Migrators (18 page)

“You think he was right? You think the things just walked off?” Bob asked.

Alan shrugged. “Looked dead to me.”

Alan slid his camera bag around to his front so he could unzip it. He’d brought one of his second-string camera bodies. It wouldn’t break his heart if it got dunked. Alan documented the pressed down grass. It looked like some animal had circled to make a mat of the grass. The flattened stalks formed a counterclockwise spiral. While Alan shot, Bob moved on. Alan tested his weight on the grass. Where it was flattened, the ground under the grass felt more firm. Alan could walk around the small circle without plunging through. Alan paced it off—the circle was about five feet across.

Alan knelt. The grass still gave off a little lingering smell of death. It did smell a little like rotting fish. Alan reached down. Under the spiral pattern twisted into the grass, the stalks were woven into tight pairs. That’s what gave the little matted area its firmness. Below dozens of layers of woven pairs, Alan found the same spongy mud that made the rest of the footing so treacherous.

“Hey, Alan,” Bob called.
 

Alan stood up. Bob had moved over to another compressed circle of grass.

“What’s up?”

“Come get a photo of this.”

Alan shouldered his camera strap and followed Bob’s trail. Bob was crouching in one of the other flattened areas. Alan joined him and stopped at the edge. He didn’t want to disturb Bob’s find. At the center of this spiral of grass, Bob was looking a small pile of bones. Alan dropped to a crouch and started taking photos. He stayed at the edge of the circle and zoomed in on the bones. The bones were clean, dry, and white.
 

“What is that skull?” Alan asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe a cat? Raccoon? I’m not well-versed on small animal skulls.”

When he’d circled the pile, photographing it from all angles, Alan stepped into the circle. He snapped a few photos from directly above the bones.

“There’s something in there,” Alan said. “Check it out.”

Bob came closer. The two men hunched over the pile. All the small bones—the legs and ribs and spine—were all piled up underneath the little skull. Through the eyeholes, Alan could see something inside.

“Where?” Bob asked.

“Under the skull. Go ahead—check it out.”

“What do you mean, ‘Check it out?’ You check it out,” Bob said. “I’m not touching that thing if that that’s what you mean.”

“Pussy,” Alan said under his breath. He reached over and picked a long stalk of grass. He held it near the base, where it was most stiff. He pushed at the side of the skull, trying to push it over.

Bob laughed. “You’re so brave. You won’t even touch it.”

Alan cursed at the skull under his breath. It seemed stuck.

“It’s quid pro quo, as they say,” Alan said. He stabbed at the side of the skull with his stalk of grass, but it only bent.

“Okay, fine. Move,” Bob said. He reached out an extended index finger and thumb and grabbed the skull on either side of the eyeholes. He picked it up carefully and flipped it over. Under where the skull had sat, they were looking at a small spiral of stacked bones. It looked almost like a birds nest. In the center of the nest, they saw a bloody organ.

It looks like a tiny heart
, Alan thought.

Alan picked up his camera and started taking photos immediately. He shot about a hundred photos of the organ from different angles as Bob sat back on his heels. It was about the size of a small chicken egg. Alan let his camera hang on its strap and picked a couple fresh stalks of grass. He poked the side of the heart.

“It’s soft,” Alan said.

“Quit poking it,” Bob said. “Those are blood vessels, right? Is it the heart of a really small animal?”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” Alan said.

Bob tilted his head and stared at the heart. Alan picked up his camera and took a couple more shots. He backed away and took a photo of Bob next to the pile of bones and then took a couple of photos across the marsh to the pond.

“You think it’s a nest or something?” Bob asked.
 

Alan took a photo of him, asking his question.

“Alan?”

Alan took a photo of the milky sky above.

“Alan?”

“I don’t know,” Alan said. “I’m thinking.”

“Maybe we should take it and show it to someone,” Bob said.

“I’m coming around to your earlier opinion. Maybe we shouldn’t touch it. It might be infected or something. Besides, who would we show it to?”

“I don’t know. There has to be someone who knows about this stuff,” Bob said.

His words hung in the air as they looked at the bloody heart.

The silence was broken by a gunshot from the south. Bob stood up and Alan raised his camera again. They heard another shot. Bob took the orange bandana from his head and waved it in the air.

“You think they’re shooting at us?” Alan asked.

“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here, just in case,” Bob said.

“Good plan.”

O
CTOBER
17

A
LAN
PARKED
the picnic basket on one of the plush chairs and turned his attention to the desk. It was orderly, but heavily populated with stacks of paper. Alan started at the upper left-hand corner and piled the papers carefully, in alternating directions to preserve their organization. He took the whole stack and put it in her top drawer. Her computer monitor was on an arm that flipped over the side of the desk. This was the way she normally greeted clients—Liz liked a big clean desk when she welcomed visitors.
 

Alan pulled the red and white checked cloth from the basket and unfurled it across the desk. It was just the right size. He unloaded the rest of his supplies—salad, bread, wine, cheese, and lasagna. It was Liz’s favorite meal.

He uncorked the wine and set out the glasses.
 

Alan had just taken his seat when the door opened.

Liz came through backwards. She was clutching her notepad to her chest and giving orders to a young woman who was following. Liz almost dropped her pad when she saw Alan over her shoulder.

“Honey!” she said. “Oh my god.”

Liz turned her attention back to her assistant—“Give me a minute, Minh. I’ll get you the draft and you can review it for me.”

She smiled at her husband. Alan poured wine into the glasses.

“Honey, I have a meeting at noon and another at one. This is sweet, but your timing is terrible.”

“I’m your noon,” Alan said. “And the 1pm. I scheduled with Minh.”

Liz turned back to her assistant. The woman smiled and waved. Minh shut the door as she left.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Liz said. “This is so sweet.”

“It’s your half birthday,” Alan said. “You deserve a special lunch on your half birthday.”

“Is that a thing?” Liz asked. “Tell me that’s not a thing.”

“What? Half birthdays? I read about it in one of my magazines,” Alan said. “Surprise your partner with a special celebration. Is it working?”

Liz sat down in one of the guest chairs. She picked up her glass of wine and a piece of cheese.
 

“You wouldn’t believe the day I’m having,” she said. “Remind me—we have to change our insurance company. You wouldn’t believe how hard those jerks fight to keep from paying a claim. There has to be a better company out there to give our money to. My poor clients—their house burned down because of an electrical storm. I mean, if your house gets hit by lightning, how are you supposed to avoid something like that? They don’t want to pay because the chimney was not up to code. Can you believe that?”

“Liz, baby, take a break,” Alan said.

“I know,” she said, gesturing with her cheese. “It’s just galling that they take money all those years and then don’t want to pay off on a lightning strike. What could be more of an act of God?”

“We have lightning rods,” Alan said. “I’m guessing the Colonel put them up.”

“That’s true,” Liz said. “I wonder why. It’s not like we’re at the top of a hill or anything. Do a lot of places around here have lightning rods?” Liz made a note on her pad.

“Barns do,” Alan said. “I see them all the time. I’ve been taking photos of some of the barns around. Most are falling down.”

“Huh,” Liz said. She was flipping through her notes.
 

“I brought pesto lasagna,” Alan said.

“Ooh,” Liz said. She was scribbling something in the margin of one of the pages. Her tight handwriting filled the page. She had a very particular scheme for how she took notes. Heaven help the person who tried to write something on one of Liz’s coveted yellow legal pads.

“Are you going to put that away, or should I give your lunch to Minh?”

“Sorry,” Liz said. “Sorry. I know. You know it takes me at least twenty minutes to disengage.”

Alan nodded. Liz clipped her pen to the pad and tossed it to the floor under her desk.

“Tell me about your day,” she said. She rose from her chair to tear a piece of bread from the loaf and steal another piece of cheese. Liz flopped back down in the chair.

“You’re looking at it,” Alan said. “Took me all morning to put this together.”

“You’re so sweet. Not working at Bob’s today?”

“I’ll stop in on my way home. He’s doing electrical today. He doesn’t really need help with that.”

“What about your other project?”

“The bones and heart?” Alan asked.

“The mysterious heart,” Liz said.

“As far as I know, he hasn’t heard anything,” Alan said.

“You should publish those photos,” Liz said. “Send them around to nature magazines or whatever. They’re incredible.”

Alan nodded. He didn’t have the slightest idea where to send his photos. There were some interesting ones. The shadows of the stacked bones made neat patterns against the grass mat, and the heart itself looked like a hole cut out of the center of the shot. The purple clotted blood only showed on a couple of the closeup shots. On the others the exposure must have been wrong—the heart only looked black. Bob had sent a couple of the best shots over to a friend of his who was an animal wrangler and trained zoologist.
 

“You should have gotten the last name of that old man. Clive?”

“Buster,” Alan said. “His name is Clyde, but everyone calls him Buster. Quid pro quo.”

“What made you say that?”

“What?”

“Quid pro quo is an exchange of goods or services. What made you say it?” Liz asked.

“It’s something Buster said. He said the town owns the cabin, quid pro quo. Bob and I have been saying it constantly ever since.”

“Well I don’t think he’s using the term right,” Liz said. “Unless the cabin was traded to the town for goods or services.”

“Maybe it was,” Alan said. “Although it sounded like the town just took the land because nobody was paying the taxes.”

Liz licked the cheese off her fingers and then stood up to dish herself some salad. She picked the olives from the bowl and put most of them on her portion—she always stole the olives.

“I’m not sure they can do that,” Liz said. “I can check with Gerald. I think that if you don’t pay your property taxes, the property goes under lien for a period of time. After that, I think you have so many years to pay off the debt with interest. Actually, I’m not sure what happens after that deadline. Maybe they do take the parcel.”

Liz picked an olive from her salad and popped it in her mouth. She smiled as she chewed.

“Did you do any more photos at the house?” Liz asked.

“Yeah, a few. I can’t get the light right for a couple I want. I did the manure shed, the spinning wheel, the bulkhead, the loft, and the rock garden. The back of the barn is problematic. This time of year the sun hits it directly in the morning. There’s nothing to soften it. Then, in the afternoon, it’s black back there. There’s no ambience.”

Alan served himself a salad from what was left in the bowl.
 

“I’ve been thinking more and more about Edwin’s book,” Alan said. “I’ll need a big space to spread out the photos so I can arrange them into some kind of order,” Alan said.

“Huh,” Liz said. He could see the gears turning in her head. She knew that once he laid out his photos, they would be there for months while he sorted them over and over. Alan worked with big subjects—genocide, and the overthrow of governments—and he used big prints to examine their worthiness. They weren’t the kind of photos you wanted to spread out in the dining room a few weeks before all your relatives would arrive for Thanksgiving.

“I’m thinking the attic,” Alan said.

“Oh! That sounds good,” Liz said.

“I can put a kerosene heater up there to take the edge off while I work. I’ll have to string some lights. It might make sense to pin up some insulation, just so I don’t get pneumonia while I’m working up there,” Alan said. He pressed for all the advantage he could gain while she was still relieved at the easy resolution.

“Sounds great, honey,” Liz said.
 

“I’ll pick up some supplies on my way home,” Alan said.

“I’m so happy you have a new project,” Liz said.
 

“I’m happy this one has a purpose and an end,” Alan said.

“What do you mean?” Liz asked. He put aside her fork and used her fingers to manipulate the last of the salad.
 

“All that shit with Joe, and the crazy garbage out in the woods—it’s all so unresolved and unsolvable. I don’t have a plan. I’m just reacting.”

“I know how you feel,” Liz said. She didn’t have the ability to listen to a problem and just sympathize—Liz was a fixer. She always had to try to solve a problem presented to her. Alan appreciated her commitment and caring, but he was sometimes frustrated that she seemed to think that she could come up with an answer to a situation he’d just declared unsolvable. It felt like she didn’t think much of his intellect. This was one of those times. “Joe probably feels like he doesn’t have any agency. He’s been dropped into a new situation and he has no influence over what happens from day to day. It’s understandable that he would want to take control of some corner of his world.”