slowly like a boat on the ocean. The crows were out there some

where, he knew, somewhere close by, up in the trees resting while he slept inside.

It was after midnight, so he knew it was Thursday now, now

that the clock had circled back around. He could feel that the crows were restless outside, that they were trying to tell him

something. If on Thursday the crows wanted to tell him

something, what would it be? Thursday was Thor's day. The

way the days circled around and around like a merry-go round could make you dizzy just to think about it. He put on his bathrobe and slipped on his sneakers. Out on

the front steps, he looked up and down the street. One car came by, but it kept on going. He watched the red taillights disappear around the corner. Overhead, he could hear a soft

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TIMOTHY WALSH

fluttering of wings. As he started walking down the sidewalk, I

there was a flapping commotion up in the trees. On either side of

him, he could feel the quick, dark shapes darting against the dark

blue light of the sky. As Stephen walked past the houses, the dark windows

looked like shut eyelids. The round moon glowed through the trees, bright as the nightlight on the landing of their

stairs. The telephone poles against the sky looked like they were trying hard to keep their tangle of wires from falling to

the ground. When he got near Thor's house, Stephen slowed down. The

white picket fence looked strange in the moonlight. Then

Thor barked, and Stephen smiled. "It's me, Thor," Stephen called in a loud whisper. Thor did

not bark again. When Stephen reached the fence, Thor was already down the

stairs. Thor stuck his head through a gap in the slats as if it were

after school, and Stephen petted him. "Good dog," he whispered. "Good dog." Stephen eased open the gate and got the leash from the hook by

the back door. "Here we go," he said to Thor as he fastened the leash to his collar.

Stephen was careful to close the gate behind them. He

looked up at the sleeping house and thought of Mrs. Wentzel

bundled in blankets, breathing the dark air. As Thor and

Stephen walked along the sidewalk, Stephen could see the

quick shapes of crows streaming past the bright face of the moon. Tonight there were so many.

They walked past the school, past the empty playground, past the wide lawn of the nursing home. They turned down toward the lake and walked right up to the big rocks on the shore. Little waves lapped against the stones. The waves made

a happy sound, like Sir Galahad's barking. Thor sat down and leaned against Stephen's leg. The moonlight made the water

look like diamonds, like his mother's sparkly dress. You would never guess the lake was blue during the day.

They stood looking out across the wide water at the tiny

buildings and towers so far away on the other shore. The wind was colder off the lake, so Stephen pulled his bathrobe

together at the neck. He took his glasses off, and all the lines and sharp edges of the world disappeared. The little dots and

glints of light became explosions of color, as if there were

frozen fireworks all around him. He slipped his glasses in his bathrobe pocket.

Alaska must be far away, Stephen thought, very far. But if

you just kept on walking, it must be a place you could get to. In Alaska, Thor would not die. It was so cold there?colder than your refrigerator?that everything lasted almost forever. It was a place the crows could certainly get to.

Stephen was sure they knew the way. And if you just kept going, you'd end up back where you started, just like the days of the week.

"Come on," Stephen said to Thor.

Together, they walked on, the dog leading, Stephen holding tight to the leash. I

CHRISTINE STEWART-NUNEZ

Women's Day at the Bath

Tarsus, Turkey

We are offerings this time. Unwrapped under a stone dome,

our glossed bodies on heated marble, sheets hewn by hands

two-thousand years ago.

Veils of steam over

lips, noses, eyes?

our prayers vapor

pressing an oval skylight the width of a face.

Two women emerge,

mauve slips cellophane swathing wide buttocks

and stomachs, brown areolas

pressed flowers. Baskets

of cloths and soap sway

from reddened hands. These women wash us,

scrub with rough sponges

from back to ankle until skin is pink and supple, smooth like polished stone.

They offer to shave thighs, shins, any dark hair found between waist and toes

to make us innocent

again, to erase evidence

of sin as if the prints

of our lovers' lips, a map of last night's love, had surfaced with steam.

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