Excerpt from
COME AWAY FROM HER

GOOD FRIDAY, 1988

Their mournful call crept in through the corners of restless dreams dulled by consumption. High-pitched and constant, their wail stirred a slow tug of dread—especially in the early hours after dawn when everything moved a little slower and the light of day was just beginning to make its way upon the horizon. If the feeling of despair could be embodied by only one sound, it would be the raspy cawing of a flock of black crows.

The screeching became louder, more urgent, as if the birds were trying their damnedest to get Cap’s attention, but he was not yet ready for this day or its consequences. He rolled on his side and tugged the wool blanket over his head to block out the awful sound, but it proved futile. The crows had escorted him across the threshold between sleep and consciousness, and there was to be no turning back.

The back of his throat burned with thirst, and it was painful to swallow.

He reached for some water on the nightstand, but upon bringing the glass to his lips, the remains of the bourbon from the night before greeted him instead. He held the glass to his mouth. Considered the ramifications, then resisted the impulse to down the booze to keep the looming hangover at bay.

He swung both legs from under the blankets, rubbed at his temples, and tried to sort through the jumbled mess inside his head.

What day is it?

Wednesday.

Maybe Thursday.

Definitely not Sunday.

A silent thanks was offered to God that today wasn’t Sunday—a day of rest for many, but to Cap, it proved to be the most taxing day of the week. How he’d grown to dread the seventh day, the irony of which did not escape him.

Then it came to him—it was Friday. Good Friday.

So little of the bedroom had changed from when he was a small boy. Stark and unremarkable; merely practical and functional. A dresser with a simple mirror mounted above it. A wooden chair stood next to the lone window—the seat seldom used, and the window rarely peered through. Hardwood floors recently swept and mopped with Murphy’s Oil. The walls painted Navajo White, just like those of the seminary where he began his adulthood.

A full- sized bed had replaced the set of bunk beds from his childhood, and above the headboard hung a carving of Christ handcrafted from black walnut. The crucifix hung from this very spot long before Cap took residence, affixed to the wall by his father before he had two sons. The question of its removal never a consideration. So, Christ’s martyred depiction remained, holding silent vigil above his bed, watching, always watching.

Cap slipped into the washroom and ran warm water over hands free of calluses, cleansing his skin with great intent. He rinsed his face, fingers grazing the stubble on his chin before ultimately tracing the thick patch of whiskers above his lip. And as he did every morning, he inspected the split on his upper lip, ensuring that his whiskers grew long enough to conceal the ugly flaw.

Next, he brushed his teeth with eyes closed. Ran a comb under the faucet and pulled it through his hair. Slipped on a robe and cinched it tight. Routines made a man.

He shuffled down the steps to check the living room to see if Tess might be up and about, but the room stood empty. A glass of red wine was perched on the edge of the coffee table, as if it had been put down quickly and forgotten.

A draft of cold air nipped at his ankles, and he noticed that the front door swung back and forth. He secured the door, wondering whether Tess had slept in his room or down in the rectory. Had they quarreled about something? Had he said something that he might now regret? A few cups of coffee would be required to help him sort through a random collection of vague memories from the night before.

The crows started up again with a renewed sense of urgency. Louder and almost frantic in nature. Or, possibly, the birds had never quieted in the first place, and Cap had merely tuned them out due to his muddled mental state. He figured a flock of them had probably discovered a nest of mice under the house somewhere and were all riled up, desperate to feed on those tiny, soft babies.

In the kitchen, more routines were followed. He filled a kettle under the faucet, then went about boiling some water. Retrieved a jar of Folgers from the cabinet, refilled the sugar bowl, and grabbed a jug of milk from the refrigerator.

The kettle steamed and whistled. As Cap scooped three heaping spoons of coffee crystals into his mug, a flash of black blurred past the kitchen window.

“Damn crows,” his voice rasped, dry as a salted cracker. He flung open the door that led to the back porch and was greeted by a wall of dark, thrashing wings. The sky mushroomed black as thirty or forty crows took flight the moment Cap stepped out onto the landing’s concrete slab. The flock of pure ebony soared north, then looped in a sweeping arc before landing on the snow- covered ground, settling into an undulating mass at the base of the steps far below.

He shuffled forward and a spike of pain chewed up his foot and leg. Chunks of broken glass littered the concrete. Blood seeped from a tiny gash on the sole of his bare foot, and the sting of the cut nearly caused him to drop his mug of coffee. He picked the shard of clear glass from his skin and noticed that not only his blood stained the concrete, but dozens of frozen scarlet drops splattered across the landing as well. Spilled wine, maybe. His attention went back to the crows as they hollered amongst themselves, their hooked talons scraping against concrete and ice in a frenzied fashion, feathers whipping.

Cap peered down the concrete steps that had been built into the side of the sloping hill that his house perched atop. Thirty-three in all. They were too damn steep, and he rarely used them, especially in the winter months when ice coated their surface. He kept a sack of salt handy to scatter when the notion moved him to do so, but the bag had yet to be opened.

The murder of crows continued to swarm the ground, flapping and jawing at one another. Something had their dander up, that much was for sure.

“Go on. Get out,” he hollered loud.

The tangle of birds paid him no mind, snapping their wings instead.

The wind cut through the flannel of his pajamas, and he decided to retreat to the warmth of the kitchen when something between the frenzy of feathers registered in the blink of an eye: a shoe. A shoe coated with something black. Something wet.

“Ah, hell.” He limped down the steps, still lugging his mug of coffee, hot liquid splattering his chest and legs. A mounting panic blocked the pain, and he could no longer feel the cut on the sole of his foot, even though it left a dotted trail of blood behind him.

A few crows took flight, then a few more, clearing the way for Cap to see the lower half of a body, surrounded by a pool of frozen blood marring the snow. “Oh, God...”

The mug finally slipped from his hand, porcelain shattering on the edge of a step. The sound of it caused the swarm of crows to take to the air in an explosion, screaming that awful sound of despair as they fled into the Pennsylvania sky that grew darker by the second.