care for the pigeons have pulled her closer to the ground. Lifting cages. Lifting feedbags. She’s constantly massaging her wrist, but never complaining of all the writing she does, those messages she sends out into the world.
“I wouldn’t kill…” William begins, but he stops. He looks down to his wrapped hand and hopes that Mrs. Rose will overlook it fearing a story made up on the spot might fall flat under her scrutiny. He understands that their developed friendship is reason not to kill the birds anymore, but he justifies this pleasure by telling himself, she’s never told me to stop . She’s never threatened him. She has only pressed with knowing smiles. He takes her lack of confrontation as simple compassion, a mutual understanding of the pleasure that comes with domination. A hunter and a school principal sharing more than genomes. He could take a higher road and dismiss the thrill of the kill, but he doesn’t. He continues because nothing else feels like a perfect shot.
“And you’ve got blood on you.” She points to a small stain at his hip.
He glances down, careful not to concern himself too much. “Not your birds’,” he says with pride and nods toward the kitchen where Shelia stands admiring the photos along the wall. “It’s her boyfriend’s blood.”
After Mrs. Rose, the connections on William’s wall came easier, though still never completely. Her being the leader of the pigeon ring allowed a tangible reference from which to assign strings. Subject matter, similar handwriting, and paper type can only stretch so far. And his color coding system—blue thread connecting messages about diseases, red thread for a sender who calls himself The Mourner, green for the growing group of funeral notes—it helps to keep things organized, but organization is only part of the wall. He must read motivation behind the words. Since meeting Mrs. Rose, he thinks about the people she might know and the conversations she might have.
Why would a message be sent discussing, in detail, the sender’s concern of physical discipline as a viable means of development? As an elementary school principal, Mrs. Rose believes that children require a certain degree of motivation and guidance. With this understanding, the message shifts on William’s wall from his “Battered Children” group to the more poignant yet more esoteric “Growth” group.
William steps into her home and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Rose already has her hand to Shelia’s shoulder. Her house is quaint. Candles with wicks still coated in wax sit atop a layered doily tier on the kitchen table; the chairs lacquered thick; the floor looks rough enough to splinter; and family portraits are stuck firm to every wall like the world was built around them. And the notion feels entirely possible. Mrs. Rose has a way of making the world seem pliable.
Why would a man who signs his name with only a curly “C” want people to know about his emotional trauma? Mrs. Rose volunteers part time as a counselor at a small office in Alexandria, guiding parents through the emotionally dense process of adoption. She believes that context develops a child, that a parent must truly want the responsibility if the child is to reach its full potential. So, the once ambiguous message becomes clear.
The early afternoon has aged into a later, darker day. William steps into Mrs. Rose’s kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. He suffered sporadic sleep the night before, it teased at best, and this coffee, though weak, is enough to keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t miss a moment of Mrs. Rose. She provides motivation that he has trouble developing and maintaining on his own. She sympathizes with his unwanted child predicament and has promised to help in any way she can.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Rose whispers into Shelia’s ear. Their eyes drip. “What happened to you should never have happened.”
Outside, metal interrupts loud through an open kitchen window.
“I wouldn’t kill…” William begins, but he stops. He looks down to his wrapped hand and hopes that Mrs. Rose will overlook it fearing a story made up on the spot might fall flat under her scrutiny. He understands that their developed friendship is reason not to kill the birds anymore, but he justifies this pleasure by telling himself, she’s never told me to stop . She’s never threatened him. She has only pressed with knowing smiles. He takes her lack of confrontation as simple compassion, a mutual understanding of the pleasure that comes with domination. A hunter and a school principal sharing more than genomes. He could take a higher road and dismiss the thrill of the kill, but he doesn’t. He continues because nothing else feels like a perfect shot.
“And you’ve got blood on you.” She points to a small stain at his hip.
He glances down, careful not to concern himself too much. “Not your birds’,” he says with pride and nods toward the kitchen where Shelia stands admiring the photos along the wall. “It’s her boyfriend’s blood.”
After Mrs. Rose, the connections on William’s wall came easier, though still never completely. Her being the leader of the pigeon ring allowed a tangible reference from which to assign strings. Subject matter, similar handwriting, and paper type can only stretch so far. And his color coding system—blue thread connecting messages about diseases, red thread for a sender who calls himself The Mourner, green for the growing group of funeral notes—it helps to keep things organized, but organization is only part of the wall. He must read motivation behind the words. Since meeting Mrs. Rose, he thinks about the people she might know and the conversations she might have.
Why would a message be sent discussing, in detail, the sender’s concern of physical discipline as a viable means of development? As an elementary school principal, Mrs. Rose believes that children require a certain degree of motivation and guidance. With this understanding, the message shifts on William’s wall from his “Battered Children” group to the more poignant yet more esoteric “Growth” group.
William steps into her home and closes the door behind him. Mrs. Rose already has her hand to Shelia’s shoulder. Her house is quaint. Candles with wicks still coated in wax sit atop a layered doily tier on the kitchen table; the chairs lacquered thick; the floor looks rough enough to splinter; and family portraits are stuck firm to every wall like the world was built around them. And the notion feels entirely possible. Mrs. Rose has a way of making the world seem pliable.
Why would a man who signs his name with only a curly “C” want people to know about his emotional trauma? Mrs. Rose volunteers part time as a counselor at a small office in Alexandria, guiding parents through the emotionally dense process of adoption. She believes that context develops a child, that a parent must truly want the responsibility if the child is to reach its full potential. So, the once ambiguous message becomes clear.
The early afternoon has aged into a later, darker day. William steps into Mrs. Rose’s kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee. He suffered sporadic sleep the night before, it teased at best, and this coffee, though weak, is enough to keep his eyes open. He wouldn’t miss a moment of Mrs. Rose. She provides motivation that he has trouble developing and maintaining on his own. She sympathizes with his unwanted child predicament and has promised to help in any way she can.
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Rose whispers into Shelia’s ear. Their eyes drip. “What happened to you should never have happened.”
Outside, metal interrupts loud through an open kitchen window.