Aunt Corn's Gift

Our winters were wet, not white. The sky would remain a tumultuous soup of gray, stirring and churning until it unleashed its fury upon us like water balloons on concrete. Perfect weather for one to stew in a mood. 

I ignored the lurch in my stomach as my mother yanked the wheel, taking a particularly sharp turn. “Damn it, Eliza!” she yelled in between transmission whines, “We’re late! If you hadn’t spent so much time in the bath...”

I stared out the window, at moss and ferns, tuning her out. Overhead and on either side, evergreen trees towered. They shrouded us, the undergrowth, and the winding road in cool shadow. Up foothills we climbed, into the cavernous mouth of some great giant. Giants. I drew a heart in condensation forming on the window, then scribbled it out. Along with giants, the forest could’ve belonged in a fantasy novel: it grew thick, green and untamed compared to the city. My mother said it was downright mad anyone would want to live out here, but Great Aunt Cornelia was mad.

Finally, tires screeching, our car rounded the top of the hill, spluttering to a stop on the gravel driveway. There were three other cars parked already. “Last ones here,” my mother muttered, “of course. There goes our share of the inheritance...”

She slammed the door shut and marched me up the slabbed stone steps. The house perched above us. Although old—with vines nearly swallowing its red brick, and moss gnawing the roof’s edges—the house still managed to preserve an air of grandeur. Vines were cut back near windows, so that their panes could glitter and wildflowers could peep from their windowsill beds. Even the tower window, with its imperious height, winked down at the lawn. I thought it was beautiful; my mother thought it unkempt and musty. Yet, despite her sentiments, she stood attentively behind me as I rapped on the door. Reverberating deeply into the wood, the sound spread through the house, summoning the host.

Footsteps scurried from within; the door flung open. “Eliza! Melody!” A tiny woman hurled herself into my arms. 

“Hi, Aunt Corn,” I choked out, but as quick as she came, Aunt Corn released me. Her tortoise-shell glasses glinted, magnifying her bright blue eyes. Despite her skin being as wrinkly as an old avocado and her hair as white as a recent snowfall, age had not reduced her vigor. Her little feet danced on the doorstep.

“Before I let you in, I need to test you,” she said, seizing my arm. Unrolling my fingers, she traced the lines of my palm with her own veined, liver-spotted hands.

“Hmmm…” Her tongue stuck out slightly as she squinted at my hand, “Interesting, interesting. The forest draws you in, my dear; through its whispers you will discover a hidden truth. Oh! And betrayal follows you!” She met my gaze fiercely, “Has anyone hurt you lately?”

My mother stifled a snort. I shrugged nonchalantly. “I mean, my boyfriend did break up with me yesterday…” Not that it mattered; every boy had been like that. They used me like a handkerchief, disposing me once I was sullied with their problems. 

“Oh, no! You poor thing! No wonder you were late! Quick, come inside, come inside, and have some food. It’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks, Corn,” I managed a smile. Brushing past Corn, I entered the foyer, peeling off my light jacket while my mother underwent the same palm-reading process. It’s necessary to ensure no demons cross the threshold, Aunt Corn said. Despite my mother’s loathing for that sort of thing, she endured it. 

You see, Aunt Corn was filthy rich. Back in the day, she’d sold some plastic product, earning a sizable fortune. While I understood it as Corn’s hard-earned money, my mother preferred to weasel her way into inheriting a piece of it. I do what I must, my mother said whenever I pressed her on the subject. Do you know how hard it is without your father?!  You should be grateful!

I tossed my boots in one corner and headed down the hall, passing by various knick-knacks and relics lining the wall: wooden tribal masks, Indonesian jewelry, great oil paintings... all from Corn’s travels. I’m a camper van, she said, and this house is only a pit stop on a great road trip. 

The hallway opened into the kitchen and dining room, alive with smells, sounds and people. Mouth-watering dishes crowded the table, hip-hop blared from a countertop speaker, and the relatives had already made themselves at home. There was my uncle Richard, lounging against the refrigerator and shoving macaroons in his mouth, my aunt Clarissa, restraining her twins Jackson and Grayson from stabbing Jell-O with butter knives, my uncle Matthew and his wife May, staring stoically ahead while they sipped their tea, and finally Toby. He sat as head of the table, giving me a smile and nod as I took a seat. Last month, after 65 years of flitting around the world, my great aunt finally settled down and married Toby. Though Toby cut into the inheritance, we grudgingly accepted him. For he was a stabilizing presence to Aunt Corn’s eccentricities: he threw out her incense sticks when the smell got to be too much, he restrained her tarot readings to strictly after dinner, and effectively parted nonsense from her well-meaning words, as if he was Moses. This would be our first Christmas dinner with him present.

Soon my mother along with Aunt Corn trailed in from the foyer, and the feast officially began. Great Aunt Cornelia was many things, but something we all appreciated about her was her cooking. Rolls, ham, creamy soup, jam made fresh from blackberry bushes in the forest... and for dessert, the silkiest fudge you could ever eat.

Afterwards, stuffed like Thanksgiving turkeys, we wound up in the living room, where the eight-foot-tall tree sparkled from its ornaments. Beneath the tree were dozens of presents. I didn’t care for them, but seeing us open them made Corn happy, although unaware of my family’s true intent.

We opened them in order of arrival—it was Aunt Corn’s way of making sure we arrived on time—so Uncle Matthew and May went first. Now, Aunt Corn’s gifts, while eccentric, were always extremely valuable. Matthew ran his hand intently over the grooves in the candlestick holders he’d received, assessing their value. We all knew the second Matthew left Cornelia’s house he would call up his antique shop friend and make a small fortune off the item. The same process went for the other family members: old leather bound books, spiritual artifacts from Tanzania, India and other places—they were only worth their monetary value. Finally, our turn arrived.

As usual, my mother went first, unwrapping a beautiful necklace with various gemstones. Aunt Corn swore it warded off demons. I stared at my mother, thinking it was a shame it didn’t ward off greed, too. 

I waited for my gift, but no presents remained. Corn sprung out of the velvet armchair she’d been curled in and up the spiral staircase. “Your present was too large to fit under the tree,” she said as she ran, “so I'll need to go fetch it. Excuse me!”

This had never happened before. I turned to Toby, “Do you know what it is?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “She's always off collecting things,” he rumbled.

I glanced down, hoping it was something more valuable. My toes curled through the thick Persian rug. If the gift was worth more than the necklace, then the next few days with my mother might be tolerable. The rug had been there as long as I could remember, a deep red pool. 

Then, finally, Corn descended the staircase, tottering with excitement. In one arm she clutched something big and covered with a tarp.

“Here it is!” she announced, landing triumphantly on the rug. With a magician's flourish, she flung the tarp off. 

A giant golden birdcage swung from her gnarled hands and in the center on its perch, sat a little black bird. It tilted its head to one side and cawed at me. 

I nearly fell out of my seat. “Aunt Corn,” I gasped, “What is that?”

“Oh, this?” Corn reached into the cage and stroked the bird. Its black feathers gleamed like oil. “This baby I found outside in the woods just a few days ago, wing twisted. He must’ve gotten separated from his parents, so I picked him up and brought him in. I thought he would be perfect for you. Especially now with your boyfriend and all...”

“But, but—” I sputtered, “I don’t know how to take care of a crow, much less an injured one! We don’t even have pets!”

“He’s a raven,” Corn corrected, “and I want you to have him, Eliza. The tea leaves told me you needed a friend.”

“But—!” My mother turned, silencing my protests with that withering glare I'd come to know quite well: keep your mouth shut or you’ll lose our inheritance. Besides, she was leering at the fine metal-working of the cage. So, reluctantly, I took the bird. 

“Come back in a few weeks,” Corn said, “to release him back into the forest,” she grinned at me. “Ravens are quite smart, you know. They see things we don't see.”

***

If it weren't for Corn's request that I return in a few weeks time, my mother would have dumped the bird into a ditch and been on with it, but I was obligated to hold onto him. As soon as possible my mother pawned the cage, giving me a cheaper wire one. 

That creature better be gone soon, my mother said, wrinkling her nose at the bird as he hopped around his cage, or I’ll make sure he’s gone.

I decided to call him Beady, perhaps because of his signature stare, where his eyes glinted hungrily. In that way, he reminded me of my ex-boyfriend. I fed him mice I bought from the corner pet store along with the crusts of my bread. He grew quite noisy, always squeaking or chirping or pecking… however, never harshly. It seemed he took a liking to me. Sometimes I would let him out of his cage and he would cling onto my arm, like a hawk, staring longingly out the window. Over time, his wing healed. He fluttered off more, getting into all sorts of mischief. You should've seen the racket my mother raised when she found him in the corn flakes box. Around then I decided it was time to let him go free. He was big enough. I didn’t want to admit it, but part of me would miss him. He was an ally to me in our cold apartment, unlike my coin-counting mother.

The mist dotted my face as I stepped out, the battered Civic rattling to life as I turned the keys. Weaving through traffic to the rural, forest-grown home of Aunt Corn, I let Beady rest on my arm and enjoy the scenery--he might never see the city again. No one would be at the house to greet me; Toby let us know they went on vacation. Cornelia always was like that, flighty as a hummingbird. Really, it was a miracle Toby pinned her down for Christmas. 

I pulled into the gravel driveway and glanced up at the house. Behind the rolling lawn towered the woods, its pines and spruces piercing the sky. The mists wound with me as I rounded the house to the back. Corn never bothered to put up a fence: blocking off the wilderness is like cutting off one of my own limbs, she said. 

I neared the edge of the forest. “Time to go,” I murmured to Beady. I thought he would be itching to flap off, like in my apartment, but he stayed perched, nuzzling my finger like the stubborn bird he was. I raised my voice. “Now, Beady, this is your home, so go!” Still his talons remained firmly curled around my shoulder. 

Suddenly Beady cawed. He began to shift in place, beating his wings frantically.

“What is it, boy?” I turned around. A car pulled into the driveway—Aunt Corn’s car. “Oh, they’re back early!” I strolled through the wet grass back to the house, but before I rounded the corner, into sight, Beady pecked me. Hard.

“Ow!” I raised my hand, about to swat him, but movement ahead caught my eye: Toby, car door slamming behind him. His head was bent, and unlike his usual slow shuffle, he walked with tight purpose. I waited for Aunt Corn to come out too, but the car sat dark and motionless. Toby continued up the steps with his long stride, disappearing into the house. 

I frowned. Why only him? Where was Corn?

Something was wrong. I crept to the back of the house and peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Toby had crossed the foyer. I watched him, and though I was out of sight, I held my breath as he paused briefly at the window. With his large frame reflected against the treeline, he could've been a giant. But then he turned, heading up the spiral staircase. I saw my chance. Maybe Corn was inside; I would surprise her. I shimmied up to the sliding glass door, and like its name suggested, slid inside. 

Every item remained in its place, yet still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. When I took a heavier step than intended, the wood creaking beneath me, I finally realized. The house was silent. No music blared from the speakers like it usually did. I peeked into each of Corn's regular haunts—the kitchen, the dining room, the music room—nobody. Unnerved, I entered the living room.

The sparkle of the Christmas tree caught my eye first—it was still up, at its feet a ring of dead needles. My skin prickled. If Corn was back, why would she have left the decorations up? She hated holidays overstaying their welcome. 

As I tiptoed across the room, Beady flew off my shoulder, cawing as though someone snipped his feathers. “What are you doing, you stupid bird?” I hissed, but he wouldn’t listen. He swooped to the floor and began pecking at the Persian rug, jabbing, then tearing at it with his beak. “No! Get away—”

I stopped. Beady lifted up a corner of the rug; beneath it floorboards gleamed. The edge of one floorboard was slightly raised, as if… my stomach flip-flopped… as if someone had lifted it. My heart hammered in my chest. Sweat collected in my armpits. I bent down, reaching out, lifting the floorboard, nail and all...

And saw her. Her head was still that familiar curled white, but the rest of her… well, you don’t want to know about the rest of her. 

My finger dug into wood. I tasted blood in my mouth. My breaths shook. I drew back, back, retreating until I hit something. Someone. Trembling, I turned around.

Like always, he towered over me. “Hello, Eliza,” Toby said in that calm voice he'd always had. His rough-hewn hands were folded, his face as impassive as stone. “I didn’t even hear you. Your bird however, was not so wise.” I watched, frozen, as he leaned down like a tree falling in slow-motion. He reached for me. My throat seized up; I tried to cry—

Beady shot straight at him, talons raised, streaking towards his face. Toby cried; he stumbled back, releasing his grip on my jacket. Free, I sped past him, sprinting through the foyer, skidding into mist. I gasped, as the flapping of wings and screams reverberated behind me. 

***

I clutched my thermal blanket tighter around me as sirens wailed, flooding everything with flashing reds and blues. I let the colors consume me as Toby was handcuffed and shoved into a police car; I didn’t want to see his slashed and bloody face.

My mom arrived, face pinched with concern. It was the first time, it seemed, she was worried about something other than money. She hugged me, but the warmth never penetrated through the blanket. Her touch was foreign.

I stretched silence between us, and sufficiently fed up with me, my mom stood and went over to the officers.

 Beady flitted back to me. He landed gracefully on my shoulder, cocking his head, gazing with those gleaming black eyes. Promptly, like a mole, he burrowed himself through a crack in my thermal blanket, curling up against my sweater. 

“Hey,” I said softly, running a finger down his ruffled feathers, “That was quite the fight back there. I’m surprised you made it out in one piece.” He cooed.

“You have quite a sense of danger, don’t you? You knew about Toby; he would’ve let everyone assume Corn was lost on one of her trips.” I was aware I was jabbering--it might’ve been due to shock; I didn’t care. We were safe. “He would’ve gotten away with it too, and probably with her fortune.”

I stared out across the lawn. With the heavy mists, I could just barely make out where the grass ended and the forest began. The forest. Where I hid to call the police, in those pounding, endless moments, where every tree was Toby, and every branch his arms, finally seizing me at last. 

The forest draws you in, my dear. 

I poked my head into the blanket, “Why are you staying with me,” I asked him, “instead of out there, where you belong?”

Beady twittered, pecking at the inside of the blanket. What was it they said ravens liked? Shiny things. “Oh, I see. You’re only here for my blanket.” For the first time that day, I smiled. 

As Beady stilled, his wings folded against his side. His heartbeat soothed me. A tapping, quicker than my pulse, and yet it was just as strong. I closed my eyes, focusing on the little spot of warmth on my lap. Perhaps Corn was right. 

I did find a friend.