Ghosted by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall Page A

the cue a bit more, scraping a wider arc. Then he flinched as something hit him—a flurry of wings—another and another. From the surrounding treetops the swallows were diving at the window. He ducked back into the room. Their talons scratched the glass. He caught his breath. There was debris in his hair and he shook it to the floor. Then, slowly, he leaned back out, looking up.
    Half the nests were gone, others broken to various degrees. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, at the end of the line—something moving, emerging: a tiny pair of feet.
    He stopped breathing. The nest was crumbling like an avalanche, feet flailing above him, legs like matchsticks. An infant bird slipped into the air. Then fell.
    He saw feathers damp like hairs on a newborn’s head, beak like a nose, eyes pulsing beneath lids. His hands were out now, the body falling slow—a fetus with a parachute, a floating baby dinosaur. But still he couldn’t catch it, his fingers stiff and stupid. He looked down, and saw the body drop. Bouncing once, it landed hard, among the broken nests. And then he saw the rest of them—squirming on the deck below.
    Too many moments later, Mason stood among them—a pool cue in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other, nestling birds dying at his feet.
    Harder to take, though, was the aerial offensive—not because the swallows, diving from the birch trees, were trying to kill him, but because they couldn’t. No matter how they tried, their scratches, like unreturned kisses, made everything hopeless.
    On the wall above him six nests remained, then a line of dark circles—too many ellipses, the shadows of a half-dozen heads. Mason looked down. Inches from his foot, a tiny body pulsed, a heart on cedar. He took a breath then stomped down with the heel of his cowboy boot. The sound was popping and wet.
    As he moved across the deck, crushing birds beneath his feet, Mason wished for two things: that he’d start to cry, and that he’d finish before they came back from the lake.
    If only the day had ended there.

16
    It was hard to move, like he was asleep and panicked at the same time, trying to wake from an awful, truthful dream. He stepped out of the church, into the bright sunlight. The Sheraton Plaza Hotel wasn’t far and he decided to walk.
    Cutting through the churchyard, he came upon a dead squirrel. He picked it up, put it in a garbage can, then crossed the street, went into a store and bought a pack of cigarettes. He walked on. Before he knew it he was there.
    The Red Room was large, and seemed even larger with so few people in it. Mason shook hands with the priest who was standing just inside the door, then excused himself to wash the dead squirrel off. He did a long, thick line on the toilet tank, looked in the mirror, said, “Please let me offer my condolences. Con-do-lences.” Back in the Red Room he made his way to where Ms. Shanter was standing.
    “Please let me offer my condolences,” he said. They shook hands. “Can I buy you a drink?”
    “The beer and wine is free.”
    “If you don’t mind me saying,” said Mason. “You seem like him … in a good way. I liked Warren a lot.”
    “Oh,” she said. “How did you know him?”
    “This is going to sound like nothing at all … but I sold him hotdogs.”
    She started to laugh. “Oh jeez. I’m really sorry!” she said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “Are you serious?”
    “I …”
    “Really? The one person who talks to me at my brother’s funeral and he sold him hotdogs?”
    “Um … Yes.”
    “Well, okay then.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “It wasn’t
your
fault,” she said. “You’re just trying to be nice.”
    “I dunno.” They stood for a moment. “Can you tell me …” He looked at her until she met his eyes. “Can you tell me how he died?”
    She picked up a plastic glass of wine. “Specifically? Far as I can tell, he drowned in that lake of yours.”
    Not my lake
.
    “How?” said Mason.
    “They say you can