Read The Feathered Bone Online
Authors: Julie Cantrell
The Feathered Bone (14 page)
Carl pulls the sugar bowl from the shelf and adds another scoop, stirring with hard, rapid clanks of his spoon.
“It's not sweet enough? I put two. How you always like it.” He ignores me, so I try another approach. “You ready for your surprise?” I add a flirtatious tilt at the hip, trying to give Carl my undivided
attention. He's grown weary of the emotional roller coaster this trauma has caused all of us, telling me again and again that life goes on.
He ignores my mention of a gift, asking instead, “What's for breakfast?”
“I should know better than to talk to you without feeding you first. Let me fix an omelet.”
“Forget it. I'll make sausage.”
“Or sausage. No problem.”
“I got it!” he says, opening the fridge with a jerk.
I pull a tea bag from the drawer and put some water on to boil.
“We're out of sausage?” He settles for a pack of bacon and slams the door. It's hard to tell if he's angry or just moving through the world with force. With Carl, a simmering undercurrent of rage rests just beneath the surface.
Don't take it personally, Amanda. He's hungry.
And then my mother's voice:
A good wife never lets her husband go hungry.
Carl fries the bacon, adding two eggs to the grease. Then he fills his plate, leaving a couple slices for Ellie and me. He moves to the counter. I lean in from the opposite side, trying again for conversation.
“You're off today, right?”
He nods.
“What's the plan? Want to take a picnic? Hit the river? Maybe go out for lunch or something?”
“I need to work on the car. Change the oil. Swap out the brake pads. I'll probably clean the gutters too and knock down that old mailbox.”
“Need help?” I have no interest in cars or gutters, but I want to spend Valentine's Day with my husband if I can make that happen.
“Sure, Amanda. You handle the brake pads. I'll tackle the oil.” He laughs as if I'm the most pathetic person on the planet, completely useless.
Half of me wants to call his bluff and march right out to the carport with the maintenance manual in hand. But he's right. I have no idea how to install new brake pads. So he wins. Again.
I leave him to his daily tasks and don't bother telling him he has a new Stihl chainsaw wrapped in the utility room. I figure he'll find it eventually. If he got me a gift, he doesn't mention that.
Happy Valentine's Day, Amanda.
Hello Sparrow,
It's Valentine's Day. We always go to the father-daughter dinner at church. Last year Pop played guitar and sang a song for me. Some people started crying. It was one of his favorite songs. “My Darling,” by Wilco.
When he finished, he asked the dads to teach their children what it means to be a “good guy.” Then he listed ways we could tell if somebody was a good guy. He said the girls should write it down for our brothers. Only I don't have a brother. So I told Nate.
I can't remember all the things Pop said, but here's the important part.
My Pop is a Good Guy because:
1. I've never been afraid of Pop, and I don't think Mom has either.
2. He's always on our side and he'll stick with us for life. No matter what happens.
3. He doesn't lie, cheat, or steal.
4. Pop always tries to make the right choice.
5. When he does mess up, he says he's sorry and he means it.
6. If we're hurting, he's hurting more because we are hurt.
7. I can talk to him about anything, as long as I'm nice about it.
Pop is the best guy I know. He always says if Mom and me don't know how much he loves us, then he's doing something very wrong. He comes home every day and kisses Mom and tells her thank you for being his wife. And then he kisses me and tells me thank you for being his daughter. And then he says he's the luckiest man on the planet because of us.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Easter
“H
APPY
E
ASTER
,
HONEY
!” I
WAKE
E
LLIE WITH A GENTLE BACK RUB
, hoping to bring a little holiday magic to her morning. I know she's too old for the fantasy, but I want her to feel joy again. “You've got a basket of treats in the living room. Come see?”
“Don't tell me. You sprinkled flour in the shape of bunny tracks.” She rolls her eyes. “Or left a pile of half-nibbled carrots on his trail? Or wait, let me guess, he pooped jelly beans in the yard again.”
“Yep. All of that.” I laugh, grateful she has held on to the memories.
“At least I have a new outfit.” She leaves the bed to examine the spaghetti-strapped sundress we bought last weekend from Urban Outfitters, her favorite store. She steps into her closet to change, pairing it with a grungy pair of Converse sneakers she's decorated with various shades of Sharpie markers. Gone are the days of smocked cotton dresses and sweet spring sandals.
“I'm sure everybody's gonna think I'm crazy for wearing this to church.”
“Who cares,” I tell her. “Shoes are shoes. As long as you're safe. And happy.”
She looks down, eyeing the skull-and-crossbones she's sketched across the rubber toe guards.
“Are you happy, Ellie?”
“Happy is a myth.” She leaves me sitting on her bed, staring at her walls. They are covered in rock band posters and tween mementos. Next to her desk is a large bulletin board, pinned with photos of Ellie and Sarah. One is from an Easter egg hunt when they were about four years old. Ellie's tiny fingers curl around the wicker handle of her basket, and she stares up at the costumed bunny with full belief in her eyes. Sarah stands next to Ellie, equally in awe. Their baskets are filled with plastic eggs, candy, and stickers.
What I wouldn't give to turn back time. To cancel the field trip to New Orleans. To bring our girls back to a place of innocence. When happy was more than a myth.
Hello Sparrow,
It's Easter. I wonder what my family is doing.
The Man says I am never going home. That this is my home now. He works for a very bad boss who made him take me here. If I do everything The Man tells me to do, he'll make sure The Boss won't hurt me.
The Boss knows where Mom and Pop live. If I try to run away, he will kill them.
Every time The Man sees me looking at the door, he jerks my chin and says in a really mean voice, “Don't be stupid.”
He says Ellie is here too, locked up like me. If I do everything he tells me, then he won't hurt Ellie. It's up to me. Because I'm his best girl.
I don't want him to kill Ellie. Or Mom and Pop. So I do whatever he tells me. What choice do I have?
Ellie, Carl, and I arrive early for Sunday school. I've agreed to help Beth place the Easter lilies. Ellie wants to give us a hand. As we enter the reception hall, Carl heads for the coffee station, where he bonds with the other men over sugar and sports. I walk past them, greeting the deacons as they down glazed doughnut holes. Half of them are talking about Tiger Woods and the upcoming Masters. Others swap baseball stats or hedge their bets for the NFL draft. Carl makes his rounds through each conversation, sounding off his predictions. The men circle him, eager for advice.
“Ellie?” Beth is in preacher-wife mode, focusing on the task at hand. “Why don't you take this into the sanctuary? You can start setting the flowers out. Anywhere you can find a place. We'll be right behind you.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Ellie pulls the cart filled with potted white lilies and makes her way to the sanctuary. Beth and I move into the church's small library. The room is stashed with flowers, wall to wall. In less than a minute, my allergies kick in. I sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze again.
When I finally catch my breath, I ask Beth for any updates.
“None.” She turns away and continues grouping flowers. “Unless you count the fact that Preacher wants to leave his job with the church.”
I listen.
“The committee declined his resignation.” She pulls one limp petal from a stalk and straightens a bow, looping the wired ribbon
around her fingers for extra-wide volume. “I keep thinking he just needs a break, but he's sticking to his guns. The problem is neither of us has really been working since . . . since Sarah . . . The church has been very patient, but they've had to pay an interim, and they can't maintain Preacher's salary if he's not working. Plus, we've used so much money hiring private investigators, we're running out of savings. Something has to give.”
“Does he have a plan? Another job in mind?” I take the flowerpot from her and set it on the cart. The fragrance makes my nose itch.
“His cousin. The one in Zachary. With the pool and spa business. Preacher has helped him out a few times. We figure he can do that for a while. At least until he makes a final decision.”
“Might be good for him, Beth. Get outside. Sweat a little. Could help clear his mind.”
“Yeah, I guess.” After a silence, she opens up. “You know what I'm struggling with the most? It's Easter.” She spins one of the pots in a circle, staring at the soil.
I load flowers onto a second cart and think of all the special Easters we shared with our girls.
“It's not the kids and their candy that's getting to me. You'd think that, but it's not. It's that I'm sitting here counting lilies. I mean, my daughter is out there, and we have no idea how to find her. And I'm sitting here counting lilies!”
She pulls a bloom from its long green stem and starts to cry. Not slow, quiet Beth tears, but a loud sobbing, an emotional outpouring. The kind I experience with my clients. The kind that means a heart is splintering and only darkness remainsâa black pit where hope no longer lives.
I close the door of the library and move to Beth's side.
She yields, crying against my shoulder. This is what pain sounds like.
Between heavy breaths she says, “I'm supposed to be encouraging people to have faith. To believe in miracles and renewal and some Higher Power who watches over us. Who loves us.” She laughs, looking up at the ceiling. “You call this love?”
Preacher opens the door just then, calling her name. Seeing his wife in shambles, he freezes, exposing his own anguish. Without another word, he steps back out into the hallway and closes the door behind him.