Sparrow Road (16 page)

I thought of Lyman and his drawing; how I imagined he felt a lot like me. How he looked into the mirror to see his father’s face. I knew what he would say. “No,” I said. “No matter what, those kids still wanted their parents.”

“You know,” Josie sighed. “That’s exactly what I think.”

“I always dreamed of my own doll,” Lillian said, running her hand over the fabric. Sometimes instead of reading I just sat with her and sewed. Three days had passed since Gray had left me with his question, and bit by bit the scraps were turning to a doll. I still didn’t have an answer, but the steady act of sewing gave my heart some peace.

“We can make one for you when I’m finished,” I offered. “Or I’ll sew you one myself.”

“Really?” Lillian’s face lit up. “You could sew a doll for me?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll ask Josie to bring a box of scraps up from her shed. You can pick out your own colors.” I knew Josie would want Lillian to have a doll to keep.

Lillian stroked my cheek. “You’ve made Sparrow Road your home.”

“Home?” I said.

“You’ve settled in. Made up your mind to stay. Stopped waiting. I can always tell when the new children reach that point. If you’d like, we could begin your piano lessons; it seems to me you’re ready for those now.”

“Okay,” I said. “But there isn’t a piano in the house.”

“Perhaps you should ask Viktor. He’s in charge of music lessons now. You know, he is a genius. A child prodigy. I saw that from the start. The Berglunds plan to send him to Austria to study.” Lillian made a little frown. “I’m afraid that’s far away for a young boy.”

“Did Viktor live here, Lillian?” I thought about his symphonies, the way they sounded more like suffering than songs. The gingerbread he said Lillian baked each Christmas. All those nights he sat beside her on the porch. The way he let her break the silence rule with me. “When you used to teach piano?”

“Viktor is a Berglund.” Lillian stared down at her hands.

“But why was he the question that you carried? The question that you carried
so far into the future
?” It was Lillian’s poem that started Gray on telling me his story, but in all that talk of drinking I’d forgotten what he said about the poem. Something about lots of years of missing someone gone. “The one you dedicated to V.”

Lillian lifted her face like she was rising out of water. “Yes,” she said. “No matter what, we miss the ones we love.”

 

I still don’t have an answer to Gray’s question,
I wrote Lyman. I was upstairs with a flashlight and my sketchbook, writing before I fell asleep. Outside Mama and Diego were talking on our swing. My Eureka Doll was nearly done; tomorrow I’d stuff her full of batting, slip the question in, and finish the last stitch.
Nothing,
I said.
I still don’t know what to say to Gray’s “I’ll see ya?”

Lyman smiled. He was standing at my window, staring at the moon.
I never heard of an answer coming from a doll.

No,
I said.
Me either. But somehow all of Josie’s crazy notions seem to happen.

But if it did,
Lyman said,
I know the question I’d stuff into the stomach.

What?
I asked.

Your dad?
I asked.

Yep,
Lyman said.
’Cause drinking or no drinking, you’re lucky yours found you.

 

It was the next day, underneath the willow with nothing but the silence, that I opened up my sketchbook and wrote my thoughts to Gray. First, I wrote down all the mad and sad and letdown that weighed heavy on my heart. I started with all the things Gray missed: every single birthday, my first communion, ice-skating, sledding, the father-daughter Girl Scout breakfasts, father-daughter camping, the science fair, the ribbons that I won on field day, school concerts, every Christmas, every Easter, every Halloween he didn’t see me in my costumes or go with me trick or treating.

He never tucked me into bed at night or waited mornings while I got on the bus. I said I couldn’t forgive him for the day he got so drunk I ended up with the police. And that he looked too happy on that album with his beer and cigarette, and that after twelve long years of nothing it was late for him to want to know me now. I wrote it all and then I ripped it up.

When I started a fresh page, I didn’t know what more I had to say until I said it. I only knew I still had other feelings pressing on my heart.

Gray,
I wrote because no matter what, I couldn’t start out with
Dear
.

 

I picked up my needle and looped in the last stitches. I had my answer to Gray’s
See ya?
and my Eureka Doll was done.

I didn’t see Gray right away; we started with small notes Viktor carried back and forth between us. I told about my piano lessons, how Viktor let Lillian teach me in the old infirmary, and how I learned to play simple songs like “Twinkle, Twinkle” on Viktor’s grand piano, with his scribbled sheets of music scattered on the floor. I wrote about the Arts Extravaganza—the plans I made with Josie. The games we both invented. The food we hoped to serve. I even wrote about the pineapple upside-down cake I’d baked Diego for his birthday.

Mostly the notes that Gray sent me were a bunch of ways of saying he was sorry. Sorry for the years he didn’t come for my birthdays. The twelve good years he wasted. The terrible day he lost me in the park. Plus everything I listed in the letter, and lots more that Gray dreamed up. I didn’t need all of his apologies, but Diego said Gray did. Diego said asking for forgiveness was Gray’s way of getting well.

When I finally did see Gray it was at the Comfort Kitchen. Mama said she’d rather he come back for a picnic or a visit to our cottage, but this time I wanted to meet Gray on my own. Someplace far away from our last bad conversation. A place where we could get a brand-new start.

“Okay, Raine,” Josie said when Gray walked into the restaurant for our lunch. “Two thirty at the five-and-dime.” Josie promised Mama she’d bike with me both ways. “You two enjoy your eats! The Arts Extravaganza calls!” Josie’s hands were full of bright green fliers she was passing out to strangers.

“You’re sure busy with that party,” Gray said as we slid into a booth.

“Lillian and I are picking out her poems. And we’ve got days of baking up ahead.” We still had to bake and freeze fourteen dozen cookies—peanut butter, oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip—and at least ten pans of Mama’s caramel brownies. Diego was in charge of sloppy joes. Even awful Eleanor was reading from her essays. I still wasn’t sure what my art would be. Mama didn’t know what her art would be yet either, but every day I begged her to play that old guitar. I wanted everyone to see the girl she used to be, the singer she still was. “Everyone is helping with the party.”

“Nice folks at that place.” Gray laid his paper napkin on his lap. “They sure do like you, Raine.”

“Not everyone,” I said. “Not Eleanor. Or Viktor.”

“Aw,” Gray said. “I wouldn’t be so sure about Viktor. Some men keep their hearts hid pretty deep.”

“Do you?” I asked.

“Heck no.” Gray gave his little laugh. “I can’t keep my heart hid much at all.”

It was easier to meet Gray in a restaurant with the solid wooden table set between us, and the customers, and the waitress, Dot, stopping by to pour fresh coffee in Gray’s cup. Dot knew Gray by name, knew his order without Gray even asking. Gray said all his suppers were spent here.

“Your Grandpa Mac still plan on coming?” Gray rubbed his hand against his jaw.

“He said he would.” I munched a bite of a sweet potato fry. Sweet potato fries were Gray’s favorite food in Comfort. “I’m sure he’s going to come.” When I’d called Grandpa Mac to ask him, he said wild horses couldn’t keep him away.

I still hadn’t told Grandpa Mac that I’d met Gray, or that I knew about the drinking or the day Gray lost me in the park. That was something I wanted to tell him face-to-face, so he could see I was safe. Safe and sound. Even with Gray’s truth.

Gray rubbed his jaw again. “You know, that day I lost you at the park?” He hung his head like all those apologies he sent hadn’t helped his shame. “Your Grandpa Mac, he punched me in the face. Nearly broke my jaw. For months I couldn’t sing straight. Though I know I did deserve it.”

“Grandpa Mac punched you?” I knew Grandpa Mac had been some kind of boxer in the navy, but I never saw him lift his fist to anyone in anger. Grandpa Mac raised Mama without spankings. Same way they raised me. The O’Rourkes just never hit.

“Oh, he definitely did. I’m only telling you this ’cause I don’t want to spoil your party. Your Grandpa Mac won’t want to see me there. And he sure won’t want to hear me sing. You’ll have a better party with me gone.”

“No,” I said. I stuck my long spoon into my shake. “It’ll be okay.” I wanted all of them at the Arts Extravaganza—Gray and Grandpa Mac and Mama—but most of all I wanted our family troubles to be done.

 

After lunch was finished, the two of us took a slow walk down the shady streets of Comfort. When we reached the Soap-N-Sudz, Gray pointed to his place, a single rented room above a Laundromat. “Didn’t you make a lot of money playing music?” I asked.

“Just enough to get me into trouble.” Gray’s bangs hung over his black eyes. “But some of it, I’ve saved in your name.” Gray moved the toothpick with his teeth.

“My name?”

“Yep.” Gray put his hands in his back pocket. “At Summit Bank there in Milwaukee. There’s money for your mama too, but she won’t take it. Never would. But in the end, I know money don’t mean much. I know it can’t make up for my mistakes. Or all the time I missed.”

“No,” I said. I didn’t want Gray’s money either. “But it was nice you kept us in your mind; thought of us at least.”

“Oh. I sure did, Raine.” Gray’s shy face lightened up a little. “I thought and thought.”

“Me too,” I said. “But now I’m glad those mysteries are done.”