Where Bluebirds Fly (18 page)

I blink and look closer. “That shadowing makes their unevenness more pronounced. Are you certain it’s acceptable? I don’t want to attract too much attention.”

Sunshine pops a hand to her hip. “Honey, that’s impossible. You were breathtaking covered in mud. And your eye color is cool. I’ve seen actresses with two different eye colors, but never met anyone in person. They’re beautiful and different.”

I blink again, one dark brown and one blue-green eye stare back at me. I bite my lip and meet her gaze.

“Where I’m from…calling attention to yourself,
standing out
, is a sin.”

Sunshine laughs. “Well, we got a whole world of sinners now then!”

Shame burns my face, and I curse my eyes for wetting as Sunshine’s smile falters.
 

“I’m sorry. I know this is all totally foreign and awful for you. It will be fine—no one will stone you or anything for the way you look, okay? I promise.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I nod and feign a smile.

“Besides, Truman would most likely rip their heads off if they got near you.”

A hot blush creeps up my turtleneck.
 

Sunshine doesn’t notice and motions for me to follow.
 

“So, we’ve told the children you’re an O.T. student, who is visiting from a local university. You remember what that is, right?”

“Yes, an occupational therapist. Someone who treats many different types of physical and mental illnesses, correct?”

Over the past few weeks, Sunshine and Truman have pummeled me with instructions on how to behave. Truman tried the time door several times, but it will not open. Now that I can wander under the guise of a student, I will haunt the door every hour till it permits me entry.

“Yes! You have a fantastic memory, also like Truman. The man’s a walking encyclopedia. He scares me, really.” She chuckles, but it’s an uncomfortable sound. “I think he even tones it down around me so I don’t feel totally intimidated.”

“Yes, remember the color-word marriages,” I remind her. I tap my temple. “That aids my memory.”

“Right! Synesthesia. You two are a little too alike if you ask me. Like you were plucked from the same mold, but landed in two different…times.” She shakes her head, disbelief still coloring her features.
 

I tug at the hemline. “The dress is lovely, Sunshine. But I feel naked with my knees showing.”

“Oh, honey. Wait till you see what is on television now. I’ll keep some smelling salts handy.”

I follow Sunny down the stairs.

Truman is standing at the entrance to the O.T. clinic, waiting. All the children are off to school, and the quiet of the house is deafening from the previous two hours of organized chaos.

As we step into the light, a little whistle escapes his lips.

Apparently unintentional, as he quickly runs his hand through his hair.
 

His stare is intense and raises the hairs on my neck.

I drop my eyes to the floor. He reminds me of a tentative groom seeing his bride for the first time.

I shiver. A jolt of electricity flashed from my heart to my stomach.

It’s unwise to allow him such power.

I know it. But I cannot stop it.

I pray he is exactly as he appears. He seems too good to be true. I smile at my pun.

“Wow. I barely recognized you. Except for your color—it’s vibrant purple now, love.”
 

My breath sucks in at his smile and his eyes dance.

I shift, self-conscious again. “It is acceptable, then?”

He laughs, grasping my hand.

Leaning in close to my face, he whispers, “That’s a poor choice of words. It’s like saying the Mona Lisa is
acceptable
.”

Sunshine clears her throat.

Truman’s eyes do not leave mine. “She looks great, Sunny. Your charts are in room two. See you at lunch.” He waves her away.

Sunshine snorts as her boots stomp into the other room.
 

Truman checks his pocket watch, and then leans in, dangerously close. I smell his sweet breath and a little shudder courses down my back as the longing roars.

I realize the hornets are absent. I haven’t heard their buzzing for days. I’m relieved, but the fear creeps around, looking for a way back in.

I know they will return the moment I’m alone.

Truman closes the small gap between us and all else fades.
 
Only the tickle of his breath on my lips.

“May I kiss you?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

His thin lips are soft as they graze mine and his breath intakes sharply.

His hand slides into my hair, grasping the base of my neck as the stroking of his lips intensifies. Our lips move with perfect, heated synchrony for a few seconds. It’s like dancing.

The hornets resume, squalling in my ear till the vibration rocks my head. I pull back.

“Verity?”

 
My voice is breathless. “It just makes me nervous. Where I come from, you can spend a day in the stocks for public affection. And they’re torture. I know.”

I reflexively rub my wrists, where the ghosts of the manacles remain.

“After we find John, and we will….” Truman trails off.

My gaze drops to the floor with the mention of my brother.

My heart beats in irregular patterns as if mangled. I miss him so much it’s unbearable.
 

 
Truman’s finger slides gently beneath my chin, raising it; forcing me to look him in the eye.
 

“I want the two of you to consider staying. Here. With me.
Please
.”

 
A tremble ripples in my heart. In what
fashion
would he have me stay?

“Forgive me, Truman. Your kindness is beyond comprehension. But might I ask in what capacity? Perhaps John and I could be your domestics?”
 

The curtsey happens without thought. I blush, feeling ridiculous—but it’s ingrained in me.
 

My confusion buzzes with the hornets; I will assume nothing. Assumptions are dangerous.

Truman’s lips tremble and he roars with laughter.

“What is so funny, good sir?” I ask indignantly.

He forces the grin away. “Nothing. Of course we’ll find jobs for you and John. But I truly hope you and I can be more than…
employer and employee
. I don’t normally kiss my employees.”

“Praise be for small miracles!” Sunshine’s voice calls from the other room.
 

Truman yells back, “Shut it. Aren’t I paying you to work? Or something?”

The front door knob twists, ending our conversation.
 
A harried-looking woman kicks it open, holding her boy at the wrist. The boy flops to the ground, wailing and spitting.

Truman turns and says quietly enough so only I may hear. “So it begins.

* * *

John plugged his ears, but the conversation was too close to block. The arguing couple’s cell was right next to his own.
 

Martha and Giles Corey voices rose loudly enough for the whole of the dungeon to hear.

“How could you accuse me, Giles? Me, your own wife, of witchcraft?”

John listened intently. Giles Corey was known as a man who never minced words, and had a countenance only the devil could love.
 

He winced, thinking of a barely-thwarted thrashing for accidentally tripping Corey on the street. It was rumored he’d once caned the village idiot to death.
 

“I was mistaken. You are no more a witch than I,” Giles says.

“What are we to do now? Both of our sons-in-law are siding against us? What of a petition on our behalf?”

Giles spits. “That is what I think of petitions. Many signatures have been drafted on behalf of the accused—old Rebecca Nurse, John and Elizabeth Proctor, Mary Bradbury, it did not a whit of good. The names not worth the paper they were writ upon. And who will come to my defense? You, yourself, called me a devilish rogue!”

Martha sobbed into her hands.

“I have a notion, Mary. You shall see.” Corey placed his hands on the bars, speaking to all in the dungeon. “I refuse to confess to a crime of which I am innocent. You know full-well, they will take our belongings if I do. We will go free, but a lifetime of work-stolen unjustly.
I will not have it!
” he roared. His voice echoed through the cells.

Martha’s weeping incited an entire chorus of women and their wails combined in an eerie echo.

John covered his ears. The sound was God’s hammer, splitting his skull.

“Look at these wretches. Even if they’re pronounced innocent, they will remain jailed for their inability to pay. And stay here till they rot.”

His old, bony finger shot-out accusingly at John. “Like you, artist-boy. Your soul be doomed.”

* * *

Chapter 16

I crouch in the corner of the room Truman calls the O.T. Clinic.
 
He’s trying to coax the little wild boy into a chair.

I flinch and the boy dodges, ready to run if he charges me. His little teeth have already left one raging-red, bite-mark on Truman’s forearm.
 

I must be fair. My brother is different, but John was never violent. I swallow.
 

“Verity, it’s okay. He’s just a boy, really. A boy no one understands—but underneath it all, just a child. I call them Lost Boys.”

“Lost Boys?”

“Yes, Peter Pan? Wait, that may have been after your time.”

The boy’s eyes, perceptive and aware, see Truman’s attention has left him.

He bolts, reaching a swing that’s bolted to the ceiling and launches onto it, belly down and spread-eagled, flying into the air.

My hands fly to cover my mouth.

“No-you-don’t!” To my surprise, Truman laughs. A low chuckle that somehow manages to sound sad.

He runs across the room, catching the boy up into his arms. The boy relents, letting Truman wrestle him into a chair.

Truman holds up a toy,
Thomas the Tank Engine
, he calls it, in front of the boy’s face.
 
His little eyes widen and sharpen. A moment prior, they were dim and unfocused—but now, they’re
clear
. It’s like watching the breeze blow away storm clouds.

The change is astounding. I hold my breath.
 

“P-please,” the boy says, concurrently rubbing his chest in a circle.

Truman claps. He turns to me and translates his joy. “That movement on his chest is the sign for
please
as well! A double success! It’s very difficult for him to communicate, or control himself,” he says, indifferently pointing to the angry bite on his arm.

Truman lays three numbers on the ground, placing the Thomas Engine on the third.

On the number one, he places some stringing beads, and on the number two, some picture cards.

“First this,” he says, pointing, “and then that.” He finishes by pointing to the train, an obvious reward for the boy’s enduring the first two tasks.

The boy’s face screws up into a quivering ball of fury.

A defiant, high-pitched screech rips through the air.

 
I cover my ears and shrink back.
It’s like taming wild animals.

The boy bolts toward the swing, again.

Truman picks up his walkie-talkie, still shadowing the boys every movement. “Sunshine, what day of the week is November 23rd?”

 
“It’s a Saturday, Truman.” The words are out before I can stop them.

His head whips toward me, mouth agape. He quickly faces the boy again, who is now scaling a ladder, intent on using the slide to take flight.

Sunshine’s voice crackles back, “It’s a Saturday, Truman.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you able to do that, then? Visualize the whole calendar?”

I bite my lip and nod. Another secret, confessed. The months and years of the calendar flip through my head, a kaleidoscope of color.

“It’s also a purple day.”

I smile, but the sides of my mouth are trembling.

I am terrified one of these revelations will make him turn on me.

I want, more than anything else in the world, for this man to accept me. No,
love me
. Make me his own.

In every way possible.

But he smiles, and another bit of my soul heals.

“I had a patient who could do that. A young man with Asperger’s syndrome.”

“What is that?”

“In a bit, let me get Adam on his way first.”

A half hour passes quickly. Truman expertly coaxes the boy through his tasks, identifying pictures through pointing.

He explains, “The pictures help him to communicate the thoughts trapped in his head.”