Then, bending down, she saw the Audubon book, no longer on top of the table but underneath it, at the bottom of a pile that seemed to have been set aside for later sorting. Even in the dim light, even with its plastic jacket, she could see the beauty of the image on the cover: a bird in full flight, moving through air painted in a blue wash that made you feel as if you could put your fist through it. The bird was dark, its bangled wings spread wide, sun falling across its massive, muscled shoulders. It was a majestic thing. Sylvia had read once that the bones of birds were hollow, filled with air, so light you would hardly feel them if they were resting in the palm of your hand. She thought of Hugh’s bones in that collision, not hollow but not solid either, filled with marrow, breakable, like hers, like Marg’s, like everyone’s. A great shattering and then a putting back together.
She turned the pages. The birds, like the bird on the cover, seemed to be lifting off, bringing all their brilliant beauty into the world. Yet of course Sylvia knew that Audubon had taken aim with his rifle, standing still, sometimes for hours on end, until the moment was right and he could bring the bird down. It was from those broken bodies that he had drawn such beautiful things.
She closed the book, leaving it there, at a slight angle, on top of the other books. The front door of the café again opened and the cool air rushed back to where she stood, carrying its scent of snow. She remembered what Marg had told her on the day of the accident, when she was still in the hospital: that the children had been playing kick the can, that the can had come out of nowhere, flashing, flying through the sky, that she could see it from the passenger seat, arcing the air, and she had thought, Brace yourself.