Bird (23 page)

“You know what I hate?” Eugene said quietly.

I grabbed another length of grass and bunched up the seeds. I waited.

“I hate the question ‘Do you have siblings?'” He laughed, but he wasn't really laughing. “I can never answer that question. Not really.” Something changed in his voice, and I could tell he wasn't really talking to me.

“Because who knows,” he went on. “Maybe my birth mom did have other kids. My brothers and sisters. Maybe she decided to keep those kids.” He tilted his head against the boulder. “Maybe not.”

My stomach did little somersaults just then. He was right. I mean, even though my answer was,
I had a brother once and
he died a long time ago,
at least I had an answer.

“Sometimes it gets to be too much, all the questions,” Eugene was saying. “Sometimes I just want to leave it behind. Everything.”

“But people care about you,” I said.

“My parents care more about their new kid,” Eugene said darkly. Then, after a split second he got it. He held my gaze for a long time, until his eyes wavered and he had to look away.

I plucked a third blade of grass. “You know, the boulder understands how you feel.”

Eugene's lips twisted up. “Really?” he said, a little mockingly.

“Sure. It's an erratic.”

He peered at me. “What do you mean?”

“Iowa doesn't have granite,” I said. “We have sandstone and limestone and dolomites. Sedimentary rocks. Granites are north of here—Canada, even. But the boulder sitting right here is granite.” I nodded. “Straight fact.”

“So how did it get here?” Eugene asked.

“Glacial movements,” I responded. “During the last ice age, glaciers picked up rocks and all kinds of things from one area and plunked them down in another, sometimes even a thousand miles away.”

“Really?” Eugene's voice was distant.

“Yup. Rocks that don't fit in are called erratic. That's another word for irregular.” I pulled another blade of grass and twirled it around my finger. “The glaciers stopped in Iowa, dropping whatever they were carrying when they melted.” I paused. “These rocks are irregular, and they're everywhere.”

Eugene stared at his shoes.

I untwirled the blade of grass. “Although that boulder isn't from here, it belongs here now.”

Eugene stood there, motionless. Then he slowly slid his back down the boulder and sat on the ground by its base, his head on his knees, his arms wrapped around himself. The cool shadows from the granite rock fell over him, a different kind of blanket. Eugene sat like that for the longest time. I shifted uncomfortably; I wasn't sure what to do.

Suddenly he lifted his head. “Why?” he said to me.

I just stood there.

“Why?” he asked. His lips trembled slightly. He looked at me like he wanted an answer. Like he would have given anything in the world for one real answer.

I sucked in my breath. I had no idea which “why” he was referring to. Did he mean why were his parents having a kid? Why his birth mom gave him away? Why she didn't try harder?

“I don't know,” I said finally.

Eugene just kept shaking his head and hitting the ground softly with his fists. It seemed like a pretty big question, that “why,” which might or might not be answered, that “why,” which the granite boulder might have been asking too.

Then I got an idea. I found a pebble and walked over to him. “This is for you,” I said, holding it out to him. Eugene looked up at me. “For your question.” Then I went over to my burying place, dug a little hole, and put it in the ground. “This is where my worries are. My hopes. My questions, too.” I covered up the pebble and patted the earth gently. “Now yours isn't alone.”

Mom and Dad were out when I got back, but Grandpa was in his room, sitting on his bed. Staring out the window.

“Grandpa?” I asked.

He turned to me and his eyes softened. I liked how his eyes did that.

“Here are your tapes,” I said, holding them out. “I liked the mento one the best for the music tapes. I really liked the ones of you and my parents and Bird, too, but I couldn't get through them all.” That was the truth. Listening to the happiness in their voices, in Grandpa's and Bird's and even my parents'—for some reason, after a little while I just had to press the stop button.

Grandpa's lips went thin, like he was thinking about something really hard. Then he went over to a wooden box that a lamp was standing on, put the lamp on the floor, and turned the box around.

It wasn't a box. Well, it was and it wasn't. It was a hollow, wooden cube with a medium-size hole on one of the sides, and there were these metal things that poked over the hole like long fingers. Before I could say anything, Grandpa sat on top of it and gave a few slaps against the sides with his palms and plucked the metal things with his fingertips.

I nearly fainted when I realized what was going on.

Grandpa was a musician.

And he was making the same sounds and rhythms as—

“Was that
you
playing on those mento tapes?” I asked suddenly.

Grandpa grinned, a wide, proud grin that made his whole face light up. It vanished quickly, but I had seen it, rays of sunshine.

I sat on his bed and watched him pop those rhythms and pluck the metal bars. It was a hollow sound, vibrant, alive. And the faster he played, the more on fire it sounded.

“Did you used to sing, too?” I asked.

Grandpa nodded. But the smile left his eyes.

“How can you do all this but still don't
talk
?” I burst out.

He shook his head and silence filled the room. He stood up, sighed, and turned the instrument backward, until we saw only the back of it, until it was only a box once more. He put the lamp on top.

“No, Grandpa,” I pleaded.

Grandpa shook his head again.

“You can at least play music. You don't have to talk for that,” I said.

At that moment, the door slammed and my parents walked into the house. I don't know if it was because I had talked to Mrs. Bowers and let her know my mind, or because I talked to Eugene in a way that was helpful, or because I was talking to Grandpa and he was playing music where before there was only silence, but I felt like talking and talking and talking, and so I burst from his room and into the kitchen, where my parents were putting down grocery bags.

“Why doesn't Grandpa talk?” It was almost an accusation.

My parents froze. Then, after a moment, they seemed to come to life again. “What do you mean?” Dad asked cautiously. “You know why, Jewel. Bird died.”

“Yes, but why is he still silent?” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “I mean, people die all the time, but that doesn't mean that the whole world doesn't talk. You can be sad for a while, but . . . why doesn't Grandpa talk?”

Dad jingled the coins in his pocket and started to walk away when Mom laughed. It was a hard laugh. “Oh, so she needs to know about the spirit world but not about the curse?” she asked.

My back muscles went tight. “There's a curse?”

“Tell her, Nigel. This must be a sign,” Mom said mockingly.

“She doesn't need to know,” Dad replied tightly. His back was still to us.

“Oh, you don't believe in signs now?” Mom pursed her lips triumphantly. “How convenient. You tell her or I will.”

There was the longest pause. An awful pause.

Dad turned but didn't look at me. “Jewel, there's a curse on Grandpa's mouth for nicknaming him Bird.”

I gasped. “Who put a curse on him?” I asked.

Dad looked back at Mom, then to me. He grimaced. “I did.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“You
what
?” I asked. My hand went to my mouth.

“Jewel, it's not what it seems,” Dad replied quickly. He took a step toward me, his arm outstretched. I took two steps away.

“Nigel, don't push her,” Mom said.

I looked at him, then at Mom. Everything was coming undone. Mom's hair was escaping from her ponytail. Dad's black shoes were scuffed up. I sank onto the sofa and put my head in my hands. This couldn't be. Dad loved to tell me stories. He loved his garden and his music.

Dad cursed Grandpa. His own father.
Pooba.

“It was an accident,” Dad said.

I glared at him. “Really. Accidental curses. You never told me about those.”

Dad flinched. Then he took a deep breath and yanked at the collar of his work shirt. “Jewel, Grandpa didn't believe in duppies.”

“Really. And the rice? The rosemary?”

Dad sighed. “That was
after
Bird died. When it was too late.” He was serious.

My head suddenly throbbed. Brains shouldn't get this overwhelmed.

“Nigel, don't torture her like this,” Mom said. She crossed her arms. “Just tell her.”

Dad jingled the coins in his pocket again. His eyes met mine, and I was startled to see how afraid they were. “When Grandpa and Granny came to the States, Grandpa didn't believe that duppies existed here,” Dad said. “They don't cross water, Grandpa said. They can't leave Jamaica. If Americans think rosemary is only for eating, we need to do the same thing.” Dad sat down next to me on the sofa, but it felt like an ocean of distance between us, awful and cold. “Americans don't protect themselves from duppies and nothing happens to them. Nothing will happen to us, either.”

Dad took a coin out of his pocket and started rubbing it hard between his thumb and forefinger. I didn't know if that was to bring luck or just because he was nervous. “Granny was upset because Grandpa didn't take her warnings seriously.” Dad looked away. “Granny had been known in her village for making talismans. She knew about these things.”

Talismans. Things to protect people from evil spirits. I realized right then and there how much I didn't know about Granny. Or anyone, really. I would never have guessed that Grandpa had been as skeptical as Mom, or that Dad could curse his own father.

“Grandpa kept insisting that things are different here,” Dad continued, his voice hardening, “and even if there are duppies, they must have lost their power.”

“But then Bird jumped,” I whispered.

It made so much sense now. Of course Grandpa would be so sad—he practically dared a duppy to come. And of course he would be angry—at Dad, at himself. And that's why he was so attentive to things like duppies and rice and rosemary and Eugene, because he was trying to make up for what he'd done to Bird. He was trying to protect us so he wouldn't bring in another duppy.

“I found Bird,” Dad said. His voice was thick.

“You did?” I asked. No one told me who found him first. No one really talked about that night.

“Grandpa was looking for Bird with me, and the moment I found my son I knew he was . . .” Dad looked away. “I was so upset at Grandpa that I did some things right there, horrible things. It wasn't a curse, it wasn't supposed to be a curse.” Dad put his head in his hands, and his shoulders started to shake. “All I knew was my son was in my arms, and if it hadn't been for Grandpa, my son would still be alive.”

“But how did you curse him?” I pressed. “Why can't you undo it?”

Dad shook his head. “I can't, Jewel.”

“Why not?” I asked, my voice growing louder. “If you did it, then undo it.”

“I tried. Granny tried.” He looked at me with red eyes and shook his head. “I don't know how.”

I stood up. “How could you have done this to Grandpa?”

“Jewel, don't shout,” Mom said. Her face was long and tired.

Dad said nothing.

“How could you put on a curse and not know how to take it off?” I asked. Grandpa could probably hear every word from his room.

“I don't know, Jewel. But I lost my son that day.”

You got a daughter, too,
I wanted to scream. I pressed my fingernails into my palms until my hands were outright shrieking, then took a deep breath. I would have given anything to be in a space rocket with Eugene right then, careening away from everyone.

“Grandpa is a good person. Kind and interesting,” I announced, glaring at Dad. “He didn't mean to kill Bird. And because of that, you put a curse on him that makes him go all silent, where he doesn't even want to cook or sing or play his instruments anymore because you've shut up his heart.”

Dad stood up. “Jewel, I didn't mean it to be like this. Please. Try to understand.”

But I wasn't done yet. “You tell me to respect my elders, but look at you.”

His face was tight. “It's not what you think, Jewel—”

“You were right, Dad,” I said.

“About what?”

I lifted my chin. “There are some things you can't forgive.”

Mom looked at me for the longest time, her eyes glistening.

Grandpa was in his room. I burst in and threw my arms around him, and he hugged me back. I pulled away and peered at him. In Grandpa's face I could see that it was true. Every last word of it.