Not a Sparrow Falls (14 page)

Now she was the guest, and Bridie felt a sharp sense of being out of place. She should have brought a gift—a plant or something. She could almost hear Mama asking her where she’d left her manners. Not that Lorna’s sisters were exhibiting many.

Winifred looked puzzled when Lorna presented her, frowning slightly.

“You remember Bridie,” Lorna prompted.

“From the grocery,” Winifred acknowledged briefly before returning to the conversation she was having with her husband about who should sit where.

Fiona was pleasant enough. Gave her a nice smile and said, “Happy to see you again.”

Alasdair MacPherson greeted her, shook her hand, then wandered around as though he was in a fog. The girl—Samantha, she learned—was nowhere to be seen.

Poor Lorna was trying to juggle the two babies and put the finishing touches on dinner. Bridie was only too happy to help. She loved babies and hadn’t held or played with one in years. And to be honest, it looked as though these poor little tykes could use some attention. They were clean and looked
well-fed, but something about their knee-clinging whininess made Bridie wonder if anybody had time for them. Lorna said they were ill-tempered because they’d been sick.

Bridie asked if she could help in the kitchen, and Lorna, her sweet face flushed from the heat of the oven, asked if she would feed the children. Bridie said of course, then put them in their high chairs, cut up some turkey, and added a dollop of mashed potatoes and a few green beans. After they had eaten all they wanted and had taken to playing with their food, she took them out of their chairs, wiped their faces and hands, and took them into the bare little sitting room.

She played shape sorter with the boy, Cameron. He was big-eyed and missed nothing but didn’t speak. Bonnie, the little girl, jabbered like a magpie. Bridie helped Lorna change the babies’ diapers and put them into their cribs for a nap. Then they washed up, and Lorna called the others to dinner. The older girl, who was her reason for coming, finally appeared then, trundling down the stairs. She was older than Bridie had thought at first, though it could have been all the makeup she was wearing that created the impression. She was going through a growth spurt most likely, looking a little too tall for her clothes. She wore a black skirt and a long-sleeved black sweater. Her hair was long, curly, and a golden brown. She had a pretty, delicate face, but her eyes looked hollow and tired, like a soldier who’d been on the battlefield too long and seen things no one should see.

“Shall we sit?” Lorna asked, flustered.

Bridie smiled and nodded, followed the line to the table. It was no wonder Lorna had taken to bringing in outsiders to cheer things up. Fiona and Winifred’s husbands hardly said a word, just sort of hovered around, reminding her of how people acted after a funeral, like folks who don’t quite know what’s expected of them.

She stood awkwardly while the sisters had another discussion about seating. Apparently Lorna’s idea of putting her between the reverend and Samantha wasn’t suiting everybody.

“Calvin is left-handed, Lorna,” Winifred said with barely contained irritation. “You know he has to sit on the end.”

Bridie inspected the dining room while they argued. It was dark and dim in here, too. The smell of the food and the pretty dishes on the damask tablecloth made a spot of cheer, but all in all, it was but a drop in the river. The bulbs in the lights gleamed low and yellow, as if they were depressed, too weary to shine very brightly. The windows were covered with heavy curtains. It was a shame, for the house could have been beautiful with a lighter hand. The floor under her feet was shiny hardwood, and the woodwork that surrounded all the doors and windows was polished mahogany. But the walls were covered with a drab wallpaper. Bridie squinted and made out small daisies on a faded orange background.

The reverend cleared his throat and the sisters stopped arguing. Bodies shuffled behind chairs. Calvin took the end seat. She took the next one, and Samantha took the place to her right.

“Shall we pray?” the reverend asked, his voice deep and resonant. “Father, we thank you for all your good gifts,” he said, and Bridie took the opportunity to inspect him. He was a big man and tall. His clothes were well cut, and he was perfectly groomed. He would be handsome if he learned how to smile.

“Amen,” he said when the prayer was finished.

“Amen,” she murmured with the others. They all sat down and began passing food around.

She took some of everything, then handed the bowls and platters to Samantha. She made a few attempts at conversation.

“Where do you go to school? What grade are you in?” Samantha gave monosyllabic replies, and Bridie wished she could ask what was really on her mind.
Why are you so sad, little girl? Who has done this to you, and why?

“Please help me,”
Samantha’s note had said.

I’m here,
she wanted to answer.
Just tell me what to do.

But Samantha just kept her eyes on her plate, her voice expressionless, and after a moment or two Bridie saw the ridiculousness of her mission.

Who did she think she was, after all? She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. She, Mary Bridget Washburn, who would be sitting in prison right now if the truth were known, was here to save somebody. She gave a little disgusted shake of her head and focused back on the dinnertime conversation that was spurting and halting around her like a car running out of gas.

“Where are you from, Miss—er, Collins?” Reverend MacPherson asked her, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He set his glasses on the sideboard, and she couldn’t help wondering if he would be looking for them later. He looked at her, and she noticed his eyes. They were dark smoky blue. As if he’d read her mind he looked deliberately at the sideboard, picked up his glasses, and put them back on.

“Charlotte, North Carolina,” she lied, picking a place she had visited enough to fib about intelligently.

“Ah.” He nodded and gave her a relaxing of his features that passed for a smile. “Lovely country. Do you still have family there?”

“My grandmother,” she said, again telling a partial truth. “She’s all the family I have left in the area. My mother passed away.” And Bridie might have imagined it, but some little wave of emotion went all around the table, fluttered across each face, but then was taken back in just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Oh,” Lorna murmured sympathetically. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen,” she answered.

“And your father?” Lorna asked.

“I don’t know where he is,” Bridie said, which was the truth.

There was an awkward pause.

“How long have you been coming to our fellowship?” the
reverend asked, smoothly moving the subject toward safer ground.

“This morning was my first visit.” She didn’t count the times she’d come there alone to sit and think. That wasn’t what he meant.

“I hope you’ll come again and let us know if we can be of service in any way,” he invited.

“Thank you,” she answered, not intending to darken the door again, but she had to admit he seemed sincere.

She felt a flash of shame that she’d had the man already tried and convicted, thinking that whatever ailed the child was the fault of the father. But now that she was looking close up, she wasn’t sure. It seemed more likely that whatever was ailing the child was ailing the father also, though she wasn’t sure what had led her to that conclusion. It couldn’t be his clothes, for they were perfectly appointed. Dark suit, white shirt heavy with starch, crease in his pants so sharp it could cut. His face was cleanly shaven, his hair neatly barbered and combed. Only two things about him were less than perfect. There was one little piece of hair that didn’t want to stay with the others. It kept falling down onto his forehead. And the fingers of his right hand were stained with ink.

So what made her think he was ailing? Perhaps it was his mood. He seemed dark under his calm. She wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that there was no Mrs. Alasdair MacPherson.

She looked around and watched everyone eat, since that seemed to be the end of the conversation. The sisters all took tiny, precise bites, and rearranged what was left of their food after each one, tidying it up into neat little mounds, lining up all the stray pieces of turkey, making a nice little square of the mashed potatoes and dressing, bringing stray green beans back into the fold. The reverend didn’t do that. He ate neatly and quickly, but as if he didn’t taste a thing. His mind seemed to be on someone or something else far away.

Bridie knew she had lovely table manners. Lord knows,
she’d had it drilled into her. Sit up straight. Use your proper fork. Take little bites. Chew with your mouth closed like a lady. Just because you’re from the country doesn’t mean you have to act like a bumpkin. She took a small sip of her water, used the salad fork to spear a piece of lettuce, broke off a small piece of her roll, buttered and ate it.

Finally the meal was over. The reverend excused himself and went to his study. The sisters gathered up their things, leaving Lorna to do the dishes.

“The sitter you interviewed turned down the job,” Winifred said. “I might have guessed.” She seemed unable to leave before she delivered one more jab at Lorna.

“I’ll see if I can find someone else,” Lorna murmured.

“Well, you’ll have to do it without my help. I won’t be about much in the next few weeks. I have the Christmas bazaar and then my bunion surgery.”

Lorna nodded, and Bridie thought she saw a flicker of relief cross her face.

“Nor will I,” Fiona added, sounding concerned. “My appointment schedule is full with students who have just woken up to the fact that they’re failing.”

“That’s all right,” Lorna told both of them. “I can see to things here.”

They left after Winifred shot Fiona a barely disguised look of disbelief at her statement.

Lorna refused Bridie’s help with the dishes, but insisted that she take home some of the leftovers. Samantha was sitting in front of the television in that dreary little sitting room off the kitchen, and Bridie made one last attempt to connect with her while she waited for Lorna to finish packing up her food.

She sat down beside her, debating different approaches. She could always tell the truth.
I saw you in the church,
she could say.
I read your note.
No. Too direct. Any kid would draw back from that like a turtle being poked with a sharp stick.

Maybe she could invite Samantha out for a Coke and get to know her a little at a time. Yes, she decided. That was the
best option. Get her away from home. Show some interest and see where the conversation led, and she was just getting ready to do that when Samantha turned toward her.

“So are you a social reject?” Samantha asked, her brown eyes looking amazingly cold.

Bridie laughed in spite of herself, but Samantha didn’t even smile. “The reason I ask,” she continued, “is that usually the people my aunt invites over are social rejects who don’t have any friends.”

Bridie felt a stab of pain. Ridiculous, she knew, to let an unhappy teenager get to her. “I suppose I am a social reject,” she admitted.

Samantha raised her shoulder in a shrug as if to say she’d expected as much. “By the time somebody ends up here, they’re pretty messed up,” she said, not taking her eyes off the television. “This is the end of the line.”

Bridie stared at her, trying to think of what to say to that. She suddenly felt ridiculous. Stupid, out of place. What had she been thinking to come here today?

“Here you are, Bridie.” Lorna came toward her, carrying a sack. “I’m so happy you came,” she said, beaming.

Bridie gave her a smile back, the best she could muster. “Good-bye, Samantha,” she said. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah.” Samantha didn’t look at her, just pushed the button on the remote.

“Samantha,” Lorna murmured, but Bridie took the sack from her and interrupted the awkward moment.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner. I’ll look for you next week at the store.”

They chatted their way to the door, and finally Bridie was outside where she could breathe again. Funny. She had felt like a prisoner at other times in her life, and the feeling had returned as soon as she’d stepped through the doorway of that depressing house. She almost felt lighthearted to be leaving. She felt a small stirring of guilt, an echo of accusation.
You came to help the child,
it said.
You haven’t done that.

I’ve done the best I could,
she answered herself, though she knew that particular excuse was wearing thin.

Not a sparrow falls, but your father in heaven sees,
she remembered. Well then, she smarted back, He was going to have to look after this one himself. She hitched her purse up higher on her shoulder and headed toward the bus stop; then she turned and looked back one more time. She thought she glimpsed a flickering movement in the drapes by the door. Or had she? Yes, there it was again, and for just a second she glimpsed Samantha’s white, thin face framed in the window watching her walk away.

Nine

One more time around. Jonah paced off the exercise yard for the one thousand six hundred twenty-seventh time since he’d arrived here. It was one of his hobbies, keeping track of things. It kept him from going crazy in this world of concrete block and asphalt. He stepped forward, each foot taking the same measured stride. He paced exactly one hundred fifty feet, then raised his head and looked out past the double-wire, razor-ribbon fence at the license plate factory. A square of gray concrete. Not much of a view, but looking out across the landscape was better than looking down at blacktop and cigarette butts. He turned left and began walking again. One hundred fifty feet. He cast his eyes to the flat hospital building where he had spent twenty days in the psych ward tied to his bed like a trussed hog while the meth left his system, then was twelve-stepped nearly to death for months after that. He turned left and began walking again. Took one hundred fifty more measured steps. Lifted his head, and there was the solitary confinement unit. He turned left again, took another hundred fifty steps. Looked across the landscape in that direction, but there was nothing to see but thirty acres of scrub grass and razor wire. Jonah gazed at it hungrily, sniffing the air like his old hunting hound used to do. If he could keep going in that direction, he would eventually find the hills he longed for, dappled canopies of maple and oak and pine, spongy carpets of leaves and needles.