My Name Is River (11 page)

As Billy positions himself at the edge of the bank, I start getting nervous. “You know, Billy, maybe we should listen to your father and get water from your house.”

“He didn't say we had to get water from the house. He said he'd ‘rather' we did.”

“It's the same thing. And Gram doesn't like the idea of us using the bucket either.”

“Don't worry, River. We'll be careful.”

As I watch Billy throw the bucket over the edge, I hold my breath and have to force myself from grabbing onto his belt loop. But after a few minutes, I see he's doing fine, and he pulls a full bucket of water up over the edge. I let out my breath and remind myself that I didn't need to worry. I whisper the words from Matthew.

We water the seeds and fill the birdbath too. Then just as we're ready to go back and check the suet, Robert Killdeer comes by on his bike. He glares at Billy. “Hey,” he says, “I was here 'bout an hour ago, and there was some ugly birds at your feeder.”

Billy doesn't look at him.

Robert points to the bucket. “That yours?”

Billy nods.

Robert wanders over to it. “If you guys are getting water from the river, you're crazier than me. I wouldn't stand at this edge if you paid me.” Then he steps on the bucket with his black leather boot and presses down on its side. He transforms the opening to an oval.

“Stop it!” I shout. “What do you think you're doing?”

Billy touches my arm. “It's okay, River.”

Robert gives the bucket a kick. “If you was smart, you'd go down river where the bank ain't so steep.”

I want to tell Robert there's no such word as ‘ain't,' but I keep my mouth shut.

Robert spits, gets back on his bike, and rides away.

I search Billy's eyes for an answer.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he says. Then he steps on the inside of the bucket and pulls on the squished side, trying to fix it. “Let's just go back to my house and see if the suet's hard.”

Billy opens the fridge and pokes the suet with his finger. “Yep, it's hard just like we want.” He puts the pan on the table. I hold it still while he cuts it into six perfectly square pieces (which he says are cakes). He places one inside the feeder. “Look at that. A perfect fit.”

“Snug as a bug in a rug.”

Billy laughs. “What did you say?”

“Snug as a bug in a rug… something Gram says.”

We save the rest of the cakes in the fridge and then fill the hummingbird feeder. Billy steadies it over the sink while I pour the nectar. We make a pretty good team.

We carry the feeders to the birding place, and this time we see even more birds. Billy whispers, “We should've brought my camera.”

“We'll remember next time.”

While we're hanging the feeders, Mrs. Bunting comes by, carrying a cardboard box. “I was hoping you'd be here,” she says. “Here's a patch of my Carolina phlox like I promised. And I brought you some daylilies too. Those ruby-throated hummingbirds will go crazy over them.”

We thank Mrs. Bunting and tell her to come back soon.

Later when I get home, I find Gram sitting on the couch with a milk jug tied to her ankle, doing leg lifts (which somehow doesn't seem normal). And I'm pretty sure she reads my mind because she immediately starts explaining herself. “Just doing my exercises, Sugar Pie.” Then she unties the jug from her ankle and stands up. “Whoooeee! Now that's good exercise!” As she walks to the kitchen with our milk, I notice she's not waddling as much as she used to. Maybe her physical therapist does know what he's doing.

“Glad you're home, Sugar Pie,” she says in a singsong way, “'cause I've got a pot of stew that's brewing just for you!” Gram gets goofy like that sometimes, which never used to bother me when I was little. And it's too bad, really, because I've been thinking about inviting Billy over for lunch. But on account of Gram's peculiar ways and her physical therapist's harebrained ideas (plus the fact that we don't hold hands and pray before we eat), I decide I'd better not. I think I'd nearly die if I brought Billy home and Gram was galloping around the house or doing leg lifts with our milk jug. But maybe I will anyways. Billy's so nice—he probably wouldn't mind if she was.

14

Hummingbird

T
uesday when school lets out, Billy runs over to me. “Hey, River, my dad cut the wood for our bluebird houses. Now all we have to do is nail the pieces together. Can you come over to work on them?”

“Sure. I'm not doing anything.”

Billy's so excited he looks like he might burst. “These are going to be the coolest bluebird birdhouses ever!”

I figure I should tell Billy I haven't used a hammer before, except for when I was nine and tried helping Gram nail pieces of paneling to the walls in our living room. Gram was holding up the paneling and told me to pound the nail. But when I did, I accidently slammed the hammer clear through to the other side. Her face got redder than a hot pepper, and she said, “Sugar Pie, you'd better skedaddle. Get outside and take Paddles for a long walk. And you'd best stay out 'til the sun goes down.” Later when I came home, there was a mirror hanging over the hole. I felt bad it was so close to the floor, but Gram just shook her head and said, “At least it's the right height for Paddles.” Gram never could hold a grudge.

Billy and I take turns holding pieces of wood while the other one nails. First Billy holds and I hammer. The sides of the
birdhouse go together first, and then the bottom. The front piece has a hole for a door, which is only the size of a quarter. It has to be small like that so squirrels can't get in. The last piece to go on is the roof, which is slanted like an obtuse triangle (and that is probably the only thing I remember from geometry).

I place my nail where I think it should go and lift my hammer, when all of a sudden, the wood moves. I look at Billy and say, “Can you please hold the pieces still?”

“I'm trying my best.”

“Okay then, here I go.” Instead of hitting the nail, I whack my thumb. “Ouch! That hurt!”

“Sorry, River. I'm having a hard time keeping the pieces still.”

“It's not your fault,” I say. And since Billy didn't ask to have only one hand that worked, I try making him feel better. “I just have really bad aim.”

After we switch, I wonder how Billy's going to hold a nail and use the hammer with just one hand (and I sure don't want to hold the nail for him because I've already whacked my thumb enough). So I hold the pieces together for him and wait to see what happens.

“Watch this,” he says, reaching up to a shelf where he finds a small wooden block with a hole in it. He takes the block, positions the hole where the nail should go, and makes sure it's balanced and steady. Then he lets go of the block and puts a nail inside the hole. He grabs his hammer and taps the nail—just enough so it's stuck in the wood. Then he lifts the block off. He grabs the hammer again and taps the nail, only harder this time. After a few hits, the nail's all the way in (even straighter than mine). Billy looks pleased. “My dad came up with that idea. Neat, isn't it?”

I nod. “Sure is.”

After we finish our last bluebird house, we load them in the wagon and head back to the birding place. This time we remember Billy's camera.

Our seeds have sprouted, and they're growing like crazy. And the plants we were given are covered with blossoms (me and Billy know the secret to our green thumbs is the river water—it makes the plants very happy). We've got a flower for almost every color you can think of: pink coral bells, purple irises, and even a bunch of white angel coneflowers. We've already seen so many different kinds of birds and butterflies. With the nectar, suet cakes, birdseed, and all the flowers to choose from, this place must seem like heaven for them. You can bet that if I were a bird in Birdsong, I'd definitely be hanging out here.

But of all the birds I've seen, I like the hummingbirds best. They zip from one flower to another in a second, and disappear right before my eyes. And if I'm close enough, I can hear the sound of their wings beating and the cute chirping sounds they make.

We sit on the log and watch the birds for a while, which helps them get comfortable with us. Then we decide to start working on the rest of our project, so I begin taking notes while Billy takes pictures. My job is to write down any bird or butterfly behaviors I see, like what flowers they seem to like best, if they eat more seeds or suet, and if they get along with each other.