We Fell Apart: A We Were Liars Novel(51)

46


My breath comes hard with the unexpected burst of energy. I rush across the overgrown lawn, across the pool deck, and through the open door of the lounge where the birds live.

Blood is strewn across the carpet, mixed with bird poo, chicken feed, and split peas. Glum has shoved her massive body halfway under the couch. She is throwing herself around under there. The birds that are still alive are screaming in a way I didn’t know was possible.

I heave myself onto the dog, pulling her with all my might by grabbing her rib cage, but she’s enormous and determined. I can’t move her back when she’s lunging forward.

I keep yanking on her and look around the room. There are little white and yellow feathers everywhere.

I can see—oh, it’s horrible—carcasses of six dead birds. The remaining four must be under the couch, but I don’t know how many are left alive. Glum is surging forward, growling, tipping the couch up and down.

I decide to move the couch itself. I let go of Glum and head around to one end and try to lift. But it’s too big. There’s nowhere to get a good handhold.

Suddenly, Tatum is in the doorway. He sees the situation and throws himself flat on the floor, reaching deep under the couch.

He’s trying, I think, to pull Glum by the neck, but she doesn’t wear a collar. “I can’t get hold of her!” He wrenches himself back and up and runs to the other side of the couch. “Pull it away from the wall.”

The couch is very heavy, but together we’re able to yank it back and toward Glum a couple of inches.

As we do, the last of the screaming stops.

By Tatum’s feet, blood and feathers. A wing.

Glum, still hunting, backs her body out from under and runs around to where I’m standing.

I look down. By my feet is a lone duckling. It’s Cotton, still alive.

“Hold the dog!” I cry.

Tatum runs to where Glum is trying to push past my legs, aiming to kill the duckling. As he grabs Glum and holds her back, I scoop up the tiny feathered body and clutch it to my chest.

Glum twists and struggles but Tatum gets a grip on the back of her neck and stays firm. As soon as he gets the dog partway under control, I run outside with Cotton.

The duckling is so light and fragile I worry I will break its tiny bird bones just by carrying it across the yard.

I realize I am crying.

In the castle, I go up three flights to the bathroom I share with Brock.

I lay a towel in the bathtub and set Cotton down on it, gently.

She seems unharmed. She waddles back and forth, quacking.

I fill a water glass and set it in the tub so the duckling will have something to drink.

I bang on Brock’s door and tell him I need him in the pool house and not to bother the bird in the bathroom.



* * *



—

Tatum has a pile of black plastic garbage bags, some bottles of cleaner, rags, and paper towels. He has opened the sliding doors to air out the lounge. He has closed Glum in another room. He gave her some water and leftover fish from dinner.

“There weren’t any more survivors,” he says, softly.

I tell him what I did with Cotton. And that Brock should be on his way.

Tatum sits down on the couch, which still lies at an irregular angle. His voice is choked. “The birds shouldn’t have been in here. They should have had a hutch.”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t have had them at all, actually. No one knew how to care for them. I should have given them away, but—”

“I yelled at you to let Meer have them,” I finish.

“I didn’t need to listen to you. I know Meer isn’t a big one for following through on ambitious projects. And I know wolfhounds have a high prey drive. I just—I didn’t want to be the bad guy. To Meer. Or to you.”

We sit in awkward silence for a minute. Then I start cleaning and Tatum joins me.

We put on rubber gloves. We roll up the soiled carpet and take it outside so we can bring it to the dump. We sweep up the feathers, the split peas, the chicken feed. We spray-clean the blood and the bird poop, scrubbing the leather of the couch with a rough brush.

I say “rest in peace” to each dead bird we pick up. I wrap their bodies carefully in paper towels to save, in case Meer wants to bury them. I say their ridiculous names and tell them goodbye. Hair, Bowling, Fire, Basil, Sunshine, Sour, Foot, Masquerade, and Malt.

We are about halfway through the project when Brock and Meer arrive.

We tell them what happened. “Did you maybe leave the door open?” asks Tatum gently.

“I didn’t,” says Meer. “I would never.”

“But by accident?”

“Don’t say that!” cries Meer. “I didn’t. I fed them after you went swimming and I closed the door all the way. I always do.”

“But—”

“Stop it, Tatum! Don’t make it my fault, because it’s not!” Meer puts his hand over his mouth and runs off, heading toward the woods.

Brock stays to help us clean.

When we are done, Tatum gets the house keys from the Spoils of War box, unlocks the office for his phone, and calls the Farm Institute. It’s a teaching farm that offers educational programs to the community. Will they take our duckling?

They say they will, and offer to send someone to pick it up. But knowing June won’t want visitors, Tatum says he’ll bring Cotton to them.