sign, a sandhill crane lifted its gangly body from the weeds of the ditch and unfolded into something enormous. For a moment, Mabel heard nothing, not the engine of the car, not the wheels, nothing but the flap of the heavy wings, like the sound of a sheet in the wind on the laundry line. Mabel’s mother tried to swerve away from the crane, but swerved into it, and its talons scratched the glass of the windshield. Mabel heard it hit the roof and roll across, and when her mother slammed on the brakes, Lily fell forward. Everyone was fine, though Lily had a few scratches from the sharp-edged dash. When they stepped from the car, they found only feathers and blood, but no bird on the ground or in the sky.
Mabel, imagining the crane broken and near death somewhere in the dried yellow weeds of the ditch, began to search for it. She picked up a stalk of milkweed and poked at the ditch, hoping to rustle the bird out. Before Mabel could find any sign of anything, Lily burst into tears. A drop of blood had fallen from the scratch of her brow into her eye, and her mother scooped her up into her arms and put her back in the car.
“We’ll come back to look for the bird,” her mother told Mabel, but Mabel knew they wouldn’t. Once they were back to the house, her mother would collapse into bed and would sleep until Tuesday. Mabel took one last jab at the ditch, then set the milkweed stalk at the edge of the road where she could easily pick it up again when she returned to her search. As they drove away, Mabel looked out the back window, wonderingwhat could be done for an injured bird. Mabel would need bandages, she thought, and a bowl for the crane to drink from. She would prepare a nest of blankets and down pillows in the back of the old Buick up on blocks in the pasture.
When they got the inconsolable Lily up to the bedroom, Mabel’s concerns switched to her sister. Mabel’s mother undressed Lily and dabbed the scratches on her cheeks and hands with a pale silver ointment. Lily’s gentle sobs dropped her into sleep. When their mother left the room, Mabel stripped naked in sympathy and ran her finger along the scratches on Lily’s skin, picking up some of the ointment on her fingertip. She dabbed the ointment onto a days-old scratch of her own.
Mabel smelled Lily’s sleeping breath—peppermint from the leaves she liked to chew. She whispered in Lily’s ear. “Tara’s dead,” she whispered, “Jenny’s dead . . . Sally’s dead . . . Brenda’s dead,” a soft litany of Lily’s friends and cousins, all still living and healthy. Mabel hoped to stir up nightmares in Lily’s sleep. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Lily would wake crying, and Mabel would hold her sister in her arms and stroke her hair.
Mabel blew Lily’s fine hair from her face, and she kissed her cheek, then her shoulder, then her naked hip.
Lily whimpered in her sleep, and twitched. Mabel ran her fingers along Lily’s stomach, touched at her knob-like belly button. Lily wore a rusty spoon twisted around her wrist like a bracelet, and Mabel ran her finger along its bend.
Bored with her own nakedness, Mabel went to the closetfor a robe. The light from the shop downstairs seeped up between the floorboards, and she touched her toe to the light as she crossed the room. She put on a tattered robe her mother had passed down to her, though it was much too big. She pressed her ear to the wall and she listened for the religious songs turned languid in her mother’s deep singing voice that broke and gave the songs an unintended intimacy—as if Jesus were someone her mother had known, someone she’d touched. But the house was silent.
Sitting on the floor, Mabel ate supermarket blackberries one-by-one from a bowl on the nightstand. The berries were hard and sour, but Mabel decided she liked them that way. It seemed grown-up to like the taste of things that tasted bad. She remembered sitting on her father’s lap, a cigarette dangling from his lips,
Mabel, imagining the crane broken and near death somewhere in the dried yellow weeds of the ditch, began to search for it. She picked up a stalk of milkweed and poked at the ditch, hoping to rustle the bird out. Before Mabel could find any sign of anything, Lily burst into tears. A drop of blood had fallen from the scratch of her brow into her eye, and her mother scooped her up into her arms and put her back in the car.
“We’ll come back to look for the bird,” her mother told Mabel, but Mabel knew they wouldn’t. Once they were back to the house, her mother would collapse into bed and would sleep until Tuesday. Mabel took one last jab at the ditch, then set the milkweed stalk at the edge of the road where she could easily pick it up again when she returned to her search. As they drove away, Mabel looked out the back window, wonderingwhat could be done for an injured bird. Mabel would need bandages, she thought, and a bowl for the crane to drink from. She would prepare a nest of blankets and down pillows in the back of the old Buick up on blocks in the pasture.
When they got the inconsolable Lily up to the bedroom, Mabel’s concerns switched to her sister. Mabel’s mother undressed Lily and dabbed the scratches on her cheeks and hands with a pale silver ointment. Lily’s gentle sobs dropped her into sleep. When their mother left the room, Mabel stripped naked in sympathy and ran her finger along the scratches on Lily’s skin, picking up some of the ointment on her fingertip. She dabbed the ointment onto a days-old scratch of her own.
Mabel smelled Lily’s sleeping breath—peppermint from the leaves she liked to chew. She whispered in Lily’s ear. “Tara’s dead,” she whispered, “Jenny’s dead . . . Sally’s dead . . . Brenda’s dead,” a soft litany of Lily’s friends and cousins, all still living and healthy. Mabel hoped to stir up nightmares in Lily’s sleep. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Lily would wake crying, and Mabel would hold her sister in her arms and stroke her hair.
Mabel blew Lily’s fine hair from her face, and she kissed her cheek, then her shoulder, then her naked hip.
Lily whimpered in her sleep, and twitched. Mabel ran her fingers along Lily’s stomach, touched at her knob-like belly button. Lily wore a rusty spoon twisted around her wrist like a bracelet, and Mabel ran her finger along its bend.
Bored with her own nakedness, Mabel went to the closetfor a robe. The light from the shop downstairs seeped up between the floorboards, and she touched her toe to the light as she crossed the room. She put on a tattered robe her mother had passed down to her, though it was much too big. She pressed her ear to the wall and she listened for the religious songs turned languid in her mother’s deep singing voice that broke and gave the songs an unintended intimacy—as if Jesus were someone her mother had known, someone she’d touched. But the house was silent.
Sitting on the floor, Mabel ate supermarket blackberries one-by-one from a bowl on the nightstand. The berries were hard and sour, but Mabel decided she liked them that way. It seemed grown-up to like the taste of things that tasted bad. She remembered sitting on her father’s lap, a cigarette dangling from his lips,
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