Cal was amazed. No accusations or recriminations. No blame game. He smiled. “Great,” he said. He put a hand on one of her balled fists. She relaxed her grip, flattened her hand so that it was rigid against her leg. “I love you, Laura. We can work through this.” He had not meant to use the word love, but it came out. It seemed like the right thing to say. He did mean it. Maybe not right now, but he would mean it if she said it back.
He put his other hand on her shoulder and leaned in to kiss her. She tilted her head, making herself available to him. Her kiss was tentative. He moved closer, putting an arm around her.
They had not had sex since the body was discovered. Sex had always been the easy part. The dead man had soured that. But Cal sprang to attention. He led her to the bedroom, removed his shirt and pants. Laura sat at the end of the bed. He took off her top and kissed her breasts, cupping them in his hands.
“Too hard,” she said. “That hurts.”
“Sorry.” He moved his hands down her sides to her pants and looked in her eyes. The need galloped inside him. She nodded yes but her eyes were dead. Reluctant. They disturbed him. They said there was something wrong. She did not feel the attraction she used to. She could say everything was okay, but it was not okay.
He became self-conscious. He lost focus and his erection faded. She gave a light laugh, then fell back on the bed and covered her eyes with her hands. He pulled on his pants and left the room.
He went to the kitchen and drank cranberry juice out of the bottle. He sat at the television wearing headphones and playing a video game. He was a Marine shooting at bad guys on the other side of the globe. He fired his weapon while the music played, a monotonous organ at a carnival booth. Blood poured from his victims. He continued playing well after he figured Laura would be asleep.
*
Cal thought he was dreaming. He had fallen asleep on the couch with the headphones on. The eerie carnival music played on a loop that repeated every ninety seconds. But then, mixed in, there was screaming. At least it sounded like screaming. The kids in the park or something. But close. Right outside. He lurched from sleep and tore the headphones off. It was the chickens who were screaming. Squawking, but with a high-pitched, blood-curdling intensity that extended for long seconds. He leapt from the couch and burst out of the house without thinking.
The security lights snapped on and flooded the street, but the corner of the house kept the side yard in deep shadow. The screeching birds beat their wings against the wire barrier so that it shuddered. Feathers floated in the air, pulled up and twisted into the treetops by the wind. He banged on the fence with both fists. Something else was in the cage. The birds screamed louder. A light came on in the house. Laura was calling his name. He heard a snarling hiss, like a cat or wild animal. The chicken wire shook with the weight of some creature, but Cal could not make it out. The animal seemed large, too large for a cat but too dark to be a fox. He jumped back involuntarily, his skin wormy. The creature clambered to the top of the fencing, eight feet up, and leapt to a nearby tree branch that bounced with its weight. Leaves and branches crashed to the ground as the animal bounded away. Then everything was silent. Even the chickens stopped their commotion.
Cal looked down. Something wet shone in the half-light. One of the birds was dead. A Plymouth Rock. Black and white feathers danced across the yard. Laura came outside with a flashlight, wearing a T-shirt and his boxers.
“What the fuck was that?” She was shouting.
“Something killed a chicken!” He was yelling too.
She trained the flashlight on the floor of the coop. The bird lay twisted on her side, her entrails spilling from her belly, her throat a red mass of feathers. Nothing more than a carcass now.
“Susie,” Laura said. They could tell from her wattle.
Laura moved the flashlight across the pen. The remaining five chickens clucked in a group, huddled together in the corner, jerking their heads left and right, their eyes shiny. Cal thought they must all be in shock.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He looked at her looking at him and something went off in his head. “What am I going to do? What the fuck are you talking about, Laura? What in the fuck are you going to do?” This was her fault. Fuck her. “What is going on with you?” His eyes strained to bursting in their sockets. He balled his hands into fists, ready to use them.
She covered her mouth and closed her eyes. She mumbled something that Cal couldn’t understand.
“Answer me!” he shouted at her.
The old woman’s light went on. The shades in Liz Westerberg’s house rustled.
“I’m pregnant,” Laura said. She began coughing, a convulsive, sobbing cough.
Cal stared, frozen, his fists clenched.
The old woman came out on her porch. “Everything all right down there?” she called.
He and Laura looked at each other. Her hand was clamped over her mouth. Someone had to answer.
“Fine, Mrs. Caracelli,” he called back. “Fine. We just lost a chicken.”
“A cat get it? I should have told you to put wire over the top.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow,” he replied. “I’ll definitely do that.”
Laura turned and went inside. He stayed to clean up the mess.