58
Carlie’s first stop was to trade in her BMW. The day before, Carlie had spotted exactly what she was looking for sitting on a showroom floor.
As she entered the showroom, her eyes went immediately to the brand-new pickup with four-wheel drive sitting in the middle of the floor.
The owner of the dealership stepped out of his office to take care of Carlie personally. He knew her, and he knew Dexter; their firm had represented him and his dealership since he opened the doors.
“Carlie, I’m so sorry to hear about Jon. If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Well, Peter, you can sell me that truck.”
As Carlie was paying the cashier, Peter handed her the keys.
Carlie kissed him on the cheek and left him standing in the door scratching his head.
Pulling to the curb in front of Dexter’s house, Carlie shut off the engine and waited. She didn’t have to wait long. Lester opened the front door with his arms full of scrap paper and folded painter’s tarps. Setting them on the front porch, he blocked the sun from his eyes and watched Carlie as she stepped out of her new truck.
As Carlie made her way across the front yard, she extended her right hand and introduced herself.
“Well, Missus Summers, I am very pleased to meet you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you too, Lester. Please call me Carlie. I just stopped by to see how you were doing.”
“I heard about Mister Summers. I am so sorry. He was a nice man.”
“Yes, he was. Are you still planning on being finished by Monday?”
“Yes, I sure am.”
“Well, I was wondering if you could possibly do me a favor.”
“Anything—you just ask.”
“On Monday, they’re going to be delivering the new furniture for the bedroom. I was wondering if you could meet the delivery men and show them where to set everything up. I’ll gladly pay you for the extra time.”
“I’ve been more than compensated. I’ll be here first thing Monday. Don’t you worry, Missus Summers.”
Shaking his hand again, Carlie thanked him and walked back to her truck.
Carlie checked her watch; it was still early enough to make it the forty-five miles to East Des Moines before Bannerman Funeral Home closed for the day.
Phillip Bannerman was sitting in his office when one of his associates escorted Carlie to an empty conference room.
Carrying two cups of coffee into the room, Phillip’s expression told Carlie that he was both curious and concerned about why she had returned so soon.
Carlie knew that the longer it took her to get to the point, the harder it was going to be. She had to face the fact that Jon was actually gone. Making his funeral arrangements was just about as real as the situation was ever going to get.
Phillip listened in sympathetic silence as Carlie told him about Jon’s recent death.
“Phillip,” Carlie said, “I understand that with the inclusion of Jonathon, you will not be able to start Monday morning as you had originally planned. I really hope that, weather permitting, you will be able to start by the end of next week.”
“That will not be a problem, Missus Summers. You can be confident that I will handle all the arrangements. Please don’t concern yourself.”
Standing, Carlie shook the funeral director’s hand. “Thank you, Phillip. I brought you ten boxes; they’re in my truck.”
As Carlie stood to leave, Phillip stood to escort her out. Stopping for a moment, he opened a cardboard box that was sitting on the entrance hall table. Pulling out a smaller box, he opened it for Carlie’s inspection and approval. Taking the bronze urn in her hands, she turned it around and nodded in approval.
“This will be fine. Make sure you don’t forget the concrete vaults. I want one for every grave.”
Without another word, Carlie shook the director’s hand again and left.
Carlie pulled into the parking lot of the café just after 1:00. The lunch rush was over, and Cecil’s truck was the only vehicle besides Carlie’s sitting in the snow-packed lot.
They were both surprised to see Carlie so early. When they stood to meet her at her and Jon’s usual booth, she waved for them to sit. It was an unconscious action, but she understood that she was starting an era in her life where she would be sitting alone from now on.
Carlie ordered lunch, and for the first time in over twenty years, she ordered something that she and not Jon enjoyed eating.
For the next three hours, Loretta kept the conversation light and refrained from mentioning Jon or his impending funeral. Carlie broached the subject first by telling them that she had arranged for Jon’s funeral services to be held on Thursday or Friday of next week, depending on the weather.
Standing, Carlie looked down at Cecil. “Well, I’m ready for my weapons lesson.”
Cecil stood and Carlie followed him outside to his pickup. On the front seat was a black rifle case. Next to it was a large plastic sack from the local sporting goods store.
Taking the shotgun out of the case, Cecil pulled the ejector back to make sure it was empty. He opened one of the boxes from the sack and pulled out five shells. Tipping the shotgun onto its side so Carlie could watch, he slid each shell into the recessed slot on the right side.
“This particular shotgun will hold nine shells. It should take down anything that flies, from a turkey to a pterodactyl. All you have to do is hit it.
“Keep this padded piece tight against your shoulder. If you don’t, the gun will jump, and you’ll not only miss what you’re shooting at, but the gun will more than likely hit you right in the chin.
“One last thing: this shotgun is fully automatic. It will eject the shell the second it fires. Since you’re left-handed, try to keep your face out of the way—the shells are very hot. To eject shells on your own, simply pull the handle on the bottom toward you. Keep doing it until the shells stop coming out.
“Any questions?”
“I think I have it. I can’t thank you enough, Cecil.”
“Listen, I just want to remind you that you don’t have to do this alone. Anytime you feel overwhelmed, don’t give it a second thought—call me.”
Carlie could barely hold back her tears. She stood on her toes and gave Cecil a kiss on the cheek. Without saying a word, she got behind the wheel of the truck and started it up.
Cecil stood in the parking lot and Loretta just outside the café door as they watched her drive away.
Pulling into the front yard, she stopped at the front steps. Shutting off the engine, Carlie took the shotgun out of its rack.
The blackbirds were back and sitting silently on the edge of the barn roof. The barren limbs of the giant oak trees were alive with the black, squiggling masses. As Carlie opened the truck door, she spun around, sitting on the edge of her seat. With her feet resting on the roll bar underneath the door, she watched the birds as they began to gather. Almost as if on command, a handful of birds dropped to the ground from their perches on the roof. Shaking and ruffling their ebony feathers, they squatted in the snow, tipped their heads to one side, and watched her.
Carlie searched the ground, the barn, and the trees, but she didn’t see the larger bird that had bitten her. She had a surprise for him. Taking the shotgun in her left hand, she turned the key and locked the pickup’s door. As she turned to walk up the front steps of the house, she saw the large bird standing on the top step, staring down at her. Crap, she thought, I’m going to have to shoot a hole in my front door to kill this thing.
Taking the shotgun, Carlie pointed it into the air and pulled the trigger. It exploded with an almost deafening roar. The impact of the gun’s recoil slammed against her left shoulder, sending a wave of pain coursing down her arm.
Swinging the barrel back toward the porch, Carlie found she was a little too slow. The bird was already in flight and heading right at her face.
Ducking her head at the last instant, the bird managed to only graze her forehead and tangle its talons in her hair. Screaming, Carlie waved her free arm frantically. Hitting the huge bird in the side, she freed the frenzy of flapping wings and razor-sharp talons from her hair and scalp, sending her attacker and most of the flock into the air in a state of confused hysteria.
Picking up her purse and the plastic bag of shotgun shells from the snow, Carlie walked up the steps. Then she stopped, turned around, and looked to see if the bird had returned. A cold panic set in as she watched the black airborne wave descending on the power lines, barn, and snow-packed drive. She threw open the front door and ran into the house, slamming the door behind her.
Dropping the gun, sack, and purse on the floor, Carlie pulled the curtain back to find thousands of preening birds hopping and pecking at each other. A sea of black bobbing heads and flapping wings completely covered her driveway.
When three birds flew directly into the picture window, Carlie fell backward off the couch and threw the curtain closed as she did. A series of sharp thuds, followed by a softer, more subtle thud on the wooden porch, told her that the birds weren’t completely finished committing suicide yet. She was glad that Jon had replaced the original window with a double-pane safety glass. It would take a bird the size of Rodan to break that window.
Sitting down on the edge of the couch, Carlie leaned over and put her head in her hands. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” she shouted. “This is un-fucking-believable. My life is turning into an Alfred Hitchcock movie.”
Standing, she kicked the shotgun out of the way as she walked to the kitchen. “You worthless piece of shit,” she said under her breath.