Bird (18 page)

“This is my last meal,” she said.

The three of us looked up at her. Even Grandpa. We waited.

“I'm tired of cooking.” Mom brushed an ant off the table. “No. I hate cooking.”

Dad wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Okay,” he said.

“I'm sick of watching the sales for food, buying food, cleaning up after food.” Mom's hand waved through the air. “Do you realize how tedious it is? How mind-numbing?”

“I'll cook, Mom,” I offered, trying to act all calm. “I make great grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Grandpa looked back down at the table.

“I don't think you understand what I'm saying,” Mom said quietly.

Something in her voice made the hairs on my arms stand on end. I twisted my spaghetti around my fork much thicker than I could ever hope to get it into my mouth.

“Jewel,” Dad said, “use your knife. You're going to make a mess.”

“Okay,” I said.

Grandpa's fork scratched against his plate.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

“Jewel,” Mom said.

My heart got loud. I waited.

Mom looked at us. “I'm never going to cook again.” She spoke slow, like we were dumb.

“Rose,” Dad said, “you already said that. We got it.”

I wanted to throw myself at Mom's ankles and sob,
I'm
sorry I disappoint you. Just don't leave us.
Instead I said, “We'll figure it out, Mom.”

“Good,” she said. She pushed her chair back, stood up, and walked away.

I cut my noodles into super small pieces.

“I'm cooking tomorrow,” Dad said to me after she had left. “Don't worry about it.”

“I can make quesadillas, too. With tomato soup. And omelets.”

“I know,” he said.

Grandpa chewed loudly, smacked his lips. I looked up at him and was startled that he was eyeing me. He nodded slightly.

“Should I talk with her?” I blurted out.

Dad exhaled loudly. “No,” he said. “I don't think it'll help.”

Dad left soon after that to sit outside on our front porch. I put some of the dishes in the kitchen, but when I went back to the dining room to get the rest, I found that the plates had already been stacked up. Grandpa was on his feet, helping me. He'd never done that before.

I blushed and gave a slight smile.

Grandpa pointed to his forehead, then to Mom's plate of untouched food.

My smile widened. “I would love for you to help me cook,” I said.

Grandpa nodded again. I had understood.

Dad was right: He did cook the next day. But the day after that he didn't come home until almost eight o'clock, so I ended up making grilled cheese for Grandpa and me. And two days after that, when Grandpa and I were sick of grilled cheese, I started opening up cans of creamed corn and refried beans, all of which had been sitting in the back of the cupboard for at least three whole years. Mom was in and out of the house, not saying much, just nibbling food here and there. And I didn't know what Dad ate, but it wasn't at home. Maybe he was sick of grilled cheese sandwiches too.

The thing about cooking is, once you get something down—like grilled cheese or omelets—your mind starts to wander a bit. Even though it was two weeks since Dad and Mom's fight, my brain kept reliving their arguments, like a movie caught in replay. And while I hadn't understood much, I did know that my parents knew a lot, lot more than what they were telling me. And how could Dad blame Mom for Bird's death? We knew it was Grandpa's fault.

Grandpa didn't mean it, of course. If someone had told him,
Look, if you name him Bird it'll either attract a duppy
or mess with his head and either way he's going to die
, I bet Grandpa wouldn't have done it. And even though there were those pictures of Grandpa smiling all wide and big with Bird, it was Grandpa who killed Bird, not Mom. But then Mom called Dad an idiot, but I know for a fact that Dad's a really smart guy, especially with plants and duppies. So maybe they're all wrong.

I was thinking so hard about how my family was falling apart that I didn't notice the thick smoke that had filled the kitchen. Suddenly, the oil in the frying pan burst into flames. I jumped back and screamed, and just kept screaming like a lunatic when Grandpa barged into the kitchen like a bull. He clanged a lid on the frying pan, smothering the flames, then turned off the stove.

Acrid smoke hung in the air. “Sorry, Grandpa,” I said. I wanted to weep. “That was our lunch.”

He stared at me for a long time, his eyes wide with alarm. After the scared look left his face, he shrugged and raised his eyebrows, like
Everyone's lunch is on fire once in a while.
Then he moved a fan to the kitchen to blow out the smoke.

When most of the haze had cleared, he opened the lid to the frying pan and peeked inside. His eyebrows knitted together; we were going to eat omelets again. This time charred.

“I guess I don't know how to make much else,” I said, looking at my feet.

Air came out of his nose, the beginning of a laugh. His cheeks lifted again, and he turned to the freezer, took out some fish, and soaked it in water. When it was thawed, Grandpa fried up the fish with some bacon and onions and hot peppers. Then he opened up a can of ackee, a yellow, mellow-flavored fruit that looks like scrambled eggs, drained the liquid, and threw the ackee in too. It was kind of funny to watch Grandpa make ackee and saltfish without the saltfish—that's salted cod, all dried and leathery—but our grocery store in Caledonia doesn't keep saltfish on hand, just like it doesn't have Jamaican Scotch bonnet peppers, so we have to use Mexican serrano peppers instead. I was surprised we had a can of ackee, honestly—but then again, he did have to go digging in the back of our pantry.

While all that was cooking, he put some flour, salt, baking powder, milk, and butter in a bowl and kneaded it with his hands, then formed the dough into little balls the size of lemons, flattening them down just slightly. Then he threw the dumplings into a separate pan with oil and fried them up until they were golden.

The entire meal appeared in almost no time. I couldn't believe how good he was at cooking—much better than Dad, and way better than Mom. Dad must have known his father could cook. Why was Grandpa just sitting in his room and eating things like Reservation Chicken all these years?

Grandpa made just enough food for the two of us, which was surprising, since my family always made more than enough for leftovers. It would have been great to share some with Dad and Mom and show them how terrific a cook Grandpa is.

“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, patting my belly. “That was amazing.”

The corners of Grandpa's lips pulled up into a slight smile.

“Did you learn that in Jamaica?”

Grandpa nodded.

“You should cook for Dad and Mom one night,” I offered, jabbing at the last bit of ackee with my fork. “They'd be so surprised.”

A sudden hardness came over Grandpa's face.

Then I got it.

“You made only enough for the two of us on purpose, didn't you?” I asked tentatively.

Grandpa ran his hand over the thick, short hairs on his head, his eyes flicking away. I sucked in my breath a little. I never realized that secrets could be heavier than a backpack full of bricks. Until now.

Grandpa stood up. He looked at me in a way that made me stand up too.

“You could teach me a thing or two about cooking,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “It was great.”

But he wasn't listening to me. He disappeared into his room and came back with another cassette. He gave it to me.

My smile reached from ear to ear. Grandpa made a twirling motion with a finger.

“You want me to play it now?” I asked.

He nodded. He looked a little nervous.

I brought the cassette player to the dining room table and turned up the volume so we could both listen.

To my surprise, there were no drums, no strings, no music. Instead, this time, someone was speaking. His voice was grainy, distant. “So here we are, on Valentine's Day,” the voice said, low and whispering, “waiting for the women to get back from the store.”

I looked at Grandpa, confused. He cocked his head, listening, his eyes sparkling.

The tape rolled on. “We've set the house up with candles and roses, and Nigel actually cleaned the bathroom.”

“Dad, do you have to make a tape of everything?” said the other voice. Nigel. My dad.

“You bet I do,” the other man said, and laughed. “Otherwise, how else would I have proof of how crazy you are?”

Then I got it. “That was
you
talking?” I asked Grandpa. I'm glad eyeballs can't just pop out, because if they could, mine would have rolled right onto the floor.

Grandpa hit the table with his hand, he was so excited.

“I like your voice,” I said softly.

Grandpa looked a little embarrassed and rubbed the back of his neck. A slow smile spread across my face.

The cassette kept playing. “Anyway,” Dad said playfully, “I cleaned the bathroom because when you clean it, the ladies say it just gets dirtier.” His voice sounded younger, somehow. Or maybe voices just sound younger when you're happy.

“Attention, attention,” the Grandpa on the tape whispered. “The women are coming up the driveway.”

“They're coming,” Dad whispered.

“That's what I just said, Nigel. Be quiet. They're at the door.”

“Now who needs to be quiet!”

There was a thick moment of waiting, and then the guys yelled out suddenly, “Surprise!”

I guess Mom and Granny were pretty surprised, since they were yelling and laughing and talking all at once. “Mom! Show them
our
surprise!” Mom called out in a giddy voice. I was confused for a moment until I realized Mom meant Granny, and then I was doubly confused to hear Mom's voice sound so . . . happy. So free.

Mom's voice rang out loud and clear. “Oh, you men are just too romantic! Chocolates and everything! Now look at what we got you.”

Dad and Grandpa started laughing. “Socks?” Dad said.

On the tape, Grandpa snorted.

“Your favorite color,” Granny added.

“These are the finest socks I've ever seen, mi love,” Grandpa said.

We couldn't get any further, though, because at that moment, Mom walked in the house, which was strange, since she was supposed to be at work. She looked right at us and didn't see the cassette player or the headphones or notice that Grandpa and I were being nice to each other.

That's because there were tears in her eyes.

“Mom,” I said, standing up. “What happened?”

“What are we going to do?” She choked on her last words. A hand flew up to her mouth. Grandpa stiffened.

My stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Jewel Campbell, what have you been doing at that cliff?”

Grandpa's eyes got big.

My mouth dropped open. “I'm not—”

“It doesn't matter anymore, I suppose,” Mom said, her voice wet and wobbly. “None of it does.” Then she sat down at the table, covered her face with her hands, and went silent and still for the longest time.

“And what are you doing with a circle of stones?” she whispered into the table.

The world started to spin. “I don't know—”

“Don't lie to me.” Her voice got thick. She looked up. “You weren't supposed to go there anymore.” She paused. “It took me years to make people here comfortable with Nigel and his talk, only to have to deal now with you.”

“But I wasn't doing anything bad,” I protested.

Mom groaned.

“Really,” I insisted.

“Well, whatever it was, it was too much for them.” Mom swiped at a tear on her cheek. “Mr. Robinson heard that you had made a circle of stones. Jewel, I work for the town; have you forgotten that?”

Mr. Robinson. Her boss and the mayor, the man in charge of all things in Caledonia. He was also a minster at Caledonia Presbyterian.

It was a misunderstanding.

“I can explain—”

“It's too late.” Mom put her hands over her face again. “I already left. I told them I was tired of their gossip.”

It took a long, horrific moment for her words to register. When they did, I wanted to die.

Mom quit. For me.

And there was only one person who knew about those stones.

Eugene.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MOM
was still at the table when Dad got home. I lay on my bed, my door open. His footsteps stopped right inside the front door. Maybe he was startled that Mom was actually around.

“I don't have a job anymore,” Mom said quietly.

The temperature in our house plummeted with those words.

“What?”

“I was fired.” Mom paused. “Not really. I quit.”

“You what?”

“I told Mr. Robinson that I didn't want to work for him anymore.”