Backwater (9 page)

“He’s okay now?” I asked.

“He’s still having physical therapy. They say he’ll be all right.” Jack was still looking down. “I’d never had a problem climbing. I figured everyone was always safe with me. I always did everything right.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“It threw my confidence about everything,” Jack said quietly. “I’m trying to get over it, but I keep seeing the rope give way, keep seeing him fall.”

Mountain Mama walked toward him. “Jack, I’ve had thirty-some years in these mountains. I’ll tell you what it’s taught me most. I’m not going to be perfect, but I am going to be prepared. I’ve had ropes break, I’ve been lost, I’ve had bears eat my food, I’ve been without water, and I’ve had a three-mile climb down a mountain with a broken shoulder. You learn from your mistakes and keep going; you practice, think ahead, bring everything you think you’ll need and a little extra. That makes it easier for you to do the right thing.”

Jack nodded slowly.

Mama put her hand on his shoulder. “Old ghosts die hard. But they die eventually.”

“Easier said than done, Mama.”

“Most things are.”

We started down the trail.

*    *    *

Some inner engine was pushing me forward.

The cold didn’t matter.

My aching muscles didn’t either.

I was hiking between Mountain Mama and Jack up a rocky incline.

A teenager on a mission.

“Bears hibernate in winter, right? They won’t take our food?” I gripped my pack protectively.

“We should be okay,” Mama said, laughing and pounding out the distance on the snowy trail.

When we stopped for water, Jack asked me about the first thing I was going to say to Josephine when I met her.

I’d been thinking about that. “I want it to be something meaningful. I want her to know I care. When Neil Armstrong was the first man to walk on the moon, he stuck his astronaut boot on moon rock and said, ‘This is one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’”

“What are
you
going to say, Ivy?”

I hadn’t figured that out yet.

We pressed on past the ridge, headed through some icy elevation, climbed rocks, higher and higher. I was perspiring from the climb, my heart was beating fast.

At times I felt like we were going in circles.

Then finally, we saw the sign.

*    *    *

It was a wooden sign, intricately carved with birds in the corners. It was nailed to a huge tree.

V
ERY
P
RIVATE
P
ROPERTY

Mountain Mama took out a small notebook and wrote that down.

We followed the sharply rising trail to another wooden sign with carved birds in the corners.

E
NTERING
B
ACKWATER

My pulse was thumping.

We climbed a small, snowy hill.

We walked around a sharp turn and crested another hill as a sound rose from the trees and surrounded us like stereo—a high-pitched sound of chirps and tweets. Birds were flying from branch to branch, circling us as we moved slowly up the trail.

“I’ve never seen so many birds in the North Woods in winter,” Jack whispered.

I tried to take it in.

Mountain Mama turned to me. “We hadn’t talked about this, Breedlove, but I think I need to find your aunt first, tell her you’re here, and see how she responds. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“But what if she says no? What do we do then?”

“One mountain at a time, Breedlove.”

Jack laughed.

“Coming soon to a bookstore near you,” I groused.

Mountain Mama took the knife from her pack, fastened it to her belt, and headed down the trail.

We didn’t talk for the longest while, then Jack said, “When she comes back, Ivy, I’m going to have to go.”

I steeled myself. I’d been expecting this. Two good-byes in twenty-four hours, but he was right.

I had to travel this genealogical path alone.

I couldn’t let romance muck up history.

He took my hand.

I caught my breath.

“I’ll give you my number at school and as soon as you get back to town, we can get together. I really want to do that.”

I said I really did, too.

We sat there glove in glove, locked in the expanse of wilderness.

Jack Lowden might not be major ranger material, but in the boyfriend department, he redefined the genus.

*    *    *

We waited.

Mountain Mama had been gone for forty-five minutes.

“Maybe your aunt’s off somewhere,” Jack said.

“Maybe Mountain Mama’s ruining everything,” I said back.

“I don’t think she’d do that, Ivy.”

A bunch of birds was looking at me from an evergreen tree and it was irritating. Weren’t birds supposed to go south for the winter?

“Time’s up,” I said to Jack. “I’m going in.”

He grabbed my arm. “No you’re not.”

I tried to shake his arm loose, but he held on.

“Ivy, you have to wait.”

“I can’t wait anymore.”

“Sure you can.”

“This is my future that’s ticking away!”

“It might be dangerous.”

“I don’t care.”

“It’s not dangerous,” Mountain Mama said, appearing through the trees. “But I’m here to tell you—it’s
strange.”

“You saw her?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What did she say?”

“Brace yourself.” Mountain Mama unfolded a crumpled up piece of paper. “Her Honor the Mayor would like you to raise your right hand and take the following oath.”

I laughed. “Is this a joke?”

Mountain Mama looked at me square. “Not to her. Raise it.”

I raised my faltering hand.

Mountain Mama held the paper far out and read, “Do you solemnly swear not to reveal the location of this residence to any person known or unknown to you unless you’ve cleared it through the proper municipal channels of government? If so, say I do.”

Jack and I looked at each other.

“Well?” Mama demanded.

“Uh … sure …” I said. “I mean, I do.”

“And do you further swear to respect and uphold the laws
and statutes of the great town of Backwater, to protect its inhabitants and its boundaries, and be cheerful, courteous and honorable during your visit?”

“I do,” I whispered, resisting the urge to grip the tree branch behind me for strength.

“Her Honor will see you now.”

It was too weird.

I looked longingly at Jack. It was time to go.

If Mountain Mama hadn’t been towering in the distance like some tight-lipped chaperone, we probably would have kissed.

He handed me his number written inside a Hershey wrapper. “Just be yourself, Ivy. I’ll see you soon.”

I mentioned I was hoping to be a bit more than just myself.

Jack said that was all I needed and kissed me on the cheek.

I touched the kissed spot, watched him head down the trail.

“You be yourself, too!” I shouted.

He turned back and gave me a smile of raw courage.

If I hadn’t crossed that terrifying ledge, I never would have met him.

It put the gift of fear in a whole new light.

I turned to Mountain Mama with Breedlove pluck. “I’m ready.” I said this with significant gusto.

“You’d better be,” she said, and started through the trees.

The first thing I saw was a log cabin with a beautifully carved wooden sign that read “Town Hall.” Dozens of birds sat on the roof, chirping. It was as close to a field of trees as any building I had ever seen—small and boxy, neatly fitted with dark brown logs. A large picture window faced the front entrance, a chimney jutted from the slanted roof, a covered porch had firewood in three huge piles, a big sled leaned against a wood pile. Behind the cabin was an A-frame structure made from notched logs; the door was locked with a rusty padlock. Next to that was a smaller A-frame; the door was open and birds were flying in and out of it. A weathered old bell hung from the roof on a rope. There was a clearing in the middle with a park bench. A tire swing hung from a huge tree. A split wood fence surrounded the property. The snow lay pure and white.

I felt like we’d entered another world.

The sound and flutter of birds filled the air with an energy I’d never felt before. They swooped from tree to tree. They chattered, they tweeted.

“When she’s ready, she’ll be out,” Mama said.

Slowly, the door of the Town Hall cabin opened. I could see a face looking at us hidden in the shadows. The door opened further and a woman stepped cautiously onto the porch. She was wearing an old green mountain jacket, had long, impossible sandy hair blown from the wind; a red bandana was wrapped around her forehead, Native American style. She walked toward us tentatively; dust rose from her jacket. She was wearing high mountain boots that laced half way to her knees. Her jeans were patched. She had crackling navy blue eyes and the square Breedlove chin. She adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses that rested low on her nose and studied me without blinking. It was like looking at myself in twenty-five years, except I would have definitely rethought the outfit.

She peered at me like a child views an animal at the zoo.

I stood straighter and tried to quiet the thumping of my heart.

The woman sniffed twice and took a step back; more dust rose off her coat. Her eyes were penetrating.

“Ivy Breedlove,” said Mountain Mama, “I’d like you to meet your Aunt Josephine, the Mayor of Backwater.”

Josephine nodded slightly.

I nodded back.

I couldn’t speak.

Finally, Josephine did.

“We’ve got a hospital, a town hall, a chapel, and a recreation center,” she stated matter-of-factly. Her voice sounded like she didn’t use it much.

I stood there.

What do you say to that?

I looked to Mountain Mama who was silent.

“Cool,” I said finally, and groaned internally.

What if Neil Armstrong had landed on the moon and simply said
cool?

But you can’t take stupid words back; they just hang there in the air.

“I suppose it
is
cool,” Josephine said finally.

Contact
.

I half smiled, took a slow step toward her.

“Aunt Josephine, this is a really big moment for me. I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time.”

My words seemed to echo through the woods.

“I hope it’s all right that I’ve come,” I added.

Josephine considered this.

“We met once,” she said after a long silence.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

“You were very young. It was a … complicated day.”

I grinned. “I’ve never seen so many birds.”

“Seems I’ve cornered the market.” She whistled to the air, and a dozen birds flew to her, circling her head, perching on her arms and shoulders.

I tried to picture her growing up with Dad and Archie, but I couldn’t do it.

She peered at me some more. I wasn’t used to such scrutiny. “I suppose at this moment you think I’m the craziest woman you’ve ever met,” she said quietly.

I looked at her standing there with birds on her arms and head.

“Fiona’s crazier,” I assured her.

At that Josephine laughed so hard that the birds flew off her head and headed for the nearest tree, tweeting like mad.

“I’ll show you around town,” she said, chuckling. “I built it myself.” She pulled the hood of her old coat up around her head, and waved us to follow.

*    *    *

“This is the bird hospital, such as it is. We’ve got plans to expand it, but these things take time. We’ve had a few foxes and bears that have tried to hurt the patients. That’s why I keep it locked.”

Bears again.

Eleven birds, each in a different cage, had little bandages on their legs and bodies. We were in the larger A-frame building behind the cabin. There was a long, scratched wooden table in the middle with a microscope and bottles of medicine, tweezers, bandages, and gauze. Josephine put a log into a small wood stove that sputtered with warmth, then clucked to the birds who tweeted in response.

She filled an eye dropper from a medicine bottle and squirted it into the water bowls of three cages. She stopped to look at a fat bird who glared back at her.

“That one’s on a diet,” she said. “He’s mad at me.”

The bird stuck out his chest, tweeted with irritation, and pecked at the bottom of the cage. He reminded me of Aunt Fiona.

“When I found him this fall he was swollen up and burning with fever. He’ll be here a few more weeks until he loses more weight.”

Bird Weight Watchers. She stuck a raisin in the fat bird’s cage. He lunged for it like he hadn’t eaten for days and squawked.

“They get dramatic sometimes.”

She moved past the rows of birdcages, looking at her patients like a doctor making hospital calls.

“Yeah, I know,” she said to a little red bird, “I know.”

The bird hopped over, it’s wing was bandaged. Jo adjusted the bandage gently; the bird let her.

“This one’s mother rejected it for some reason. I kept putting her back in and the mother kept pushing her out. Being maternal isn’t always instinctual.”

“Aunt Jo, how long have you been taking care of the birds?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“You must know a lot about them.”

She didn’t respond to that. “I couldn’t fit another cage in here even if there was a catastrophe. Some of the kids have to double up.”

“That’s a problem,” I said, inspecting the roof, which was leaking a bit.

“Can’t have a decent town without a good hospital for the population. What kind of a mayor would I be if I was content with
this
.”

“I see your point.”

Sort of.

Mountain Mama was looking in the cages, making mental notes for her book, probably.

I smiled sensitively at the birds and tried to remember all the things I knew about gaining a person’s trust as an interviewer.

Show them you’re a good listener.

Show them you’re interested in their lives.

Show them you’re not in a hurry.

Show them you respect their boundaries.