Bird (17 page)

It was a fun one with a wailing, roughened sound to it. I smiled when I caught his head nodding to the beat; his eyes told me he knew every note, like he was seeing an old friend again. His hand tapped against his leg.

I couldn't believe it. Grandpa was in my room, being nice and sharing things with me. We were having a conversation. Honest to god, it was as if the sun were exploding. You think it's never going to happen, but then one day it does.

I wanted to give him something in return, and at that moment there was one thing I knew would make him happy. Truly happy.

“John is gone,” I said. I was surprised at how much my voice twisted up.

Grandpa sucked in his breath. Not really big, but I saw it. The song ended, the music stopped. The cassette was at the end of its side.

“John was lying to me,” I continued. “His real name is Eugene, and I'm never going to be friends with him again.” But even as I was saying it, I felt all hollow and weepy, because that was only the beginning of the lies he told.

Grandpa's lips pulled together, proud. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I was surprised at how warm it was. Then Grandpa nodded.

The rosemary did the trick.

I was still on my bed playing with my necklace when our old Buick churned over the gravel driveway; the engine cut off close to the house. Dad was home from work. From my bedroom window, I could hear him gently click his door closed—he never slams the doors, and he doesn't let us slam them either. We have to always gently close those doors like we're piecing back together an eggshell.

I could hear Dad's footsteps in the kitchen. He has a soft way of walking, like he's not sure if the next patch of ground will hold him. “Rose?” he called. “Jewel?”

For the first time in my life, I didn't respond. My eyes were still puffy from crying so hard, and Dad would take one look at me and start asking questions. I didn't want to talk about Eugene. I didn't want to think about what he was doing at his uncle's right now, if maybe he was being yelled at, or if he was laughing his head off at how bad he fooled us.

Mom answered back, though, her voice muffled through their door. Maybe she was still crying, her face even worse than mine even though Eugene was my friend, not hers. A tinge of anger sprouted in my chest. I pushed it down, but just barely.

I lay in bed, on my back, listening to Mom's and Dad's voices. Not to their words—that was hard through two closed doors—but certainly to the strain, the shock. I felt like Grandpa all of a sudden, silent and forgotten, listening to everyone around me, knowing that they didn't know how they're sounding. For instance, did Mom realize how heavy she sounded? How annoyed? Did Dad hear the coldness in his voice?

The tones in their voices grew louder, harsher, until their door opened, and the words tumbled out.

“Get that look off your face,” Mom said. She was standing in the hallway, right in front of my closed door.

“I didn't say anything, Rose.”

“Yes, you did. I can tell just by looking at you. And for your information, Eugene has nothing to do with it.”

I could hear them breathing.

“You know it does.”

“I can't stand you.” That was Mom. She was walking away, to the kitchen.

“If only you had—”

Something slammed. Maybe a cupboard. “Stop it!” she cried. “Stop talking about your stupid, idiotic things that have nothing to do with reality.”

“Will you listen to me?” Dad was mad now. “I've taken this long enough. This is your fault. You refuse to accept the obvious.”

“The only obvious thing is I married an idiot.”

A long silence.

I wanted to cry, but I was too afraid.

“I see,” Dad said quietly.

“Duppies. Spirits. Good luck. Bad luck. Nigel, do you really think that any sane person in this country would call you anything
but
an idiot?”

“Rose, her picture just
fell off the wall
.”

Another slam, the rattling of silverware. “So what?” Her voice inched higher now, a taut wire. “Things like that happen all the time.”

“No, they don't. You bring curses upon us when you talk like this, and I won't stand for it any longer. I won't.” A thumping, like he was hitting the counter.

“You're an expert on curses, Nigel.” Her sarcasm made me shiver. “Get over yourself.”

“Then how do you explain Grandpa sensing a duppy?” Dad said, his own voice rising. “Eugene pretending he's John? Pictures falling? How do you explain Bird?”

“Don't you dare talk about my son like that!” Mom shrieked, and I heard a hard slap. I dashed out of my room and into the dining room. Dad's face was still turned, chiseled with anger. Neither of them saw me.

“Grandpa killed my son,” Mom said, seething. “Don't try to put the blame on me.”

I cleared my throat. They turned and stared. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Dad's shoulders dropped, like his hope had ebbed away.

“Jewel. We didn't think you were home.” Mom's voice wavered.

“I'm going out,” I said flatly, and as I slammed the screen door behind me, my heart started shrinking. I could feel it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I WENT
straight to the cliff. It was the first time I went at night. Nighttime can be an uncertain time: It's when shadows turn into solid things, when trees you know change their shape and meaning, when spirits freely roam the earth. Dad always says that you need to be careful around dusk, and then really careful when it's completely night. If dogs bark for no reason or if a rooster crows in the middle of the night, it's because they see something you don't—most likely a duppy—and they're trying to warn you. Nighttime is when the spirit world gains power and we humans lose it.

When I was young, I was terrified of the dark for this very reason, so scared that I slept in my parents' bed until Mom made Dad tell me that duppies aren't
everywhere
at night—they only stay in cemeteries—even though Dad told me later he was saying this only to make me go back to bed and make Mom happy. Duppies
are
everywhere, but they don't necessarily bother you as long as you don't bother them. That's what he said, at least. By then I'd mostly gotten over my fear of the dark, except for at the cliff.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the light. The moon was a waxing crescent, a cool smile, pointed and bright, but the shadows were much longer and deeper and darker than I was used to. I left in such a hurry that I didn't take my flashlight, and the world was half hidden in the darkness, angled and cold and strange.

A breeze blew across the earth when I reached the footpath, and the grasses bent in a blanketed rush. I shivered. Usually I love the sound of the grasses brushing against one another. Right then, though, the sound made goose bumps rise on my skin. I grimaced, thinking of the ceramic Xolo dog, which I had forgotten to bring with me. Maybe I should go back, I thought. Dad was right. This is not a good place at night.

My jaw tightened. No. I had come all the way out here. And anyway, home was no better a place.

I stopped short when I saw my stones. They looked so different in the moonlight, a silver and glowing ring, aloof, not at all concerned with me. Like they didn't even want me in the center of their circle. I bit my lip and walked along the outside of the stones, pulled toward the cliff edge as if by a magnetic force.

The space beyond the cliff was invisible in the darkness, and the darkness was deep and dense, like maybe I could step out onto it, maybe it would hold me. I held myself back. This is the edge, I told myself, looking down where my shoes stopped. Nothing good would come by stepping out into the darkness, even though it looked solid enough. The only clue that there was a gaping hollowness in front of me was the wind, swirling and howling in the space beyond my shoes. Even the air was different this late at night, thin and untamed.

I shivered. If duppies existed, they'd surely be here, right now, all around me, waiting to trick me off this cliff. And if Bird were here, he'd be trying to help me.

“Bird,” I said out loud.

The wind howled.

I clenched my fists. “Bird!” I shouted. I was surprised at the tears that were flowing down my cheeks. “Help us! We need you. Do something and help us!”

At that moment I peered into the sky, waiting for a shooting star to sail by, or perhaps the vision of my brother that I'd had, dropping down from the heavens, or perhaps even a night eagle, bold and daring. Some sort of sign. But there was nothing.

I buried a lot of pebbles that night, more than ever, but for the first time in my life my pebbles were too small. When I realized this I grabbed leaves and sticks, and when they weren't enough, I got the largest rock I could find—larger, even, than the rocks in my circle—and lugged it to my burying place. Then I dug and dug until my shoulders ached and sweat covered my T-shirt, until I could fit the rock in the hole I dug. But just as I was mounding dirt on its top, just as I was finishing, I felt all panicky inside; this rock was entirely too small, I realized, even though it was the largest one I could bury. I'd need to bury something like a mountain, I thought, and at that moment, something wrenched inside my chest and I just gave up and cried.

What do you do when your worries won't go away? When even the entire earth can't hold them? At some point, the wind quieted down and I slowly climbed onto the boulder, but I felt like a stranger there, alone and uninvited.

Dad was waiting for me in the living room when I got home. A reading lamp was on, and his favorite late-night TV show had just ended. I took my time slipping off my shoes and rummaging around in the kitchen, trying to calm down.

Dad glanced up from his magazine. He looked the same as always, except with some stubble from not shaving. Maybe the fight had been my imagination, I thought, but then I'd be lying to myself. They never, ever fought like that before. They might nag at each other or get snippy, but they had been screaming,
screaming
at each other.

“You're back late,” Dad said, stifling a yawn.

“Yeah.”

“Where did you go?”

“Out for a walk,” I lied. Blankets were folded on the sofa. His nighttime glass of water sat on the coffee table, next to a disheveled pile of magazines.

He saw me eye his pillow. “It's cooler out here tonight,” he said.

Mom had hit him. Just thinking about that made me go all cold inside. And even though I tried to think of a million other things, I kept hearing Mom's hand smack across Dad's face, over and over and over.

“Do you want me to turn the fan on?” I asked.

“Sure.”

As I crossed the room, I wondered how long we weren't going to mention the fight. How it would be one more layer of things we don't talk about.

I was getting sick of all these layers.

“Dad,” I said quietly, “are you guys going to get a divorce?”

Dad coughed. “No, Jewel—what would make you say that?”

Now that was a pretty dumb question, given what I'd heard and seen. I couldn't figure out how to respond to that without sounding disrespectful.

“Well, we . . . disagree sometimes. That's all.” He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. “We're fine, honey. Give it a day or two.”

I sighed inside and made my way to my bedroom. No light came from under my parents' door, but I wondered if Mom was still awake, lying in the darkness. Maybe Grandpa was doing the same thing. How funny would it be, I thought, if there was an entire house of people in the dark, lying on their beds and thinking about each other.

I went to my room and watched the stars from my bedroom window. They had moved only slightly from when I was at the cliff. A burst of light flashed across the sky, bright and daring. My breath caught. Was it a comet? Or a meteorite? I bit my lip. Eugene would know what it was. If he had been here, I wouldn't even have to ask him. He'd just blurt it out and my brain would grow smarter, simple as that.

But of course it wasn't as simple as that anymore, since I was never going to talk with Eugene again.

I sighed, and an awful feeling clung to the insides of my skin. Far above, those stars still glistened, dripped with light, from way back in time. I wish I could go back in time, I thought, hugging my stuffed rabbit. I'm not sure what I'd do, but it'd be better somehow. John—when he was a John—and I would climb trees and laugh until our sides ached. I would still have a friend. Instead, the stars hovered over a person named Eugene who lied to us all. I tossed in bed for a long time that night, and the last things that flitted through my mind before I fell asleep were my circle, my boulder, my pebbles—all my rocks sitting under the dark, forever sky.

Dad had been sleeping on the couch for two weeks when Mom decided she was going to stop cooking. For good. She made the announcement at dinner. The four of us were seated around the table, the moths hitting up against the window screens. Mom had put spaghetti on the table, and we were slurping and scraping and chewing when I suddenly noticed she hadn't touched her food. Not at all. Instead, she sat with her back straight and watched us.