The Lovebird (40 page)

P.S
.

I NEVER IMAGINED I WOULD GROW
so fond of snow, Dad, but the prairie has such an iridescent beauty in the winter, especially at night under a swollen moon when the white icy granules shimmer. And the house feels so cozy in the winter, too, so warm and snug, and even with Mary Bear and Mark Ptarmigan it’s not too small for us. Evelyn Bee is still little enough to sleep in our bed, but soon she’ll be ready for Cora’s bottom bunk.

I was so surprised when Cora handed me the first part of this old letter. She found it yesterday while cleaning her room and packing up her things. This morning she left us—back to college for her second semester. Jim drove her, and I’m expecting him back any minute. She didn’t want to take the Pronghorn. She prefers to get around on her bicycle, which must be a stunning sight for all those college boys—Cora brown and willowy, with her long hair flying behind.

I already miss her, even if she is only a few hours away in Bozeman—and not just because she is such a big help with the children and the garden, the chickens, horses, rabbits, goats, dogs, cats, cows, llamas, and pig. She’s still so much the girl she was when I met her, scarily sharp, with a sly sense of humor, and she
still teases me about my criminal past, though I suspect it was the trial that first inspired her to dream of being a lawyer. She was fascinated by the entire process—by the brass-embellished courtroom, by the bemused judge, by the wide-eyed but generous jury, by the showy but smart way Ronald Clack defended me, and by the testimonies of my friends in the crew, and of Simon, who insisted I had been unduly influenced by him and tried to take the blame for everything.

Of course, you remember—you were there for most of it. Jack Dolce was characteristically sweet, helping us pay for Ronald Clack’s services with money nobody ever suspected he had. (“When my mom took off with the travel trailer salesman she wanted to make sure I was taken care of. You know I don’t have any use for it! Why don’t you take some?”) Those six months of community service in San Diego weren’t bad. Rooming with Raven was fun, and so was spending time with the rest of the crew and visiting you. But my memories of Montana made me hurt in the most exquisite possible way, the way memories of certain sights, sounds, smells, and smiles do. You know. They make an invisible kind of beauty inside of you.

I guess I’ve kept my promise to the judge to find a more constructive way to help animals—here we are, surrounded by adopted strays and the ones nobody else wants. We’re developing a reputation as a sort of refuge, but I don’t mind.

In spite of the fact that I’ve kept my promise and lead a very quiet life, I did make it into the newspaper again last summer (
PRAIRIE ORANGE THRIVES, CONFOUNDS AND DELIGHTS
). A reporter from the
Billings Star
came out to interview me about my orange tree because orange trees don’t, as a rule, survive out of doors in Montana. Mine is bright with blossoms, heavy with fruit, and no one can figure out why. For the photograph accompanying the article, I wore a striped sundress and stood next to the
tree with the four kids, several dogs, and our pig. The reporter wanted to know my secret. I admitted to blanketing the tree on cold winter nights but didn’t mention that I had planted it right beside Granma’s grave, and that I suspected its success had something to do with her—and, of course, with
her
, the most beautiful woman of all, the one Granma taught me about.

I’m glad you had the chance to meet Granma before she died. I can hardly believe it’s been two years since we found her in her favorite thicket of chokecherry trees, lips stained red from the juices.

Evelyn is tugging again at the peach pit ring. I wear it on a chain around my neck now because it’s too tiny for my finger. After three babies and enough love I am not the Audrey type I once was, but not quite a Marilyn type, either. I make my sundresses a bit bigger these days (though lately I’m knitting sweaters) and gave all the old ones to Cora. Jim says my cheeks are even pinker than they were when he first saw me, and that I smile a lot more, too. He’s right. I know I’ll hear his truck coming up the road any minute. I’m listening for it, and listening to the sounds of the twins’ breathing as they sleep here in their side-by-side beds, and listening to the cat cry hello as she nudges my calf.

Josie and Pete Sings Plenty are going to look after the animals for us while Cora has her spring break and we all make the trip down to Orange County. I’m warning you now: we’re going to try to convince you, again, to move to Montana. We can even work together to build you a little house close to ours. I think you should go for it, Dad. Last time we were there, I could see you considering. Yes, I could see it in those green, swooping eyes, and in the way you tried to hide your smile by taking a big swallow of your soda. I think it’s time. I want to drive back up here with the lone lovebird I had to leave behind so long ago.

We’re going to ride down to you in the Pronghorn because the
truck isn’t big enough for all of us. And I can hear the truck now, coming up the road. He’s almost home.

And I can hear the familiar sound of him opening the door, and the soft stomp of his boots as he shakes the snow off before he steps into the house. (I hope he’ll have a few bits of snow in his hair. I love to find them melting there.) I can smell his orange blossom odor, which is the smell of the fulfillment of all my life’s longing. I can hear him say my name the way he always does when he comes inside, because he calls me, he calls me. And I can hear him ask, the way he always asks, every time, “Margie, are you home?” And I, growing rosy, rosier, the rosiest I’ve ever been, answer the way I always do. “I am.”

I’m grateful to my daring and dedicated agent, Terra Chalberg; my enthusiastic and insightful editor, Jenny Jackson; everyone at Doubleday whose work and expertise have helped me turn a dream into a reality; the kind communities I found in Bozeman, Livingston, and Iowa City; the Crow Tribe of Montana; Tim McCleary of Little Big Horn College; the dear friends and teachers—Ben Leubner, Angela Kinley, Lisa Aldred, Jessica Bunn, Marie Thomas, Mark Murphy, Greg Keeler, and Andy Fahlgren—whose good cheer, encouraging words, companionship, and affection meant so much during the years I spent working on this book; Michael Konsmo, whose belief was a gift for which I will always be thankful; Carl, Anne, and the rest of my family, who have showered me with reading materials, writing tools, and love from the very beginning; and, finally, the bright green snake, who emerged through a crack in the sidewalk at just the right moment.

Natalie Brown grew up in Orange County, California. She earned a BA in Literature from the University of California at San Diego and MA degrees in English and Native American Studies from Montana State University. She lives in Iowa.
The Lovebird
is her first novel.

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www.doubleday.com