Sparrow Road (3 page)

Mama ordered me to lock the door and stay put in our cottage, but the minute I heard Viktor’s rusted truck rumble from the driveway, I headed toward the main house to wait out on the porch. Even if the artists were all strangers, I felt safer near my neighbors, the way we lived at home.

I perched on the weathered porch swing, gave it one good push until it swayed. I couldn’t believe Mama went off to town with Viktor. My first letter home, I’d write it all to Grandpa Mac; I’d tell him how she left me my first day. How she took me to a place where I couldn’t speak.

“Oh my.” A wobbly, weak-bird voice floated through the window. “Another child left here all alone.” The front door opened, then slapped closed. A tiny, frail woman shuffled toward the swing. “I’m Lillian Hobbs, dear girl.”

Lillian? The poet Viktor mentioned on the tour?

“I’m Raine,” I said. “Raine O’Rourke.”

Lillian reached down and brushed her hand over my shoulder. “Dear child, did you come here for a home?”

“No,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my mother.”

“I’m sure,” Lillian said. “All our children are.” She shook her head. “I hope you’re not too scared.”

“No,” I lied, “not really.” Twelve was too old to admit to being scared, even if all the empty in the country scared me some.

“Well, good for you. You’re brave.” Lillian was old. Not old like Grandpa Mac or Viktor, but a fragile, feeble old I hoped I’d never be. “May I join you on the porch swing?” she asked. “Perhaps a friend would help.”

Even though Mama warned me not to interrupt the artists, Lillian was the one who interrupted me. I hadn’t done a thing but sit outside. “Sure.” I held the porch swing steady. “Be careful sitting down.”

When she finally settled safely on the swing her little legs dangled in midair. She was child-small, with snowy hair that fell softly to her shoulders and skin so thin I could almost see her bones. She smelled like powder and sweet soap.

“Sad?” She made a little frown.

“No.” I was mad and sad, homesick and suspicious, with a mix of other feelings in between. “Mostly I’m just waiting.”

“Of course.” She smoothed her flowered dress against her lap. “The other children? Do you know where they’ve gone?”

“Children? I think I’m the only child here.”

“Oh no, dear.” Lillian patted at my leg. “You’ll see them soon enough. Perhaps they’re down at Sorrow Lake. Sometimes at night the children sleep there in this heat.”

“No,” I said. “There were no children there.”

She gave me a sweet smile. “You won’t be alone here. You’ll have a happy home at Sparrow Road. Everyone is scared in the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Lillian made it sound like I’d come to live forever. “I’m just here until September,” I said. Mama promised Grandpa Mac.

“We all like to think so.” Her pebbled eyes were milky. “We may not be your family, but we’ll try our best to be.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I already have a family.” I had Grandpa Mac and Mama, but right now both of them were gone.

“Yes,” she said, “everybody does.” She pulled a pack of faded kid’s cards from her pocket. “Old Maid?” she asked. “It seems to be the one game the new ones always know. Especially a girl your age.”

A girl my age knew more games than Old Maid; I hadn’t played Old Maid since I was little. “Sure.” I shrugged. Any game was better than sitting in our cottage all alone.

Lillian reached back into her pocket, fished out a linty lemon drop, and handed it to me. “Sugar,” she cooed. “It helps to heal the heart.”

The two of us played Old Maid on the splintered picnic table with the tinkle of pink shell chimes clinking in the breeze. In between hands Lillian sent me inside the silent house for warm apple juice and crackers. A kind of kindergarten snack that reminded me of days when I was small.

When we got tired of Old Maid, Lillian told stories. She told me she didn’t write poems until after she was sixty, and that this summer she’d come here from a horrible high-rise for seniors in St. Paul. A room so far above the earth she wasn’t sure most days if she was already in heaven. She told me she had taught piano to 237 students, and that Viktor Berglund was a prodigy, a child who studied music with the masters in Vienna. A composer. She said Viktor brought her here this summer to put more poems on paper.

“They’re all right here.” She tapped her wrinkled finger on her heart. “I carry them inside me. I don’t need to write them down.” Then she leaned forward and lowered her weak voice to a whisper. “Please don’t tell that to Viktor.” She looked back at the house to make sure no one was watching.

“Tell what?” I said. I wasn’t ever going to speak to Viktor Berglund.

“I didn’t come home to write poems. I came home to help the children.”

“Home?” I asked. Was Sparrow Road her home? Hadn’t Lillian just said that she came here from St. Paul? “The children?” I looked out toward the woods, the gravel driveway, the endless hills of green. If there were kids at Sparrow Road, I sure hadn’t seen them.

“Yes.” She put another lemon drop into my hand. “At Sparrow Road, the children must come first.”

“Ah yes, those missing children!” A man’s deep voice boomed out through the doorway. “It looks like one has finally arrived!” He was barefoot, in a tropical pink shirt and lime shorts that hung loose to his knees. He didn’t look like an artist; he looked like he was headed for a beach. His smile was wide, his teeth so white they dazzled in the sun. His happy brown eyes gleamed. His wide belly and big shoulders made me think of Grandpa Mac.

“Well, good morning, lovely Lilly.” He planted a loud kiss on Lillian’s old cheek. Then he reached out and shook my hand. His skin was warm and soft, his handshake kind, exactly like his face. “Diego Garcia.” He smiled at me. “I apologize for the appearance. Late night working in my shed.”

So he really was an artist?

“I’m Raine,” I said. “Raine O’Rourke. My mom’s the summer—” I didn’t want to say maid. Or housekeeper or cook. I didn’t want Mama to be their servant. Or for me to be the daughter of the maid.

“Her mother’s gone,” Lillian whispered grimly. She made it sound like Mama left for good.

“She just went to town for groceries,” I said quickly. Lillian patted at my leg like she thought I was confused.

“Groceries?” Diego asked. Then another lively smile covered his wide face. “Oh, I get it now! Your mother’s our new chef! The one Viktor said was coming.” He drummed his hand against his belly.

Chef? Mama wasn’t a chef exactly, but at least it sounded better than the maid.

“We’ve been starving since Estelle left us in mid-June. She moved to Fargo and Viktor couldn’t replace her until now. The four of us have made do on our own.”

“Not starving,” Lillian corrected. “No one starves at Sparrow Road.”

“Right.” Diego laughed. “Not if you count Josie’s odd concoctions. Her horrible carrot stew. Or my dry meatloaf. Or the applesauce you love.”

“Everyone has duties,” Lillian said. “I teach piano and help the children with their spelling.” She looked at me. “We shall start your lessons soon.”

I was a straight-A speller, but I didn’t tell her that.

“You can start my lessons, Lilly.” Diego winked at me like we were on the same side of a secret. “I still can’t spell
Albuquerque
and I lived there as a kid.”

I laughed. I couldn’t spell it either. “That’s like Milwaukee, where I’m from,” I said. “Lots of people can’t spell that.”

“Milwaukee?” Diego looked surprised. “You sure came a long way.” The way he said it brought the homesick straight back to my heart.

“Ten hours on a train,” I said.

“All that distance just to work for Viktor?”

“I guess,” I said. “Mama took the job.”

“That so?” Diego sipped his coffee. “Your dad here with you, too?” I knew what he was asking, the same thing everybody asked when it was only Mama and me.

“No dad,” I finally said. I tried to say it straight, confident, the way Mama always did.
No dad.
Two simple words. No other explanation, no matter who asked Mama. Even me.
No dad,
like that should be enough.

“No?” Diego frowned. “Not ever?”

I shook my head. My ears burned at the tips. I hated questions I couldn’t answer. And even more I hated how often I was asked.

“I’m sure you miss him, dear,” Lillian said. I was missing something but I couldn’t say what it was. Or who it was exactly. A kind of puzzle piece I couldn’t picture.

“Well, enough of that,” Diego said. I could see that he was sorry he had asked. Lots of people were: teachers, parents, doctors. “How about we get started with my spelling?
Dumb.
D-U-M-M,” Diego joked. “I should be able to spell that.”

For a while we sat there in the sunlight, Diego with his coffee, Lillian quizzing us on easy words to spell. On some, like
reindeer,
I did better than Diego, and every time I did Diego laughed.

“I should go,” I finally said. Happy as I was, I didn’t want Viktor to come back and catch me with the artists; I didn’t want to be the kid in everybody’s way. “I know you need your privacy.”

“Privacy?” Diego said. “It’s Sunday! We have privacy all week. It’s your company we need. Plus, you still need a tour of the house.”

“Viktor gave us one this morning.”

“Viktor’s tour,” Diego scoffed. “My tour is top secret. The Sparrow Road you’ll never see with Viktor. Come on, let’s do it while he’s gone.”

“I shall wait here for the others,” Lillian said. “If there’s an empty bed, please put her in the blue room.”

“Will do.” Diego winked at me again. “Don’t you worry, Lilly. We’ll get it all worked out.”

Diego led me through the back door of the house. “This,” he said, “is what we call the Secret Passage.” He opened up a door to a steep, dark, narrow staircase. “The servants’ entrance from the old days. It’s what Josie and I take to get up to our rooms.”

When we reached the second floor, I followed Diego down a hallway dim with daytime shadow, where every door was closed. From somewhere in the darkness I could hear the drone of clicks.
Click, click, click.

“That’s Eleanor.” Diego rolled his eyes. “She’s another writer here this summer. But nothing like sweet Lillian. All she does is type. Day and night. The good news is she rarely leaves her room. Except for dinner, you’ll hardly have to see her. Just don’t let her catch you roaming through the house.”

“I won’t,” I said. I wasn’t going to come up here alone.

“Here”—he tapped against a door—“is where I sleep. Most of these upstairs rooms have gone to ruin. They all need work. A house this old, it’s tough to keep it up. Viktor had some painters here, but they quit the day we came. Viktor doesn’t want the restoration to interrupt the artists.” He motioned down another hallway. “That’s where Josie sleeps. If she sleeps.” Diego laughed. “Mostly, she’s in search of some adventure. Wait until you meet her, your life won’t be the same.”