My Name Is River (4 page)

William walks over to the fountain. “Isn't this amazing?”

I look it over again. “Sure… as amazing as fountains can be.”

“It flows all the time and never shuts off,” he says, “even when Birdsong loses electricity.”

“So?”

“That's because it has its own generator, believe it or not.”

“Did I say I didn't believe you?”

At first William doesn't say a thing. Then he says, “Well, no. But anyways, the fountain's actually a memorial for our last mayor, Mr. Kingfisher. Everyone thought he was a great guy. One day he even saved a kid from drowning in the river. And he really loved birds. He used to have about fifty bird feeders all over his yard. Then after he died, his wife had this fountain built in his honor. She also planned on making a birding place, something else our community would enjoy, but then she ended up dying and never had the chance to build it.”

“What's so special about a birding place? I've never even heard of one.”

William looks at me like I'm from Mars. “Oh,” he says. “Well, a birding place is very tranquil. It's filled with a variety of flowers that draw in the area birds. People go there to watch them, to be quiet and reflect, and to enjoy nature. And if they're built right, a birding place is a real thing of beauty.”

“Well, a thing of beauty or not, the whole idea sounds kind of weird.”

William shrugs his left shoulder. “It's really not. I probably just
didn't explain it well. You know,” he says, “I just had an idea. Since Mrs. Kingfisher never had the chance to make the birding place, maybe we could do that for our project.”

All I can do is stare at William and wonder if he's for real.

“I actually know a great deal about birds,” he says, “so it wouldn't be that difficult. And I know the perfect spot for one—right along Meadowlark River. My parents own land there.

I look straight in his eyes. “If you're telling the truth and you actually know a lot about birds and you own the land, then you've got a deal.” I reach out to shake on it but quickly put my hand back in my pocket—I forgot about his dangling arm. “Anyways,” I say, “it looks like this project won't be hard after all… an easy A.”

“I'm not sure about that,” he says, “but I do think it'll be enjoyable.”

We head for the library again, but now we're quiet. Since we already talked about our project, I don't think either one of us knows what to talk about. Then all of a sudden, my mouth opens, and I start rambling about anything that pops into my head (which can happen when I feel awkward). “One time I found a baby duck sitting in a puddle, so I named her Puddles.” Now William probably thinks I'm telling a joke, but I'm not. And since he doesn't laugh, I keep right on talking. “That poor little duck must have sat down and given up. She probably couldn't keep up with the rest of the ducklings on account of her crooked leg. I'm not sure if she was born like that or if she'd been hurt. She tried following me, but when I realized she couldn't walk, I picked her up and brought her home.”

William nods. “Good thing you were there to save her.”

“Anyways, Puddles reminded me of my Gram, since she has a crooked leg too. That's because she got sick with polio when she was a kid. She had to stay in bed for a whole year, so in three hundred and sixty-five days, she read over four hundred books. I think
I'd have died. A book's okay now and then, but four hundred's way too many.”

I look at William, and he's still smiling and nodding, so I keep on talking. “Then as Puddles grew, her feet got extremely big and wide—even for a duck. Gram said they looked like two big paddles, so we changed her name to Paddles. She'd waddle around our farmhouse with a limp and her big white bottom swaying side to side. Gram has a big bottom too, and on account of her polio, she walks with a limp that makes her waddle. She calls it her ‘Louisiana limp,' since that's where she lived when she got it. And Gram has a big, puffed-out chest too. I think it's because her heart's big. Her doctor says she's got an enlarged heart. It's a thing called ‘cardiomegaly' or something like that. It just means she has a heart that's real big… but I don't see how having a big heart could be a bad thing.”

William shrugs his left shoulder. “Me either. It seems if someone has a big heart, it would be a good thing because they'd have more love to share.”

Good point, I think to myself, but kind of mushy for a boy to say.

We finally reach the library. I'm a step behind William when he tries opening the door, and for the first time, I realize how much trouble a dangling arm can be. He tries pulling the handle with a finger from his good arm, since the others are gripping his books. Then before I can help, his stack of books crashes to the ground. “Oops,” he says and picks them up like it's no big deal. Now if that were me, I'd probably be yelling something that would get us kicked out of Birdsong's library before we stepped foot inside.

William picks a table beside a huge window. It's probably the best spot in the whole library, because the sun's shining in and spreading itself clear across the table, right along with William's books (which he arranges in two perfectly straight rows). He rattles
off a hundred ideas he has for the birding place and starts writing them in his notebook (which is completely organized with tabs, paper, dividers, and a pouch filled with perfectly sharpened pencils).

As soon as I see his handwriting, I know I have to do something. “I think I'd better write our notes,” I tell him. “They didn't teach me to read chicken scratch in Punxsutawney.”

Then I'm not sure if I made William turn red or if he just got hot all of a sudden from the sun. “I know,” he says. “Most of the time I can't read my writing either. My dad said I was supposed to be right handed, but because of my arm, I had to learn to be a lefty.” William's glasses are halfway down his nose at this point, so he angles his head to see me. “It's not easy writing with your left hand when you're supposed to be a righty.”

Now I feel smaller than a flea. “So what happened anyways?” I say, hoping I didn't hurt his feelings too bad and thinking I probably shouldn't have asked.

William must have sensed how I felt. “It's okay,” he says. “I'm used to it. My arm's been like this since I was one day old.”

“So you were born like that?”

“Kind of, but not exactly,” he says. “My arm would have been fine, but I was born breech, which means I came out backward, feet first instead of my head. My shoulder got caught on the way out, and the nerves to my arm were stretched too far and got damaged. It's called a ‘brachial plexus birth injury.' ”

My stomach begins to feel queasy as I imagine William coming out of his mother backward, all tangled up on something I don't even want to think about, but William just sits there and smiles… and when I look at him, I realize his smile is a little crooked, just like mine. Then I have this thought and wonder if we could be related. Gram said people who are adopted can think like this because deep down we wonder where we came from and who we
really belong to. One time I saw this happy mom and dad with a ton of kids, and I wondered if they were my real parents. It's highly possible to lose a kid when you have that many, so I thought that maybe I've just been lost all this time. So when I noticed William's crooked smile, my brain automatically thought we must be related. And no matter how many times I tell myself to stop thinking like that, it's not long before I do the same thing all over again.

William is completely unaware of what's going through my head, so he keeps explaining. “My arm's kind of like a tool without a battery. Since there's no power going to my muscles, they don't work. And I can't feel anything either. A match could touch it or I could lean against something sharp, and I wouldn't know. I have to be careful.”

“That's too bad.”

“Not really,” he says. “It's just part of the plan. My dad's a pastor, and he says someday when I get to heaven, I'll find out why I have an arm like this. But until I get there, I've decided to do the best with what I've got.”

I'm not sure what I think about all that, but I make a decision anyway. William will do our reading, and I'll write the notes. I reach for his pen and perfectly organized notebook.

Our brainstorming session grows longer and longer, and there doesn't seem to be an end to William's ideas. He says Ms. Grackle likes it when students do something out of the ordinary. Since I'm partners with William, that won't be hard to do.

I write our plan like a list:

1. Make a birding place along Meadowlark River to attract different kinds of birds.

2. Take pictures of the birds with William's camera.

3. Tape the pictures on a big piece of cardboard to display during our presentation.

4. Make labels for each kind of bird we have a picture of and include five interesting facts (William made me write the word “interesting”).

5. Write an essay about our project and explain why we picked this topic, what steps we took to complete the project, and what we learned from working with a partner.

William thinks for sure we'll get an A. Bookworms are usually right about things like that.

5

Ecotones

I
promised to meet William at seven o'clock the next morning (which is definitely out of the ordinary for me, especially on a Saturday). I'd rather be watching cartoons and eating a bowl of Frosted Wheat Flakes with Gramp, like we used to do.

I drag my feet along the edge of Meadowlark Lane and make my way toward William's house. Carrying Gram's big bag of gardening tools makes it seem farther than it really is. We only live a quarter mile down the road from each other, which is a good thing so Gram doesn't have to drive me and use up all her gas. But even if she had to, she'd never say she minded.

I see William waiting at the side of the road, right by his mailbox. He's holding a bag of birdseed under his left arm and steadying a long metal pole with a wooden bird feeder on top. When I reach him, I can't keep myself from laughing because his hair is sticking out in every direction you can find on a compass, which is totally different than yesterday at school. And he has flower seed packages sticking out from every pocket on his pants and shirt (but somehow this doesn't surprise me). “Nice hairdo,” I tell him. “Looks like you just crawled out of bed.”

“I did.” William smiles, and I can tell he wants to press it down, but his arm is full.

Somehow he manages to carry the metal pole with the bird feeder and the bag of birdseed in his left arm as he leads the way
across the street toward the Meadowlark River. He pushes aside a few branches with his left shoulder, and I follow him along the cool, wooded trail. The ground is covered in green moss that feels like a pillow beneath my feet, and the air smells like old leaves and pine needles. After a while the trail ends in a big, flat grassy field, which looks like a green flannel blanket spread wide open and leads me right to the river.

I stand at the edge and look out. The river swirls and rushes with shades of blue I've never seen before. And it's so wide that I can't tell what's on the other side. I creep to the very edge of the bank and look over. The water's so far down I almost feel dizzy. I'm not sure which is stronger—the beauty of the river or my fear. Then it splashes against the cliff, sprays a cool mist all over my face, and makes me smile.

William says that even though his family owns the land, everyone in Birdsong comes here and walks along the river. And I can see that's true because there's a worn path stretching clear along the river in both directions.

“Why don't you put up posted signs?” I ask.

“There's no need for that. My parents believe in sharing and want everyone to feel welcome. That's just how they are. You'll see.”

I check my watch. It's only seven fifteen. “So why'd we have to start so early in the morning, anyways?”

William looks surprised, as if I ought to know. “If we want to get an A on a bird project,” he says, “we need to understand them. And the best way to do that is to be like a bird… and birds get up early.”