Crows by Charles Dickinson Page A

­People sitting nearby turned casually to examine Robert’s scrabbly face.
    â€œSummer’s over, Dave.” Robert touched his face; day one, it was stubbled, unkempt, derelict. Every year his father gave him a hard time about the beard. It was a tradition.
    He said good-­bye and forgot what he had gone to the concession stand for when he returned to his seat. Olive had arrived in her greasy Good-­Ee Freez uniform; she added a Coke to the order and Robert returned to the concession stand. He felt stunned by the brush with his parents and with Fennimore. His father was well past fifty, not really fat. And fertile?
    He was still in line when the game began. He watched Buzz’s first pitch through a grove of spectators’ shoulders and heads, and it was a called strike.
    O N THE WALK home Robert took the ring from his pocket and passed it to Ethel. The darkness was thick where they walked, however, and she could only feel the ring’s shape and weight and Robert’s warmth in her hand. Her son had pitched less than his best that night, but still won, then departed in that blue ether that surrounded him, win or lose, after each game. He kissed his mother good night at the edge of the field, then walked away with Kevin and some other ballplayers, going into the woods to their snuck beer and stories. She felt the night and the knowledge of the morning pushing her to bed. Now this ring.
    â€œYou found it in the lake?” she asked as they walked. Olive and Duke were just moving shapes. They all walked slowly so Duke could keep up.
    â€œLast night,” Robert said. “Near the Cow.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me?” Olive asked.
    â€œI didn’t want to upset you. It’s the first thing I’ve found. I didn’t know if it was Ben’s or not.”
    They could see the front-­porch light ahead. Ethel put the ring in her pocket. Then she pretended to drop it.
    â€œOh, damn!” she exclaimed, kicking stones.
    Everyone stopped. There was no light for a search and Robert had no wish to press it regardless. He had long since decided the ring was Ethel’s, whether it had been Ben’s or not, and hers to do with as she pleased. If she wanted it lost again, that was up to her.
    â€œWe can come back in the morning to look for it,” Robert said.
    No one contested or agreed to this. They went on home.
    Ethel inspected the ring in private, and wondered at what point in the past two years it had slipped from her husband’s finger.

 
Chapter Four
    Forgetful Sleep
    R OBERT HAD STORED the storm windows in the basement according to Ben’s old system. He had wiped each pane clean on both sides and rested it against its neighbor. Each window frame bore a three-­figure code that corresponded to the code written on the frame of the house. Robert loved this touch of taxonomy. Phylum. Genus. Species.
    He climbed the ladder with window 3-­E-­A—­third floor, east side, first window from left. The ladder had a perilous inward bow to it and swayed as he ascended. He had the rest of the third floor and all of the fourth to do. But putting up storm windows kept him out of any crow hunts. It gave him a clear idea of what was expected of him.
    In the early days of September Olive had come home with a new boyfriend. He was on the Mozart College soccer team, his name was Glenn. His hair was the color of straw and seemed always to be wrinkled and tipped with moisture. He was small and nimble. His muscles looked stringy and hard, durable and ferretlike; just Olive’s type. Robert often caught them sitting alone in the house, Glenn running his small, freckled hands over Olive’s swimmer’s muscles. He would look up at Robert as he passed through; Robert hoped he wondered where Robert fit in.
    Robert asked Ethel, “Where does this leave me?” He could have asked Olive, but she could not answer his question. Olive had only herself to