The wind chime of trinkets hanging in my bedroom window clinks and twinkles in the morning wind. Lost or discarded objects that no one would miss. Shiny things. Tiny things. A piece of Christmas tinsel. A broken car key. Cracked crystal droplet from a chandelier. The silver propeller of a toy plane. A shiny copper button with the black corduroy fabric still attached. A cracked mirrored lens from Cindy Higgin’s sunglasses.
Barely ten items.
One for every time the crow boy has visited me.
One for every life I have failed.
It’s been years since I’ve seen Rook—a walker of souls; a boy who is sometimes a crow. Years since I failed to save someone. The more time that passes, the more I start to wonder if I made him up. One of those imaginary friends children create to keep themselves from being bored or lonely or sad.
The ching of a bike bell rings, yanking me from my thoughts. Tires from my childhood pink pedal bike have long since melted in the dirt. My cousin Adaire, expectant. Hand firmly on her hip. Her expression a clear, Are you ready? Or are you wasting the morning daydreaming?
I never will be ready for today.
Besides, daydreaming might be the only gift I get. I glance at the calendar flipped to June. The nineteenth. Happy Birthday to me.
I remember what Adaire wore the last time I saw her at church. Her favorite goldenrod-yellow T-shirt—it was plum ugly by itself and worse with that green-plaid wool miniskirt she cherished. For the love of Jesus, it was hotter than sin that day. Why in God’s good name she ever bought that outfit I will never know.
I feel like a fraud dressed like I am. My khaki skirt, pencil straight and too tight, rests sinfully two inches above my knees. My white blouse, with a rounded collar, is thin enough my white bra glows. I pull my long hair forward in hopes it hides my nipples. The brown penny loafers, scuffed to hell, are as restricting as the Bible. It’s clear I’ve outgrown the whole outfit, but it’s the most “professional” type clothes I own. And Aunt Violet said that’s what I ought to wear in court.
“I’m coming,” I whisper to the wind, dreading what’s to come.
Grandmama and Bone Layer have already left for the courthouse. I chastise myself for not leaving when they did; now I’ll probably be late.
Our four-room house is a modest rectangle deep in the Georgia pines. Sparse belongings that tend to the necessities of life. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Poor folks are people who can’t afford what they need. We had food, shelter, and Jesus; we didn’t “need” nothing else, but it sure felt like we were poor.
Morning sun filters in the windows of the great room, capturing the dust particles that perpetually float. The haint blue paint on the ceiling makes the room extra bright, cheerful even.
It’s a lie. There’s nothing cheerful in this house.
The light aqua blue shade goes back to an old Appalachia practice. Blue is the color of water, and spirits can’t transverse across water. Healing work tends to bring about things you don’t want following you home.
The room is more kitchen than living room as the long plank table takes up most of the space. It serves as our workstation on days we make the baked goods, jams, and crow dolls we sell at the roadside market.
This table is also where Grandmama embalmed my papaw.
A lone chicken egg waits next to Grandmama’s recipe box in the kitchen windowsill. Saved for me. Against the light, the veined red ring and spoiled bloody yolk show through. Perfect. Gently, I tuck it into a Styrofoam coffee cup and grab a pouch of rosehip itching powder from the witching box.
Hurrying out the door, I can’t help it and glance around for evidence a birthday cake was made or a present has been wrapped. But I know better than to expect a gift from Grandmama, and she’s about the only family I got left.
But today isn’t about me, or my birth. It’s about what the judge decides and the justice our family deserves.
From underneath the porch step, I grab the witching jar I made just for today. A handful of graveyard dirt, nine nails, and a guilty man’s name penned three times.
My old white ’74 Mustang cowers in the weeds next to the woodshed. A piece of shit, with a hard plastic interior coated in red Krylon spray paint. I scraped my pennies together to buy it, only for it to die four short months later. It had starter issues, so I had to park on hills, roll it into second gear, and pop the clutch to get it going. Now the clutch is wore out, it needs a new starter, and the battery is dead. Two-hundred and fifty dollars to fix it all, Davis said. Half what I paid for it.
Adaire’s car door shrieks when I open it. Sunspots burn the Pontiac Grand Prix’s silver skin like festering bedsores. Cracked red vinyl pinches the back of my legs when I sit. The fan belt shrills as the engine grumbles a deep gravely sound from being forced awake. The car guzzles gas faster than a drunk at an open bar, but it gets me from A to B and she has no need for it anymore.
Silently, I drive the long road into town. A dark cloud shades the car, and I look up.
Crows, hundreds of them. Low-flying ordinary crows. Their screeching and caws like playful chatter. I sigh and wonder if Rook is among them, watching me. Would he know who I am in that form?
With the windows down, dirt gathers in my teeth from the dusty road and six miles later I roll up on Main Street. A single paved road drawn down the middle of a skeleton town. A hodgepodge of flat-front brick buildings line both sides. Most of the businesses can’t make up their mind if they want to stay or close up, about as fickle as the weather. They’re all in a state of disrepair except Patsy’s Cut and Curl and Mr. Wiggly’s, which used to be the five-and-dime back in the day; now it’s where you can get your groceries while stocking up on your farming supplies.
Parking spaces are usually a dime a dozen. But today, with the beloved mayor’s reputation under legal scrutiny, everybody and their mama is here.
I find a spot behind the old Ritz movie theater, which closed down after its last showing of Kramer vs. Kramer—someone has since strategically rearranged the letters to read ram me.
The heat and my pantyhose are working together to chafe the insides of my thighs as I hustle down Main Street. Sweat spots weep underneath my armpits. Under my tit-pits. And an angry blister threatens to punch through my heel if I don’t ditch these penny loafers soon.
That fragile egg waits patiently in the Styrofoam cup in my hand. Witching jar snug underneath my elbow.
My eyes scan the row of cars until I find Stone Rutledge’s Corvette, its red curves like a pair of lips, puckered for an ass-kissing. I duck below the line of sight and crouch next to his car, pulling the witching jar out from under my arm. I crack the lid just enough and slip my words inside.
Do unto you as you have done unto me.
Suffer as I have suffered.
For all the anger you’ve sewn, shall my rage not relent.
Until truth leave your tongue and your soul repent.
The clock tower dongs the eight o’clock hour. Shit. I screw the lid back on and stuff the witching jar underneath his back tire and hurry to the hearing.
My words as fervent as a prayer as I tie three knots into the black yarn pulled from my pocket as I rush down the sidewalk.
“With this knot, I seal this hex.”
