The Carving Circle Read online

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Birdie said.

  “I needed to be somewhere else and the name Callisto means something to me.”

  “Callisto. Ursa Major. Now let me think. You part bear or something?” Birdie said and Jacques laughed.

  “That’s about right. Now, let me think. Are you part witch or something?” Jacques said and it was Birdie’s turn to laugh.

  “Touché,” she said. “But seriously, this isn’t Canada. You’re a generation removed from Klan activities, so I mean it when I say, be careful.”

  “If it’s so bad then why are you here?” He asked.

  “I’m here because I was born here, plus, I’m needed,” she said.

  “By whom?”

  “Everybody. Right now, you. Tomorrow, who knows?”

  She threw her hands to heaven.

  *

  He was numb for days, too numb to dream, to create, to resurrect. He mended and painted the house. He planted a garden and ordered a shipment of logs. He went around touching things, stones, flowers, doorknobs and asking for forgiveness.

  Birdie brought him groceries and he cooked and ate his meals in silence. He walked through the night until he was tired enough to sleep. It was as if his dreams wanted him alive before they’d enter him. They waited until he could feel again, until his awareness was sharpened by grief, each hair on his body like a small steel receptor ready to dig the dream in, so that when it arrived it stayed with him always, always the same dream:

  He’s watching a rabbit twitching in a field. A black dog jumps from the woods. It chases the rabbit around and around him in circles. He can’t run away. He can’t move. He looks down. Two mouths have swallowed his feet and are slowly chomping up his legs. The dog finally catches the rabbit and drops it at his side. He looks again. It’s not the rabbit at all, but a hand with stars for knuckles, spit laced and gnawed.

  10.

  Arlo Donnelly sat in the window of Rosa’s Café digesting the fried egg sandwich he’d just eaten for breakfast and drank the rest of his coffee. At 8:00am he wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, got up with a groan, put his Sheriff’s hat on and walked across the street to CC’s Grocery Store.

  “Morning,” said Calem Carson McKinney III. “Morning,” replied Arlo.

  CC’s had been in the McKinney family for three generations and, for inheriting purposes, every boy in the McKinney family had to have the CC initials. CC’s great-grandfather, Conway Cooper, began the store as an outpost when Callisto was a newly formed river town. Arlo grabbed a basket and stood beside Mrs. Johnson in the bread aisle.

  “Lord CC, how many types of bread do you need?”

  Arlo stood with his hands on his hips, making his belly look even bigger. His skin was the exact color of his beige uniform. His badge flashed like a silver nipple on his chest.

  “Got to cater for all kinds these days,” said CC.

  “I’ll say. Whole wheat? Who eats this crap?”

  “You do. That’s what Elora buys,” said CC. Elora was Arlo’s wife.

  “No kiddin’? Well I’m getting white. I like white. Whole wheat’s for Communist’s,” he said and CC laughed.

  “How is Elora anyway?’ CC said.

  “Good, real good, apart from having the flu again and all, but, yeah, good,” he said and flung the bread into his shopping cart.

  “She must be sick. I never thought I’d see you doing women’s business,” said CC.

  “Yeah, well. When needs must,” he said, filling the cart with tins of baked beans. Hope, CC’s daughter, noticed Arlo’s knuckles were swollen. She looked at her father, but he avoided her gaze.

  “Cheer up,” CC smacked Arlo on the back. “She’ll be jumping outta bed just as soon as she sees you only brought back beer, beans and white bread.”

  “She better be. Hey, speaking of Red’s, you seen any sign of our new resident? Thought maybe he might’ve needed some milk by now.”

  “You mean the one who bought the ol’ Zimmerman place?”

  “That’s right,” said Arlo as he began to unload the groceries.

  “Hope get over here and help this man. He can barely reach past his breakfast,” CC laughed.

  “Watch your mouth. I’ll have you locked up,” Arlo seemed relieved the subject had turned from Elora.

  “Why? You think he’s a Communist?” CC asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know, he’s Canadian ain’t he? And French. So I’m using my powers of estimation,” Arlo said, took a mint from his shirt pocket and popped it in his mouth.

  “Well, what I can’t figure out is why on earth would he buy a place at the dog end of nowhere?” Mrs. Johnston said, who, until then, had been making a face-straining decision between a blue and a red dish towel. “Lord, the price of livin’ these days,” she added, looking at the price tags.

  “That’s a beautiful house,” said Hope. She returned to the cash register and began ringing up Arlo’s purchases.

  “It’s haunted,” said Mrs. Johnston.

  “Yeah, but in a peaceful way,” said Hope and her father gave her a look that said, no backtalk young lady.

  “Never mind that, it’s next to that mad ol’ bag Birdie. That woman wears men’s work boots for Christ’s sake. That witch would put the heebie-jeebies in me. Plus it ain’t modern” said Arlo sucking his mint through his teeth while Hope bagged his groceries as well.

  “No, but it’s close to the river,” said Hope.

  “There’s hardly a track that runs out there. What’ll he do when the rain comes or the snow?” CC said.

  “Oh yes, the snow, think of it,” said Mrs. Johnston. She stood wringing her hands behind Arlo.

  “Was a time when tracks weren’t important if you were by the river, but river days are done, long gone since they built the highway, now a person needs a car and a reliable track.”

  “Oh yes, the highway. Harold services the car every year, I can’t fault him,” said Mrs. Johnston.

  “Good man,” Arlo said and CC hummed in agreement.

  “But do you know what I heard?” Mrs. Johnston’s voice was just above a whisper. “You’ll never believe this. But. I heard he was an artist.”

  “An artist! See? What the hell’d I tell you? A damn Red! I’ll ask Jimmy about him this afternoon,” Arlo picked up his bag of groceries.

  “No need to wait,” said CC, standing by the window. “Mail van just pulled up outside the bank.”

  *

  Jimmy was unloading some packages when Arlo tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey Jimmy, you met our new friend yet?”

  “Sure have,” Jimmy said smirking so much that Arlo thought about smacking that smirk right off his face.

  “Well, what’s the verdict?” Arlo asked.

  “You’re not gonna believe this, but he’s a black man.”

  “I hope to hell you’re talking about intentions.”

  “No Sir. He’s colored.”

  “Colored? What? Nancy told me his grandma was so French she needed a goddamn translator when she called up here, helped him buy the house and all. He’s the grandson of a goddamn French General with a bank account to match and you’re telling me he’s a nigger?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Well, shit, wonders never cease.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  “Nothing but my oath and duty Jimmy. If he orders anything I wanna know about it.”

  “Oh, he’s been ordering all kinds of stuff.”

  “Has he now, such as?”

  “Such as a shipment of timber logs.”

  “What the hell does he need them for?”

  “Gladys at the telephone office told me, that he told her, he was a wood carver of all things.”

  “Yeah I heard he was some sort of artist.”

  “I’ll be damned, a creative nigger, whatever next?”

  “Took the words out my mouth, Jimmy. What. Ever. Next.”

  11.

  The Donnellys lived in a single story ranc
h with yellow siding and red shutters. It was down a dead end on an acre plot at the edge of town and where the road ended a tree line began that led to the river.

  They had a willow tree that shielded the back of the house from view, beyond which you could see the church steeple and the water tower. An unused swing hung from a low branch. The police station was only a ten-minute walk away, but Arlo always drove.

  Hope made sure his car was gone. It had been a few hours since she’d bagged his groceries and he was definitely at the station by now. After this, I’ll go to the river, she told herself. The water would look spectacular on a day like today. The waves shining like scattered coins.

  It gave her courage.

  She took a deep breath and walked around to the back door. The windows were dark. The legs of a plastic yard duck spun in the wind like a cartoon character going nowhere.

  Elora had been a few years older than Hope in High School, back when she was vibrant. She had sewed her own floral and polka dot skirts and designed the layout for the school yearbook, but nothing compared to her singing. She had the most beautiful voice Hope had ever heard.

  There was talk of her going to college before her father died of bone cancer. It was a sudden and painful death, and after the funeral, Elora and her mother went to stay with family in Minnesota. They didn’t know how long they’d be gone.

  Mr. Harris, their neighbor, dutifully collected her post every day. A year went by. There were rumors that Elora had fallen into the “wrong crowd,” and was spending all her time in Minneapolis nightclubs.

  Her mother never recovered and died of a heart attack. Elora returned to Callisto to plan the funeral. Mr. Harris gave her two garbage bags of post to sort through, and so, Arlo Donnelly found her sitting beside a pile of letters on the living room floor. He’d brought over the house deeds for her to sign, and a month later they were engaged.

  He was fifteen years her senior and had been married before, to Louise, a good Lutheran until she ran off with the volleyball coach. As soon as his divorce was final, Arlo and Elora were married. People shook their heads with pity, but nobody said an actual word. Arlo was known for his temper, which was good for policing, but not for marriage. He came from a family of mean stock. It was said that his daddy thought nothing of cutting the tongue out of a noisy mule.

  Elora made her own wedding dress, and there was no sign of her outlandish ways on their wedding day or any day thereafter. Her dress was ivory lace, long sleeved with a simple V in the front. It showed off her dark hair. She used the same lace to make the curtains in their bedroom window, which just goes to show, everyone said, even a damn warthog like Arlo was worthy of somebody’s love.

  She got pregnant soon after the wedding. They bought a swing and had a BBQ. She sewed blue and yellow and pink bunting to hang in the yard. She filled little jars with homemade lemonade and gave it to the children to drink with red and white straws. There were steaks, cakes and cigars. Hope remembers how Arlo had kept his hands on Elora’s stomach the whole time, proving his tender ownership.

  The first miscarriage was public and awful. The church group sent flowers to the hospital, held hands and prayed. The second was talked about in whispers and the third was hardly mentioned. She had become irreversibly tragic. To speak of a dead fetus begets superstition and people avoided it altogether. By then, the curtains were always drawn and Elora would be missing for days, the yellow bruising on her skin fading like a forgotten dream. She never mentioned it. She still held his hand. She said things like, “there’s time for us yet,” and so people decided to leave well enough alone.

  Hope knocked on the screen door. It was open and she peeked in. “Hello?” The kitchen was dark, but for the dim lines of light that laddered the closed shutters. Hope saw Arlo’s groceries unpacked on the kitchen table. There was a movement at the table as Elora scurried to cover herself, and in doing so, dropped a towel of ice she’d been holding against her cheek, on the floor. “Shit.” She reached forward to grab them, grunted in pain and shook her hair in front of her face, but it didn’t cover her eye. It was as round as a black and violet baseball.

  “Oh Elora,” Hope knelt beside her, picked up the ice cubes and gave them to her. “I’m so sorry Elora.”

  Elora placed the ice inside the towel and back over her eye. Her lip was split under her nostril and her dressing gown was stained with blood. She stank of heat and sweat. She turned away.

  “Don’t. Just go away,” she sounded a bit like a ventriloquist when she spoke because her lip was so swollen.

  “Elora I can’t leave you like this. I can’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she completely turned around in her chair.

  “Nor should you,” Hope said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “What’s to understand? I can see, can’t I? Elora, it’s insane! What can I do? Just tell me. How can I help you?”

  “By leaving,” she whispered.

  “I’m not leaving until you let me help you,” said Hope.

  Elora turned to face her. She looked as though she belonged in a morgue, as though she were a creature, not a woman. Hope had to force herself not to look away.

  “This whole situation is driving him crazy. If it could be different, he would be different. I know it. I know he wants to change,” she readjusted the icepack on her eye and winced. “There is a way. It’s a long shot, but I’d do anything. If you want to help, go to Birdie’s.”

  “Mad old Birdie’s?” Hope interrupted.

  “Do you want to help me or not? Yes. Mad Birdie’s. Tell her I need her. Tell her I’m ready now, that I’ve reached my point, ask her to prepare for me. I’ll come tomorrow night. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes, but what will you do in the meantime?”

  “What I always do. Just speak to her, please, and swear you’ll tell no one. Do you understand? My life depends on it, Hope. No one. Swear it.” Her eye looked jellied, fake, as though she could pop it out and bounce it around the room as a Halloween trick.

  “I swear.”

  “Good, thank you. Thank you so much. Now go. Quickly, before he comes back.”

  Spittle had gathered in the sides of her mouth. It was hard for her to swallow. Her breath made the whole room smell of hot copper. Hope was happy to leave. She had become aware of the shadowed hallway, the shadowed living room and the inability to see beyond a window. She wanted light and moving water. She got up, touched Elora’s shoulder, opened the screen door and walked outside. She didn’t start running until she reached the end of the road. She didn’t want Elora to hear her fleeing across the gravel.

  12.

  Elora stared at the place where Hope had been squatting for a long time, outside she could hear the plastic duck’s feet spinning and the irregular squeak of the swing, then she got up and made herself some coffee.

  She slowly climbed the stairs to the attic. The roof was pitched and the boxes of her parent’s house were tucked inside the places too small to stand inside. She pulled back the curtains of the single window. The swell of her face and its ugliness did not surprise her. It was a face she rarely owned. It changed like a barometer around Arlo.

  Actually, it erased. So looking at her reflection was like looking at someone else, it was like feeling from someone else; looking through glass is a way to view things safely. She’d spent years looking at herself through a closed window. Disturbed dust settled in a film across her coffee. She wiped her finger across a box, all of this she thought, the erosion of me, collecting. She balanced her mug on the windowsill, opened a box in the corner and took out a small vial. Against the window it streaked the sunlight blue.

  She had used the sleeping powders before, years ago, to ease her father’s pain, but also, more recently, on Arlo. “Stuff’s like rat poison,” she remembered Birdie saying as she mixed it for Elora’s father. “It never loses its potency, so keep it safe.”

  It was not that she wanted Arlo dead, although she’d thought a
bout it often enough, it was simply that she wanted peace in the evening, especially if he was drinking. She’d pour him a scotch, slip in the powder and wait for him to start snoring. Was it so much to ask to walk by the river, to sing, unafraid?

  When she was young she had wanted to be a part of something unreservedly magical. Not beautiful, not lavish, nor even perfect, but miraculous the way cave drawings are miraculous, because they prove our capacity to evolve, and lure us into believing our own possibilities. She was tempted by the primal imagination that inspires skill, the ability to dream the initial dream, and then create what has been dreamt. Now, she is only her dreams.

  She dropped the vial into her dressing gown pocket and carefully closed the curtains. He would notice something like that; he noticed everything when he didn’t want to look at her. She needed to put the groceries away. It was important to keep things normal.

  *

  Birdie lived near the artist. If Hope followed the river upstream she’d get there before nightfall. Her house was pale green with orange woodwork. Hope knocked on the door and a ruckus of birds flared up. Birdie answered the door with a large parrot on her shoulder as though she were a pirate. She was incredibly small, creased and beautiful. She had gray eyes. She had on thin black trousers, a white linen shirt and a large turquoise necklace.

  “Come in, come in,” Birdie ushered Hope towards the sofa. “I’ve just made some lemonade. Hope, is it?” She plumped up the pillows of a rose-colored sofa and sat Hope down by gently pushing on her shoulders. All of her movements were quick and swift.

  There was a large brass aviary in the living room, full of parakeets, canaries and a few birds that Hope had never seen before. Inside the aviary were potted plants and small trees. The backdrop was painted emerald green with golden clouds. The room was painted a deep turquoise and red bottles with different feathers stuck down their necks lined the windowsills.

  “Sushhhhhh! Sush now!” Birdie yelled. Her voice was large and the birds instantly settled down. “Lord help me I’ll get a cat one of these days. Hear that? I’ll get a cat,” she wagged her finger in the air.