Page 22 of What Rough Beast

Sixteen

Ava

Widow wants all the details on my puking. Mom I was able to ward off with a WebMD article stating that white vomit could be acid reflux, thrush, or the result of an empty stomach. That, plus the fact that it hasn’t happened again, seemed to placate her. But Widow doesn’t trust the internet, and her usual stance that everything that can go wrong will is not helping me out in this particular situation.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” I tell her now, as I turn the egg, taking a second to cup it in my palm. When I found it, I could hold it in a closed fist; now, I can barely curl my fingers around it.

“You might think you’re fine,” Widow says, watching me closely from the office chair. “But anybody working around wildlife that develops health issues needs to be vigilant. There been anything else going on with you?”

“Uh.” I think about it for a second, rolling the egg into my other hand. “I guess my back has been hurting a little.”

“Where, specifically?” Widow asks as I set the egg back onto the towel, first making a nest, then bunching folds of fabric around it, almost like tucking in a baby.

I move to touch the bottom of my spine, then stop abruptly, staring at my fingers. “Where’s my ring?”

“Don’t strike me as much of a jewelry girl,” Widow says, the contempt implied.

“I’m not,” I tell her, moving in a circle, hoping to spot it on the floor. “It’s a sentimental thing.”

Which is the nice way of saying that the silver band with three goats on it is all I’ve got left of my friendship with Becca. I bought it at a pop-up shop my first month in Bethington, the two of us digging through a dollar box of random junk. She’d spotted it, held it up, and did her best impression of a goat, saying, “Aaaaavaaaa, you want to buuuuuy me.”

“Shit,” I say again, now down on my hands and knees, running my fingers over the floor. I find three dead stink bugs and a hair tie, but no ring.

“When did you have it last?” Widow asks.

“I can’t remember not having it,” I tell her, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I need that ring.”

Widow watches me for a second, thinking. “If you truly need it, it’ll show up.”

I snort, not able to keep my derision inside as I come to my feet. “That’s an uncharacteristic wave of optimism from you.”

“You allergic to bees?” Widow asks, setting aside sentimentality for chores.

I tell her I’m not, and she returns with a glass jar in one hand, a wide-brimmed hat with an attached veil in the other.

“Take the top lid off the hive, swap out the empty jar with this one. Lid’s perforated, goes upside down.” She illustrates, a couple of drops of syrup running onto her palm.

Widow puts me on the right path, one that winds through the woods, past the animal pit. The veil from my hat trails in my hand, snagging on brush. I disentangle it more than once, stopping to listen to the birds. I’ll never be as quick as Widow with identifying birdsong, but I can pick out an eastern bluebird, tell a house sparrow from a song sparrow, and have adopted her habit of shaking my fist in their direction whenever a blue jay screeches. The first time I heard a cowbird I froze up, its odd call eerily submerged, like something screaming underwater.

Widow had looked at me from the other side of the culvert we were digging out and said, “Cowbird. Real bastards, in the true sense of the word. None of ’em have any clue who their father is.”

Which is true, because they are brood parasites, invading the nests of other birds, throwing out their eggs, then laying their own and flying away, leaving a bluebird or an oriole to hatch it. Widow told me she’s seen goldfinches run ragged, trying to keep up with feeding young that are twice their size, completely unaware that they’re nurturing something that isn’t theirs and was never meant to be. One calls at me now; its low, gurgling sound slipping through the trees above me.

“Shit,” I say, muttering when the bee veil gets snagged again. I have to crouch down, untangle each thorn of a blackberry bush from the sheer fabric.

Something else I can do now is read tracks, to some extent. The five-toed splay of a raccoon is easy enough to spot, a smattering of them at my feet now. So is the elongated flat paw of a squirrel, and I’ve seen so many fox tracks in Tripod’s enclosure that the prominent toes jump out right away. I’ve just freed the veil and am rising to my feet when I spot the next one, and I freeze.

It’s human. It’s barefoot. And it’s very, very fresh.

“Bwaagh.”

It comes from behind me, and I jump, the syrup jar slipping from my grip. It hits the ground and rolls into a patch of poison ivy as the sound comes again, similar but different this time.

“Bwweer.”

It’s unintelligible but still carries meaning, the deep urgent tones of someone trying to get something out, throat squeezing around whatever they’re choking on. Widow taught me early that wild things want to be talked to; they don’t speak English, but tone is everything and hitting the right one can be the difference between keeping all your blood in your veins and learning a lesson while losing a little. I try it now, as I look down and a bare, human foot slides through the mud, edging its way in between mine.

“It’s okay.” The words are thin but cut the edges of my throat just the same.