When Sparrows Fall (15 page)

First stop was the photo counter at the pharmacy in downtown Slades Creek. While Jack scribbled his name and number on the film envelope, the boys hung close, bursting with bewildering remarks about somebody named Jezebel. She must have gone missing, whoever she was. A dog? A cat?

“Whoa, y’all. Who’s Jezebel?”

“Mother’s camera,” Michael said. “Where is it?”

“Back at the house, smashed to smithereens. Why do you call it Jezebel? Does your mom make a habit of naming inanimate objects?”

“Huh? No, just her camera.”

“There must be a story behind that.”

“She bought it from some old lady, a couple of years ago,” Michael said. “And Pastor Mason didn’t like it. That’s all I know.”

Jack tucked the film receipt into his wallet, dropped the envelope in the slot in the counter, and started herding the boys toward the door. “It was quite the camera in its day.”

Gabriel grinned. “Sometimes, Mother burns supper or forgets to start school ’cause she’s taking pictures. It’s her favorite thing to do.”

“Soccer used to be her favorite thing,” Michael said. “She told me she was good at it. In high school.”

“I wish I could have seen that.” Jack pictured Miranda as a petite teenager in a soccer uniform, her long hair swinging in a ponytail. Wholesome, athletic, and normal.

“We ain’t got no soccer ball,” Michael added.

“Your mom never says ‘ain’t.’ Where did you pick that up?”

“My friend Daniel talks that way, just to be funny, but I can’t see him anymore. His family left the church.”

“And that means you can’t stay in touch?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is that church policy or just your mom’s choice for this particular family?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s Daniel’s last name?”

“Gilbert. They live right down the road. Daniel’s big brother is Timothy’s best friend.”

Timothy had a friend? Jack filed the information away for future reference as they walked toward the car. They piled in, with Gabriel claiming the front seat. Jack pulled into traffic and did a double take. He hadn’t expected to find a genuine car wash in Slades Creek. His car was filthy from its trips up and down Miranda’s unpaved driveway.

He turned in, checking the setup. Modern. Touchless. Nothing that could scratch his baby, so he lowered his window at the pay station and fed money into the slot.

Gabriel leaned closer to gawk at the process. “What are you doing?”

“Washing my car.”

“I’ve never been in a car wash.”

“Me either,” Michael said.

“Never?”

“No!” Gabriel bounced up and down. “What’s it like?”

“You’re about to find out.”

As excited as if they were on a roller coaster, Gabriel unbuckled his seat belt and scrambled into the backseat. The boys clung to each other, all jitters and grins.

Jack looked at them in the rearview mirror. “Pretend you’re Jonah in the belly of the whale.”

“
Our
Jonah would be scared.” Gabriel craned his neck to take in the washing apparatus that loomed ahead. “I’m not scared.”

“Fish,” Michael said. “It was a big fish, not a whale.”

“Oh,” Jack said. “Right you are.”

As he put the car in neutral and it locked into the track, he remembered the car washes of his boyhood: a driveway, a soapy sponge in a bucket, and a garden hose. His dad had loved to turn the occasion into a water fight.

The car wash swallowed the car and created a twinge of claustrophobia. The boys chattered and laughed as a cloud of fresh-smelling soap surrounded them with a gentle hiss. A flood of water thundered all around. A great wind buffeted the windshield and blew the last of winter’s brown leaves out from under the wipers and into the cold spring air.

The wind returned, making droplets bead on the glass. Wind and water, water and wind.

Jack closed his eyes, listening to the subdued roar of the artificial storm, and tried to remember his dad’s laughter as he’d manned the hose in the driveway, twin strips of cement with grass in the middle. Old Mr. Olson next door was eternally watering his grass but never washed his car, while Roger Hanford was eternally washing his car but seldom watered his lawn. The men had joked that they averaged out about right.

Back then, Jack had idolized his dad. He was a family man, a churchgoer, an all-around nice guy who often burst into song or told funny stories. Yet he’d abandoned his first wife and their young son to start a new family. Then he abandoned his second wife for yet another woman, and darkness descended on the little brick house.

Jack opened his eyes. The boys were still reveling in the novelty of the car wash. One last sweep of the blower tugged two more leaves free. They floated away.

“ ‘As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,’ ” Jack said.

Michael snickered. “Why are you talking about a hurricane? There’s never hurricanes in the mountains.”

Jack viewed the boy in the mirror. “You’ve never heard that poem?”

“What poem?”

“ ‘ ’Twas the night before Christmas.’ ” Jack waited for some sign of recognition.

Michael gave him a blank look.

“You’ve heard of Santa, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, but he’s made-up.”

“Correct, although he’s based on a real person. Ever heard of Rudolph?”

“Rudolph who?”

Jack groaned.

He tossed them a dozen questions in various realms. They’d never heard of Pippi Longstocking, Christopher Robin, Hillary Clinton, or Michael Jordan. Worse, they had no clue who was fictional and who wasn’t.

Yet they knew Sacajawea, Paul Revere, and even Alan Shepard. Jack had encountered college students who knew less US history than these two wiggle worms, but the gaps in their education worried him. If Miranda neglected some subjects or skipped state-mandated testing, she was breaking the law. Some states required supervision from certified teachers, especially for parents who hadn’t graduated from college, but he didn’t know Georgia’s rules.

The car edged forward, into the cold sunshine, and Jack put it into gear.

“Let’s do it again!” Michael said.

“Sorry, buddy. Once is enough.”

“It’ll get dirty again when we go on the driveway,” Gabriel mourned.

“We can pull it onto the grass and hose it off,” Jack said. “Sort of like Rebekah wiping your feet after your bath, remember? Clean all over.”

The archangels settled back in their seats, content with their sheltered world where a car wash was an exciting destination.

eleven

S
unlight striped a wall that wouldn’t quite come into focus. The slant of the bronzed light told Miranda that her nap had stretched through the afternoon until nearly sunset.

Through the closed door, rustles and thuds and giggles came from the living room. She heard Rebekah. Martha. Jonah. And … a woman. Abigail?

After months of being on probation, of sorts, Miranda hadn’t expected anyone from church to stop by. Now Jack had littered the house with his duffel bags, briefcase, books, laptop, papers. His shoes. His shaving kit. Not even Abigail would believe it was an innocent situation.

“Rebekah? Rebekah! Come here, please.”

No answer. Only a new flurry of muted laughter.

Miranda climbed off the bed. She moved slowly down the hall, then stopped.

A skinny, gray-haired woman in jeans and sweatshirt stood in the living room with Jonah and the girls. The room looked as if a Goodwill truck had
dumped a load in the middle of the floor. Jeans, shirts, dresses, shoes. Four black trash bags lay empty, and two more waited to be emptied.

Martha was inspecting a pale blue bra. She lost interest and slung it onto the coffee table, where its lacy straps snaked across Timothy’s math book and sent one of her paper hearts sailing to the floor.

The woman handed a black T-shirt to Rebekah. She held it up to gauge its size while Jonah pawed through a bag and dragged out a raspberry red garment. He dropped it and resumed digging, like a shopper raiding the clearance tables at a department store.

Miranda took a halting step into the room. “What’s all this?”

Rebekah looked up. “You finally woke up! See, Uncle Jack was right. You do need naps.”

“I suppose I do.” Miranda turned to the stranger. “Hello, I’m Miranda.”

“Hey, there. I’m Yvonne Walker. Jack asked me to stay with the kids a few days ago while you were in the hospital. How are you feelin’, hon?”

“Better, thanks.”

“Sorry about the mess. This stuff is from my grandkids and great-grandkids. I have more than I can sell in our yard sale, so you can take all you want.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind, but we have plenty of clothes.”

“Sure, but don’t you love hand-me-downs? At least let the girls take what they want for dress-up.” Yvonne drew a breath and rattled on. “It’s so nice that Jack’s staying with y’all. He’s a cutie, isn’t he? I hope the neighbors won’t talk.”

Miranda’s face burned. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Of course not.” Yvonne picked up a bright blue sweater. “This would fit you, you lucky duck. Must be heredity. Babies ruin some women’s bosoms, but not yours. You sure do try to hide your assets though.” She folded the sweater and placed it on the arm of the couch. “Oh, I brought magazines too. They’re in that Walmart bag. I don’t need ’em back.”

“Look what else she brought us, Mama.” Martha pointed toward the kitchen table.

The table held a canning jar filled with a bright mix of mums and alstro that Yvonne must have picked up at the grocery store.

“Thank you,” Miranda said. “What a neighborly thing to do. Nobody’s given me flowers since—”

Since Jack. He’d sent flowers weeks after Carl’s funeral.

Yvonne smiled. “Flowers are always good medicine. Well, I’d better run. Nice meeting you.” She found a path between heaps of clothing and stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Say, could you use a kitten? Let me know. Bye.”

“Bye, Miss Yvonne,” Martha yelled. “Thank you for the pretty clothes!”

“You’re welcome, baby. I’ll be back.” The door closed. Yvonne’s feet drummed across the porch. An engine started, and tires scuffed the gravel.

“I like her,” Martha said. “She’s fun.” Her eyes went round. “Mama! Did she say
kitten
?”

“I—yes—but—no, I can’t deal with that right now. Rebekah, where are Jack and Michael and Gabriel?”

“Still running errands, I guess, and Timothy’s upstairs working on his math.” Rebekah dumped out the contents of another bag and picked up a shirt. “I can’t believe how long you slept, but Uncle Jack says that’s normal for a brain injury and …”

Miranda tuned it out. Uncle Jack says this, Uncle Jack says that. He was a know-it-all who placed far too much credence in doctors and their propaganda.

Aching all over, she lowered herself into Carl’s chair and surveyed the mess. If Mason stopped by, sniffing around for rebellion, he would find it in abundance.

All the bags were open now. It was like the old days when she and the other young mothers had passed around hand-me-downs and swapped maternity clothes. But these garments were stylish. Some were bright with sequins. Some were cheerful prints; a few were black, severe, and sexy. Others were classics, like the clothes her mother had favored.

Miranda shook her head. “What’s keeping Jack and the boys? Why aren’t they home?”

“Let’s call, so you’ll stop worrying.” Rebekah fetched the phone from the kitchen, dialed a number and handed over the phone with such briskness and authority that Miranda felt like the child instead of the parent.

Jack answered with the boys laughing in the background. “We’re on our way, posthaste, and rest assured I’m not corrupting the boys any more than is absolutely necessary.”

“You’d better not—”

“Miranda, Miranda. Relax, darlin’. See you in a minute; we’re nearly home.” He hung up.

“I forgot to tell you,” Rebekah said, taking the phone. “Pastor Mason called. He said he’ll call back later or just stop by.”

Miranda’s pulse accelerated. “Did he say when?”

“No.”

“Did you tell him about my fall? Or about Uncle Jack?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“No! No, that’s fine, Rebekah.”

Martha held up jeans with yellow daisies embroidered on the hip pockets. “Look, Mama.”

“Put them back, please.” Miranda stood up too quickly, and her vision swam.

Martha obeyed, then pulled a lacy pink dress from the bag. “A party dress! I love it.”

It was nearly the same shade as a prom dress Miranda had once longed for. “You don’t need a party dress, Martha.”

“But it’s the most beautiful dress in the world. I want it, Mama.” Martha held the dress up to her chin. “I want it so bad.”

“Covetousness is wicked, sweetheart. It can lead to—to—just put it back, please.”

“I hear a car,” Rebekah said.

Miranda froze. She held her breath until she recognized the distinctive sound of the Audi. But Mason could be driving down Larkin Road, right behind Jack.

“Uncle Jack’s home!” Martha dropped the dress and ran to the door.

Jonah trotted after her, wearing a squashed cowboy hat. Far too big for him, it fell over his face. He tripped on a pile of clothing and lay there, laughing.

“Rebekah, help.” Miranda’s voice cracked. “Help me maintain order here, please. Let’s put everything back in the bags.”

On her knees in the clothing, Rebekah wasn’t listening.

Michael and Gabriel rushed in, spouting a tangled story about a car wash and a dog in the park and chocolate milkshakes. Jack followed, his hair windblown, his shirt wrinkled, and his eyes twinkling.

“Mercy me,” he said. “Where’d all this loot come from?”

“From Miss Yvonne,” Martha crowed. “I
love
Miss Yvonne!”

Jonah clambered to his feet and planted the cowboy hat higher on his forehead. Jack snatched the hat, clapped it on his own head, and scooped up Jonah.

“Nice hat,” Jack said.

Jonah giggled, retrieved the hat, and slithered to the floor.

“I love these shoes.” Rebekah wobbled across the clothing-strewn room, wearing high heels. Already tall for her age, she looked years older than ten.