The Feathered Bone (5 page)

Sarah shifts uneasily, and I step in between them, smiling so as not to offend. I pull both girls a safe distance from the truth sayer. Nearby, a card-trick magician has drawn a mass of onlookers who now have us jammed, so despite Beth's instructions to steer clear of the palm readers, there's no quick escape.

The old woman continues the one-sided chat, talking directly to Sarah, as if Ellie and I are not here at all. “You on a school trip? Here to see the zoo? The aquarium? Maybe that bug museum?”

Sarah shakes her head and answers with confidence, “We went to Mardi Gras World and rode the ferry.”

“Over to Algiers?” The woman looks out toward the river, her gravelly voice haunting me in a way I cannot quite pin. I want to hear more, as if what she has to say is important. As if it matters.

“Yes, ma'am. You know slaves were sold here? And the levee is the only thing keeping us all from drowning?”

Sarah's enthusiasm lights a spark in the woman's eyes. She laughs, carrying a tint of mystic to her tone. Then she bends to pull a set of chicken bones from her stained knit bag, placing the oddities on the table near her tarot cards and half-melted candles.

Sensing Ellie's interest, I place my hand on her shoulder, a sign of encouragement to help my timid daughter feel brave. It works. “What's that?” She points toward a brightly painted birdcage.

“What, this?” The woman pulls an arched metal cage to the table, her many bangles clanging against her wrists. Inside, a sparrow perches on a twig.

As Sarah leans closer, a spark of sunlight catches the small gold cross attached to her T-shirt. It was a baptism present from her mother. An emblem of faith she wears every day.

The woman gazes at the bird with watery eyes. “He's a sparrow. A Bachman's sparrow is what they call him. My friend found him
over on the Northshore. He had a broken wing. You see? Still on the mend.”

“Can I hold him?” Ellie asks, her love of nature overcoming any fear.

“Well, I guess so. Just be real gentle.” Then she lifts the latch and reaches into the colorful cage. Despite being wild, the sparrow hops onto the woman's finger as if it were a branch. His tail is long and rounded at the tip, darker in color than the rest of his feathers, especially those on his pale white belly and his soft gray face.

Ellie cups her hands to hold him, and he obliges, resting his tiny pink feet against her palm.

“Will he ever fly again?” Sarah asks, strumming her fingers gently across his feathered head. It peeks out between Ellie's thumbs as she holds him securely tucked between both hands.

“Of course,” the woman says. “What good is it to have feathers if you don't fly?”

I pet the bird, reaching behind his flattened forehead. Wearing a brown crown, he has a dark line that arches back from his eyes. “He doesn't peck?”

“Not so much now,” the woman says, her river accent coming through. “Oh, but when she first brought him to me. Not the case. These birds are kind of shy, like you.” She looks at Ellie, who turns hot-pepper red. “They stick low to the ground, even nest in the underbrush. We hardly know they're out there. Except for their song. But now we do just fine. Don't we, little man?”

Sarah takes the bird from Ellie, eager for a turn. “Hello, Sparrow,” she says. The bird sings in response.

“Ah, you hear that?” The woman grins. “He sounds good, don't you think?” The sparrow's tone is clear and smooth, a high-pitched call that draws a smile from both girls. And from me.

“The lady at the Mardi Gras place told us they used feathers to make corsets,” Sarah tells the truth sayer. “Featherbones, she called them.”

“That right?” The woman tugs at her long skirt. Her seat bows beneath her, straining nearly enough to break. “Here,” she says, pulling a loose brown feather from the bottom of the birdcage. “Which one of you wants this?” Sarah passes the bird back to Ellie and holds her hand outstretched.

“Your very own feathered bone.” The woman cackles, pressing the small wing feather into Sarah's palm. “Take this. From the sparrow. Guard it.”

Sarah closes her fingers, clasping the fragile brown feather in her hand. “Guard it?”

“Yes, yes.” The woman strokes her own twisted dreadlocks. Piled high as a hive upon her head, the graying weave is so dense I imagine it has been matted for years. “There are those among us who were born to fly. And you, sweet child, are one of those chosen few.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her deep-toned laughter causes steely gray pigeons to circle the ancient courtyard.

The crowd begins to thin as the black-hatted magician finishes his act. I nudge the girls, but they're too enchanted to leave the table.

“You see,” the woman continues, “feathers—no matter what size or shape or color—are all the same, if you think about it. They're soft. Delicate. But the secret thing about feathers is . . . they are very strong. Am I right?”

The girls both nod, captivated, and I capture the moment on film.

“Of course I'm right.” The woman laughs, tossing her head
back in a grand gesture. “A feather may look weak. Vulnerable. But truth is, it's a powerful little thing. Like you girls. And the most magical thing about feathers is . . .” She scoops the sparrow back into her hands. “When they get to do what they're made for, they carry a soul right up into the sky. Set it free. So you see? My friend here is giving you his feather to remind you that you are more than just a pretty little girl. You are strong, a powerful soul. Do what you're made for. Don't believe the lies people tell you about yourself. Then you will fly free too.”

Both girls step closer, examining the feather, charmed by the woman's strange message.

Above us the ornate clock of St. Louis Cathedral rings its series of melodic bells, followed by one deep chime that announces the hour. The sacred tone fills the square, spilling out from the triple steeples to roll beyond General Andrew Jackson atop his bronze horse before stretching across the Pontalba Buildings with their iron lace, then echoing above the historic Cabildo and Presbytère neighborhoods of old New Orleans.

In the distance, students gather at our designated meeting spot. I nudge Ellie, adding a quick thanks as I shuffle the girls away from the woman's cluttered cart. I push down knots of guilt for not leaving a tip and focus instead on getting a safe distance before the palm reader convinces the girls they can jump from a rooftop and fly.

“Remember,” she calls out behind us, “God's eye is on the sparrow.” She erupts again in deep-toned laughter, causing wild green Quaker parrots to scatter with the pigeons. I glance back quickly to see the flock of birds circle as she returns her sparrow to its colorful cage, locking the clasp securely. His sweet song calls out behind us, as if to echo the woman's sage advice:
“What good is it to have feathers if you don't fly?”

As the chimes fade, Miss Henderson holds her right arm straight above her head and sends three quick breaths through her silver whistle. I rush the girls past chatty tour guides, each urging us to rent a horse-drawn carriage draped in beads and flowers. We reach the designated landmark and climb the concrete steps while rhythmic hooves clop through the streets behind us.

I squeeze past a group of nuns discussing All Souls' Day to join six other parent chaperones. Some take quick photos of the Jax Brewery sign. Others show off bargain buys they gleaned during their frantic French Market shopping spree. From the waters, the paddle-wheeler cranks its calliope, and the tunes transport us into another era. Racing past us, the children tackle the incline at record speed, determined to be first to the summit—until the teacher sounds her whistle once more and they swarm to form a line.

“Impressive,” I whisper to Raelynn, who has been so busy rummaging through her purse for something sweet she has no idea what I'm talking about. I point toward the orderly queue, in awe of Miss Henderson.

“Teachers.” Raelynn rolls her eyes. “Never did like me much.”

“They liked you.” I offer a gentle giggle to remind Raelynn I'm on her side. “They just didn't like how you couldn't keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Still can't.” At a loss for candy, Raelynn plugs a cherry cough drop inside her cheek. The smell of menthol brings me back a year to my mother's final days. I coated her chest with Vick's VapoRub the way she had done for me when I was a child.

Tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, Raelynn tilts her
head toward Café du Monde. “She'd better let us get beignets 'fore we board that bus.”

Of course she says this loud enough for Miss Henderson to hear—a classic Raelynn move that works every time. As if on cue, the students turn toward the famous riverfront café where batches of hot, fried dough draw visitors from around the world. Then she drives her final nail. “They've got a bathroom.” And here comes the smile, the one where Raelynn's strong spirit shines through to melt even the most reluctant soul.

Miss Henderson checks her watch, turning toward the row of round white bulbs that trace the café's roofline. Next she eyes Gator's bus, parked parallel, ready for departure. “Does everyone have your buddy?”

The students check in with their partners-for-the-day and nod.

“Let's do a head count.”

Sarah is first in line, as always. She sends up a clear “One,” which is followed by Ellie's “Two,” and so forth down the line of jittery grade schoolers until the final student yells, “Twenty-four.”

“We have just enough time for a treat. Stay with your buddy and follow me. Parents, would you guide them to the restroom, please? I'm going to rush our order at the to-go counter instead of waiting to be seated. We'll eat on the bus.”

Like the students, we do as she says.

“No dillydallying.” Miss Henderson almost sings this command.

“Is that even a word?” Raelynn snaps. “Who is this woman? Mary Poppins?”

When the girls pause for a photo, Raelynn allows Nate to move ahead with another parent. Then, with a sideways glance, she asks, “Okay, Amanda. What gives? You've been walking the moon all day.”

“The moon?” I laugh.

“Your head's been on some faraway planet. What'd he do now?”

Wind whips my hair across my face, and I pull it away to give Raelynn a direct stare. Without any words, I let her know I'm done talking about Carl.

But she doesn't back down. “For real, Amanda. What's wrong?”

Ellie and Sarah skip ahead a few feet, and I call out to them, “Wait a second, girls.” They come to a halt as their last classmate ambles past.

“Helicopter,” Ellie whispers to Sarah. Both girls roll their eyes, frustrated with the way I hover. I give Ellie a look, and they continue walking, slowly. Nearby, a man has coated his entire body with gold spray paint. He stands frozen in place on the sidewalk. They stop to watch him as they wait for us to catch up.

“Amanda?” Raelynn pries. “Absolute truth. And absolute trust.” She repeats the oath we made when we were ten years old. The three of us climbed into Raelynn's tree house, pricked our fingers, and swore on our own blood.
Absolute truth. And absolute trust.
Now I opt for an easier path.

“I'm just missing my mom, is all.”

“Oh, Amanda. I should've realized.” Raelynn touches my shoulder in a sisterly way and pulls close. I assure her I'm fine.

“Have you heard from your dad?”

“Nope.” I shrug it off.

“Still living down in Florida?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” I lead the way toward the café, hoping she'll give this topic a rest, but when she urges me to say more, I give in. “You already know the story. I was ten the last time I talked to him, the day he moved out.”

“Yeah, but didn't you call him? To tell him about your mom?”

“I left him a voicemail, thinking he might want something from the house. He never returned my call. It's been a year. I'm not holding my breath.”

“You ever think about looking for your birth parents?”

I fumble with the camera, still strapped around my neck. “I don't know.” No matter how hard I try to avoid these tender topics, Raelynn is determined. “Feels like it wouldn't be right. To Mom.”

“I still can't believe she's gone,” Raelynn says. “For the cancer to have taken her so fast. It's not fair.” Then she adds, “I'm sure she would want you to find them.”

“Honestly, we never talked about it much, and I never asked.”

“Why not?” Raelynn limps more now.

“Maybe I needed it to come from her. I didn't want to hurt her feelings.” I don't have to explain. Raelynn knows I've carried a hole in my heart my entire life. No matter how much love my mother gave me after the adoption, even more so after her divorce, I was unwanted, abandoned, and unloved from the start.