Sparrow Road (22 page)

“Same time next year!” Josie bounced up on the toes of her black boots.

Next year we wouldn’t live here, none of us but Viktor. New artists would arrive to take our place. Someone else would work in Josie’s shed. Maybe another cook would live in our small cottage.
“What if or what could be?”
I said, which was easier than thinking Sparrow Road was ending for us all.

“Exactly.” Josie grinned. “You think Lillian was happy?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think she really was.”

“Molly,” Diego called. He held out Mama’s black guitar case. “You still owe Raine her song.”

“Oh no!” I moaned. “Mama, you didn’t play!” In all the blur of the party—the stations, the crowds, the stories of the orphans, Nettie Johnson—I’d forgotten Mama’s promise for a song. And now the crowd wasn’t even here to hear it.

“Another time.” Mama smiled, relieved. “I’ll play another day.”

“Play now!” I begged. “I’m sorry I forgot.” I didn’t want Mama to be the only one without an art to show.

Grandpa Mac climbed out of the hammock. “Play it for us, Molly. You’ve got more talent than most people ever dream of.”

“That sure would be my memory,” Gray said. He set a bag of garbage on the grass.

Diego opened up the case and handed Mama the guitar.

“Come on,” I said. “You promised. My story for your song.”

For a long time, she just fiddled with the thing, turning knobs and plucking at the strings like she was trying to find the perfect sound. “I don’t know what to sing.” Mama’s mop of red curls spilled over her guitar. She looked just like the young girl from our pictures.

“Give a try with ‘Lucky.’ ” Gray had told me that was the song that Mama sang the first day he saw her on the street.

“Please,” I said. “Please sing it for me, Mama.”

“Oh, Raine.” Mama heaved a heavy breath. “I can’t play that song.” She looked at Gray.

“I would doubt that, Molly,” Gray said. “You sure could play it once.”

“Play anything,” Diego urged. He was standing close to Mama, close enough to be sure she didn’t put that guitar back in its case.

“It all sounds good coming from you, Molly,” Grandpa Mac said.

“Okay, okay.” Mama plucked a few more notes and then her voice drifted over our front lawn and everybody’s heart stopped. Mama’s voice bubbled like a brook. Clear and clean.
“Life is fast, but love lasts long,”
Mama sang. She sent her sweet song straight to me; she didn’t go out walking—she was inside every word.
“Take my heart and save my song—.”

Mama stumbled like she couldn’t remember what notes she should play next. Then her clear voice broke a little bit.
“You and I are lucky to be here.”

Mama stopped. She pressed her hands against the strings to make them quiet and then she glanced at Gray. I saw something secret pass between them, something connected to the song, something that had happened before me. Maybe back when the two of them really were in love. I wanted Mama to keep going.

“That’s it?” I said. “That was the whole song?”

“That’s the whole song for today,” Mama said. She shook her head and put the old guitar back in its case. “Show’s over.” She looked at Gray again.

Then Gray clapped slowly, so I started to clap too. “Molly,” he said. “You could break a hundred hearts with that one song.”

It was late that night before Grandpa Mac and I finally made it to the lake; so late the last sliver of orange sun was sinking low behind the hills. Two oil lanterns flickered on the shore. “Wait until the sun is gone, you won’t believe the stars.” I held the old boat steady while Grandpa Mac tumbled to his seat.

“I’ll tell you what I can’t believe, Raine,” Grandpa Mac said. “I can’t believe how grown up you’ve gotten. That here you are rowing a boat all by yourself. And the story about that boy you read today. I don’t know how you dreamt up such a thing. Or how you threw that first-class party, but you did.” Grandpa Mac laughed. “Good thing I got to see it for myself.”

“I’ll tell you what I can’t believe,” I said back to Grandpa Mac. “How nice you were to Gray today. I was so glad you didn’t punch him in the face.”

“I did my best,” Grandpa Mac said. “I didn’t want to spoil your party.” He propped his elbows on his knees. “I like him better sober, that’s for sure.”

I was glad I didn’t remember the Gray James who was drunk. To me, he’d always be the gentle soul who rescued Mr. Bones, the man who gave me his medallion, the kind singer who taught me how to disappear. I rowed us out into the middle of the lake; then I set the oars down against the side, let the muscles in my arms rest a little bit.

“You want me to take my turn?” Grandpa Mac asked. “It’s getting mighty dark out here.”

“Nope,” I said. “I can do it by myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” Grandpa Mac leaned forward, his yellow life vest squished into his jaw. “But Raine, even all grown up, you still can’t be too certain about Gray. Drinkers stop, but some of them go back. And drinkers—”

“Grandpa Mac,” I said. “Gray isn’t Mr. Earle.”

“No,” Grandpa Mac agreed. “But I’d hate to see you hurt.”

Grandpa Mac had the same worried warning voice he always had at home. I didn’t want to go back to all that worry. So much worry that he and Mama hardly let me leave the house alone. “It’s okay,” I said. “Even if Gray drinks again—” I stopped; I wasn’t really sure how to end that sentence. If Gray drank again, then what? If he drank again, I guess I’d lose him twice. “If that happens, I think I’ll be okay.” I had enough strength in me to make it through the world whether Gray James drank again or not. Hope. I rolled the silver charm against my thumb.

“I suppose you’re right about that, Raine. You’re always right.” Grandpa Mac cleared his throat like he was fighting back a cough. “And whatever happens next, we’ll always stay a family.”

“Next?” I said. Grandpa’s
next
sounded like a mystery. “What do you mean, what happens next? We’ll be home in just a couple of weeks.”

“Let’s hope,” he said. “Your mama sure does like it here. And you were right about these stars, Raine. I’ve never, ever seen so many in my life.”

Across the still, black water, a blizzard of white stars glistened through the darkness. “Grandpa Mac,” I said. “I’m so happy that you came.”

“Me too. I wouldn’t have missed this chapter for the world.”

Grandpa Mac left me that next morning. Left me standing in the driveway with the sad sense that Sparrow Road was finally winding down. My summer disappearing.

“Well, it’s starting,” Mama sighed when Grandpa Mac was gone. “Diego leaves next week. They need him at his college. His teaching begins before September.”

“I can’t believe it’s going to end,” I said. My heart was already hanging heavy from telling Grandpa Mac good-bye.

“Things do.” Mama took my hand and we headed toward the main house. Mama said she wanted to make Lillian some breakfast; day by day Lillian seemed to shrink a little smaller, seemed to make less sense.

Inside the shadowy front room, Eleanor sat silent on the sofa, two bulging suitcases waiting at the door.

“You’re leaving?” I asked. I wasn’t disappointed, just surprised. I couldn’t wait for her to go.

“Yes.” Eleanor smoothed her perfect skirt. “Despite a summer of distractions, my book is finally done. And after yesterday—all that horrible talk of orphans, children missing parents—well, I have to say, it made me eager to get home.”

“I’m sure your daughters will be happy,” Mama said politely. I didn’t think anyone would be happy to see Eleanor, but then I thought of Lyman’s story—
Rich or poor. Good or bad.
Horrible as she was, Eleanor’s children probably loved her.

“Yes,” Eleanor said stiffly. “And despite what you might think, it was difficult for me to have a child here while mine were far away. Very difficult.”

“I understand.” Mama hugged me close. The two of us did better when we faced Eleanor together. “I couldn’t spend a summer without Raine.”

“Well, you had your time together,” Eleanor said. She turned to me. “And Raine, that story that you read? The one about the orphan? I saw some early promise in that work. Perhaps, like me, you’ll grow up to be a writer.”

If I grew up to be a writer, I wouldn’t be anything like her. I’d be a writer like sweet Lillian, someone kind to children. Or a writer who could find things in the clouds. Or believed in things that no one else could see.

“Here.” She handed me a dictionary, so heavy I had to hold it with both hands. “It’s an old one I brought with me from Boston. If you really hope to write, you need to work on your vocabulary. Learn to spell correctly. I wouldn’t rely on Lillian for lessons.”

“I know how to spell,” I said. Lillian had taught me lots of things—like poetry and patience. And love. Things that mattered more than spelling.

“I’d recommend a page a day,” Eleanor advised.

“A page a day?” I rolled my eyes. Mama pinched me hard; she still expected manners. “Well, thanks,” I said.

“A decent dictionary,” Eleanor said. “It’s the most important thing a writer needs.”

“Not dreams?” I asked. Diego never would have said to start a story with a dictionary. It took more than a dictionary to dream Lyman to life.

“Dreams?” Eleanor squinted like she couldn’t quite understand me. “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose a dream couldn’t hurt.”

Maybe it was Eleanor’s departure, or the end of the Arts Extravaganza, but suddenly everything seemed different in the house. Summer wasn’t summer anymore. Evenings, Josie sat with Lillian and sewed. Diego spent more time at our cottage, like he wished the days with Mama wouldn’t end.

Mama finally said yes to a date. A drive-in movie stuck out in a field with gnats and mosquitoes swarming through the windows, and the actor’s voices scratching through a rusted speaker. Josie and I supervised it all from the back end of Viktor’s truck, our dirty feet up against the window, a bucket of buttered popcorn propped between us.

On their second date, they biked to the Comfort Cone alone.

After their third date, Mama came home and climbed into my bed. There was something important she had to tell me. Something that couldn’t wait. I was sure she was going tell me news about Diego, but instead she told me Viktor had asked us both to stay.

“Stay?” I said. “You mean live at Sparrow Road?” I sat up in bed and pulled the sheet up to my chin. I wasn’t cold, but still a shiver prickled down my spine. Was this the
next
that Grandpa Mac mentioned in the boat? “What about Milwaukee? I promised Grandpa Mac that we’d be back. And school? I’m starting seventh grade.”

“I know,” Mama whispered. “But you could go to school with the other kids in Comfort. And I’d watch over Lillian. Lillian isn’t going to go back to St. Paul. She’s aging, Raine. She’s going to need more help. And I wouldn’t have to be a waitress anymore.”

I didn’t want Mama to stay a waitress, or Lillian to be alone, or to live so far from Gray, but Grandpa Mac was waiting for his family. “No,” I said. “We’re going home. I gave Grandpa Mac my word.”

“But Grandpa Mac would visit,” Mama said. “I need to move on with my life, Raine. I can’t live with Grandpa Mac forever. Just like you’ll grow up and move away from me.”

“I won’t.” I nuzzled my nose into Mama’s neck. It was enough to imagine giving up Milwaukee; I didn’t want to dream about the day I wouldn’t live with Mama anymore. I swallowed hard. All that orphan sadness was a part of me. Like Gray and Lillian, I was a soul who couldn’t bear the getting left or leaving. “Have you made up your mind already?”

“No,” Mama said. “Not without you, Raine.”