The Short Life of Sparrows (6 page)

He skirts his gaze from her, lowering his voice further. “Did Mildred paint the one on Lil’s mantle?”

A muffled snicker escapes my mouth as I trail after him toward the woodpile. “Yeah,” I continue, “But that one’s not from a bad dream.”

“It’s a nice tree,” he says, picking the ax back up. “The trunk on it is a bit odd, but the gold in it is nice. I can see why Lil would put it above her fireplace.”

“You’re not hungry?”

“Not anymore.”

He focuses explicitly on restacking the logs. My stomach wrenches. Lucas would insist on Mildred taking her painting into the house if he were here, and Daphne acts like she can’t hear her. Then there’s this Ordinary, visibly agitated by her crying.

“Don’t tell Lil I told you this,” I whisper, feeling the smirk on my face tug at my cheeks. “That painting on the mantle? It’s from the time Lil did a headstand. I guess my mother and Mildred used to dare Lil to do things, because she hates when people say she can’t do something. Well, Lil did a headstand against that tree. She forgot that her petticoat and bloomers would show. And apparently under her bland, black dress she had on this lacy purple garter. Mildred laughed until she was rolling in the grass. So the very next day Mildred left a painting for Lil, with the same tree—and Aunt Lil on her head with her purple garter. Naturally, the morning after that Lil had covered it all up with a slap of brown paint to erase the evidence from the picture. But she still keeps it on her mantle—so I think secretly, she finds it amusing too. But you can’t tell her I told you that. She’ll just argue that the tree has nice leaves. Or that she has to hang at least one of Mildred’s pictures to spare her feelings.”

He smiles a little under his wavy dark hair. “I can’t imagine her wearing a purple anything. She really did a headstand? …Lil?”

“Yeah,” I giggle. “Sometimes when she lifts her eyebrow and scowls at me with her wooden spoon on her hip, I think ‘purple garter’ to myself.”

“I won’t say anything,” he says, anchoring the ax into the woodpile. He bites his lip, but he bursts into laughter anyway.

“Good,” I say, slapping a palm at the railing as I swivel for the house. “She’d kill me.”

As I leave Isaiah to his chores, I catch myself being far too relaxed.
What am I doing? Don’t be friends with him, Calli.
I try not to think about how Isaiah actually has a very nice smile—all white teeth. His solemn, dark eyes also looked kind of clever when he laughed.
Well, clever for an Ordinary boy who barely speaks more than a sentence at a time
.

No more hanging around the woodpile, I decide. I’ve never wanted the likes of any man—for anything or any reason. Not even for conversation’s sake. Pleasantries are useless since he’ll be gone before the snow falls anyway.

6

Isaiah

T
he night whistles with shrill sounds I can’t readily identify. Sparks of different colors rip through the sky, like lightning bolts that were bathed in rainbows. A clouded shroud of gray and scarlet covers the crooked ridge behind the long line of houses. I try not to study the mountain too much, because I believe what Lil said about it being cursed. My gut churns any time I look at it, even in the daylight.
No mountain should wear fog on a clear summer afternoon
. So when the sun is down, I do what I can to disregard the coiling rocky crest that looms high above the village like a bent gargoyle.

It’s funny, how these Seers wait until black steals where the sunlight was to do their real magic. Whatever it is they do at these late hours, it seems personal, secretive. Their activities behind their bolted doors and curtained windows might even be shameful. Or maybe they’re putting off the nightmares by rebuilding their little world every night.

Flashes of red, green, and white flicker from their covered windowpanes, casting a faint glow on the darkened gardens and shrubbery in their yards. From the end of the field, I can still make out the trees and house fronts as they morph into new heights and shapes. Shingles birth new shingles on the slanted rooftops, like a fresh skin on a snake’s body. This entire place stays alive with movement as the darkness smothers it.

When I’m up this late, and I can’t sleep from all of their busy energy that suspends in the air, I amuse myself with the sight of this fortressed space—how it shifts and falls, transforming into something starkly different than the day before. I think about what I’d do with a piece of property. If I could make something from nothing with the turn of my hand, I’d make a small cream colored house with yellow shutters. The house itself wouldn’t be showy, just simple and clean and bright. I’d create a yard that had the look of paradise though, something with lots of green. It would have an apple tree, but with silver apples and crimson leaves. The shrubs would glitter with a gold dust that would stick to your fingertips if you touched it.

I know I’m losing my firm grasp on reality by doing so, but it’s difficult to be realistic when you’re surrounded by enchanted trimmings. Yesterday I noticed one of the Seers had peeled her roof backward, just to enjoy the breeze, I’m assuming.

Lil’s cottage is a sad dent in an otherwise remarkable landscape. Aside from her aloof demeanor and tightly bound hair, one has to admire the way she walks, so self-assured, past all of those timeworn, gossiping bats with pearly fences and jeweled doorknobs. She could turn the younger Seers with giggling snickers and disdainful, puckered mouths into rats, and she’d be in the right for it—to shut them up for mocking her with questions about when she’ll finally take a turn having them over for tea.

I keep the lantern balanced on a rock as I finish sanding the frame, and I imagine how I’d keep a place of my own if I were ever lucky enough to have a plot of land. There’s not much I can do to dress up Lil’s property—not in a way that could ever compete with her neighbors. Her fence could be reinforced and given new supports so it doesn’t slant. The roof could be less bowed and patched. And her painting needs a proper spot on the wall, in a decent frame. I focus on the edges as I put a knife to the smooth corner. Flowers would be too ornamental for someone as unpretentious as Lil, so I stick to etching a basic pattern in it.

Everyone should be allowed some pride in their home, in the few belongings and furnishing they’ve got, in the little details that make it theirs. The walls that separate her from their constant jeering should at least be a sanctuary from it.

7

Calli

C
limbing the stairs, I find Mildred dabbing at her face.
With his white handkerchief
. She waves weakly at me before she blots beneath her eyes again. Isaiah sits beside her, and she pinches at his cheek. “You’re such a sweet boy. It makes me miss my Lucas, having you stop to look after me.”

As I shuffle my boots against the rug to brush the dirt off them, I feel a bit of a sting at seeing them being so friendly. I should be relieved that she’s pausing to wipe the tears from her face instead of letting them saturate her collar. If she’s responding with words, rather than rocking at a crazed rhythm, that is a welcome change. But it’s also a change I didn’t think was possible. There’s a sudden aching lump in my throat, and I have to act as if none of this is unusual.

I’ve never been able to pull Mildred out of her crying fits or been able to get her eyes to stop glossing over. How many times have I tried to quiet her sobs by patting her back—or tried to get her to speak about what upsets her? I was twelve when Lil finally convinced me that it was useless to hum to Mildred—that she couldn’t hear anybody when she was shedding the pain of her dreams. It shouldn’t hurt my feelings that I’m not the one to break her vacant stare, but it does. The front door is ajar, and I squeeze through it without a second look at the two of them.

“Lil,” I call out as I tap the door closed with my foot. As my eyes settle on the other side of the room, I feel the lump in my throat grow larger. The air leaves my chest at the sight of it. The painting of the oak tree is centered on the wall, hung and framed. My face gets hot, and I have to fend off angry tears. The onions roll and spill from the tabletop as I unload my arms.
Why would he…?
I look closer at the frame, because it isn’t simply four pieces of wood nailed together. The wood ripples in carved, waving lines. It glows with a rich and honeyed shine, a piece that’s been polished relentlessly with beeswax. The green of the tree leaves is bolder and deeper under the coffee brown wood. The door opens and squeaks closed again.

“Why are there onions all over my floor?” Lil huffs. “Clean them up, before someone trips and breaks an ankle.”

I spin, shaking my head. “Why would he do this? He can’t just go around touching our stuff, Lil. I thought we were barely supposed to know that he is here. You have to tell him he can’t wander through our house like that.”

She flutters her eyes in irritation at me. “He’s here to improve the property. It’s what he gets paid for. Quit giving yourself airs about it. The painting doesn’t even belong to you. It was about time we had it hung instead of propped on the mantle.”

I scoop up the onions, piling them into the basket in the corner. “Well, I’m going to set him straight. I don’t want him believing he can buy everybody with sentimental gestures, not when he’s only with us for a few months. He has no boundaries. And the painting was just fine the way it was.”

The door slams when I let go of it, and I hate that he’s turned me into a girl with the emotional stability of a toddler. When I glance at Mildred’s corner of our porch, they’ve both already left. It’s too much—too much that she’s abandoned her painting before noon. I take the handkerchief from empty easel, holding it away from me by one of its corners. He’s just standing by the fence, watching me with measured dread as I walk toward him.
Good. He should know exactly how mad I am
. He pulls his hat down by the brim and proceeds to take a swig from his canteen. Twisting the cap onto it, he takes another step back as I reach him.

My hands are shaking as I shove the handkerchief into his chest. “Who do you think you are? You’re here to do outside chores. You can’t walk around here fixing things that nobody has asked you to—like picture frames and handkerchiefs somehow change anything. Maybe handkerchiefs make Ordinaries feel better, but you aren’t going to make Mildred sane again. Tomorrow she’ll still be painting, and I’ll still have to remind her to stop and eat something by evening. Ten years from now, I’m still going to be combing paint chips out of her hair. You should really learn how to stay focused on the matters that concern you.”

He tucks the handkerchief into his dark flannel shirt, his chin set. “You know what?” he snaps. “You’re the most bizarre person I’ve ever met. One minute you’re this fun girl who wants to talk and joke with me, but then the next minute you’re barking at me like you’re crazy. I’d rather not fight with you. Other than Lil and you—Daphne and Mildred sometimes—nobody around this place will look me in the eyes. It’s hard to miss how they all walk in a wide arc to get past me, as if I might have something catching. But you go from treating me as if I’m your equal to acting like I’ve gone out of my way to offend you. I have better things to do with my day, believe me. And I take orders from Lil. Not you. I’ll give handkerchiefs to whomever I want.”

“Just don’t go in our house again,” I say, trying to sound as firm as Lil would. “That painting is not for you to put your Ordinary hands all over.”

I shift as he squares his chest with mine. The immediate resentment in his eyes disappears as he swallows. “I lost a lot of sleep making that. You could just say
thank you
for doing something nice. Instead of behaving like a cat with rabies.”

I raise my eyes, welcoming any insult he’ll give me. But he looks at me strangely, and backs away again. He rubs at his forehead and then looks into the trees, like he’s waiting for me to be the one to leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say under my breath, kicking the dirt with my boot. “It’s not you at all, okay? It’s all me. And if you paid any attention, you’d realize that you need to keep a distance from all of us. We’re a curse to ourselves. Why do you think our own men can’t stay here? We’re all impossible. So just keep far away from me, please. You’ll be happier for it. And Mildred can’t take much in the way of change. If she becomes too dependent on you, and then you leave, she’ll spiral. Every time Lucas comes to visit and then leaves, she gets almost catatonic. She can’t handle the loneliness, not like the rest of us.”

“Do you ever exhaust yourself from being so angry?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You’re a beautiful, smart girl. But when you yell and pout you look about as cute as a squawking chicken. And I’m not trying to insert myself into anybody’s life. She was crying. I gave her a handkerchief. That’s it.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Keep thinking loud, obnoxious chicken.”

He picks up his jacket from the ground, rolling it up in a ball in his hand. “I’m going to go now. I’ve got trees to fell.” Pulling the gate back, he lifts his canteen from the post and slings it over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

Waving his jacket in the air, he keeps walking. “I know, I know. Loud, obnoxious chicken. I’ve got it.”

“Thanks for framing the picture,” I say, my voice breaking a bit. “It’s flawless. And I can tell that Lil loves it.”

He nods, but he doesn’t turn around as he vanishes into the woods.

8

ISAIAH

T
he saw screeches—a tinny, abrasive whine from its teeth as I run it back and forth. I leave it midway through the chipped piece of lumber to get a second measurement of the planks I’m replacing. This house seems intent on falling apart further whenever I’m fixing something else. I was going to assess the state of the porch railing when the wrong misstep sent my foot through the porch itself.

I’m repeating the figures under my breath, just as I hear someone coming through Lil’s front gate. Daphne. It wasn’t much of an introduction when she brought cookies by three days ago, what with Calli interrupting. I did catch her name though. I step backward, allowing her the walkway to the door.