Knitting Bones (12 page)

“Are you asking me to take on a wild bird as a pet?”

“No. But there is this crow, an adult crow. Its wing was broken when it was clipped by a car, and so of course it can’t fly, but otherwise it’s perfectly healthy. We’re trying to sneak it out of Minnesota, to another state where it will be safe.”

“Who are the people doing this?”

Alice shook her head. “Well, one is a veterinarian, but I don’t want to get her in trouble. The problem here is, the person in Iowa who can take the crow is out of town right now, a family emergency. And I can’t keep it, it’s my turn to host my book club and nobody must know about this.” Alice was so earnest that her brow was dotted with perspiration.

“I don’t know. Isn’t a crow kind of big?”

“Yes, and it’s not tame—you can’t tame them if you don’t get them before they leave the nest. But he’s hardly any trouble, he feeds himself, and we’ll supply the cage and the food. He’s very quiet and he’s all healed, so you don’t have to doctor him or anything like that.”

“But…” Betsy gestured. “Sophie.”

“Oh, he’s not afraid of cats. There were cats in the home where he was staying while he recovered from surgery to mend his wing. That is…we’re not sure if he’s a he. He might be a she. You can’t tell just by looking at a crow. But anyway, Betsy, it’s only for three days. Someone else will bring him—and the cage and food—and then will take him away again. He’ll be no trouble, I promise. Only you mustn’t tell anyone you have him, because it’s…illegal.”

Betsy would never in a thousand years have believed Alice would be do something actually illegal. “How did you become involved in this?”

“Well, I started doing volunteer work for a group that rescues and rehabs wild animals. One night a week I pick the animals up at the Humane Society and drive them to rehabbers. I’ve been doing it for over a year. We’re all volunteers and it’s all legal; the rehabbers have licenses to have wild animals in their homes. But last week someone told me about this underground railroad for these otherwise doomed creatures, and I said I was interested. Only now they’ve come to me, and I can’t help because of my book club. And I thought of you.”

“Well, that’s very flattering,” said Betsy, “but I don’t think I can.”

“Oh, but, Betsy, you must! I can’t ask very many people, because sooner or later someone might spill the beans, and then the program might be shut down. People might be arrested.
I
might be arrested!” Alice boggled at this. “So please, Betsy.”

If it had been a sweet robin, or a lively little chickadee, Betsy would have said yes at once. But a crow? A thieving, wicked
crow
? Didn’t they eat baby birds? Didn’t they gang up on owls?

“They’re the most intelligent variety of birds,” said Alice, somehow out of desperation guessing Betsy’s objection. “You can almost watch them figure things out. Tame ones can learn to talk, though of course this one will never be tame. But he’ll be alive, and he’ll have other crows for company, and he may even learn to be happy. Please, Betsy.”

Betsy thought of her nice, clean bathroom and sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll do it.”

I
T
was a good thing that Alice was not afraid of the dark, because it was very dark in the empty parking lot behind a St. Paul library she had never been in. There was only one lamppost back there, and it was almost totally obscured by an oak tree holding stubbornly to its leaves despite their bone-dry, rustling state. The pavement also rustled, as leaves from less-stubborn trees were strewn in low waves across it. Alice pulled the collar of her brown wool coat up around her throat as a chill wind whirled through the lot, stirring up the leaves and ruffling her hair. As suddenly as it had come, the wind died, and the leaves settled into a new pattern.

A car swung around the library, its lights slashing across Alice and her own car, dazzling her, then leaving her blinded as it turned sharply into a parking slot near the back door. The engine shut off. A man got out, his attitude furtive. He turned toward her and seemed to wave. Alice tentatively waved back.

The man came to her. “You Alice?” he muttered, looking around.

“Yes,” said Alice, relieved that this was indeed Andrew, a fellow member of the smuggling operation and not some random pervert. “Have you got the package?”

“Yes. Come with me.” He walked to the back of his car and opened the trunk. Reaching in, he took hold of a box about eighteen inches square. As he lifted it, a scrabbling noise could be heard from inside. “He’s a live one,” he said, handing the box over. Its top was folded rather than taped shut and small airholes were punched along one side.

“Good,” said Alice, who celebrated the return of liveliness in wild animals brought back from the dull misery of sickness or injury.

She put the box in her own trunk and drove away. In case of a fender bender or some other imperative reason to stop, it was better not to have to explain the contents of the box. It was after ten, and Excelsior was forty minutes away.

B
ETSY
stood frowning at the immense cage in her guest bedroom, which was also her home office. It was black, an empty three-foot cube made of heavy iron bars. It stood on a metal frame that raised the top to chest level. A perch made of a tree branch crossed it, and there were three openings that held ceramic bowls. “One is for water, the other two hold dog food and fresh vegetables or fruit,” explained one of the two husky young men who had set it up. “Crows are omnivores, they’ll eat just about anything.”

Betsy, who had seen crows pulling at the innards of ran-over squirrels on the street, nodded.

“The cage seems very strong,” she said.

The young man nodded. “It’s a parrot cage someone donated to us. It’s heavy, but we like it because it’s almost indestructible.” Seeing her eyes widen in alarm, he added, “No, it’s because it gets moved around a lot, not because the birds we put in it are dangerous.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“Oh, one more thing: The latch doesn’t work very well. We’ve used a piece of wire to reinforce it. Be sure to twist it around the bars and then around itself to secure the door.” He pointed to the eight-inch length of gray wire bent into a long U and hanging from a crossbar.

“All right.”

“Well, good luck, and I’ll see you in three days. We’ll call before we come over.”

“Thank you.”

The pair left and Betsy went into the kitchen to look in the paper bag they’d brought along. In it were three small cans of dog food, two apples, a browning banana, a tomato, and three hard-boiled eggs. More than enough, they had assured her.

Betsy went to sit in her chair and knit while she waited for Alice to bring her houseguest to her.

G
ODWIN
arched his back to ease an ache forming in his lower spine. He’d searched the membership lists for the three local EGA groups that formed the Twin Cities Chapter of the guild, but couldn’t find a single Durand. There were two Corcorans, two Dolans, a Duranty, a Larent, a Tolland, and four Warrens, but not a Durand. And none of the others either were or had a spouse named Anthony or Tony.

The attendance at the convention, while much larger than the local membership, had been easier to search: it came on a computer disk. No joy there, either.

He thought of that Gilbert and Sullivan line: “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.” If this sort of thing was a regular part of one’s duties—and, according to Jill, it often was—no, indeed.

B
ETSY
was thinking that something had happened and she was not going to get a crow tonight. It was after ten, and she was getting sleepy. She began to put her knitting away, sticking the needles into the fabric, when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in!” she called and the door opened. A moment later Alice came into the living room with a good-size cardboard box in her hands. Something scrabbled inside it, and a faint, unpleasant odor wafted from it.

“He’s either feeling lively, or he’s upset at the confinement,” said Alice. “Or both. In any case, here he is.”

“Does he have a name?” asked Betsy, staring at the box.

“No. You can name him if you like, but it’s likely to get changed when he gets where he’s going. Where shall I put him?”

“His cage is back there.” Betsy pointed, then followed slowly behind Alice. She heard the cage rattle and the door swing open before she got there.

“Oh, my, look at him!” exclaimed Alice.

“What’s the matter?” asked Betsy, stopping in the doorway.

“Oh, he’s dirtied himself rolling around in that box.”

Betsy came closer. The crow certainly had. He also stank. “We can’t leave him like that, can we?” said Betsy, stepping back.

“No, birds are very clean animals.”

“How do you bathe a crow?” asked Betsy.

“Well, what I’d do is lower the shower head and turn on the water to just warm. Then draw the curtains around the tub and leave him alone for fifteen minutes or half an hour.”

In her tub Betsy had a shower head that could slide up and down or even come off of a stainless steel rod—Alice had become familiar with the arrangement while cleaning the bathroom earlier in the day.

“All right,” said Betsy, who really wanted to go to bed.

“Here, I’ll set it up for him and put him in. All you’ll have to do is get him out again and put him in his cage.”

“Do I have to rub him dry with a towel first?” asked Betsy.

“No.” Alice smiled. “For one thing, I don’t think he’ll let you do that without a fight. And for another, it’ll give him something to do, smoothing out his feathers.”

“All right. Thank you, Alice.”

Alice re-closed the box and went out and into the bathroom. In a minute Betsy heard the shower start up, then the thump as the crow was dumped in, then the click and scraping of its claws as it moved hastily around the tub. Alice came back out, the box in her hand. “You won’t be wanting this around,” she said. “I’ll toss it in the Dumpster and go home. Any questions?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“If you have any problems, give me a call.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Betsy listened at the bathroom door for a couple of minutes, and heard the click of large bird claws behind the curtain, audible over the sound of the shower. She decided against going for a peek, and instead went back to her chair to pick up her knitting. She was working on a sweater that would be a Christmas present for Emma Beth, who was her goddaughter. It was a cheery red cardigan with cable stitching up the front and down the sleeves. Betsy was doing the tricky reductions as she neared the neck. She worked slowly, because she was tired and because half her attention was on the bathroom. She had closed the door, but if the crow got out it might lie in wait for her to open it and lead her on a merry chase around the apartment. If Sophie joined in, the crow might be severely injured.

That thought made her put her knitting away and go toward her bedroom. Sophie slept on the bed with her, and knew it was bedtime. As soon as Betsy went in, the cat joined her, leaping up on the bed and looking back over her shoulder at Betsy. Who promptly stepped back and shut the door, trapping the cat inside.

Then Betsy went to the bathroom and peeped behind the curtain to see a large—very large—black bird at the far end of the tub, wet but clean. When Betsy bent to shut off the water, the bird tried to retreat farther, flapping its wings and clawing futilely against the slope of the tub. Water off, Betsy straightened, and the bird stopped flapping. Betsy could see that one wing hung down a little while the other was incorporated smoothly into the side of the creature. It cocked its head to regard her with one shiny black eye. It was alert but did not look the least afraid. Betsy, herself, was a different story. It really was an extraordinarily large bird, with a frighteningly long, sharp beak.

Betsy went for a bath towel. She draped it over her hands and lunged through the curtain to wrap the bird in it. Grabbing blindly, she nevertheless got all the bird’s body safely under the towel. As she lifted it up, careful not to let the head near her face, the bird calmly stretched its head over the towel and pinched her on the forearm.

“Owwwwwww!” howled Betsy, hopping backward and twisting her hands to make it let go. She nearly fell, but leaning against the sink saved her. The crow was still biting. She waved her arms in a sharp motion that threw the ends of the towel over the crow’s head and, startled, it let go.

Betsy hastily secured the wrapping, tucked the whole bundle under one arm and, after standing there a minute to regain her equilibrium, and her temper, looked around for her crutches.

She took one and used it to get to the guest room. She shoved the towel and bird into the cage, holding onto one end of the cloth and pulling back until the bird rolled out of it.

It had not made a sound since it had arrived, but now it got to its feet, feathers all ruffled, looked up at her and, showing her its bright yellow tongue, released five short, angry caws at her. In reply, Betsy slammed the cage door and twisted the wire to make sure it stayed shut.

“Wow!” she said then, half in anger and half in awe. She looked at her arm. There was a nice red welt where the bird had pinched it, with a single dark drop of blood at one end.

The crow shook itself, scattering drops of water everywhere. Then it went to the farthest corner of the cage and stood there in silence, back to her.

“Humph!” snorted Betsy. Maybe by tomorrow it will have died of pneumonia, she thought; and on that happy note, she went to bed.