17

Threat Call

Birds are ruled by a handful of basic instincts—hunger, socialization, and reproduction, but also important is the impulse to attack or flee.

—G. Gordon’s Field Guide to the Birds of the Pacific Northwest

The card from Christi was a thick, expensive paper stock—an elegant ivory etched with scarlet, ochre, and golden leaves of fall. Within the border of leaves was Yeats’s poem “The Wild Swans at Coole,” which began, “The trees are in their autumn beauty / The woodland paths are dry / Under the October twilight the water / Mirrors a still sky.”

Everything about the card was perfect—a lovely message from a thoughtful mother-in-law that was not only seasonally appropriate but also offered a nod to Anne’s home country by choice of poet. It was as if Christi had tried to think of every possible way to be considerate, attentive to detail, and conscientious. It made Anne want to scream.

Inside the card was a message in Christi’s flawless cursive inquiring after Anne’s health and her daily activities. She didn’t mention Tim, and Anne knew she wrote to him separately and frequently. There was something about that that bothered her. But why should it? She didn’t show Tim letters from home, did she? Margaret’s pages of newsy gossip about the island and Gran’s short, concise notes. Or maybe she’d shown him, but he hadn’t seemed interested?

Anne trained her eyes back to the card. Christi quickly got to the point of her missive. There was ever a point with Christi.

“We’re planning the annual fall gala to coincide with Halloween this year in the great Italian tradition of the masquerade ball. We think the power brokers of Seattle deserve this kind of cultural showcase.”

Anne read the rest and snorted.

“Your mother really is one of a kind,” she said.

Tim looked up from the instruction manual he said was for a bilge pump.

“Let me guess. The gala? What—you don’t relish the idea of ‘celebrating the royalty of the New World with the spirit of the Old’?”

They laughed and it felt like old times. Once more, they were coconspirators against Christi’s elaborate plans, almost like disobedient children. She tapped the card on the counter.

“Ever gracious, your mother wants to represent my home country. She asked me to let her know who the most famous king and queen of Ireland are so she can get appropriate costumes for us.”

“Oh no,” Tim said, and put his hands over his face.

“Yes, she really did.”

It was no surprise that Christi failed to understand that there had been no royalty in Ireland since Anne’s country had freed itself from the yoke of British monarchy less than one hundred years ago.

“Well,” Tim said. “She did always say she went to college to get an MRS degree.”

Christi did not mention Aiden, which should have made Anne happy, but it made her anxious instead. She pushed the thought away.

“I’ll tell her Queen Medb and High King Brian Boru. Let her figure that one out.”

During her years of acquaintance with Christi Magnusen, Anne had acquired considerable armor. It had surprised her at first, the need for defense. In her own small family, people spoke their minds and weren’t afraid to disagree. It had taken her some time to understand that what the Ryan family viewed as honest and direct, the Magnusens considered coarse.

Anne recalled her lunch with Christi in June, during which she had, admittedly, behaved coarsely. She hadn’t wanted to go, but Christi wouldn’t take no for an answer, insisting on a ladies’ lunch. When Anne arrived at Anthony’s on Lake Union, Tim’s sister, Crystal, was nowhere in sight.

“Just the two of us,” Christi said, smiling and patting the chair next to her.

Christi looked effortlessly elegant in a sky-blue linen tunic over black capri pants and white slingback heels. Anne had never seen her without full makeup. Even at the lake, Christi rose hours before everyone else to do a workout video, shower, and “put on her face,” as she said. Her timelessly blond hair conveyed a dedication to a salon schedule that never varied, and her skin was luminous despite years on the tennis court and boating with her husband. Anne sat down feeling frumpy in her jeans and striped T-shirt.

Christi had ordered a bottle of chardonnay, and Anne accepted a glass to be polite. Wine didn’t agree with her during the day, but with Christi, she often found herself saying yes to things she didn’t want to do because it was easier than arguing every point.

She listened as Christi chronicled her detailed plans for remodeling the guest wing. The carpet would just have to go, obviously. And she was tearing out the tile in the shower and installing a new glass door. The light fixtures would be updated, and the towel bars would need to be replaced to match. She was looking at heated towel bars, which cost a fortune, but what could you do, she asked, turning her palms up as if she were at the mercy of contractors and not her own whims.

Anne loathed this kind of small talk and had no experience to offer in return. She and Tim lived in a perfectly satisfactory two-bedroom apartment in Fremont and had changed nothing since they moved in. Her parents lived in the house her father had been born in, which hadn’t been so much as repainted in the nearly thirty years since Anne herself had been alive. The interior had suffered considerably over the years, but no one paid any mind. A gouge in the plaster could be covered with a picture, and a scratch on the wooden floor disappeared under a well-placed rug. If Christi could see the state of it! The idea made Anne want to laugh.

She was so tense that it was almost a relief when Christi turned the subject to Aiden, which Anne suspected was the real reason for the lunch. She began by asking about his daycare and if they were thinking about kindergarten programs yet.

Anne shook her head.

“We’re going to wait at least another year on kinder. He’ll be going back to Sunflower this fall and then . . . we’ll see. He’s comfortable there,” she said.

Christi frowned.

“Are you sure you want to do that? I mean, we all know you’ve had a hard time this past year, Anne. Losing your friend. But I think your family needs you to focus now.”

Anne flushed and tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

“Thank you for your concern, but we’re doing just fine, Christi.”

Christi looked thoughtful and leaned toward her.

“You’re such a devoted mother and he’s a darling, Anne. But if I may offer a bit of advice, mom to mom?”

She didn’t wait for any sign of acquiescence but carried on saying that it was clear that Aiden was a headstrong and willful boy. She should know! Tim and Mark had been the same. But Anne just needed to take him in hand.

“You’re his mom, Anne. Not his friend,” Christi said, gesturing with her glass. “That’s the problem with your generation, you know. You want your kids to like you. In my time discipline was a cornerstone.”

Anne nodded noncommittally. She didn’t agree but she didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to get through lunch.

“What that boy needs is a firm spanking every once in a while. That would straighten him out. Now, I probably should have told you this when it happened,” Christi said, pouring herself more wine. “Last time you were at the house, I caught him looking through my records without asking and I spanked his little bottom.”

Anne flushed and her breath caught in her throat.

“Christi, Aiden knows he needs to ask permission first, but it’s not okay—”

“I know, I know. I told him that’s why I was spanking him,” Christi interrupted. “Grandma’s house and Grandma’s rules. That’s what I’m saying, you need to be firmer with him. Take charge!”

Anne shook her head and her voice quavered.

“No, Christi. Tim and I have been very clear with you that we do not believe in physical punishment. It’s not for you to decide that.”

Christi laughed and waved a hand at her.

“Oh, Anne! I think I know a bit about parenting! I’ve raised three of my own. And look at them—all successful young people.”

“And they’re all terrified of you,” Anne wanted to say. “They just want you to love them.”

“You’ll thank me someday. I’m sure your mother would do the same.”

Her mother would do no such thing, Anne knew. And Margaret Ryan would eat this woman’s head off for laying a finger on her grandson. Heat rose in her chest and neck.

“Christi. With respect, you have no right—” Anne started.

“Please,” Christi interrupted. “I mean, if you can’t handle just one, how do you think you’ll be able to manage when you have one or two more?”

Anne told Christi that was between Tim and her and nobody else’s business, thank you very much.

“Of course it’s our business, dear,” Christi scoffed. “Tim works for us, and we support you. Magnusen Media is a family company and how your family grows is absolutely our business. Though I do have to thank you for being thoughtful with your family planning. When Tim first met you, I said to his father, ‘Look out! She’s Irish and they breed like rabbits!’ ”

Anne jerked to her feet and her wineglass toppled. She leaned over Christi and told her in no uncertain terms that what she didn’t know about the Irish could fill the bloody halls of Parliament. Furthermore, the activity of her uterus was nobody’s damn business but her own. And lastly, that if she knew what was good for her, she would keep her bloody hands off her grandson.

She stormed across the patio banging into chairs as she went and aware that she was being stared at. She was also aware by the time she reached the sidewalk that she’d made a terrible mistake. Christi had pushed all the right buttons, hadn’t she? Anne felt like she’d played into some kind of trap. Soon thereafter, Christi and Tim Senior had brought up the idea of the assessment at UW.

“The boy is a challenge,” her father-in-law had said. “Seems like you kids could use a little help, especially with both of you working.”

It was no secret that Tim Senior disapproved of Anne’s career. Children needed their mothers, he was certain. Why was it always the men who were experts on mothering? she wondered.

Tim had risen briefly to her defense.

“Anne’s career is as important to her as mine is to me, Dad,” he’d said.

Anne squeezed his hand under the table. Then her father-in-law, chuckling, said surely it wasn’t as financially important, and Tim hadn’t said anything.

Now Anne pushed the card aside, resolving to answer it later.

Tim stood at the door zipping up Aiden’s sweatshirt.

“We’re going to finish some boat chores. See you in a bit.”

She wanted to go with them, but Tim’s face reminded her that she’d agreed not to hover.

“Crack on, then. Good man helping your daddy,” Anne said, and blew a kiss.

They walked away together, Aiden trying to match his father’s stride. Frankie appeared at the head of the dock and stopped to talk with Tim. Anne had been hoping to see their intriguing neighbor again and was pleased to see her continue toward the house. At the door, she looked shy and held up two small jars.

“I wanted to thank you for the bread. These are huckleberry and gooseberry jam,” Frankie said.

“Thank you so much,” Anne said, taking the jars. “How lovely. Huckleberry and gooseberry! And I must tell you I have no idea what you’ve just given me.”

Frankie laughed and explained that the huckleberry was a kind of wild blueberry that grew in the West. The gooseberry was a domestic fruit from the old days.

“My grandmother kept a patch going up here behind the cottage.”

She shifted from one foot to the other and glanced at Anne and away.

“Anyway. I hope you like them,” she said, and stepped back toward the patio.

“These look wonderful, and I just made some scones,” Anne said. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” Frankie looked startled, as if such an invitation had not occurred to her. There was an awkward pause.

“But I won’t keep you if it’s not a good time,” Anne said.

She could hear the disappointment in her own voice.

Frankie flushed.

“No. I have time. Thank you. Tea would be great.”

“Tim told me Aiden was up at your place again,” Anne said as she filled the kettle. Maddening, how Tim had let Aiden wander while working on the boat. Worse still his failure to mention until hours after the fact that Frankie had brought Aiden back.

“I’m so sorry and I told him it’s not okay.”

As she said it, she wasn’t sure if she meant Tim or Aiden. Frankie shrugged.

“It’s no trouble. Aiden’s easy,” she said simply.

Anne wanted to laugh and turned away to put the kettle on. Who ever said that about Aiden?

Frankie scanned the ceiling above the great windows facing the lake.

“I installed that light for Christi,” she said, pointing to a fixture Anne had never noticed before. Frankie reached under the counter and flipped a switch. Anne exclaimed as the light illuminated a painting of a mermaid that hung in the center of the wall.

“Bloody hell! Nobody has ever turned that light on before! Swear on my life.”

Frankie laughed.

“My dad told Christi she’d forget to use it if he put the switch under here. But she didn’t listen to him. She told him the light was an essential piece of the design.”

“That sounds just like Christi,” Anne said, laughing.

She set the tea to steep and put a plate of scones on the counter. She opened the jars of jam and spooned a bit into little bowls. She pulled out small plates and saw Frankie’s gaze sweep the counter from the scones to the sourdough bread, the cookies, and the lemon cake. Her face flushed and she forced a laugh as she pushed the scones toward Frankie.

“I’ve been in a bit of a baking fit,” she said. “Had some time on my hands.”

Frankie wore that blank look Anne had seen when they first met. Impossible to read.

“It must seem a bit mental,” she said with a laugh. But she did feel a bit of a loon.

Frankie shook her head.

“No, it’s just I can’t think how you did all that,” she said. “My grammy was a great baker, but I was hopeless. She stopped trying to teach me after I nearly set the kitchen on fire.”

“But you made this jam,” Anne protested, waving a piece of scone. “It’s gorgeous, by the way.”

Frankie shook her head.

“Patrick made this. My brother. He takes after Grammy and my mom, I guess. Dad and I are maintenance crew.”

Her voice caught and she looked down at her hands.

After a moment Anne said, “Tim told me your dad died this spring. I’m really sorry, Frankie. You must miss him terribly.”

Frankie looked up, and her eyes were wet.

“Thank you,” she said quietly and shook her head. “Everyone else says ‘passed,’ or ‘gone to the other side.’ ”

She sighed.

“He died. I wish people would just say that. Doesn’t make it easier to use fluffy words.”

Anne swallowed against the knot in her throat.

“I know just what you mean. They tell you he’s resting in the bosom of our Lord, and it makes you want to punch someone in their stupid face, doesn’t it?”

Frankie wiped her wrist across her eyes and smiled.

“Exactly,” she said.

“What was your father’s name?” Anne asked.

“It was Jack,” Frankie said.

“Jack O’Neill,” Anne said, leaning her elbows on the counter. “That’s a nice name. What was he like, Jack O’Neill?”

Frankie said he was dependable and always ready to lend a hand. He’d give you the shirt off his back. He was handy and a great worker but often forgot to send a bill. He always had time for a story. He was funny and kind.

Her voice grew easy, and then Frankie asked about Anne’s parents. She told Frankie about her father’s fishing boat, her mother working at the fishermen’s co-op. Gran living just over the wall. Frankie had loved her grandmother too, and they talked about what a gift that was to grow up with them.

By the time Tim and Aiden came back from the boat, the afternoon sun was slanting low across the yard. Aiden sidled up to his mother’s chair. He glanced at the tall neighbor and looked away with his secret wee smile. He climbed into the window seat and twirled the feather he’d tucked into his storybook.

Tim and Frankie were talking about the boat, and she offered to look at the bilge pump, which didn’t appear to be working properly.

“Thank you for the tea, Anne,” she said.

She glanced toward the window seat and said, “Bye, Aiden.”

The boy’s eyes flicked toward her and away as Frankie and Tim left.

Anne cut a piece of scone for Aiden. The boy climbed up on a stool with his book. He had it opened to “Briar Rose.” The illustration showed a lovely maiden standing in the woods surrounded by small creatures and birds. Anne recalled the old lullaby she used to sing to him when he was a baby. Gran had sung it to her when she was little.

“Éiníní, éiníní, codalaígí, codalaígí,” she sang.

Little birds, little birds, go to sleep.

Aiden traced the figure of a bird with a finger. Blackbird, raven, crow, robin, lark, wren, and thrush.

An londubh is an fiach dubh,

An chéirseach is an préachán,

An spideog is an fhuiseog,

An dreoilín is an smóilín.

Téigí a chodhladh, téigí a chodhladh.

Préachán ach amháin. Only a crow.

She glanced up at the light fixture over the garish mermaid. Christi liked bright, bold things. In Seattle, she’d begun collecting glass sculptures by an artist called Chihuly. His pieces were gorgeous lights, whimsical baskets, cylinders, and ikebana. And Tim Senior had chosen the signature piece of her collection for her sixtieth birthday party—a tall, ornate cylinder that Anne knew had cost over $10,000. Actually, Christi had picked it out and insisted that her husband “give” it to her at the party at the club. Anne felt her stomach drop remembering the evening, which had been the start of so many things going wrong—with the Magnusen family but also between her and Tim.

When Tim’s parents had announced the party, which would take place the first weekend in August—Anne had dismissed the idea of bringing Aiden, although his name was on the invitation. It wasn’t simply that he’d be the only child there, as Tim’s siblings had no children. There was also the fact that larger gatherings were hard for him. Too much noise, too many people. Harder for her too, she admitted, especially after the spring concert four months earlier. Since then she’d felt broken open again in a way that made it difficult to manage the superficial social niceties required by such functions. She’d suggested she stay home with Aiden, but Tim wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted her there with him.

“Tell your mam we’ll get a sitter, then. It will be too much for Aiden, and he’d be better off at home, don’t you think, Tim?”

Tim had agreed, but then Christi left a voicemail about Aiden’s tuxedo-fitting appointment.

“Did you not tell her he wasn’t coming?” she asked Tim over dinner that night. He widened his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh, Aiden’s coming,” Tim said. “My suggestion that he skip it went over like a lead balloon. Unless you want me to be cut out of the family and set adrift on an iceberg, I think it’s best we bite the bullet on this one.”

Anne swallowed her anger and did not ask for details. There was something between Tim and his parents, especially his mother. She cowed him. When push came to shove, he would fold to whatever Christi demanded. Anne didn’t understand it, as vocal disagreement was a regular part of life in the Ryan household. Then again, she didn’t know what it was like to have family and work all mixed together.

The fitting had been a disaster. It was a lot to ask of any little child—standing still, being measured, trousers and cuffs pinned in place. But Aiden also hated tight clothes and seemed sensitive to rough textures like polyester. Anne asked the tailor to size up the tiny tuxedo so it might be a little roomy on him, which could help. The evening of the party, she knew the best solution would be for the two of them to stay out of the fray. She reckoned it might be boring for them both, and she brought his storybook and the Irish memory card game to help pass the time. The party, however, turned out to be anything but boring.

The Columbia Tower Club was located on the seventy-fifth floor and offered stunning views of the city, the Olympic Mountains, and the Puget Sound. When she, Tim, and Aiden stepped out of the elevator, they were some of the last to arrive. What her in-laws called a “small gathering” numbered about fifty people—the newspaper board, a few key advertisers, top staff, and family. Tim strode into the dining room to find his parents, leaving Anne alone in the foyer. Tim Senior had hired a Beatles cover band, and the musicians had dressed the part. Anne saw them through the doorway to the large dining room before turning to follow Aiden, who’d circled back to the elevator. They weren’t terrible, but the sound system was out of balance—the guitars too loud and heavy bass.

Back in the elevator, Aiden shed his jacket and shoes, as she expected he would. As they descended, the bellhop told them that they would fall nine hundred feet in a matter of seconds. There was a sense of vertigo as she felt their bodies drop down the steel chute. He let them out in the lobby and did not comment when they reappeared ten minutes later for a trip up and then back down again, on repeat. Each time they reached the lobby, Aiden would circumnavigate in a counterclockwise motion. Anne followed him, pausing to look at the art on display.

“Hopi Crow Mother,” the card read in front of one piece. Draped in a red-and-white gown, the doll had a black face and bright yellow eyes that matched its pointed beak. A pair of black wings sprouted from the shoulders, and it had human arms and legs. The arms were extended as if to accept a baby or some other precious burden.

Someone had made this little doll with their hands, cradling it gently while sewing the garments, stitching beads on and gluing feathers. It had to have been a woman, she thought, someone like her own gran, though the card did not include the artist’s name. A telling oversight since the installment purported to “celebrate Native artists.” The little Crow Mother had such a plaintive face, like she well knew what a raw deal motherhood was. Being a mam felt like you were two halves of different people stitched together. Or three-thirds, or some days, seven-eighths, because none of it added up to a whole person, just one slightly crazed twenty-eight-year-old coming apart at the seams.

Riding back up the elevator, Aiden pressed his face against the narrow window. Anne leaned into the wood-paneled wall, grateful to the bellhop, who pretended it was completely normal for guests to ride up and down, disappear for a lap of the lobby, and then repeat the process. He only said, “Good evening,” when they reappeared. And “Club floor?”

As the car slowed at the top of its rise, Anne gazed out the window. A pair of gulls surfed past and peeled off on the updraft. She looked at her son and felt a rush of love.

The doors dinged open and revealed Tim looking so handsome in his tuxedo. He also looked impatient. Anne took Aiden by the hand. She turned and thanked the silent bellhop and saw amusement flit across his face as the doors slid shut.

“. . . everyone is waiting,” Tim was saying. “We can’t do the toast with my family absent from the table.”

The band sounded louder now.

“Dinner started half an hour ago,” Tim said, looking down at Aiden.

“Jesus, Anne. Where is his jacket? And his shoes?”

That Aiden was wearing most of his clothes was a miracle—the trousers, shirt, and waistcoat. She held up the shoes hooked on her fingers and the jacket over her arm, and Tim took them from her. The band began playing The Beatles’ “Birthday” and Anne heard people clapping along out of synch.

“Anne, this is a really important night for Mom. Aiden, stand still, buddy.”

He pulled the boy’s arms through the jacket and buttoned the middle button. He bent down and Anne watched him struggle to push the shoes on Aiden’s feet. The music grew louder, and the speaker whined with feedback. Their son squirmed away and kicked the shoes off. It would have been funny, if not for the panic on his little face.

“Tim, just leave them off. For goodness sake! No one will notice.”

Tim shook his head, and his face reddened as he forced Aiden’s feet into the shoes.

“It’s a special occasion, Anne. I don’t think it’s asking too much—”

Aiden kicked his shoes off once more and struggled to get away. His breathing grew labored, and Anne felt a bite of fear at what was unfolding.

“Tim, just hang on a minute,” she said, but he didn’t listen.

He forced the shoes on, scooped Aiden up, and carried him toward the dining room. Anne hurried after them.

“Tim! Wait!” she called.

Aiden’s body had gone rigid in his father’s arms.

“Tim!” Anne called.

Tim Senior, standing at the head of the room, was telling a story about Christi, which earned a ripple of laughter. Tim paused by the dessert and gift table, where presents were piled high around the centerpiece gift—the beautiful new Chihuly.

Tim Senior raised his glass.

“To my darling, Christi,” he said. “The light of my life and the mother of my children.”

He signaled to the servers, who began to light the candles on the cake. The guests started singing “Happy Birthday,” slightly out of tune and tempo dragging.

Aiden was pressing his father’s chest with his small hands, trying to make some space between their bodies. His face had gone white. He was making a small noise that grew louder over the sound of the singing.

“I’d leg it out of here, you eejit.”

It was as if Katherine were right at her shoulder.

But Katherine wasn’t there and wouldn’t ever be there. Katherine wasn’t anywhere.

Anne tried to reach them but couldn’t move. Like the night of the spring concert, she felt like she was underwater. She heard Tim’s reprimand, knew that Aiden could not because his fear had taken him elsewhere. She watched them in slow motion. Aiden’s face went from white to red in his panic. A stranger might have read it as rage, but it was fear, she knew, that propelled him to twist out of his father’s grasp. He pushed himself free and stood, fists clenched and eyes closed tight, his panicked breathing competing with his grandmother’s voice as Christi began a speech of thanks.

“Aiden,” Anne said, but he could not hear her.

Tim reached toward Aiden to contain him, and the boy erupted. His small mouth opened in a roar of anguish. Anne wanted to reach him, to catch his wee hands and stop him from hitting and slapping himself on his beautiful head and face as he screamed and screamed. But she couldn’t move.

She watched Tim as if from far away as he grabbed Aiden’s shoulders and tried to hold him. Aiden wrenched himself away and anchored himself with the tablecloth. His eyes were shut tight, and he screamed as if to put it all at bay—the hot room, the tight clothing, the out-of-tune music, the crowd of strangers, and the adults who simply wouldn’t leave him be.

Tim stepped back and raised his hands in a surrender that was almost comical. Anne felt a serenity descend over her then as she watched Aiden clutch the tablecloth and pull with all his might. Her boy brought it all down. The cake, candles, china plates, and Grandma Christi’s birthday Chihuly, all of it smashing into a thousand pieces.