Franny Parker (12 page)

“Franny, I told you to stay in the house.” Dad appeared in the newly lit doorway and fixed me with a stern look. He looked just as sternly at Lucas's father, who had started inching his way back toward the cabin. “We'll look again tomorrow, but I'll be listening tonight,” he told Carl Dunn.

Dad stayed with me in the barn while I settled the opossum baby back in his bed. We checked the patients together. Birds, turtles, and mice. They were accounted for and quiet. But, still, I felt uneasy leaving them.

“Dad, do you think Lucas is okay?” I asked as we filled their water bowls for the night.

Dad turned on the pump, rinsing the turtle bowl carefully, then carried it back to Speed Bump. “I hope so, Squirt, I really do.”

“What's going to happen?” I asked, following him into the stall.

“I don't know,” Dad said. He lowered himself onto an old bench by the cages and motioned for me to sit beside him. “Lucas and Lindy are good people, Franny. But they're in a bad situation.”

I leaned my head against his arm. “We have to help them,” I whispered.

Daddy nodded. “We're trying, honey. It's a strange thing, offering help. Sometimes the people who need it most don't want to take it. Or don't know how to.”

It didn't make sense to me. “So what do you do?” I asked.

“You keep trying,” Dad said, rubbing my head. “You just keep trying.”

That night I sat up in bed for a long time watching the barn through my window, thinking about the patients tucked inside, and about Lucas outside. Nothing was turning out like it was supposed to. Not even in
The Yearling
, a story I wasn't sure I liked anymore. I read for hours, while Sidda snored across the room. I turned page after page, trying so hard to forget my own worries that before I knew it I'd turned the last one. I leaned back against my pillows, hands trembling at what I'd read. Flag and Jody gone, just like Lucas.

I wondered if it was true, what Jody's father told him: that we are all alone in this world. That no matter how much we want things to be good, there is also bad. And that there is no way around it, but to keep on going.

I pictured Jody setting out in his boat, floating away from
his house and his family. Was that what Lucas was doing? I wished I could tuck him away in our barn with all the orphans. It was a long time before I could finally sleep, imagining Lucas curled safely in the hay, snoring soundly while the opossum babies tiptoed through the night beside him.

M
ama was right; it was time to let the swallows go. We all needed something good to focus on. August's first week had ended, the sticky heat of July still rolling after us into another summer month. I had hoped for promise at the week's end, for some sign of good to come: a rain cloud, the return of Lucas. But things only seemed to grow worse.

The police had come by again that morning, stopping first at the cabin, then at our house. It was Sunday. Lucas had been gone two nights, and there was still no word. Now, there was a warrant for his arrest.

When Mama sat me down at the kitchen table to talk to Officer Price my heart pounded. I thought of all the things I knew, all the things I felt, but it turned out I didn't know much of anything. I didn't know where he was. I didn't know if he'd taken the money. I hadn't seen him since the afternoon in the driveway. I knew no more than Mama or the Bees or Lindy. Maybe I even knew less. It was a powerful relief, not having to betray his trust. And yet it left me feeling as empty and useless as a dried husk in the field. For the first time I realized that maybe I didn't know Lucas Dunn at all.

So I turned to the animals. In the dark barn I watched the swallows flutter about the hay. They were grown now. That week they'd been swooping and diving after insects, all by themselves. But wouldn't you know it, each night they'd crowd back into their nest, calling for their supper. Mama said they were getting too dependent. She said it was time.

Daddy thought we should hold a proper ceremony, being that they were the first patients to leave the hospital. So I decorated their cage with little paper wings and made an event of it. The whole family came, even Sidda. Grandma Rae showed up, donning her driving hat and clucking at the dust gathering on her good shoes. But I was holding out hope for Lucas.

Dad carried the decorated cage up the path into the hills behind our house, and we followed. It was early in the afternoon. I wanted to give those babies the rest of the day to settle into their new world before night fell.

“This is a good spot,” Mama said. We'd stopped by a quiet clearing at the edge of the woods. I looked for signs of life below, but the cabin was quiet, the yard empty.

“Chances are these babies will return, either to our barn or to one of the neighbors',” Dad said, setting the cage in the tall grass. “And if we're lucky they'll come back year after year to raise their own babies.”

Ben clapped his hands. And maybe it was selfish of me, but I liked the thought of that. Those babies coming home to me.

“Franny, will you do the honors?” Mama asked. I looked around one more time for Lucas, then opened the tiny door. The five birds peered at me.

“You were good patients,” I told them. “Now go make
yourselves a home. And look out for barn cats!” I backed away. The others did, too, moving slowly. And then we waited. But the swallows didn't move.

“Stupid birds,” muttered Sidda. “Don't they know they're free?”

Mama nudged her, and we held our breath. It took a long time, but finally a swallow hopped to the door. He perched warily on the edge, blinked, and flew away. The others zoomed out behind him. They zigzagged together, dipped toward the trees, and then disappeared.

“There they go!” yelled Dad.

“Good luck, little guys,” Mama called.

Ben started crying and Grandma Rae hugged him. “You liked those dirty little birds, didn't you?” she whispered.

I couldn't talk. I hadn't expected them to be gone so fast.

And with that, everyone headed back down the trail. Ahead of me, the empty cage swung in Dad's hands.

“You did it, Franny,” Mama whispered in my ear.

I nodded, my throat too tight to answer, as we walked together. The others hurried on down the trail, Ben and Sidda laughing, Grandma Rae fussing over the dirty hem of her dress. They carried on as if nothing had happened. But I couldn't help it; the sobs just climbed up into my throat and poured out of me. I sat down in the grass, overcome and empty.

Mama kneeled down next to me. “Oh, honey,” she said, pulling me into her like a current. “It's a sad old story, the story of us mothers. It's what we do. We love something right full up, till the love just spills over. Now don't you worry; you filled those babies up good. They'll make their way.”

“But what if they get lost? Or what if they get hurt and don't let someone help them?” I couldn't help but worry.

“Those babies are fine, Franny,” Mama assured me.

But somewhere others were not. It seemed that hurt had surrounded me that summer, had always been there. I just hadn't seen it.

I cried hard. I cried for all the babies in the world, the animals and the humans. For the babies with no mothers or bad fathers. For Lucas, for Lindy, for myself. I cried until there were no tears left. Mama rocked me in the meadow, the colors dancing off the rocks around us. I closed my eyes, but the colors burned behind my lids. The black of the orchard fields, the cool blue bruise of Lucas's arm, the brown flash of wing in the woods. When the tears finally stopped, Mama pushed my hair aside and kissed me on the nose. I caught my breath. I pulled myself up. This time I walked next to her, letting my hands swing, meadow grass tickling my fingertips.

I only looked back once, searching the cloudless sky. It was empty. And then I saw it. Below the sky, a flicker of blue denim in a nearby tree, a bobbing branch that shook the leaves. Two tanned feet tucked themselves quickly back onto the limb of the big oak and my breath caught in my chest. He hadn't missed it after all.

I
started leaving food by the barn. I'd gather things from the kitchen, wrap them in a dish towel, and place them in an old basket. At first Mama pretended she didn't know, but then she began handing me things. A jar of sweet peaches, a loaf of warm bread. “Add these to your basket,” she said.

The same afternoon we said goodbye to the swallows, I set the basket by the barn door. All afternoon the basket remained, untouched in the shade. By nightfall, I heard a noise, but it was just a fat raccoon outside my window. I'd about given up when the next morning it was gone.

And that's how it went. The basket would always reappear, the food eaten, a treasure in its place. First, a pinecone. I rolled it between my fingers and inhaled the forest smell, sticky sweet. The second time it was a wild rose, all the prickers removed, the smooth petals tinged with pink. Wordless messages left in a basket. And so I kept each one, hidden in a shoe box under my bed, like love letters.

“Do you know where he is, Franny?” Mama asked me. I didn't, of course. But I knew he was out there. And it was something I just could not tell Mama. Because being a mother, she'd have to inform Lindy. And there was no telling what would happen then. We each had our alliances, and it was the hardest thing to break the one I had with Mama. And so I shook my head and crossed my fingers behind my back. It was
the only big lie I'd ever told, and it parked itself like a lump of coal in my stomach.

Lindy kept coming, asking if we'd seen anything.

“He'll come back,” Mama assured her. But Lucas's father didn't seem to worry. The cold chink of bottles on the porch floor echoed through each night. I couldn't understand how Lindy let him stay, her own boy gone, her cheek still red. But Mama said not to judge, that all we could do was help if she asked for it. It was hard. Even Mama was getting tired, waiting for her to ask.

I couldn't sleep at night. I'd lie awake until Sidda's soft snores filled the room, before reaching under my bed. Lucas's gifts fell from the shoe box, the moon spilling over them. A round pebble, a grass bracelet, two red leaves. I held these treasures in my hands, pressing each one to my cheek before tucking the box beneath my bed again; worrying if what I was doing was wrong, and wondering what gift the basket would hold tomorrow.

T
ell me a secret,” Izzy whispered to me, dropping a five-dollar bill in my coffee can.

I jumped. “I don't have any!” I almost shouted, pretending to count the Animal Funds. Did Izzy know about Lucas?

It was the Friday Bee. Lucas had been gone a week and the money from Harland's had not been found or returned. The
drought was weighing on everyone's minds, pressing its relentless heat against our skin till our temples throbbed and tempers ran short.

Izzy sat down with a wheezy huff. “Well, I'm bored and it's hot, and a little secret would cheer me up.”

“Secrets are for sinners,” Grandma stated, her eyes steady on the quilt. A tree trunk wound its way up into the pale blue patchwork sky, where Grandma carefully stitched the wing of a white bird perched in a branch. Dotty and Faye were working on small patches, gray and brown animal-like shapes that I couldn't quite make out. The quilt was nearly done, its patchwork expanse rippling over the ladies' laps like a leafy waterfall.

“Oh, come off the roof, Rae,” Izzy said, grabbing a small gray patch. “You got secrets.”

“Grandma does?” I asked in disbelief.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Izzy said, pinching me playfully.

“I got one!” Dotty admitted with a shy grin. We looked at her expectantly. “I sometimes lick the frosting off the cakes I bring to the church coffee hour.”

Grandma Rae cringed. “Dotty! That's disgusting.”

Dotty sank in her chair.

“That's okay,” Mama volunteered, with a wink. “I'll still eat them.”

“My secret's better!” Izzy said.

But it was Faye Wakeman who went next. “Well, last week at Harland's, Mavis Plunk came in and complained that I was
too slow on the cash register. Said my math skills were about as good as my cornfields. So I picked up her box of denture cream and hollered, ‘Price check on false teeth cleaner.' ” Faye grinned, showing all her teeth, and we roared with laughter.

“Mine is still better,” Izzy said.

But no one was listening.

“What about you, Mama?” Sidda asked.

Mama paused at her easel, the beautiful red jacket of her painted woman fluttering where her brush left it. “Well, let's see,” she said.

I looked at Mama carefully. What secrets could she have?

“Once,” Mama began, “a long time ago, a gallery owner showed my paintings in Tulsa. Daddy and I got dressed up and went into the city. It was a beautiful night.” She stopped, smiling into the distance as if greeting her old self. “That night a gentleman offered to buy one for a lot of money. It was my favorite, a golden hayfield. We really needed that money. I was about to have another baby.” Mama winked at me. “But Daddy wouldn't hear of it. He knew I loved it too much.”

“So that was it?” Sidda asked.

“No. After the show closed, that same man called me. He asked me to come back to Tulsa and paint a mural in his office building. I'd need to move there for a while, but he offered to cover our expenses. Said it would show my talent off to the world.”

“Did you go?” Sidda asked.

Mama smiled sadly. “Of course not. I had you, and Franny on the way. I couldn't leave that.” She shook her head, and
looked at the paintbrush in her hand. “I never told anyone about the offer that man made to me, not even your dad.”

We grew real quiet then, the swift swish of brush on canvas filling the room. When I looked up again, Grandma was staring at Mama in a way I'd never seen before. Almost softly.