Sparrow Road (7 page)

Do you think about what’s missing? I wrote Lyman.

Missing?
Lyman leaned against the railing of the tower.

You know,
I wrote
. People. Like your parents?

Sure,
he said.
I wonder where they went. Why they couldn’t keep me. Anybody would.
He pulled a paper airplane from his pocket and launched it on a slow drift with the breeze.
We all think about what’s missing. And when someone’s gone, we have to dream them up. Same way you dream up me.

What about your dad?
I said.

Gone.
We watched his paper airplane glide down to the grass.
Same as yours, I guess.

 

“Were you close to your father?” I asked Lillian. We were reading Robert Frost out on the side porch, Lillian rocking in her Dream Chair, a gift Josie found at a garage sale in Comfort and painted with pink stars. Josie promised Lillian that when September came, she’d find a way to get the Dream Chair to St. Paul.

“My father?” Lillian blinked. Mama said it was cataracts that made Lillian’s pupils milky.

I stuck my finger in the page and closed the dusty book. I was ready for a rest; my tongue was tired of tripping over words. Line by line, the poems were like a long walk through the darkness. My brain was worn out.

“Yes,” I said. “Your father. You never mention him.” In all her stories, Lillian never said a word about her family.

“No.” Lillian shook her head. “I’m afraid that I didn’t know him.”

“Never?”

“No.” Lillian frowned.

“I don’t know mine either.” Through the corner of my eye I spied Eleanor skulking past the side porch.

“Her,” Lillian said when Eleanor huffed off. “I don’t think she should be working with the children. The children need more love.”

“She’s not with the children,” I said. “Her children are at home.”

“She’s a mother?” Lillian gasped. “How terrible. My mother was so sweet.”

“Mine too,” I said. “I mean my mother is.”

Lillian patted at my leg. “I’m sure you miss her, dear.” No matter how many times I told her, Lillian couldn’t remember who Mama really was.

“So you knew your mother then?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Lillian said. “Mother was a saint. The day she brought me here, they gave us each a sausage. And Mother gave me hers, because she knew that I was hungry.” Lillian’s hazy eyes filled up with tears. “Afterward, I was so sorry that I ate it, I threw up in the snow.”

“The snow?”

“We came here in the winter. So many children did. Families who couldn’t survive out in the cold. But the mothers couldn’t stay. Fathers either. They only kept the children, so Mother had to say good-bye.”

“So were you an orphan, Lillian?” For the first time since I met her, Lillian’s story was starting to make sense. Once she was an orphan in this house. “Did you live up in the attic?”

“Oh no,” Lillian pressed her palm against her chest. “The attic was for boys.”

“I think Lillian was an orphan,” I told Josie. I sank the oars deep in the water and tried to row the old boat forward. Teaching me to row was one of Josie’s missions.
Independence
, she told Mama.
Raine needs it to be ready for the world
.

“An orphan? I had her figured for a teacher,” Josie said. “All that talk of spelling and piano.”

“I know,” I said. “But maybe she was both.”

Lillian was another mystery we both wanted to solve. Her odd friendship with Viktor, her talk about the children, all her mixed-up memories. Neither of us knew what in all of that was real.

“Today she said she came here in the winter with her mother. And her mother had to leave, because the parents couldn’t stay. They only kept the kids.”

“I think that part is true enough,” Josie said. “Folks in town have told me. They said sometimes they’d spot a threadbare mom or dad walking brokenhearted down the road. Even in the winter.”

“They told you that in town? Who?”

“Oh, just friends I’ve made in Comfort. Folks I chat with in the shops. The café. When I’m tired of the quiet, I bike to town to talk. Viktor can’t enforce the silence rule there!”

“Have you seen Mama there with Viktor?” Maybe Josie knew what Mama did in town.

“Can’t say I have,” Josie said. “But I don’t go there to buy groceries. I’m happy to eat the feasts your mama makes. Why you asking, Raine?”

“I don’t know. I guess the trips she makes to Comfort seem a little strange. Like the way she took this job so suddenly? One day we were living in Milwaukee, and the next day we were gone.”

“I suppose it’s strange to take a job that quickly,” Josie said. “But you know me, sometimes I also move too fast. And anyway, I’m glad your mama did. I can’t imagine this summer without you. Or food!” Josie grabbed the oars and steered us from the weeds. “Almost hit a snag.”

“Maybe if I saw Comfort for myself?” I said. “Went to town with you?”

“Absolutely!” Josie cheered. “A new adventure is ahead!” In the final blaze of sunset, her neon braids glowed cotton candy pink. “We’ll get to make a memory!” Every day Josie sewed a brand-new patch of memory so in the end her summer would be a kind of quilt. “Root beer floats at the Comfort Cone. Marge’s lemon bars at the sweet Blue Moon Café. How soon can we set out?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would be perfect! We ought to take a practice run the day before the Rhubarb Social. Eight miles into town might feel long the first time.” The Rhubarb Social at Good Shepherd was Josie’s latest scheme. She insisted everyone would go this weekend. Everyone but Eleanor. Mama and Lillian would ride in Viktor’s truck. I’d bike in with Josie and Diego.

“Tomorrow then,” I said.

“I hope your mama lets you, Raine. I know she keeps you close.”

“She will,” I lied. I wasn’t going to ask Mama until the minute I was leaving, until I had Josie’s power right beside me, so Mama would say yes.

“Take a look at that!” Josie said. Out in the water, Mama and Diego floated like driftwood on their backs. Mama lifted up her hand and gave a little wave. “You think those two are a mystery?”

“Nope,” I said. It seemed most evenings Diego stayed by Mama. Washing dishes. Talking on the swing. Bringing ice cream to our cottage. Sunset swims with us when Mama would say yes. “Diego definitely likes her.”

“You bet he does. But I’d say he likes you both.”

 

By the time we all got back to the house, lanterns burned along the side porch, and through the screen I could see the silhouettes of Lillian and Viktor.

“What about a fire?” Diego set his hand on Mama’s back, but Mama stepped away.

“Yes!” I said. The only fires in Milwaukee were emergencies.

“Hey, you two,” Josie shouted to Lillian and Viktor. “S’mores. Marshmallows and chocolate bars on me.”

“Oh yes,” Lillian said. “A roasted marshmallow would be lovely.”

“If you’d like,” Viktor said to Lillian.

“A miracle!” Josie pinched my waist. “The Iceberg’s going to join us, Raine! Maybe Eleanor will be next?”

“Oh no!” I said. “She would ruin it all.”

 

Eleanor didn’t come down to the fire, but it was strange enough to have Viktor in our circle. He didn’t say a single word; he just roasted marshmallows for Lillian and slid them on a plate.

In the fire glow everyone looked happy—even Viktor, whose hollow face seemed to brighten through the flames. I licked the sticky marshmallow off my fingers, breathed in the smell of burning wood.

“Tonight the children will sleep down at the water,” Lillian said. “I’m afraid the attic is too hot.”

“We’ll see,” Viktor said, as though the children were still here.

“What we need at this fire is some music,” Josie said. “Someone who can sing and play guitar!”

“Molly does,” Viktor said. “She both sings and plays guitar.” How did Viktor know Mama played guitar? Mama hadn’t played it since we moved back to Milwaukee; she always said her music days were done in Amsterdam.

“Guitar?” Diego smiled. “Another talent, Molly?”

Mama slouched down in her lawn chair. “I really don’t do either.”

“Ah, Molly.” Viktor looked at Mama as if they shared a secret. “I am certain that you do.”

“So how does Viktor know you played guitar?” I grabbed a damp towel from the basket and pinned it on the line. I’d volunteered to help Mama hang the laundry, so she’d be in good spirits when Josie came to take me into town.

Mama looked up toward the house, then pulled the clothespin from her teeth. “Shush,” she whispered.

“We’re far enough away,” I said. “Eleanor won’t hear. And Viktor’s gone. And Josie and Diego are working in their sheds.”

Mama shook her head, then handed me a soggy sheet.

“Did you tell Viktor?” I asked. Mama never talked about those years she was a singer. Her hippie years in Amsterdam were like a thing that never happened. A crazy Mama-phase Grandpa Mac said was better left forgotten.

Mama shrugged like she couldn’t quite remember.

“But he knew you played guitar?” That part surprised me most of all. Guitar was Mama’s hidden talent. Even I had never heard her play it—except maybe as a baby, and I couldn’t remember that.

Mama took one end of the sheet, stretched it on the line, and pinned it tight. She wasn’t going to talk.

“Did you know him back in Amsterdam?”

Mama’s eyes grew huge.
No.
She crinkled up her face like my question was pure crazy.

Then, before I could ask Mama another string of questions, Josie came strolling through the meadow, balancing a bike with each big hand. Just as we had planned. One for her and one for me.

Mama looked confused.

“Town,” I said. “I’m going in with Josie.”

No!
This time Mama shook her head like she really, really meant it.

When Josie made it all the way to us, she passed the red bike off to me. It was old, with rusted fenders and fat tires, but it was good enough to get me into Comfort.

Josie opened up her hands.
Root beer floats
was printed on one palm.
The great escape
was written on the other.

No
, Mama shook her head again.

Josie looked confused. She cocked her head like she needed Mama to explain. Then she took a pen out of her pocket.
It’s town
, she wrote on her arm.
We aren’t going far
.

No,
Mama mouthed. She grabbed the pen and wrote across her hand.
I’m going to take Raine to town with me.

“I want to go with Josie,” I said. I didn’t care about the silence rule, but I knew Josie wouldn’t break it. Mama either. And it was easier to argue with Mama when I knew she wouldn’t speak. “We’re going for a memory,” I said.

Raine is safe with me
, Josie wrote in giant letters on the inside of my arm.

“I am,” I said.

Mama huffed a long, slow sigh, the kind of sound she made when she was mad. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders, her laundry hands still damp, and whispered in my ear, “Don’t talk to any strangers.” She said it like we were right back in Milwaukee, like I was walking to the library alone.

“I won’t.” I pulled away. I didn’t want Mama’s worries to ruin something fun.

“I mean it, Raine,” she whispered. “Not a single soul.”