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One Crow Sorrow
"Don't think so, son. My watch says one." He pushed the cap up off his forehead. "She'll be here soon enough, Romeo," he said, then motioned to Bobby's leg. "Can you make it okay from here, that thing's damn heavy." Bobby slung the bag over his shoulder and gave a Chaplin-like twirl to his cane. "Don't worry about me -- this thing's only for show." He smiled at the older man and waved goodbye. The train pulled out after its five-minute stop, the great hush of its engine swallowed by the hills as it caterpillared out of sight. Bobby was disappointed with the quiet. He'd wanted to laugh, to talk loud amid the intoxicating confusion of a large crowd. He was eager to kiss Marg, feel her lips on his cheek, seek the curves of her body through the light summer dress that he knew she'd be wearing. "You home for good soldier?" The older couple that had been
pacing the length of the platform stopped in front of his bench. "Yes Sir." Bobby swallowed the pill that had been sitting
under his tongue. "That's good, that's good." The man removed his hat and tapped it against the loose leg of his gray pin-stripped trousers. He held the jacket of the suit with the little finger of the same hand. An expensive summer suit, thought Bobby, this guy did all right, probably worked behind a desk all his life by the looks of him. And she -- he'd seen her likes before, leaving goodwill boxes on his mother's step. "No tea, thanks," to his mother's offer, no notice of the scones on the table made for their coming. On exit, he had seen the woman stepping into a waiting DeSoto -- left purring like a warm cat in the yard -- she'd turn back with a clear yell,"If things get bad again, you'll let us know Lorette." And his mother, spying from the lifted corner of a curtain to be sure they'd gone, would change back to her work clothes and store the scones in the pantry. "That's okay," she'd say to him. "We'll have a nice desert for the next few nights, won't we, Bobby." "Is the leg hurt bad?" The man wiped his forehead with the collar of his suit. The woman looked on with a tight smile, her eyes hidden behind the dark mesh that fell from the small cap pinned to her hair. "Na," Bobby replied. He would not call the man sir. "I just have to be good to it for a month or so an' let it heal up." The three of them were quiet now, looking at the leg. "Yes - ah well" the man stammered. He turned to look for his wife. "Ellen my dear, why don't you sit over here." He guided her to the next bench and she sat on the far end of it, folding her gloved hands on her lap and leaning forward, looking to the west for the train. "I'll just watch from here then." She spoke not looking at her husband. The next train was due at two. Bobby guessed that Marg had got confused about the time so he would wait through the noon sun until then. They had decided to meet here and spend the night at the Seaview Inn before driving up to his mother's place in Bayside. It was from here he left two years ago. They'd spent the night at the Inn -- awake for the most part. He, slipping into shallow naps with dreams that jerked him back to consciousness, to the warm fleshy comfort of Marg and the tears that fell sideways onto her pillow. "Can I get you something from inside?" the man was pointing to the pop machine with one hand and feeling for his wallet with the other. "Maybe I'll get something to drink…" Bobby began to hoist himself up but the man moved toward him. "No…no…I'll get it. What do you like…root beer?" "A root beer would be nice - thanks." Bobby was left looking at the woman when her husband made his quick exit to the station. She'd been staring in his direction but looked away quickly when Bobby returned the glance -- then began smoothing out the lap of her dress nervously. Her husband came back with three bottles gripped between his hands. He sat them on the bench by his wife and passed her one. She took a sip then set it beside her, already forgotten it seemed. He then brought Bobby a bottle and motioned a cheer before they swallowed. "Smoke?" He offered Bobby his packet of Players Plain. "No thanks." Bobby felt his shirt pocket for his own but only found the small vial of pills he was trying to do without. He wished that the man would leave him to daydream about the swim he and Marg would take, about the lobster dinner they would have with potato salad and beer. And how the salt would taste on her back and shoulder later as they lay crumpled in the creases of a bed. He would lay behind her then, put his hand under her breast at her heart, and cast his soul again amid the waves of heaven. "John McCormick's my name," The man squashed his cigarette into the planks and shoved his hand out in front of him. "Bobby Caroll." Bobby shook McCormick's white hand, mildly repulsed by its softness. "Are you from here Bobby?" "No - I grew up in Bayside." "Bayside," the man repeated slowly. "You would have
gone to school in Portly then." "Ya, I spent a few years there." Bobby knew what was coming; he remembered a Sammy McCormick on the baseball team there, a tall athletic guy with a big smile and a small sort of child nose that hadn't seemed to mature at the same rate as the rest of his body had - the same nose that this Mr.McCormick had. "You might know my boy then -- did you know a Sammy McCormick?" The man smiled. This will be great, said the smile -- we've struck common ground. His red bushy eyebrows had risen to the middle of his forehead and his mouth stayed open for the words about to spill, like little sightless links, into the air between them. "Ah," Bobby feigned a recollection. "No -- I didn't know anybody by that name." He slapped at a fly on his elbow, avoiding the man's face. He hadn't wanted to prolong the conversation, especially if it was about Sammy whom he hadn't really known. Once they did a science project together in grade 10. Sammy's attention to detail bothered Bobby; it seemed girlish to him. "Oh well that was quite a big school wasn't it?" The man's voice was calmer now - lifeless. "I mean it serviced the whole county and there was bound to be people you wouldn't know." He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and swathed his face. "Well Bobby I guess you're waiting for someone are you?" "Ya, my girl's picking me up." Bobby forced a smile in the other's direction. "Well, good luck to you son. I'm sure you're glad to be back". "Sure am." Bobby watched Mr. McCormick walk to the east end of the platform. He shook out his suit coat and pulled it on through his thick rigid arms then took his handkerchief out again and blew his nose. A crow had landed awkwardly on the post in front of him, its wings flapping wildly for balance like a busted black umbrella in the wind. One Crow Sorrow: Bobby remembered the rhyme from kindergarden. His mood had begun to sour. Where the hell was Marg? he thought. Jesus you'd think after being separated for two years she'd at least make the right connections. The lie he'd told McCormick distracted him. His grandfather would have called it a white lie, the harmless kind the God can forgive. He glanced at Mrs. McCormick. She was in the same stiff position, leaning forward waiting to see the train; the pop had not been touched. He wondered whom they waited for. He noticed them talking to the station master when he first got off the train. There seemed to have been confusion about their passenger. He had heard the station master apologizing for the mix-up and then McCormick's loud piercing voice: "Okay…I see then…we'll just wait for the next one….if you're sure he'll be on the two o'clock." The rhythm of the train had just begun to sound in the distance. "John." Mrs. McCormick spoke out for the first time. Her hand reached in the direction of her husband. John walked toward her hastily "Yes, yes, Ellen," he said assuringly, "I'll take care of it." He was beside her now, holding her hand: the bold metallic face of the locomotive had just emerged around Sleep mountain. "I'll get the car and back it up to the platform" He pulled himself away from her grip. "I'll take care of it" he said again. "I'll go with you." She began to rise but stumbled as the heel of her shoe wedged between the deck. "Please Ellen, just wait there." Their voices grew louder - competing with the noise of the approaching train. Mrs. McCormick stepped out of the shoe. "Okay…okay," she was yelling now, "Go on then, get the car." She glanced blindly in Bobby's direction before kneeling to wriggle the shoe free. Bobby felt a hand grip his shoulder. He had been so involved with the McCormicks that he hadn't seen Marg approach. He reached for her; grabbing her hand and pressing it against his cheek. She knelt before him and pushed her face into his shoulder, mumbling something he could not make out. No one had touched him like this for two years. He closed his eyes and was not afraid of that solitary darkness now. He was home and alive and smelling lemon soap from Marg's hair, catching soft curls on the stubble of his chin. She helped him up and stood back "You're better-looking." Then she pushed into him again, reached behind and pulled him tight against her. He fought the urge to push his pelvis into hers, then settled her head sideways on his chest. "So are you, " he whispered. He was surprised by her smallness; surprised he'd forgotten. Her face had thinned She stood aside for him to walk but he pulled her to him again; her breath was warm on his neck, then on his chin, then at his mouth. The kiss passed; the flesh of her temple and cheek pressed against his and they held each other. When his eyes rose to the world again he saw the McCormick's over Marg's shoulder. Mr. McCormick, with the help of three stewards, was sliding a long oak box into the back of their station wagon. Mrs. McCormick sat in the front seat patting her hair and touching her hat, fluttering nervously within the car like a captive bird as they loaded her son into the back of the family Ford. --------------------------- M.V. Feehan's work has appeared in The Fiddlehead, Contemporary Verse 2, A Room Of One's Own, and Potpourri. She divides her time between the city of Providence and Cape Breton Island. This piece is the first in a collection of stories based on the children's rhyme, Counting Crows.
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