My Name Is River (12 page)

Billy positions his camera and tries getting close to three chickadees eating from the feeder, but they fly away. He moves back a little, then tries getting a picture while hiding behind the daylilies. All of a sudden, he yells, “River, come here!”

I drop my notes and run to him.

“Look!” he says and points. “There's a hummingbird stuck in that spider's web.”

“Well, don't just stand there! Aren't you going to help it?”

He looks at me. “You should get to. Hummingbirds are your favorite.”

“Wow! Thanks, Billy.” I slowly move my hands toward the little bird, cup it gently, and pull it from the web. Then I position my hands between me and Billy so both of us will see. I open them. There in the palm of my hand sits a ruby-throated hummingbird. And it's beautiful. At first it doesn't move (Billy says that's because it's stunned), but then it turns its head to look at me, chirps once, and flies away.

“That was incredible, River. What did it feel like?”

“It was soft, like the silky edge on a baby blanket. And it hardly weighed a thing… It was like holding a marshmallow.”

“Rats!” Billy says while holding up his camera. “I never took a picture!”

“That's okay,” I tell him. “Maybe that was supposed to be something just for us to see. And I know I won't need a picture to remember.”

We walk back to the log. Billy gets ready to take pictures again. There's a sparrow at the feeder, so he aims his camera and clicks the button. The camera spits the film out. He takes three more, and we watch them develop.

Billy looks discouraged. “My camera's not good enough. The pictures don't show enough detail. What we need is a camera with a powerful lens.”

“What are we going to do? We've only got one week left.”

Billy shrugs his shoulder. “I'm not sure yet.” As we watch the birds, I hear Billy whisper, “God, please help us figure out something so we can get good pictures. My camera's nice, but it's not letting us get the kind of pictures I was hoping for… It would be really great to have pictures that show all the details of your amazing birds. I know you're good at figuring things out, so can you please help? Amen.”

I turn to look at him. “Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think God really cares about our pictures? I mean, maybe he has bigger things to take care of… like making sure the earth keeps spinning or that the sun and moon hang in the right place. It seems like wanting good pictures for our project might not be that important to God.”

“I get what you're saying, River, but God is actually so incredible and loves us so much that even though he has to take care of the big things, he wants to help us with our little things. My dad said we won't fully understand things like that until we get to heaven.”

Just as Billy stops talking, we see two orange and black butterflies chasing each other near the bee balm.

“Those are monarchs,” he says. “They're West Virginia's state butterfly.”

“West Virginia has a state butterfly?”

“Yep, and now that you're living here, you need to know these things… so you're lucky you've got me to tell you about them.” Billy smiles and says, “And do you want to know something else about them?”

“Sure, why not?” I say, because a person can't have too many butterfly facts floating around in their brain.

“Monarch butterflies migrate, just like birds. And the ones right here are the great grandchildren of the ones that lived in Mexico during the winter.”

It takes me a few minutes to wrap my head around this whole butterfly thing because I'm not too smart when it comes to family ancestry and generational things (but maybe I would be if I knew where I came from).

As we keep watching the birds and butterflies, I'm getting more and more worried about our pictures. There's no chance we'll get an A without good pictures. I cross my fingers and make a wish that God was listening when Billy prayed.

All of a sudden, I hear loud
cawing
noises, and three big black
birds land on the ground below the feeder. They caw and caw and chase the little chickadees away. “Stupid birds,” I shout, waving my arms to shoo them, “go pick on someone your own size.”

Even though I'm not trying to be funny, Billy laughs hysterically. “Actually,” he says, taking control of himself, “crows are intelligent birds. People have even seen them take the rubber strips right off their windshield wipers.”

“You're serious?”

“Of course I am,” he says. “There's no way I could've made that up!”

I close my eyes and imagine Gram driving Tilly along an old country road when a humongous black crow comes out of nowhere and lands right in the middle of her windshield. Gram swerves all over, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Get out of here, you crazy old bird!” But the crow hangs on for dear life and pecks away at her wiper blades. Gram blasts Tilly's horn, and the crow flies away with her wiper blade clenched in his beak.

Billy jolts me back to reality, scaring me half to death. “I've got it!” he says. “My Uncle Jay's a photographer. Maybe he can help us.”

“That's awesome. When do you think he can come over?”

“Well, there's one problem. He lives in Kentucky, and we don't see him much. But maybe he could come for a visit this weekend.”

We race back to Billy's house and ask Pastor Henry.

15

Pinky Swear

A
fter school on Friday, Billy and I hurry to the birding place. We want to make sure everything's perfect for the next morning when Billy's Uncle Jay will be here. We race each other to the end of the trail and then slowly creep out so we don't scare the birds. But this time we're the ones getting scared. We see birds all over the place—in the birdbath, at the feeder, and on the ground—but they're not moving. We walk closer to the bird feeder, where a lot of birds are lying. Then I look up and see shiny copper BBs lodged in the wood. They weren't there before. It takes a while for everything to register. It's like all the pieces of information are drifting around in my head, and then slowly, one by one, they line themselves up in order.

We walk over to the birdbath. There's a red cardinal in the water, still as can be. Billy lifts it out. It's stiff, just like the others.

They're dead.

“What's going on?” I say. Then for some reason, I imagine Robert Killdeer sitting on the log, looking down the barrel of a BB gun.

I turn toward Billy. A tear's sliding down his face. “I need to tell you something,” he says, “but you have to promise you'll never tell a soul.”

Even though I promise, Billy makes me pinky swear. We hook our left pinkies, and Billy whispers, “Pinky, pinky, grip real tight. A promise told will not lose hold, but break your word, you'll break
our bond. It's pinky swear or death beware.” Billy's face is pale, and he's shaking. He says, “I know who broke the church window.”

“What?”

“One day last month, right before you moved here, I was outside at church sitting under the tree… reading a book, minding my own business. I'm sure Robert didn't even know I was there, but I was watching him because he was pacing back and forth, acting really strange. He didn't seem right. Then he picked up a rock and threw it through the window. It scared me half to death, so I jumped up, dropped my book, and ran. Robert came after me. He grabbed me by the neck and yanked me to his face. ‘You better not tell, preacher boy,' he said, ‘cuz if you do, I'll kill you!' ”

I'm so scared, I can't move. “You never told?”

Billy shakes his head. “No way! I don't trust that kid. His dad's in jail. I heard he was charged with murder two days after Robert was born.”

We sit there for a while, staring at nothing. Finally I say something. “What are we going to do with the birds?”

“We need to have a funeral. We can bury them behind the log. After that we never talk about this again, and we tell no one. Not ever.”

We gently pick up the birds and carry them to the log. I count them. One cardinal, five chickadees, one goldfinch, four sparrows, two mourning doves, one woodpecker, and the most beautiful bluebird I've ever seen. I try to think of something good to help erase the bad stuff, but the only thing I can think of is how glad I am that hummingbirds fly faster than BBs.

We go back to Billy's house to get a shovel and his Bible.

I dig a hole for each bird while Billy flips through his Bible. I figure he's looking for something important, so I dig all fifteen holes myself. Billy finds a leaf and puts it in his Bible, like a bookmark.

As he picks up the bluebird, a feather falls from its wing and lands beside my foot. I pick it up and save it in my pocket. Later I'll put it in my diary with Paddles's feather. Billy sets the bluebird in its grave and then places the rest of the birds in their holes. I cover each of them. He saves the mourning doves for last and asks me to connect the last two holes. Billy says since mourning doves mate for life, they should be buried together. He lays them side by side, facing each other. I cover them with a blanket of dirt.

We stand beside each other, and Billy opens his Bible. “I'll read from Ecclesiastes, chapter three. ‘For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build up. A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones. A time to embrace and a time to turn away. A time to search and a time to quit searching. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. A time to be quiet and a time to speak. A time to love and a time to hate. A time for war and a time for peace.' ”

Billy closes his Bible, then his eyes, and prays. “Dear Lord, thank you for this birding place and for your creation that comes to visit. I ask you to keep it safe and protect it from evil. And even though I'm so angry at Robert for what he's done, I know you want us to pray for our enemies. So even though I don't feel like it, I pray for Robert. Please help him find his way. Amen.”

We gather leaves and sticks from the woods and lay them over the graves. No one will ever know.

16