Crows by Charles Dickinson

Robert was always unnerved by the rapidity of it. Winter came so fast in that town. He had never lived anywhere else and had nothing to compare it with, but the coldness of the season seemed to swoop down on Mozart, the first hints of it coming in late summer, and the quick darkening at the end of the day always a reliable precursor.
    But rather than go to the tall narrow green house Ben turned into a small drive-­in restaurant on the lake and ordered chili dogs, french fried onion rings, and coffee from a waitress who came out to the car in ski pants and yellow parka. They could see her breath alive with the moist droplets of chewed gum.
    They took the food on to the house, but again stopped short of where Robert was sure they were bound. Ben unfolded two chairs in the shadowy backyard and the two men sat facing each other to eat their greasy meal. It was awful, just warm, and gave Robert sharp pains of gas in the upper cavities of his chest.
    Now and then Robert saw different ­people—­a woman, a boy, another boy—­come to the back-­door window and look out. They took in Robert with these visual inspections, but clearly were more interested in Ben. They might have been guarding against an attempt by him to come inside.
    â€œThere is a strain in our family just now,” Ben said with peaceful resignation. Robert had seen the woman come to the window and glare frostily out. He had looked away with a small shudder. The children looking out seemed more forgiving.
    â€œI can’t really go into specifics,” Ben said. “It is one of those thorns of marriage. Do you know what crows do when they are at odds with their mate?”
    The question was so strange Robert could not begin to formulate a reply. Crow tales. Professor Mason had mentioned crow tales. Were there such things?
    â€œThe crow at fault flies circles around the nest,” Ben said. “These are called grief orbits. The wronged crow at first does not entertain the notion of the other crow’s ever being allowed back into the nest. Sometimes this phase lasts a long time—­depending on the depth of the wrong. But the grief orbits continue—­forever, if that is what is called for. It’s a gesture of devotion; a way of admitting one was wrong, that one is sorry, willing to sacrifice—­little food, no company, just ceaseless orbits of the nest. To prove that love still exists.”
    Ben sighed and folded his hands. “That’s what I’m doing, Robert. Flying grief orbits.” He looked up when a boy’s worried face appeared at the window. It was completely dark; the boy probably saw nothing.
    â€œSomeday I’ll be allowed back in.”
    â€œWhy are they mad at you?”
    â€œOnly Ethel’s mad at me,” Ben said. “My kids know nothing about it, only that there is a storm between us. I’ve been orbiting for three weeks now, but no progress. Ethel is relentless in her anger. I sleep in my office. My kids pass me a change of clothes. I am out here to let Ethel know nothing has changed.”
    â€œCan you tell me what you did?”
    Ben said casually, “No.”
    Now and then he circled the house on foot, like a sentry. He tapped on curtained windows and drummed his fingers on porch railings and the echoing tubes of downspouts. Creating sounds, letting his wife know he was waiting, that he had not given up. Robert accompanied him on these trips. “She appreciates this, I know,” Ben said.
    Returning to the backyard after one such orbit, they found a plate of food covered with foil and a silver thermos of coffee placed on the back porch. Steam rose off two warm slabs of meat loaf, scalloped potatoes, and a slice of cherry pie.
    â€œThis is Ethel,” Ben said with real exultation. “The boys couldn’t do this, and Olive isn’t home. It’s Ethel’s way of beginning to call me back in.”
    Ben offered to share the food, but