Crows by Charles Dickinson

“They’re interested.”
    â€œI don’t expect to find him.”
    â€œIt’s the effort you put forth that they appreciate,” Evelyn said. “The fire department gave up after only three days. As important as Oblong Lake is to Mozart, you’d think they’d spend more than seventy-­two hours looking for a dead body.”
    â€œIt’s a big lake,” Robert said.
    His mother nodded. She twisted the wedding band on her finger. “I spoke to Flora Gasconade last week,” she said. “She says Al’s with the Journal. ”
    â€œI knew that.”
    â€œHe covers the Brewers.”
    â€œDid you ask me over just to talk about Al?” he asked mildly. He kept in touch with Al Gasconade, he liked him, therefore the boasts of Al’s mother could not touch him. It was pleasant and cool there in the stands. The high lights scooped an intimate half sphere out of the deepening dark. Players from both teams wandered over the field in a rite of preparation. Buzzard had finished warming up. He stood against the fence talking with Duke. This scene touched Robert; the two brothers rarely seemed to have anything in common.
    â€œFlora is getting a job,” Evelyn said, her attention fixed somewhere inside her.
    â€œEverybody’s getting jobs except me,” Robert said. “Is that your point?”
    â€œNo, no. It’s just strange. Here Flora has been home for years, and now she wants to go to work. And I’ve worked all that time, and lately it appeals to me to just stay home.”
    â€œIs there a chance of that?”
    â€œI’m not tired of your father, but I am tired of that store. He has a thicker skin than me, maybe,” Evelyn said. “I thought it was the other way around, but he has an enormous capacity for acceptance. I’m running short myself.” She patted her son’s leg and laughed. “But it will probably never happen. Your father asked me to ask you up here,” Evelyn revealed. “He wants me to bug you about your life in general.”
    â€œConsider me bugged. Anything else? What are you two selling at Cigar’s these days?”
    His mother covered her mouth, but a helpless mirth rose in her eyes. “T-­shirts,” she whispered through her hand. “I’m wearing one at the moment,” she said, almost like a girl teasing a teenage boy with the secret of her underwear. She said, “Your father calls T-­shirts the literature of the eighties.”
    Dave returned then with two plastic cups of coffee. He wore a T-­shirt himself, Robert noticed, beneath his sweater. When Robert asked, Dave unbuttoned the sweater. The shirt was gold, with black lettering that proclaimed: 50, FAT & FERTILE!
    â€œNice shirt, Dave,” Robert said, flabbergasted with embarrassment.
    His father pulled the message taut across his torso. “I had three guys offer to buy it off my back tonight,” he boasted. “I finally buttoned my sweater so I’d get a little peace.”
    â€œThey wanted to burn it, Dave.”
    â€œI told them to come into the shop and we’d whip one up for them,” Dave said. He gave his wife her coffee. The laughter was gone from her eyes. Robert wondered: Does she ever think her husband is a joke?
    â€œI’ve got to get back,” Robert said, rising.
    â€œEv tell you she heard from Al Gasconade’s mom?” his father asked. “He’s covering the Bucks.”
    â€œBrewers, honey.”
    â€œBucks. Brewers. They’re both major league.”
    â€œShe told me, Dave. Al deserves it. He’s a good writer.”
    â€œNot as good as you, Bob-­O! I read you both in the Scale and he paled in comparison.”
    â€œHe still has the desire, though. Desire is a vital component.”
    His father was not listening. Robert could see in his eyes that he had moved on.
    â€œYou didn’t shave today?” Dave asked.