Blackbird Read Free

doors aren’t locked. I roll up the door, and there she is.
    They knew how to build ‘em back then, Dad always said. She’s a ’70 Pontiac Firebird. She was born stock, but Dad did a load of work on her himself. All new running gear, topped off with a twin-turbo on a big block crate motor, four hundred cubic inches. State of the art disk brakes, all new steering, ivory pearl paint and a massive, multicolored screaming chicken decal on the hood. She’s a beauty. Just touching the cool metal of the fender brings me back. I remember screaming my head off when Dad drove me in this car. Once I even overhead Mom joking with him when I wasn’t supposed to be awake.
    Yeah, that’s right. I was conceived in the back seat of this car. It’s as much my home as the house, if not more so, and it is mine.
    Nobody bothered to lock the doors. Or drive her for a long time, from the dust in the interior. I flip open the glove compartment and pull out the registration.
    Yup, VICTOR AMSEL. The address is wrong, but it’s my fucking name. This is my car, legally, free and clear.
    A quick trip over to the key box and I perform the only breaking of this breaking and entering operation, shearing off the rusted old padlock with some bolt cutter I find lying around. I take the key and the spare and slip back inside. The seat still fits me like a glove. They must have just dumped her here. Gas tank is empty, of course. Fortunately the garage has its own supply. I twiddle my thumbs until the tank is full, then finally get back in for the third time.
    I turn the key. The motor chugs.
    Oh, come on .
    Another twist, and the rrr—rrrr-rrrrrr turns into a throaty note from the exhaust, but she doesn’t turn over for me. Come on. One more time. Fuck that Toyota. No disrespect to the Japanese, but I want my car back. I want my house, my life .
    Third time’s the charm.
    The roar of the exhaust sounds like an old airplane, thunderously loud in the confined space. The engine smoothes out almost immediately and I feel a surge of joy as I let out the clutch and ease in the gas. The car rumbles forward out of the garage and I whip around the turn, open the throttle and stab the button taped to the roof with my thumb. I hope the batteries aren’t dead.
    They’re not, somehow. The wrought iron gates swing open. I roll the windows down. The rain has stopped and the air smells damp and musty. Mists cling to the ground.
    I jam my hand out the window and give the security camera the finger before I whip out onto the road and two long black stripes of burnt rubber on the asphalt.
    Vic is back, assholes.

Chapter Two

    Evelyn

    I wake up at four thirty in the morning, each and every day. My morning routine is absolutely the same, down to the minute. First I brush my teeth, then I floss, then I shower, dry and brush out my hair. My hair is, in my own opinion, my best feature. My skin is too pale and lined with blue and red veins. When I get out of the shower, I look like a roadmap from the scalding heat of the water and the freezing chill of a November morning in this ancient house.
    My clothes for the day are already laid out. A dark blue pencil skirt, blazer and black blouse, dark stockings and sensible shoes. I wind my hair into a simple bun and lock it in place with a pair of chopsticks, black. As I said, my hair is my best feature, so I keep it plain, to match the rest of me. Otherwise I am far from remarkable, at least in a good way. My nose is too big, my face too narrow. I don’t get much sleep and it shows on my face.
    Breakfast is waiting for me downstairs. Father fired the Amsels’ cook after Victor’s mother passed away. He replaced most of the staff, in fact. I eat in the kitchen, skipping the overly ostentatious dining room. The cook, a round woman with a thick French accent, has little to say to me. Father keeps her around to impress clients. I eat a bowl of oatmeal and drink a glass of orange juice. The cook must love me. I eat the same thing