Baby (9 page)

“Sophie’s father will get well,” said Julia.

Papa moved on the sofa.

“You took a great risk,” he said.

It was the first time he had spoken.

Julia looked at him, then at the rest of us.

“But that is what a mother does,” she said.

No one spoke.

I wanted to hate her. I wanted her to go away and leave Sophie with us. I didn’t ever want to see her again. Ever. But I couldn’t hate her, because in the silence of the room Sophie walked over to her
mother. She didn’t speak. They stared at each other for a moment. Then Sophie put her hand out and Sophie’s mother took it, and Sophie began to move her hand up and down. Something familiar from long ago.

Tears came down Papa’s cheeks.

Circles.

The ferry stood at the dock. It looked old and worn in the light of morning, all of its rust and sea-streaked paint showing. The wind blew in gusts, some so harsh that Byrd held on to Lalo’s arm. Three cars and an empty flatbed truck went on the ferry, making a lonely clatter on the metal gangplank. A handful of people walked on, turning to wave to the handful on the wharf. Papa held Sophie tightly, and walked away from us, farther down the wharf. Sophie pointed up to the sky. Papa spoke to her, and she smiled.

I saw Griffey, Rollie, and Arthur back by the gas pump looking strange without their instruments. Old man Brick sat in his truck, looking through the windshield. He didn’t get out. Lalo’s mother and father walked down the sidewalk, and
Dr. Fortunato’s car drove in and stopped where the wooden wharf began. He opened the door and stood next to it, watching us. Rebel sat on his motorcycle, and Ms. Minifred got off the back. A gust of wind came up, and her hair blew across her face. Without looking at her Rebel handed her his scarf.

Julia turned to Mama.

“Thank you is all there’s left to say,” she said.

Mama took her hand, then they both looked at Papa.

“John.”

Mama said his name softly, but even in the wind he heard.

He stood still for a moment. Then he kissed Sophie. He walked back to us. He handed Sophie to her mother. Byrd reached over and put the necklace with the ruby around Sophie’s neck.

Julia turned and walked onto the ferry. Sophie stared at us over her back. Her eyes were solemn. I looked quickly at Papa, and he stared at Sophie as if he were trying to memorize her. Sophie didn’t smile. But just before she disappeared inside she
reached over Julia’s back and held out her hand to Papa. A small fist. Beside me Papa’s hand did paper, scissors, back to her. It was then that Sophie smiled.

We walked up the hill in silence, through the field, past the pond where the wind sent ripples across the water. Even Lalo didn’t talk. The wind caught Byrd’s hat once, and Papa grabbed it. He handed it back without words.

The house was cool. The smell of dead ashes hung in the air. Papa went to the fireplace and stood there, looking down as if waiting for the fire to blaze again. Mama took off her hat and leaned against the front door, staring into the room. Byrd bent down and picked up a book. Sophie’s book. Byrd straightened.

“We are going to talk now,” she said softly.

Papa turned. “Not now,” he said. His face had the look of his business face, but his voice was thin, like a thread of smoke.

Mama took off her coat and walked to her studio door.

“You cannot walk away and leave this behind as if it never happened,” said Byrd. She paused. “Like the baby.”

Mama stopped. Papa stared at Byrd. I stared too. And then the ferry whistle blew, a terrible soft sound behind the closed door. Papa flinched, and in that moment his business look was gone.

It was quiet when the sound ended, and I could hear Lalo breathing beside me.

“That’s
why we’re going to talk,” said Byrd softly.

Mama’s face changed then. She looked transparent, as if all her feelings were there right under her skin. I heard the front door opening and closing, and when I turned Lalo had left.

“Come. Sit down,” said Byrd. Her voice had changed, and it sounded almost friendly, like a pleasant invitation.

No one moved.

“I’ll sit, then,” said Byrd. “I’m old,” she added.

Byrd moved to the straight chair by the fireplace. She looked at me.

“If we talk about Sophie, we can talk about Larkin’s brother who died. The baby she never saw. The baby with no name.”

I walked across the room and sat on the couch.

“Words,” Byrd said.

She smiled slightly and I gathered courage from that.

“Even
Sophie
had words,” I said.

Papa studied me for a moment, then he looked at Mama across the room. He let out a breath, as if he’d been holding it for a long time. He went over and took Mama’s hand.

“Words, Lily,” he whispered to her. “Not painting. Not dancing.
Words
.” Mama was so quiet, like a statue that might break apart if it were touched.

Papa put his arm around her. He looked at me. Then he began to speak.

“His eyes were dark blue, Larkin,” he said softly. “So dark, but bright at the same time. Like stars,” he whispered.

I stared at Papa. Byrd moved a little beside me.

Mama looked up at Papa. “His hands,” she said softly. “His hands had long fingers, like Larkin’s. And he had a serious, thoughtful look.”

I looked out the window and I could see the distant smoke from the ferry. Then Mama came to sit by me. And in the cool still room, as the ferry took Sophie away, we named the baby William.

It had been warm in the cemetery, the late afternoon sun low in the sky. Light slanted over us and the gravestones, making us all look the same, stones and people. The only sound was the sound of waves on the outer beach, waves one after the other, like heartbeats.

Everyone had come and gone; Griffey and Rollie and the boys who had played a song, Dr. Fortunato, Ms. Minifred and Rebel, who had put a rose on the small gravestone that had W
ILLIAM
engraved on it. And Lalo, who had cried. Byrd had cried, too, when Papa said his words about William.

“I wish I could have danced with him,” he said.

Mama had put her arms around Byrd, and they had stood there in that light as everyone went down the hill.

Afterward, we walked home through town, past the stores and houses.

“Will we see her again?” I asked Byrd. “Sophie?”

No one looked surprised. Papa smiled at me. It was easier to talk about Sophie now.

“Yes,” said Byrd. “You’ll see her again. Sometime.”

Mama looked sideways at Byrd and smiled. She stopped.

“Remember walking home with Sophie?” she said. “After we’d been to the beach? Right about there”—she pointed—“and about this time of day, Sophie began to dance.”

I walked ahead of them and turned, looking at Byrd, her hair like silver in the light, at Mama and Papa holding hands, at Lalo with his look that seemed to say
I know what you’re going to do
. And he did, of course.

I began to do the soft shoe. Papa and Mama stared at me, Papa’s eyes widening. Byrd smiled.

“I learned,” I said. I grinned at the sight of them all, standing there so still and so surprised. And then, for some reason, as I danced I began to cry.

The memories came all the time now, crowding in, filling her head. They came in mist and clouds, almost revealing what was hidden behind them. Clouds with a face nearly hidden. Clouds
.

And that face
.

We leaned on the boat railing as land came into sight. Birds followed the boat, wheeling above and over it. One herring gull came so close, we could almost touch it. The day was crisp for summer. I turned to look at Sophie as she studied the island. She looked at the cliffs at the far end, then at the town that we could see clearly now, the harbor, the church, the hill where the cemetery was.

Sophie was tall, almost up to my shoulder. Her hair had lost the fair baby color. Now it was the same color as mine. Around her neck was the chain with the red ruby.

Sophie turned to her mother.

“Did you spend a lot of time here?” she asked.

“Only that summer,” said Julia. “That summer,” she repeated softly, like an echo. Julia looked at me and we smiled.

The boat passed the breakwater and Sophie’s hands went up to cover her ears just before the whistle blew.

“You remembered the whistle,” I said.

“Did I?” said Sophie. “Sometimes—” Sophie stopped for a moment, then went on. “Sometimes I remember things and I don’t know what they mean.” Sophie turned and looked at me with the familiar look that made
me
remember her. “I remember a face,” she said.

The boat came into the harbor, and Sophie took the newspaper clipping out of her pocket. It was folded over and worn from reading and rereading. It told of the life, the death, and where the burial would be.

Byrd.

“Will I know them?” asked Sophie. “Will they know me?”

Julia smiled.

“You’ve seen pictures,” she said. “And all
those letters.” She paused. “Probably yes. Somehow you’ll know them.”

“They’ll know you,” I said.

The boat came slowly up to the dock. The lines were tossed and tied. Then we walked down the stairs and onto the landing.

“Do they know I’ll be here?” asked Sophie.

I shook my head.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said.

We walked down the sidewalk, past the stores and houses, and past Lalo’s parents’ inn. Sophie stopped and looked down at the sidewalk. My heart beat faster.

“You danced here,” I said.

Sophie didn’t say anything. Then, she reached over and took my hand. We walked along to the grassy place where the cemetery began. Julia stopped and touched Sophie’s arm.

“You go ahead,” she said.

Sophie looked at her.

“It’s all right,” said Julia. She smiled. “It will be fine,” she said softly.

There were people standing at the top of the hill, their backs to us. We walked up the hill still holding hands. Sophie looked back once, at her
mother waiting at the bottom of the hill, looking so small. Then, when we had almost reached the graveside, and we could hear the murmur of low voices, Sophie looked up at the high, thin clouds.

“Mares’ tails,” she said suddenly. “Mares’ tails.”

Lalo turned at Sophie’s voice. His eyes widened. He grinned at us.

Sophie grinned too. And then, suddenly, Sophie stopped and stared.

Papa stood next to a small gravestone with the name
WILLIAM
engraved on it. He didn’t see Sophie. But, just before the minister began to speak Sophie dropped my hand and walked up to Papa. He turned and stared down at her. She smiled at him. She held out her hand.

Rock.

Paper.

Scissors.

ANOTHER
YEARLING
FAVORITE
BY
P
ATRICIA
M
AC
L
ACHLAN

JOURNEY

Journey is eleven the summer his mother leaves him and his sister, Cat, with their grandparents. He is sad and angry, and spends the summer looking for the clues that will explain why she left.

Journey searches photographs for answers. He hunts for family resemblances in Grandma’s albums. Looking for happier times, he tries to put together the torn pieces of the pictures his mother shredded before her departure. And he also searches the photographs his grandfather takes as the older man attempts to provide Journey with a past. In the process, the boy learns to look and finds that, for him, the camera is a means of finding things his naked eye has missed—things like the inevitability of his mother’s departure and the love that still binds his family.