Black Bird by Michel Basilieres

neighbours began calling at their door.
    It was the heat, of course. In a neighbourhood as poor as theirs, everyone kept their homes as cool as they could bear, preferring to wear sweaters and huddle under blankets in their living rooms rather than burden themselves with larger utility bills. Over the past few days, the neighbours had begun to notice first the open windows, then the snow melting from the Desouches’ roof, and finally even the drifts in the small front yard begin to shrink, turn black and soak into the ground, as if spring had descended upon their house alone.
    It was a thing of wonder, but nevertheless to be taken advantage of. Under the pretext of “seeing how Mother was getting along with her grief,” her friends, the women who gathered at the local dépanneur, who’d earlier cautioned each other against disturbing the frail, shattered woman’s peace, came looking for a cup of tea and half an hour in their shirt-sleeves.
    Aline was burdened with hosting them, of course, for which she was angry but at the same time grateful, for they did have a positive effect on Mother, who slowly seemed to benefit from their selfish solicitude. Mrs. Pangloss was loudest as usual, even when trying to be considerate of Mother’s precarious condition. She shrieked at the others to speak quietly, slowly,and to refrain from laughter. This last was directed mostly at old Mrs. Harrison, who was the very image of a witch and who never lost the opportunity to claim she was related to a Beatle.
    “Ah, you’re full of shit!” was the inevitable response from Mrs. Pangloss, a woman who admitted that everything in life was false and base; but since she hadn’t the imagination to make any difference in her own life, she accepted as an article of faith that God was doing his best even at this very moment, no matter what disaster was in progress.
    They treated Aline as if she were the maid. She brought them little sandwiches and cookies, and they thanked her too loudly, as if she were deaf, and then turned immediately to plying Mother with stupid remarks:
    “At least he didn’t suffer; it was quick.” Who could tell what sufferings had been involved? thought Aline.
    “Everything’s for the best, dear, you’ll see.” Aline was offended by that one.
    “Was there a will, dear? Did you do all right? He must have had some pile stashed away. He was always so tight with his money.” As if Mother would somehow have been consoled by money, and as if a trait they had reprimanded Angus for in life could be counted as a virtue in death.
    Yet Mother seemed to believe that their concern was genuine and their prattling more than just thinly disguised malice. She smiled whenever one or more of them came by; Aline would have preferred to tossthem on their ears, but for Mother’s sake she swallowed her feelings.
    If Mother had no use for any possible inheritance, the same was not true of Father. He perked up at the mention of a will. Who would have suspected any relative of his would have a will? What of any possible value would anyone have to leave? But now he realized this woman could be right, for he remembered Angus railing against insurance companies while fluttering his bank book. He’d forgotten about the unsettled estate, what with Mother’s fragile condition, Marie’s disappearance and the cold.
    But now the returning heat had brought back thoughts of money. He tried to speak of it to Mother, but she pointedly told him she didn’t care about the money. He wanted to know how much there would be, and how soon it would come. He dreamt it would be enough to make an actual difference, enough to invest or to seed a business with. Not merely enough for a good drunk or new clothes or to pay the outstanding bills, but a large enough roll to gather some momentum and change things permanently for them.
    It wasn’t the first time Father had schemed a way to financial security. He’d tried a few things in his time, turning his hand to