Beau Corbeau

The semi-truck blared its horn, whisking Libby’s hair and skirt as it sped past. She wrapped her coat tighter around her, the broken zipper causing the icy chill to creep across the strip of exposed skin on the nape of her neck. It was too small for her anyways—a child's large—but it was the only warm garment under five dollars that she could find at the thrift shop back in Colorado. Her lips were cracking, flaking off from the bitter cold. The weather made her skin feel tight. Libby wasn’t quite sure if she was in Kansas or Missouri anymore—perhaps right on the cusp of state lines. All she knew was that the Midwest winter mornings could be unforgiving and she cursed at herself for missing home

Libby tugged on her stocking, slicked back her flyaway hairs, and kissed the pad of her thumb before sticking it out into the naked air.  A cardboard sign reading “Savannah, Georgia” written in chunky black Sharpie rested against her shins. She could see a car in the distance, heading up Interstate 70. Libby had been in the same spot for nearly an hour now and had encountered over a dozen vehicles, but was always left blowing hot air into her cupped fists as she watched their taillights dim and then disappear. She took note of the fact that strangers weren’t as friendly as they were in previous days.

Libby didn’t like hitchhiking—despised it even, but she was doing it for him. 

While she had tried walking an hour prior, the gravel kept getting stuck in her heels, and she refused to take them off—it would cause a nightmare of a run in a perfectly good pair of pantyhose. She would have worn her sneakers, but she’d accidentally been caught in a rainstorm in Wyoming, and they still hadn’t dried. Libby wasn’t prepared for this journey—she was rarely prepared for anything. Although she’d been on the road for six days, she had only packed enough of her comfortable travel garments for five, all of which were now well-worn and smelt too heavily of mulch and exhaust. There was a set plan on finding a laundromat once she settled down for the night—preferably one that had a vending machine and free cable. Until then, she was hoping her heels and dress made her look friendlier, more approachable.

She read up on the experience of hitchhiking as a woman. There was rarely anything she did before looking into it first, she hadn’t been one for impulsive decisions in a while—not since she was a child. Libby could tell which articles were written by women who did it, and those who’d never even attempted it. The professional ones reassured her, warning her of the potential dangers—advising her to carry a rape whistle around her neck and pepper spray in her purse, which she did—but also encouraging her to strap on some hiking boots and experience the world in its entirety. Others, the ones written by fearful mothers or those who were never truly able to experience the little excitements life could bring, spoke about how unsafe and threatening it could be, how she’d never make it across state lines alive and well. She found it to be quite dramatic and refused to be afraid, because fear would hold her back and she needed to do this. For both of them.

She personally hadn’t had a bad hitchhiking experience, at least not any that were notable or worthy of a special on Forensic Files. While there had been some people who’s cars had smelt of spoiled dairy or who had a spit cup for their chew in the cupholder, she never felt unsafe. Libby never minded being weirded out by an individual, as everyone has their strange quirks that may not be admirable, just as long as she didn’t feel they caused any danger. There was one man who pulled over beside her, chewing on sunflower seeds and spitting them out the window, who she denied a ride from. While it could just be her biases of not riding with men who have handlebar mustaches, are wearing a grease-stained white tank top, and have a confederate flag sticker on their bumper, she also saw something in his eyes that screamed danger. He flipped her off before pulling back onto the road, upset with her rejection, but she knew it was the right choice. 

As the car sped closer, she waved an arm in the air. For a brief second, it reminded her of her grandfather blocking the sun from his eyes. She could still make out the blotches of purple against his waterlogged skin, sunspots coating his knobbed knuckles. As they sat in her grandmother's garden after a long day of planting bulbs or harvesting fresh fruit, he’d place his hand in front of the sun and squint his eyes at the sky, trying to decipher the time of day. If the sun hadn’t dipped below the telephone wires yet, they’d walk to the convenience store on the corner and buy a pack of red vines and two bottles of iced tea—specifically raspberry flavored. Her grandfather had taught her to pick a strand of licorice, bite off each end, and stick it in the tea to use as a sweet straw. Then, once finished, even though the candy was hardened and made her teeth throb, they’d eat it. The wet licorice stained their fingertips and lips red, refusing to dull no matter how hard they scrubbed at it with soap and water. It was her grandfather’s favorite childhood snack, one he passed onto his only grandchild, the little girl he raised. 

She snatched her hand out of the sky, a subtle ache making its way across her chest. Libby smiled as wide as she could while pointing at her sign. During her research, many women explained that she’d be more likely to get a ride if she looked cheerful and friendly. The vehicle slowed, stopping a few feet ahead of her. She nearly cried out in relief as she wobbled to the passenger door, her heels slipping on the icy pebbles—duffel bag thrown over her shoulder.

A young woman who looked to be around Libby’s age rolled down the window, analyzing her. She looked at the sign again, eyes squinting and mouth slightly twitching, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Libby felt odd staring, but there was something about the woman that had reminded her of something. The way her black hair was slicked back and curled up at the nape of her neck, how her nose protruded and curved, how her eyes were pointed with black eyeliner and sloped in the corners, or perhaps how her movements felt hesitant and jumpy. She reminded Libby of a raven, of home. It unsettled her, but not enough to deter her.

For a second, Libby was afraid the woman would change her mind, so she tried to widen her smile without making it seem too forced, rocking on the balls of her feet in anticipation. She couldn’t bear to be out in the cold any longer. Her fingers were turning a light shade of purple due to her poor circulation and the bitterness of the air. Her hair was nearly frozen solid from being slightly damp after her shower earlier that morning. As her breaths grew heavier with nerves, billows of steam escaped her lips, creating gray wisps that swirled through the air before evaporating.

“I’m heading to Little Rock, that’s as far as I can take you,” the woman finally said, unlocking the passenger door.

“Oh my god, thank you!” Libby replied, perhaps too enthusiastically for her own liking. She crawled into the car and threw her duffel into the back seat, slamming the door in an attempt to not let the cold creep in. While she knew it was ridiculous with the window still open, she so desperately yearned for warmth. Libby pressed her hands against the air vents, cooing as the woman beside her switched on her seat heater.

“Savannah, huh? Where are you traveling from?” the woman asked. She had her left foot tucked up on her seat and sat too far away from the steering wheel, leaned too far back, and slouched into herself. The car itself was cluttered— cupholders full of half-empty soda bottles, fast-food wrappers littering the floor, granola bars stuffed between the seats. Libby was annoyed by the mess, she believed that the state of a vehicle could tell someone a lot about the driver. She read the litter as the woman being disorganized, impulsive, scatter-brained, and untrustworthy. Libby would never allow her car to be filthy, especially with how much she had to spend on it.

“Oh, right, Bellevue? It’s in Washington, right outside of Seattle. I grew up in Savannah though.” Libby tucked her hands beneath the thighs, hoping the friction between the heated seats and her now pinking flesh would finally warm her stiff fingers. “I’m Libby, by the way. Well Elizabeth, but I prefer Libby.” The beaded wooden seat covers felt too rough against her spine, and she hated how they slightly rattled each time she adjusted herself. 

“Mavis,” the woman replied with a gentle smile. “I heard it’s supposed to be beautiful in Georgia this time of year, that true?” Libby nodded, even though she didn’t quite mean it. Winter in Georgia is miserable, the weather was too temperamental and the frost bite wasn’t worth the absence of snow. Summers were worse though due to the humidity and heat. She preferred the springtime. 

Libby used to lie in the tall fescue grass, itchy against her skin, and stare up at the arches of the Southern Live Oaks, dripping in Spanish moss. When the sun would peek its way through the bunches of oblong leaves, she would find the sunniest spot and bask in its warmth—the soft rays of light protecting her from shadows surrounding her. She’d listen to the stream that ran through the small opening, the water gurgling through rolling dips and smooth edges of land. Tucked into nature, she’d trace the twisting branches with her pointer finger—one eye squinting closed and tongue peeking out between her lips. Even though she would try to etch the image into her mind, every time her eyes would close, the beauty and brightness would disappear.

There was a lone raven that started to watch her when she was twelve, his black feathers shining a luminescent navy blue when the light would reflect on them just right. He had an orange tag on his wing, the number “16” written on it in bold print. A local wildlife foundation marked a few ravens to track them and observe their behavior, to better understand their existence. He’d perch on the tree closest to her, grey talons wrapped around a bare limb. When she first noticed him, he had startled her. She sprinted home that day, the purple thistle she would sometimes collect for homemade bouquets scratching against her bare legs and creating shallow wounds. When she spotted her grandfather in the garden, back arched over her grandmother's blueberry bushes, she nearly collapsed onto the paved driveway. 

She didn’t always have a fear of ravens—of what they represented. It started when she was nine and her grandmother was dying. Her grandmother adored ravens, she found them to be mischievous and alluring, oddly playful despite their bad reputation. When she would take Libby for a walk on the nature trail near their home, she’d tug on Libby’s hand and pull her to a stop as soon as she spotted one of the large birds. She’d kneel beside Libby, hand wrapped around her and resting on the plump of her belly, lips puckering as they made a “shh” sound. They’d watch the ravens pick up acorns from the oak trees and tossed them into the air, chasing after them with wings outstretched. Sometimes they’d toss the acorn to each other, or one would fly up into the air and drop it for the other to catch. Her grandmother would cover her mouth with her hand as she giggled, rubbing her cheek against Libbys. The two of them bonded over watching them high up in the trees, swerving around the branches. Libby loved ravens because her grandmother did. 

However, when her grandmother began to grow ill, Libby had noticed a raven perched on their mailbox. Her grandfather used to leave out a bowl of unsalted nuts for the raven, worrying that the day it didn’t return was the day that she would die. Some days, he’d coat the snacks in nectar from his hummingbird feeder, then sit on his front porch watching the raven nibble on it with squawks of gratitude. Libby would sit beside him, her lips curved in a wide smile, while her grandfather clutched her hand in his. Her grandfather always hated ravens, even with his wife's obsession with them. He believed that they represented death—a bad omen of loss and misery. They brought along the complexities of lost souls and tragic endings. The day that she was put to her final rest, the raven circled the house, wings tucked into its chest as it barrel-rolled through the sky. Libby watched her grandfather from the kitchen window as he ran out to the porch steps. As tears rolled down his cheeks, wrinkled hands gripping onto the place over his heart, the raven flew away and never returned.

 She couldn’t remember mourning her grandmother, she just remembered that one day, she was gone. Her grandfather grieved in privacy, not wanting Libby to see his sorrow, and in return, she didn’t want him to see her hurt either. 

The morning after she first saw the tagged raven, Libby stuffed her pockets with seeds from their bird feeder. She tiptoed back to the spot near the stream, her hand outstretched and trembling—full of the specks of feed and lint. When she heard the whipping of wings, gusts of air whistling past her, she threw the handful of seed and ran behind a tree, peeking her head out. The bird dove toward the ground and landed on the dew-damp grass to pick at her offering. She lowered herself next to the oak, holding her breath to not startle the creature in front of her, and watched him. 

When he raised his head, Libby refused to scurry away and instead inched closer. She tried to remember her grandmother's arm wrapped around her as they watched the ravens, the look of joy etched on her features. Suddenly, they didn’t seem so scary anymore. The raven hopped towards her, his talons leaving dents in the earth. Then, once only five feet away, he stopped. He tilted his body to the side, his orange tag facing her, his gaze peering into hers. She smiled softly, looking into the inky pool within his eye. That day, she decided to name him Corbeau, Beau for short.

Mavis turned the knob to the music volume, soft guitar echoing through her speakers. They sounded clogged and damaged, or as if the song was being recorded underwater, but Mavis didn’t seem to mind. Libby shrugged off her jacket, the heat finally making her sweat. She missed the feeling of being warm. The past few nights, she found herself at cheap hotels. However, the paper-thin sheets hardly helped keep out the cold and she’d always peeled off the comforter, as she was uncertain how long it’d been since it was last washed. She shivered throughout most nights, tucking her arms and head into her sweatshirt to preserve her warmth. Sometimes, she’d grab towels from the bathroom and place them on top of the sheets, but they usually fell off from her constant movement in her sleep. While she occasionally fixed them to preserve the sliver of warmth, oftentimes she didn’t feel like untucking her arms to fish them off of the floor. Although she could afford nicer hotels, she knew her grandfather would disapprove—not because he didn’t want her to be warm or obtain her basic necessities, but because it’d go against what he believed the “true spirit of hitchhiking” was. There was something sacred he saw in the simplicity of it, of living off of the bare minimum. He thought bringing wealth or luxury into it tainted the experience, So, she made do with the squeaky mattresses and floral wallpaper, just so long as there was hot water and a lock on the door.

Libby slipped off her heels and placed her feet on the dashboard, wiggling her toes to encourage blood flow back into them. She couldn’t see them beneath her stockings, but she knew they were blistered and bloody. While she knew it was rude and hated the fact that Mavis’ eyes quickly scanned over Libby’s feet, she had to elevate them to help with her circulation. Her blood was never able to flow the way it was supposed to, as her veins were too narrow in certain spots and restricted proper movement. There was a weariness that came from cold weather, tight shoes, and high levels of stress. So, while she winced at her actions as she kneaded her palm into the arch of her foot, she also knew it was necessary for her health.

“So, why are you hitchhiking? I know public transportation can be a bit pricey and all, but I feel like a bus or train might be better suited for a woman traveling alone,” Mavis said. She pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit gum out of the center console, jamming a piece into her mouth before offering a stick to Libby. She shook her head—she always hated gum, finding the act of chewing on the same piece of saliva-coated food to be juvenile and repulsive.   

She leaned her head against the window, shivering at how cold it felt against her temple despite the smoldering heat within the car. Libby was grateful for the smooth road, her scalp only vibrating against the glass every few miles. “My grandfather. He used to tell me that his dream after college was to hitchhike across the country. He romanticized the concept of being some rugged vagabond in the seventies. He never even left Georgia though. I suppose life just caught up to him,” she responded. 

It was hard to picture her grandfather out on the road, living off of nothing but the kindness of strangers and the clothes on his back. He was always so cleanly shaven and hated the idea of dirt or grime. That’s why he loved the idea of hitchhiking. He saw it as freeing. He wanted the ability to live in the same pair of jeans, to embrace the thick layer of dust that coated you each time a car sped past, and to take advantage of motel showers that only provide a bar of soap and small bottle of conditioner. He desperately wanted to experience what it felt like to truly be dirty and have next to nothing, but never found the time to. 

When his wife passed away and he retired, he spent most of his time in her garden. Even then, he wore gloves when digging through the soil to avoid getting dirt beneath his fingernails. He always left his boots outside, and immediately shed his clothes and jumped in the shower when he entered the house. He loved the beauty of having a garden and fresh produce, not for the action of creating it, but because he knew how important it was to Libby’s grandmother. He’d never admit out loud how much he hated the mess that came with it.

He also hated how grubby of a child Libby was—always smeared with filth and coated in a layer of nature. He used to softly scold her while running a warm washcloth against her cheek and soaking her feet in a tub of soapy water. She knew he wasn’t really upset with her, because as he wrang out her muddied denim and strung it up on the clothesline, he’d ask her about her raven. 

As she brushed her hair—groaning as the bristles caught on the knots—he’d place a slice of peach crumble and a scoop of vanilla ice cream on a paper plate for her, and she’d retell all her adventures with her sweet bird. It wasn’t until she was well into her teenage years that she realized that although her grandfather was grateful that she had found a friend, he also dreaded the day her raven stopped meeting her at the stream. He feared that the raven represented his own ticking time bomb—much like it did his wife. He saw his life reflected in the stray glossy feathers he’d find in their garden. He never mentioned his fear or worries. He never really talked much. Then again, neither did she. 

There were times where she would collect juniper berries for Beau on her way to find him, stuffing the blue fruit into the breast pouch of her overalls. She’d then sit in her pocket of sun, and toss the junipers, watching as he’d catch them in his black beak. A few times, she had attempted to draw him, but she was never an artist and couldn’t seem to get the details quite right. She could complete the outline of him just fine, but fell short when it came to puffing out the feather on his chest, angling out his wedge-shaped tail, smoothing out the bulk of his beak, or capturing the loyal curiosity within his obsidian eyes. It always ended up looking like a misshapen crow rather than her raven—her Beau. Her grandfather hung them up on the refrigerator anyway. She never found it embarrassing that he wanted to display her art, even when she reached teenagehood, if anything she found it adorable that he wanted to. Libby appreciated that he was proud of her and her abilities rather than disinterested or unamused.

Some days, she would pull the roots of the grass up, nibbling on the white ends and tossing the green splinters of earth into a pile on a stump. The raven would tilt his head, gurgling out a croak in confusion. Libby always loved how Beau croaked, how it sounded like a rumbling rasp—a guttural exhale of air. She’d squawk back at him, mimicking his yelp, which would cause his feathers to rustle and head to burrow into his neck. Occasionally, when she would caw at him too loudly, he’d fly onto one of the oak trees, and watch her under a careful gaze of mock betrayal. To gain back his trust, she’d softly sing, beau Corbeau, mon beau petit Corbeau. She was trying to learn French at the time. Her grandmother was fluent in the language and used to read her French bedtime stories—Libby always depended on the pictures to follow the storylines. Libby was hoping that understanding the language would make her feel closer to her grandmother. They hadn’t offered it at her school, so she saved up enough money from selling her grandfather's blueberries and peaches to buy a French to English dictionary.

Beau would fly above her as she walked home, perching on telephone wires or chimneys when he lost sight of her—waiting for her to appear on the empty roads, feet bare and sneakers dangling from her fingertips. When they reached home, he’d sit on her chipped fence, croaking out a goodbye. He’d sometimes try to mimic the sound of police sirens or car alarms to make her giggle, but most of the time, he’d send her off with a gentle squawk. Her grandfather, sitting on the porch steps, would wave at Beau, and leave him a bowl of unsalted peanuts dipped in nectar as a thank you—or maybe, as a plea to stick around.

“Okay, so you’re hitchhiking cross country, but why are you going back to Savannah? Wouldn’t it be cooler to go to New York City? Or maybe Disney World?” Mavis asked. 

Libby wasn’t used to people probing questions out of her. Usually, they sat in silence or would listen to the radio, avoiding conversation. She found the interrogation to be belittling. Libby didn’t appreciate people prying into other people's lives, she found it to be rude. She preferred drivers that would keep quiet, that acted as though she wasn’t sitting besides them. She didn’t see the need of getting to know one another if they’d never see eachother again.

Libby reached for the tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, winding it to watch it quickly unravel. Her fingers began to smell of what she assumed was green apple—sour yet also sickly sweet. As the tree rocked, twisting and untwisting itself, she nodded, a sad smile painting its way across her chapped lips. “I have to clean out my grandfather's house, someone finally bought it. Turns out, people aren’t too keen on buying a house that someone died in, even with the price cut,” she replied, pushing past the sorrowful lump in her throat. The windows in the car had begun to fog up, the condensation leaking onto the glass. If he had been in the car, he’d tell Libby to stop breathing so heavily, chuckling as he wiped off the glass with his sleeve. Mavis hastily apologized, probably telling a story of how she related and understood, but Libby was too exhausted to listen. Or perhaps she was just tired of hearing people's condolences. She closed her eyes, focused on the strumming of warped guitar strings, and tried to convince herself that it’d all be over soon.

Three days before Libby left to move to Washington for college, her grandfather sat with her by the stream as the sun began to dip behind the mountains. Her grandmother was originally from Washington, but had moved to Georgia for a job opportunity. She wanted to see where her grandmother had called home, but regretted it once the time came.They rested on a fallen tree, throwing juniper berries and birdseed at their feet. They hadn’t seen Beau all day. After six years, he had vanished. She feared that something had happened to him, that he had been shot down in the peak of hunting season, or was trapped in a lew of fishing wire and net. Her grandfather wiped away a tear with the sleeve of his sweater, hoping to catch it before Libby noticed. They both knew that Beau’s absence wasn’t just the disappearance of a friend, but a bad omen of possible loss.

For the next three nights, she never left her grandfather's side. Once he said goodnight, kissing the top of her head and teetering into his bedroom, she’d set an alarm to check on him every hour. She’d then tiptoe into the room, holding her compact mirror above his mouth to watch the glass fog up with his breath. The day she left, hugging him in front of the airport, his protective hand cupping the back of her head, she sobbed—afraid it’d be the last time she saw him. 

She didn’t get the phone call informing her of his passing for eight more years. Libby was in her kitchen, reheating a pasta dish she made the night before, and pouring herself another glass of malbec. When an unknown number popped up on her screen, she almost ignored it, but didn’t when she saw the Savannah area code. In a way, she knew what the call entailed due to his declining health, but she hoped she was wrong. She was supposed to fly out to visit him five days later and they had talked the night before about his excitement to see his only grandchild again. At first, she was angry that he couldn’t have waited just a few more days, she found it selfish of him. Once the frustration subsided, all she felt was a heart shattering pain. They said he died peacefully in his sleep, which was a best case scenario, but she couldn’t help but wonder what his last thoughts were—if they were of her, her grandmother, or the ravens.

Libby jolted awake when she felt a finger poking at her arm, an apprehensive voice squeaking out, “Lizzy? We’re right outside of Little Rock. You won’t get much luck getting a ride in the city, so can I just drop you off here?” She ignored the mispronunciation of her name and the question that was really a statement, as the car was already stopped—warning lights flashing. She thanked Mavis for her kindness before jumping out of the car, parked by a cheap and dingy gas station. Libby didn’t want to face any of the typical pleasantries that come with saying goodbye—she was never that great at them anyway. 

To avoid watching Mavis drive away, she ducked into the convenience store, buying an ice tea and a pack of red vines. She bit off each end of the plastic-like licorice, sticking it into the bottle. They didn’t make the licorice twist like they used to, less hollow now. She sucked her cheeks in to gain more suction to sip on her drink, which succeeded, but her jaw slightly cramped. Sometimes, she missed being a child.  

Libby wandered off, sipping on her tea in slow gulps. She leaned against a gas pump, head falling back and eyes squinting closed—duffel slipping off her shoulder onto the ground. She caught her breath, shivered into coat, and tried to wipe the sleep from her eyes. Then, Libby kissed her thumb and stuck it back out, ready to be home again.