Emily Grandy

Follow the Killdeer

The dead boy’s father sat across from Jayme in an upholstered chair, elbows against his knees. Shattered, she thought. That’s how he looked. Jayme waited for him to speak, thinking she should’ve worn something more formal, something other than the ripped jeans and leather jacket in which she was often photographed.

“Good of you to drive back for…you know, the funeral,” he said.

“I flew,” she explained, which was true, but not the correct response. “If I’d known…” she tried again but stopped because maybe she should have known. She and this man’s son, Marcus, they had always considered themselves artists, sensitive spirits with eccentric interests. It had seemed only natural, then, to dive down into the pits of despair from time to time to probe those curious depths. The playacting had led to experimentation, not only in artistic forms but also in illegal substances, means of sexual gratification, and forms of dress. In Jayme’s case, these experiments had shaped a modestly lucrative career as a singer-songwriter.

Because her grades and absence record at UIC told a less impressive tale, she had recently pressed pause on her academic pursuits to focus her attention more entirely on music. She had been living alone in a studio above a Mexican bakery on the dodgy side of Humboldt Park when she heard through social media that her friend had taken his own life. Hung by a necktie in a closet, they said. Jayme did not know which closet, nor who had found him there, whether Marcus had been living alone, as she had, or whether he’d remained all this time in his parents’ house. She looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of his old bedroom, wondering.

Marcus’s father sat back, nodding, then shaking his head, as if to loosen thoughts he could not articulate. Finally, a few fragments tumbled out. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. But you were closer to him,” he acknowledged, as if placing blame.

Jayme crossed her ankles, feeling the heft of her boots. In crowds or on stage, they served as a sort of anchor tethering her to the earth, but here their obscene weight sent vibrations through the old wooden floorboards, rattling tables, tinkling crystal on its shelves.

“My wife would’ve liked to see you, but she’s not feeling well,” he said. “She’s asleep upstairs.”

“It’s fine.” She wanted to get to the point, but carefully. Then again, why should she be afraid of causing offense now after the worst had already happened? “So…”

He inhaled deeply. On the exhale he repeated the word back to her. “So,” he said. “The thing is, we’d really like you to sing. At the funeral. You were his closest friend.”

Jayme felt no gratification to be recognized in this capacity, not by this man with whom she’d exchanged hardly two full sentences strung together until now. The exception, she recalled, had been at Marcus’s sixteenth birthday celebration. She still remembered the occasion because Marcus had invited her, and only her, to have dinner with him and his parents at a restaurant of his choosing. Somehow in the course of things, the conversation had veered carelessly in the direction of habitat conservation. Jayme, a year ahead of Marcus, had given a speech on the topic in debate class. Suddenly, she had found herself defending her position again, against this man who preferred suburban golf courses and the company of men who invested time and resources to redistrict land so they could replace protected habitat with a monoculture of Kentucky bluegrass and white sand bunkers. Even now, she felt unbalanced in his company. 

“We’d pay you, of course,” Marcus’s father said, as if the fee were at the root of her hesitancy.

“You wouldn’t have to,” she said, though she was sure he could afford it, her time, what it would cost. “I’m glad you thought to ask me.”

“If you have time, we could go over music.” Then without waiting for confirmation, he said, “My wife would like you to sing this one.” He passed her a booklet marked with a pink tab. She knew the piece Marcus’s mother had chosen. She’d attended a few church services at Marcus’s request, an invitation she suspected may have originated with his parents.

“Do you want acoustic guitar or piano accompaniment?” Jayme asked.

“Whatever you think,” he said. “I’ve got a few more here. They’re all on CD’s. I hope that’s okay.”

“That’s fine.” Jayme accepted the discs, anxious to leave this place overhung with so much grief. The curtains were pulled back to let in the grey, early winter light, but still the house felt airless, like it hadn’t breathed in weeks.

“How’re your folks doing?” he asked.

Jayme was suddenly aware of a jelly-like sensation in her gut. Not the sharp, electrifying sense of anticipation that accompanied the march onto a blinding stage, but an uncomfortable squirming just behind her belly button. She wanted to shout at him, but said only, “They’re okay.” Certainly, without question, they were better off than the parents of the dead boy. “I’m staying with them while I’m here,” she added, though what she ached for was the oblivion of a dark, unfamiliar den. A dizzy head. A numbness that shielded her entire body. If only she could purge herself of these solid reminders. Tear down the floral draperies, set fire to the furniture. The heaviness of these reminders, these meaningless objects, their weight on her chest, it felt like suffocating. 

“Good. Good,” he said, then gave her a card with the address of their church, where the service and rehearsal beforehand were to be held, as if she might’ve forgotten. “My number’s on the back, in case you need anything.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, and, gripping the booklet in one hand and the discs in the other, she rose to leave.

*

Jayme’s family lived not on the street overlooking Lake Erie, as Marcus’s did, but around the corner, positioned in such a way that their backyards were interconnected. Unsurprisingly, it had been this proximity that sparked—even sustained—their friendship as children. Like the neighboring lawns, Jayme and Marcus had been inseparable. Despite the age difference, from the moment they met they were linked by a shared interest in the untold uses of binoculars, a full crayon box, and unstructured afternoons, boundless hours which they spent hidden away inside secret burrows, like the platform at the apex of Marcus’s wooden jungle gym. Jayme recalled eating lunches on paper plates up in that tower, recalled the tin of treasures—smooth stones, colorful feathers, unfamiliar coins—that they’d kept hidden up there, the books they’d read and swapped. When had they stopped spending time in small places, favoring instead the thrilling newness of each other’s bedrooms and each other’s bodies?

The play structure was long gone now, but the sandbox remained, or at least its frame, converted over to beds for flowers. Jayme’s own mother never gardened, had let the perimeter grow wild with English ivy and untrimmed hedges. She had taken somewhat more interest in her daughter’s growth and development, however, to the extent that the two still stayed in touch, at least over the phone. Although Jayme rarely visited, she didn’t feel uninvited. When she climbed the steps to the front door, she opened it without knocking.

Her parents were not divorced but might as well have been. The three of them together was worse, the two pitting Jayme against one another. Just as well she found the house empty. Jayme grabbed her guitar case and set herself up on the living room sofa. Though her parents hadn’t kept pets in years, she noticed a furry tumbleweed caught behind the side table.

With the playbook laid out in front of her, she tuned the instrument, then started strumming. The melody was simple, but not less lovely for it. When she began to sing, she did so quietly, as if telling someone a secret. But the combination—the words, the notes—they stirred no feelings whatsoever.

*

“It’s so crazy you called,” Milda said. “I was just thinking about you.”

Jayme sipped the foam off the craft brew the bartender had talked her into ordering. “How come?” she asked.

“Oh, well…you know.”

“Oh. Right.” Marcus. Why hadn’t that registered? She knew the reason, of course. Jayme hadn’t talked to Marcus in almost three years. She took a long drink.            

“Glad you wanted to come out,” Milda said, brightening.

“Glad you were free.” When Jayme suggested they meet up, however, this wasn’t the sort of bar she’d imagined. The countertop all but reflected her face back at her. Then again, people who patronized this sort of place, with its sparkling lights strung along the outdoor patio, its cheery, upbeat music against the backdrop of waves tossing on the lake, they would not likely recognize her. The performances she gave did not appeal to people who had drink specifications like “dry” or “very chilled”, the sorts of people who avoided mentioning their graduate institutions out of courtesy. Sitting there, she felt both conspicuously incongruous with her surroundings and invisible.

“You want another?” the bartender asked. Jayme passed him the glass she hadn’t realized she’d emptied.

“They asked me to sing at the funeral,” she said.

“Wow. Really?” Milda sounded as impressed as she did horrified. “Think you can do it?”

The bartender handed Jayme a full glass, and she raised it saying, “I’m a professional.”

“I guess so,” said Milda, her voice dipping into a lower octave. “I couldn’t do it. I’d be a total wreck.”

Though she sensed no judgment in the comment, Jayme still felt a flush of guilt. She ought to feel miserable—wanted to feel that way. It was her friend who was dead. Why hadn’t the news broken her, like it had so many others in this unscorched suburban bubble? Was it because she and Marcus had already rehearsed hardship so many times, invoking their own drama to avoid being ordinary, fetishizing a tragic aesthetic?

Jayme drank. Eventually, she said, “I thought you’d moved to Columbus or something.”

“Dayton. I came back. My fiancée got a job here.”

“Did I know you were engaged?”

Milda sipped her cocktail and shrugged. Something about her seemed bigger, broader shoulders maybe, or heavier arms. Then again, maybe it was Jayme who’d shrunk. She’d often forget to eat, especially on tour. People, including her manager, tended to think it was deliberate. At one time, it had been. An apple for lunch. Sunflower seeds. An energy bar. It was Milda who’d been the first to call her out for it.

“Do you remember that time in the auditorium, during dress rehearsals, when you turned around and asked if I was anorexic?” Jayme said. “You had that nun habit on and everything.”

Milda’s cheeks flushed, and she covered her eyes with her fingers. The nails were painted a rich, dark color. The ring on her finger sparkled. “Oh my god, you remember that?”

Now it was Jayme’s turn to shrug. “You were right.”

“Still, I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said, and Jayme wondered whether that was the best approach.

It had been Milda’s senior year, her final performance. Jayme, at that time, had been a waifish junior, cast as one of the middling Von-Trapp children along with Marcus. Milda, with her wavering alto, had played a convincing Mother Abbess. Even then, Jayme suspected the question regarding her eating habits had arisen less from a place of concern than of retribution. She recalled having discovered the abbess in the girl’s bathroom, crowded into a stall with Sister Margaretta’s tongue halfway down her throat. Naturally, Jayme, in a rush of giddy adrenaline, had told Marcus, who afterwards made a point of wagging his tongue at Milda whenever they passed in the hallway, right up until she walked across that same stage at graduation.

It had been that sense of humor that Jayme admired most about Marcus, how easy he made it seem to resurface. It was Jayme who’d always lingered in the dark, as if underwater, waiting for Marcus’s natural buoyancy to lift her out again. He had never needed her—never seemed to need her for that.

Besides, Jayme liked it down there in the murky dark. Her predisposition for emotionalism lent itself naturally to her musical pursuits. After she taught herself to play guitar on a Fender acoustic donated by a family friend, she found ways to express her general discontentment through lyrics she dreamed up during class. Sometimes at lunch or at after school rehearsals Marcus would help smooth out a tricky section or suggest a word change, but mainly he’d been content just to listen. She’d loved that he never gave inauthentic feedback, wasn’t afraid to tell her when she sounded like shit. Maybe because he’d always had problems with his vision Marcus had developed a keen ear and, in her opinion, a mature taste in music, as inspired by Joni Mitchell as by Mendelssohn. Jayme had trusted his judgment accordingly.

When Jayme eventually won their school’s talent show and, later, came in second at the annual youth music competition held at the state capital—came in behind a girl who sang in Italian, who didn’t even write her own music or play her own accompaniment, for chrissake—Jayme’s path ahead seemed clear.

Jayme had tried convincing Marcus to follow her to UIC when he, too, graduated a year behind her, but his grades were poor. Reading had been difficult for him. Severely dyslexic, Marcus had struggled with even the simplest assignments, but refused to work with the tutors his parents hired. Instead, the two friends often did their homework together, with Jayme reading aloud the questions, helping Marcus write out his answers, but being a grade ahead of him this method effectively doubled her workload.

After Jayme graduated, Marcus’s parents had convinced him to stay closer to home where they could ensure he got the academic help he’d need to earn a college degree. Besides, unlike Jayme’s situation, they were positioned to foot the bill. They had the final say.

Jayme spun her glass between both palms. Its condensation slicked the bar’s countertop. She considered the choices that might’ve led to a different outcome. If she, too, had stayed closer to home, instead of doggedly pursuing the lights of bigger cities. If she’d spent fewer nights playing open mic events and more on the phone with Marcus. If touring and recording hadn’t consumed her full attention. If her stubborn single-mindedness hadn’t dissolved all other concerns.

Milda was looking at her, waiting. What had she said? “Sorry, what’d you say?” Jayme’s words felt slippery now, sliding out before they were fully formed.

“Did it seem dangerous to you, back then?”

“Did what?”

“You and Marcus, you were always doing such crazy stuff. Remember that one time I went with you, and we climbed out on the roof of the elementary school?”

Yes. That had been Jayme’s idea. What sort of longing had made her crave those risky heights and prohibited highs? And why had Marcus agreed to follow her there, over and over again? What, in the end, made him stay behind? Despite his loyalty, he had never been as fearless as she was.

“My head was so fuzzy I thought I’d die climbing back down.” Milda laughed, unguarded, assured any hazards were already behind her. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“Did you ever talk to him?” Jayme asked suddenly.

“Marcus?”

“Recently, like in the last year?”

“Are you asking if I knew he was suicidal?” Milda sat back, crossing her arms.

Jayme modified the question. “Do you think anyone knew?” But as soon as she said those words, Jayme sensed their perilous implications, felt the urge to reign them back in, away from the edge.

“Somebody must’ve,” Milda reasoned, loud in her conviction. She provided no names of potential confidants, but over the rim of her glass, Milda’s eyes held Jayme’s. A hot prick of shame followed. Jayme excused herself. In the restroom, she splashed water on her bare face, then watched in the mirror as the droplets that hung on her lashes released and fell into the basin.  She imagined telling her friends back in Chicago why she’d vanished for four days, but they hadn’t known Marcus. They might offer quiet platitudes, but they wouldn’t care.

As she closed out their tab, Jayme recalled past occasions when the sum would’ve appalled her. These days, it would take a lot more than a few zeros to scandalize her.

In the parking lot, Jayme allowed Milda to hug her. But when she reached out to return the gesture, a cold wind cut at her wrists where the leather tugged back from her gloves. When Milda stepped back, Jayme wobbled unsteadily. She could hear the roll of waves in the distance. The lake hadn’t frozen over yet. Still too early. Milda offered to drop her off, but Jayme said she’d book a ride, suddenly wishing for the anonymity of strangers.

“See you this weekend, after the service.” Milda said. “Good luck with the music. You’ll be awesome.”

As Milda’s car pulled out, Jayme’s gaze slid in the direction of the tree line. Through gaps in the dark branches, Jayme thought she could see lights from the bar reflected on the water. Even though Chicago, too, sat perched on the edge of a Great Lake, the landscape here was far more beautiful, she thought. Even at night, even without stars.

*

Jayme woke the next morning in her childhood bed, unable to recall how she got there. When she sat up, she noticed the sheets and bedspread were the same as they had been all those years ago, an appalling ashes-of-roses pink.

The rehearsal that afternoon went smoothly enough, though the photos of Marcus placed on the altar were so unchanged she could hardly bear to look at them. The next day, the day of the funeral, she dressed herself in slacks and a plain black t-shirt and arrived an hour early to the venue. She ran through her pieces one last time, conferred with the organist on the program, and spoke briefly with Marcus’s father, who’s crisp suit disguised all but the grey fatigue clouding his eyes.

“We’re grateful,” he said, but made it no further before his voice wavered. Jayme felt a rush of discomfort and fumbled for something to say, but before she could he pulled a checkbook from inside his jacket. The act seemed to steady him. “Let me know how much—”

Jayme shook her head. “I know it’s kind of late to be asking, but I wondered if I could—whether I should say something, when it’s time…for people to do that,” she said. He looked surprised enough to reject her request outright. She slid a piece of paper from her own pocket to prove this wasn’t an unconsidered decision. “I wrote it out, what I want to say,” she said. She’d worked on it all night, after the rehearsal.

“Well…okay,” he conceded, returning the checkbook to its place, close to his heart. “I’m sure that would be fine. I’ll invite you up after I speak, then there won’t be any, you know, confusion.”

Jayme hadn’t attended many funerals, only one, for her paternal grandfather when she was very young, nor had she performed for a grief-stricken audience before. Perched on a plastic chair, alone at the front, she felt more self-conscious than she ought to, considering the attendees weren’t there to see her. Maybe it was because she could actually look out at the people gathering in the pews. This wasn’t like a gig, where everyone in the darkened house became invisible beyond the beam of hot, bright stage lights. She knew less than half the mourners.

As she strummed a quiet melody line, ushering in the bereaved, she saw Milda enter holding onto a woman who must’ve been her fiancée. When Milda raised a hand in a small gesture of recognition, Jayme smiled, but did not stop playing. Her parents arrived shortly thereafter.

When the priest finally nodded for her to begin the opening, Jayme slipped into her familiar role. With eyes closed, she played as confidently as if she were alone with her instrument, as if she were performing only for Marcus.

Jayme remained seated throughout the prayers and songs that followed. Only when Marcus’s father rose did she notice her heart begin to flutter. Its tempo increased as she listened to this man speak about his son, for he seemed to be describing a person Jayme had never known. The words he used felt not only bland but careless in their inaccuracy. They did not reflect the Marcus she knew, who was not gifted but attentive, not brave but loyal and honest to a fault, assuming you confronted him head on. He mentioned nothing of Marcus’s artistic qualities, brooding preoccupations, not even his lighthearted wit. By the time he finished and was gesturing for Jayme to take his place, she could feel her heart pounding throughout her entire body.

Jayme stood and walked to the podium, but when she felt for the paper in her pocket, she realized it wasn’t there. She had a moment of panic, like tripping over an uneven sidewalk, but recovered quickly. She was a performer, a professional. She could always improvise.

“Hi. My name is Jayme Brooks,” she said, then stopped, reminding herself this wasn’t that kind of stage. “Marcus and I used to ride our bikes everywhere,” she continued. “One of the places we liked to go was that old lot across from the power plant. It’s not there anymore, that lot, but for a while it used to be just grass and rocks and crumbling asphalt. Anyway…one time we startled this bird up from the grass. It leapt out but kind of wobbled like it was hurt, one wing hanging limp. It looked really pitiful. Marcus thought we should try to help it, so he sent me to find a box. It was the only time he told me what to do.” She smiled down at the podium, not making eye contact. Someone blew their nose. “He always used to let me decide things because I was older. That’s just how he was. But that time, for some reason, he took charge.

“So, I rode my bike around and eventually found a box somewhere, but when I got back Marcus told me I wouldn’t believe it, but the bird flew away on its own.

“He pointed out where it was, but it was still sitting on the ground a couple feet away. I walked over carrying the box and it started limping again. Marcus insisted he’d just watched it fly. I kept following, but it was moving fast enough that I couldn’t get close, then all of a sudden it leapt into the air and swooped right back to where it had been sitting. Marcus said ‘I told you so.’” That got a few tentative chuckles.

“We noticed afterwards that it seemed like the bird was protecting a nest.” Jayme paused again. She couldn’t remember the next part. She’d been reading about that type of bird last night. A killdeer, it was called. Amazingly, a killdeer could discern different threats to its nest and tailor its response accordingly. While the impressive acting of the broken-wing display was useful to lure people and dogs and other predators away from the eggs, the bird used other maneuvers to keep the eggs from being accidentally trampled by hoofed animals. If the danger came from a cow or a horse, the bird changed its tactics and, with wings and feathers spread out, flew at the animal’s face, startling it and driving the intruder away.

“Marcus was an actor, too,” Jayme said. “A convincing one. He could make you believe he was happy or miserable, like he needed you or he didn’t.” Able to tailor his responses based on whoever was nearby, she thought. In this light, perhaps his father’s words were not entirely unrepresentative after all. “Marcus was my best friend, but even I didn’t know what he was thinking. I didn’t know he wanted to die.”

Jayme gripped the edges of the podium, wondering whether her presence these past three years would have made a difference. A phone call between gigs. A visit over winter break. Would it have been enough, those brief interludes, for her to sense his desperation? More likely, Marcus would no longer have trusted her enough to tell the truth. She’d proven she was the sort who left others to fend for themselves when her own success was at stake. The sort for whom friendship had to be convenient. She put a hand to her throat, feeling the light bump of her pulse rising against her palm, imagining Marcus in that closet. She thought fleetingly that if he had never met her, if he’d befriended someone other than her, someone better, then none of this would have happened.     

Jayme raised her eyes to the congregation. The carefully curated funeral scene suddenly reconfigured, each element taking on a different cast. The ribbons decorating the ends of the pews shimmered cheaply, the flowers on the alter drooped, and there she was, standing under the unflattering spotlight. Jayme heard noses blowing, less self-conscious now. No more delicate weeping, but full-on sobs. Marcus’s mother, who before had dabbed gently under her eyes with a tissue to absorb the mascara, seemed almost catatonic, her fitted black dress doing the work of holding her upright. Jayme felt a hot, looping sensation in her head and forced herself to breathe. As she stepped from the podium, she felt the need to flee the room, as urgent as a wave of oncoming nausea. Instead, she returned to the hard plastic chair.

In a daze, she accompanied the organist in the final hymn. Afterwards, people came up to shake her hand, telling her how much her music meant to them and to the family. The pain, for Jayme, was settling in now, would cut deeper as soon as she left the stage. That sacred platform, where she’d always sought and found stability, quaked underneath her.

Jayme excused herself. As she stumbled through the crowd, she heard Milda call out to her—or maybe it was her mother—but then she was outside in the crisp, chill air. She breathed it in, willing it to freeze her, numb her from the inside out, because unlike Marcus she still had years ahead of her. Decades left for her not to forgive herself.

Emily Grandy is an author-illustrator and scientific editor. Her debut novel, Michikusa House, was awarded the Landmark Prize. Her other writing has appeared in both scientific and literary publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She has lived many places, both in the U.S. and abroad, but always gravitates back to the Midwest and its Great Lakes. Emily currently calls Milwaukee, Wisconsin home.