Cradle Lake by Ronald Malfi Page B

look almost ridiculous hunkered down in the crook of the spindly little tree. Since that night in the clearing off the path, Alan had managed to convince himself that in his sleep-deprived state he had either exaggerated the size of the birds or possibly even imagined them altogether; but here in the daylight, staring straight at one of the beasts, the truth of it all came crashing back down on him. The thing was
huge.
    Alan drummed his fingers on the windowpane.
    The giant bird cocked its fleshy head but did not takeits eyes from him. Alan tapped the glass harder. The damn thing refused to fly away.
    In the foyer, he strapped on his sneakers, then went into the front yard just as thunder rumbled overhead. Across the street, a number of neighborhood kids were getting in their baseball game before the storm hit.
    Mr. Pasternak from farther up the block jogged by on what Alan had come to learn was his usual midafternoon run. Mr. Pasternak raised a hand, his sweat-soaked tank top and nylon running shorts hanging from his narrow skin-and-bones frame. Mr. Pasternak was eighty-seven though he looked twenty years younger. Alan had met him earlier in the week while the old man jogged by, and they’d shared a short but pleasant conversation by the mailbox.
    â€œMy young friend,” Mr. Pasternak cawed as he strode by.
    â€œHey,” Alan returned, not pausing to talk this time. He crossed to the side of the house only to find the little dogwood tree empty. The big, ugly bird had disappeared. Fishing his cigarettes from his jeans and lighting one, he approached the tree with an overly sensitized sense of apprehension, as if the bird was going to spring out at him at any moment. Peck his eyeballs out or some such nonsense. Goddamn thing was large enough to swoop down and snatch up a small child …
    He leaned closer to examine the trunk of the tree. It had left behind claw marks in the shape of lightning bolts in the bark.
    â€œHey,” Hank said from behind him, causing Alan to jump and turn around. Hank was leaning against a tree, two cans of Coors in his hands. He offered Alan his trademarkgrin, then handed him one of the beers. “Doing some yard work?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œYou look like you’re looking for somebody.”
    â€œBig fucking bird,” he said, popping the top on the Coors.
    â€œOh yeah. You’ll get those, sure. There’s like fifteen hundred acres of forest behind your house in case you hadn’t noticed. Remember what I said about the bears, too?” He winked. “Wild animals, dude.”
    For the first time, Alan thought he might actually come to like Hank. There was a goofy, brotherly quality about him that was warm and inviting.
    â€œBy the way,” Alan said, knocking his beer can against Hank’s, “thanks for the barbecue. We enjoyed meeting the rest of the neighborhood.”
    â€œNo sweat. Glad to do it. Seems like Lydia and Heather have hit it off, too, huh?”
    He couldn’t tell if Hank was feeling him out, curious about Heather’s rather obvious state of detachment, and Alan wondered if he should try to mitigate Hank’s curiosity right off the bat. Not that he had any intention of filling him in on what he and Heather had been through and what she had done to herself …
    There came the sound of screeching car tires followed by a vague
whump
from across the street. The shouts of the children playing baseball, which had been a constant cacophony since Alan had stepped from the house, now rose to a frenzied urgency that caused his stomach to clench like a fist. Both he and Hank dropped their beers and raced across the yard.
    â€œOh, Christ,” Alan uttered, skidding to a stop.
    There was a child on the ground, unmoving. A few yards away, a red Audi with a dented front fender had come to rest crookedly in the center of the street. The driver’s door opened but no one came out. Through the glare across