Bird (13 page)

Or whoever he was.

Every part of me ached, in the saddest-kind-of-sad ache I could ever imagine, an ache that filled my blood and my fingernails and my liver. I didn't know you could ache this much. And I didn't know that Mr. McLaren's voice could lodge in my mind, anchoring there for forever those two awful words:
John who?

The ache inside me took on a hard edge, and my jaw tightened.

How could I have been so stupid?

Plop, plop, plop.
Three pebbles were for John's dumb mouth, that it could be glued shut forever. One pebble was for how upset and scared Mom was at dinner last night. Two pebbles were for my ankle, which I twisted on the way here. Ten pebbles were so that I'd never talk to John again.

I had a lot more pebbles to go. A lot.

I was thinking so hard I didn't even hear footsteps behind me. “I thought I'd find you here.”

I jumped up and spun around to find John. My throat tightened. “I went to Mr. McLaren's house last night.” It was an accusation.

“I know.” He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his shorts.

“Your
uncle
.”

“He is.” John looked at the ground. Not at me.

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Stop lying to me,” I said, my voice rising loudly. My fingers tightened around the pebbles in my hand. “He didn't even know who you are. Where do you live, really?”

“With him.”

Quick as a flash, I threw a pebble at John. It sailed through the air, over his shoulder. His mouth dropped open and he looked at me as if I was crazy. I was just as surprised as he was.

“Go away,” I said.

“Jewel. I have to tell you something.”

“Go away!” I started chucking stones at him, one after another after another, throwing at him all the ache inside me. John ran at me and twisted one of my wrists with both hands, and before I knew it I was on the ground, my knees digging into the freshly upturned earth, my arm still in his grip.

“Let go of me!” I cried, squirming. Pain shot through my elbow and shoulder.

“I have to tell you something!” he shouted.

“I don't care,” I said, and I squirmed harder.

“Shut up! My name's not John, okay? You happy?”

I froze and looked at him. “What? What do you mean?”

His whole face twisted up. “My name's Eugene.”

“You lied about your name?”

His hands were gripping my wrist real tight, like maybe my squirming was tougher than he expected. “Yeah,” he said after a long while. He didn't look at me. “I didn't mean to.”

“Lie to me? What does that mean? And why would you lie about—”

The soft look on his face disappeared. “Who cares?” he said. He dropped my arm and stalked away. I scrambled to my feet, slapped the dirt from my knees, and stomped after him.

“What's wrong with ‘Eugene'?” I called after him.

He spun around. His eyes were hot, angry. “It's the name of Jack's father.”

Jack. His adoptive father. I didn't get it.

“She couldn't even give me a name.” His hands tightened into fists.

“Is your
dad
dad named John?” I asked.

“I don't know!” he shouted suddenly. “I don't know anything, okay?” He turned away from me.

It was so strange to hear John, the astronaut and the best would-be teacher in the world, say that he didn't know anything. Of course, I knew he was talking about his birth family, not about Jupiter or pressure or quasars. But my insides knotted up like a gnarled tree trunk when he said that: One moment he seemed to know everything, and the next moment he knew nothing at all.

I swallowed, but the gnarled feeling didn't go away. “Were you home when I rang the doorbell?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He dug in the dirt with the tip of his shoe.

I crossed my arms. “Then why didn't you say anything?”

“I'd have to explain things to my uncle,” he said quietly. “He'd be so mad at me if he found out.”

“Oh, but I wouldn't?”

“You don't get it.”

He was right. I didn't get it, not any of it. How could he just call himself John like that, I fumed. I mean, I don't like my name either, but I don't go running around telling folks my name's Jenny. And anyway, even if he wanted to give himself a different name, why couldn't he have picked the name Sam? Or Tom?

I could swear the sun moved an inch during all the silence.

He fidgeted, looking at the ground, the grasses. Some of my pebbles that I'd buried poked through the earth. “Why do you bury stones?” he asked.

I shrugged, turned, and headed toward the footpath, away from the cliff. If he could have secrets, so could I.

“Look, Jewel,” he said, stepping in front of me. “I meant it when I said we're friends.”

“So what should I call you?” I said. The words were sharper than I thought they'd be.

“Call me John.”

I cocked my head at him and gave him a look.

He took a deep breath. “Really. John.”

“Uh-huh.”

For a moment, he looked like a little kid. “It could be my secret name. I don't like being called Eugene,” he said. “But John? It's a good name. Solid.” He struck his chest with his fists, twice, like a gorilla. I smiled. I couldn't help it.

“I like how I feel when my name's John.” His voice was firm again. He stuck his hand out toward me. “Shake on it?”

I felt my lips pursing up. How could his name change how he felt about himself? But then I realized maybe that's what Grandpa was trying to do when he nicknamed my brother Bird. Maybe Grandpa wanted Bird to feel invincible. Soaring.

I took his hand, slowly. “I guess,” I said.

But I wasn't so sure anymore. Not about anything.

When I got home, Dad was watching a football match on TV, the non-American kind. Americans call football “soccer,” but it makes more sense to call it “football,” if you think about it. Especially since American football players mostly use their hands, not their feet. Anyway, football is Dad's favorite sport, by far.

He looked really intent on the game, so I headed to my room to grab some paper and sketch wildflowers, but he said, “Where'd you go, honey?”

I stopped. “John and I hung out for a while,” I said. But it was a lie. We didn't hang out. We fought. At the cliff, where I shouldn't be. And his name wasn't John. How many times can you lie with those few words? An ugliness crept under my skin, and I swallowed. I wanted to run from the living room and hide under my covers, I felt so ugly.

“That boy. John. I don't know about him.” Dad gave me a look that spoke a whole lot more than the words coming out of his mouth.

“What do you mean?” I asked Dad carefully. Did he know about John's name? Then I realized I didn't know about John either. Maybe Dad was right, there was something funny about him. A part of me suddenly regretted keeping his secret.

“I don't like how he called your mom Rose.” He grimaced and turned back toward the TV. “That's not right for a kid to talk to an adult like that. No respect.”

“Mom said that's what he should call her.”

Dad shook his head, and I wasn't sure if that was because of Mom or me or John. “She likes to believe that things like that don't matter, but they do.” He gave me a long look. “The smallest things can have the greatest significance.”

I had no idea what Dad was referring to.

“Just . . . be careful.” He stared at the TV for a while. “Having a boy named John around our family . . .” He sucked on his teeth. “I don't want bad luck in the house.”

I swallowed hard. Could I be bringing in even more bad luck by calling Eugene “John”? Suddenly I wanted to talk. I wanted to talk more than I've ever talked to my parents, to ask them about Bird and Grandpa and the silences and to have these questions answered, once and for all, and, so to take away some of the pressure in my chest, I said, “Dad, what was Grandpa doing last night?”

Dad jerked his head toward me. “What?”

“When John was here. What was Grandpa doing in his room, making all those noises?”

I looked at Dad, and he looked back at me, and I could tell he knew I was waiting for an answer. His face looked scared, almost. Then it ironed out. “He was upset about some things.”

“About what?”

Dad shook his head.

I stood there, waiting.

“We shouldn't talk about this,” he said.

“What things?” I pressed. “Why not?”

Dad turned up the volume. “Not now. I'm watching the game.”

That same sadness with a hard edge flashed over me, and my eyes got squinty. I went over to Dad and stood between him and the TV. “What things shouldn't I talk about?” I asked.

“Jewel.” Dad's voice got louder. Annoyed.

“If Grandpa's upset, shouldn't I know why?”

“Don't use that tone of voice with me,” he warned.

“I want to know,” I said, my own voice rising. I crossed my arms, and the same mix of feelings swept over me as when I was throwing rocks at John: surprised but powerful. I couldn't believe Dad wanted to go back to watching TV. He's acting like I'm a stranger, I thought, grinding my teeth. If Grandpa was going to make a scene in front of us, in front of my friend, shouldn't I know why? Why didn't I deserve to know?

At that moment, Granny's picture—the one with her white, flowing dress on the hill—fell off the living room wall.

There had been no breeze. No pounding. Just like that, lickety-splat, the picture fell off the wall.

Dad stared at Granny's picture, then at me. I was scared too, but I didn't move. “I want to know,” I repeated.

Dad cleared his throat. “Grandpa thinks that John is a duppy,” he said in a strange voice.

“John?” My mouth went dry. “He's not a duppy.”

“The rice was for him.” Dad pressed his lips together, grabbed the remote, and turned off the TV.

Suddenly it made sense why Grandpa didn't want me to go with John though the cornfields and why he was so upset when I did. And if Grandpa thought John was a duppy, then of course he would throw rice on the ground and salt on the floor.

“So that's why Grandpa marked the ground with an X when he first saw John,” I said, thinking out loud.

Dad grimaced. “That wasn't an X, Jewel. That was the Roman numeral for ten.”

A number greater than nine that would keep a duppy away.

Dad sighed. “Okay?” Like he wanted the conversation done and over with.

“But John's not a duppy,” I said, louder.

“They can take human form sometimes, to trick you.”

A shiver raced through me. “Really?” I asked.

Dad nodded.

“But John's not a duppy,” I said again, but more uncertainly this time.

Dad ran his palm over his hair and looked away.

Then a thought hit me. “You said Grandpa was upset about some
things
,” I said warily. “What else is there?”

Dad stood up. “No more.” He walked out of the living room and didn't say another word. I knew at least one reason why. Talking about a duppy can only attract its attention and bring it into your home.

But we both saw Granny's picture fall. And that meant it was already here.

It turned out that the little metal bracket on the back of Granny's picture had gotten loose and that's why it fell. When I picked up the picture, I half expected it to burn my hands or start flying around the room. But it was just a picture, cold and dead. I was hanging the photo back on the wall when I saw it: a flicker of light.

I stopped. There was a coil of gold lying at the base of our wall, where Granny's picture had just been, nearly hidden in the carpet. A thin chain. I went over and held the necklace up, and it sparkled and twisted in the lamplight.

It was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you go quiet inside.

I bit my lip. How long had this been here? And it was real gold, I could tell just from the gleam and the weight of it. Which meant it wasn't Mom's. The only gold jewelry she had was those earrings. And anyway, if it was Mom's and she'd lost it, she would have made sure we knew because we'd be helping her look.

I swallowed. Maybe it came from a duppy. And if it did come from a duppy, it wouldn't be too wise to put it on. I slid my thumb and forefinger down the gold chain, over and over. Then again, it could just be a necklace. Mom would definitely say that.

I opened the clasp and fastened it around my neck, feeling like a grown-up. I'd never worn anything that was real gold before. If anyone asks about it, I'll just say I found it, which isn't a lie, I thought. The chain slipped perfectly under my T-shirt.

I went to my room and grabbed some paper to draw, but I couldn't concentrate. So I lay on my bed, played with my necklace, and stared at the ceiling. Grandpa thought John was a duppy. So Grandpa was burning rosemary and hanging up red socks and horseshoes to protect me. And of course that's why he was really mad when I ran off with John: Who knows what a duppy could have done to me? Maybe Grandpa was right to be mad like that, banging on plates and spitting and even hitting John—since he thought John was a duppy. It's not like he could shout.

It was strange to think that Grandpa had actually been trying to protect me all this time.

My brain spun like the blades of the fan that was blowing in my room. Just then I heard a noise on the other side of the wall. A
thud-thud-thud
.

Grandpa.

I swallowed back the fear that suddenly coated my tongue. He'd probably feel a whole lot better if he knew John wasn't a duppy, I thought, chewing on my bottom lip. I had to admit it was pretty strange that Eugene had chosen the name John, and that John might look similar to what Bird would be at John's age if Bird had lived. But still.

And maybe Grandpa was tired of not being asked how he was doing, or if he was sleepy or bored or restless, or if he wanted to play dominoes. Or maybe I could ask him what kind of person Granny was, I thought. She died when I was really young, just a couple years old, and I didn't remember her at all.