The Crane Husband


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Chapter 1.
 Chapter 2.
 Chapter 3.
 Chapter 4.
 Chapter 5.
 Chapter 6.
 Chapter 7.
 Chapter 8.
 Chapter 9.
 Chapter 10.
 Chapter 11.
 Chapter 12.
 Chapter 13.
 Chapter 14.
 Chapter 15.
 Chapter 16.
 Chapter 17.
 Chapter 18.
 Chapter 19.
 Chapter 20.
 Chapter 21.
 Acknowledgments
 Also by Kelly Barnhill
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Start of Content
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1.
 Acknowledgments
 Contents
 Copyright
 
 
 
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 Begin Reading
 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
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 To the mothers who flew away.
 And to those they left behind.
 
 
 
 1.
 
 The crane came in through the front door like he owned the place. My mother walked slightly behind, her hand buried past her wrist in his feathers. He was a tall fellow. Taller than a man, by a little bit. I watched him duck his head down to pass through the low doorway leading into our elderly farmhouse. His stride was like that of any other crane, all dips and angles, forward and back, and yet. He still seemed to carry himself with an unmistakable swagger. He surveyed our house with a leer. I frowned.
 I had already set the table and sliced and buttered the bread—it was stale around the edges but so it goes. I did my best to soften it under a warm, damp paper towel for a minute or two. The canned soup bubbled on the stove.
 My brother, only six years old at the time, sat perfectly still in his chair, his eyes wide and solemn. He stared at the spindly gait of the crane as it stalked across the sitting room, its long neck hinging with each step, like a metronome. The crane stopped when they reached the threshold to the kitchen. He cocked his head. My mother stood by his side, her hair disheveled, her sweater drifting down the outer curve of her left shoulder. She leaned her head against him. Were they waiting to be invited in? It was her house. She had never hesitated when bringing guests over before.
 Granted: this was her first crane.
 My brother’s mouth fell open.
 “Michael,” I whispered, “keep your mouth closed.” I was fifteen and had been in charge of Michael since he was born. He did as he was told. He trusted me, utterly. Under the table, his small, warm hand found mine and hung on tight. He shut his teeth with a snap but kept his large eyes fixed on the bird.
 I stared, too. I couldn’t help it. It was an enormous crane. He loomed over my mother, and she was tall to begin with. She gazed up at the crane, who gazed back. She giggled, briefly, like a girl. I pressed my mouth into a grim line. I knew what that giggle meant. She buried her other hand in his feathers, squeezing and releasing her fingers, luxuriating a bit.
 “Darlings,” my mother said, “I’d like you to meet someone.”
 The crane wore a man’s hat, tipped forward at what I suppose was a jaunty angle. He wore spectacles perched on his beak (razor sharp, I noticed right away). But his eyes—hard and black and keen, and so shiny it almost hurt to look at them—didn’t peer through the spectacles at all. I had a suspicion that they were just for show.
 He and my mother stepped farther inside. The crane had a broken wing, bound in a splint that looked as though it had been made from two bits of wood and strips torn from one of my mother’s shirts. It rested in a sling that had all the hallmarks of my mother’s careful construction—intricate stitchwork and the occasional moment of surprising beauty. He attempted to wear shoes, like a man, but his clawed feet had already pierced through the leather and he scratched the floor with each clunk of his footsteps. The shoes, too, were just for show.
 (The shoes, I noticed, were my father’s. Or had been when my father was alive. Not that I had any memory of my father wearing those shoes. Or any shoes, for