My Name Is River (10 page)

After our chores are done, Gram and I head to the birding place. We start out walking at a pretty good pace (considering Gram's leg), when all of a sudden, she lets out a “Yee haw!” and charges down the road.

I shout ahead, “Gram, what are you doing?”

She keeps galloping full speed, then yells back over her shoulder, “Just doing my exercises, Sugar Pie!” I remember Gram saying her physical therapist knows what he's talking about, but I'm beginning to wonder. I run ahead and catch up to her when she stops galloping and begins to hop. She hops down the middle of the road the rest of the way, which is just as embarassing as her galloping.

When we finally reach the trail, I look across the street at the Whippoorwills' house and hope no one's watching from their front window. But that's not likely because with Pastor Henry, Mrs. Whippoorwill, Billy, and all six little Whippoorwills, there's eighteen eyeballs altogether. I can only hope the entire family is sitting around the kitchen table praying with their eyes closed.

Once we're in the woods, Gram stops hopping and slows to a snail's pace. She's huffing and puffing so hard I hope she doesn't have a heart attack right before she gets to see the birding place. But since her heart is extra big, I guess it can handle stuff like this.

We walk along the wooded trail, and then I let Gram step out into the field first. She stands still, looks around, then takes a deep breath in, and smiles (she looks as happy as she does after she's eaten a dozen chocolate-chip cookies dunked in milk).

Gram keeps smiling as she looks across our ecotone. All of a sudden, her eyes stop short, and she points to the bucket and rope (I wonder if all grown-ups have something against a bucket with a rope tied to it). Gram walks over to it and looks at the riverbank and then back at me. “You've been getting water with this?”

I try to remember the words Billy used… “The river's a natural resource, Gram. It's not chlorinated like tap water, and the birds and flowers need it to thrive.”

Gram's jaw drops (she's probably impressed with how smart I've gotten). “That's all well and good, Sugar Pie, but this bank is too blasted steep. I wouldn't want to see anyone fall off the edge… cuz if they did, they'd never see the light of day.”

“Don't worry, Gram. Remember what Pastor Henry said this morning? We can't make anyone's life longer by worrying.”

“Sugar Pie, there's a difference between worrying and using your noggin.”

12

Suet Cakes

T
he next morning I oversleep and miss the bus, so Gram drives me to school. At least I make it in time to hear the morning announcements and menu—spaghetti with meatballs for lunch. I check my schedule and realize I don't have English today. For the first time in my life, I actually wish I did.

Later at lunch, Billy spots me in the cafeteria and hurries over. “Hey, River, I'm glad I found you.” He sits across the table from me. “Want to come to my house after school? My mom went shopping and bought our ingredients, so now we can make suet cakes and hummingbird nectar.”

Since my mouth is filled with spaghetti, I nod. Then I don't know how he does it, but Billy opens his milk carton with one hand. When I think he's not looking, I try opening mine one-handed but end up spilling chocolate milk all over my spaghetti, myself, the table, and the floor. Two seconds later the overhead speakers blare, “Maintenance to the cafeteria. Maintenance to the cafeteria.”

Billy grins and shakes his head. “Nice try, but it takes years of practice.”

I shrink to the size of a meatball and want to roll out the door.

After school we hurry to Billy's house. When we get there, it's totally quiet and looks like no one's home. Mrs. Whippoorwill has everything we need for making suet cakes and hummingbird nectar sitting on the kitchen table. There's also a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.

In all of the quietness, I hear Mrs. Whippoorwill tiptoe down the stairs. She comes around the corner looking like she's just completed a marathon while carrying all her little Whippoorwills. “I just put the last one down for a nap,” she says. Even though she looks like she doesn't have an ounce of energy left, she smiles at me, and her blue eyes sparkle. “It's nice you could come over, River.” She makes me feel warm all over, as if the sun is shining only on me. She places her hand gently on my shoulder and says, “You're always welcome here.” Then she takes a cookie from the plate and excuses herself. “Let me know if you need my help. I'll be on the couch taking a quick nap.”

I guess it's just me and Billy cooking for the birds. I hope he knows what he's doing because I sure don't. Last year in Punxsutawney, I flunked home economics. Gram couldn't believe it. Neither could I. Apparently Mrs. Hawk didn't like the way my banana bread turned out (no one told me I had to peel the bananas). So what if it was like chewing an eraser. I still don't think that was grounds for failure. But then again, there was also the sewing project I messed up when I had to make a skirt. I didn't think it was a big deal that I sewed the wrong sides of the material together, but obviously Mrs. Hawk did. I tried explaining that I'd never wear the stupid skirt anyways, but that only got me an F.

Billy arranges our ingredients in alphabetical order: cornmeal, flour, oatmeal, peanut butter, and suet (he's way too enthusiastic). “Let's make suet cakes first,” he says. “Step number one, we need to
melt the suet.” He turns the stove on and hands me a spoon. “Here, you can stir first.”

I move the chunk of hard, white suet around in the pan. Within minutes it starts melting, transforming into a crystal clear liquid. I wonder if this is how it feels to be a scientist. Then all of a sudden, I realize I have no idea what suet is or where it comes from, but since it looks interesting, I stick my finger in for a taste test (just like Gram would do). But before my finger reaches my lips, Billy stops me. “I wouldn't do that—it's not going to taste good.”

“Oh,” I say, “right… I was just checking the temperature.” But I think Billy catches on to the fact that I have no idea what suet is.

Then he explains so I don't feel so dumb. “Isn't it amazing how we can take a chunk of fat that used to surround the kidney of a cow and use it to feed birds?”

I try staying calm and hope I don't turn green. “It's unbelievable,” I say (but I'm really thinking it's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard). I imagine the insides of a cow and visualize huge globs of fat packed around the kidney of a cow… which I'm pretty sure has something to do with the whole process of making pee.

Billy looks in the pan and seems satisfied. “There,” he says. “One cup of suet completely melted. Now we need one cup of crunchy peanut butter.” Billy measures it and dumps it in. “Okay,” he says, “keep stirring.” Then he adds two cups of oatmeal, two cups of cornmeal, and one cup of flour.

After it's mixed, Billy steadies the rectangular cake pan on the table, and I dump the massive glob in. We press it flat with bare hands (I use two, and Billy, one). “Eeewww,” I say, cringing. “This feels disgusting. It's greasier than earwax.”

Billy laughs hysterically. “I'm not sure about the earwax, but the peanut butter sure makes it smell good. The birds are going to love this!”

Once it's flat, Billy puts it in the fridge to cool and harden.

Next we make the hummingbird nectar. Billy starts by pouring four cups of water into a pan. Once it's boiling, he adds one cup of sugar. I stir until it dissolves. I scoop a little onto a teaspoon and blow on it. Since I'm absolutely sure it's only sugar and water (without an ounce of kidney fat), I bring it to my lips and sip. It tastes like liquid cotton candy.

“Want to hear something interesting?” Billy says. I look at him and wait because I know he's going to tell me either way. “A hummingbird's heart beats more than six hundred times a minute and a human's only beats about seventy-two.” Billy's so smart.

I wonder if I'll ever be as smart as him.

13

Black Leather Boot

B
illy pushes aside the branches as we walk into the woods. It feels cool and fresh after working in the hot kitchen.

“Hey, River, I almost forgot to tell you. My dad said he'll help us make the bluebird houses.”

“That's great if you want an F. You heard Ms. Grackle—no parents.”

“But it's for safety reasons, and he'd only cut the wood. There's no way he'd let us use the power saw.”

“I guess you're right. That is great news.”

As soon as we reach the field, Billy freezes. So I do the same thing. There are tiny birds at the feeder, and a bigger, bright red one right in the middle of the birdbath. We crouch, moving low along the ground like two Indian hunters until we reach the log, where we sit without a sound. Neither of us says a word. It's kind of a sacred moment. I can't believe there are birds. I never thought they'd come.

Billy whispers, “The red one's a northern cardinal. He's a male. Females aren't as colorful.”

“Well, that's not fair.”

Billy laughs and then leans close and whispers again. “The other birds at the feeder are black-capped chickadees. When they sing, they sound like they're saying their name.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee
.”

Billy cracks me up.

It must have been his last
dee-dee
that made the birds fly away. But Billy says eventually they'll get used to people being around, and they'll stay longer. He takes a deep, satisfied breath and looks my way. “We'd better start watering,” he says. “And I'm filling the bucket first.”