When Sparrows Fall (28 page)

On the kitchen table, Jack found the dry crust of a sandwich he’d abandoned on one of his earlier trips. He tossed the crust onto the patio for the birds and dropped the Guinness bottles in the recycling bin. After he’d rounded up some of his belongings and loaded them into the car, he returned to the kitchen and looked out the window to check on the boys.

A brisk breeze blew a scrap of paper across the bricks of the patio. Half a dozen birds flew in, so lightweight that they could have been paper scraps too, and started fighting over the bread.

Jack’s phone rang. The Gilberts’ number. Jack had forgotten he’d left a message.

“Hello, this is Jack Hanford.”

“Terry Gilbert, returning your call. I understand you’re Miranda’s brother-in-law?” The man didn’t sound especially friendly.

Jack plunged into an explanation of who he was and why he’d made Miranda his business. “Michael tells me your family left Mason Chandler’s church,” he added. “Could you give me your honest opinion of it?”

Gilbert’s dry laugh spoke volumes. “Do you have a few hours?”

“I have as much time as you want to give me.”

“I can give you the short version.”

“Please, go ahead.” Jack sat at the table. Waiting for his caller to speak, he ran his thumb along a crack in the table’s surface. It held multicolored glitter and a faint trace of orange Play-Doh, remnants of the days when his other niece and nephews had come to visit him and Ava.

“Mason’s a control freak,” Gilbert said. “When my wife and I disagreed with him about a few things, he said we had bitter, rebellious spirits. We were harboring secret sin. I think our worst sin was that we’d checked our minds at the door when we joined the church.”

“You’d say it’s a church, then. Not a cult.”

“That’s a hard call. You’re treated like a child, so you act like one. You can’t speak up. You’re not worthy to think your own thoughts. You just shuffle along with the herd because if you don’t, you might get booted out. Or shunned.”

“I think that’s what happened to Miranda, a couple of years ago. Rebekah said she was made a pariah.”

“I don’t know about that. It must have happened after we left. Once you’re out, you don’t get any news.”

“What made you leave? What was the last straw?”

Gilbert didn’t hesitate. “Terrible child-training advice from a man who’s never had children. He thinks parenting is all about control. My wife and I are still homeschooling, but we’ve gone back to what it’s supposed to be about. Individuality. Independence. Learning.”

“Excellent. Miranda needs friends like you. And her kids miss your kids. If I can talk her into calling, would your wife be willing to chat?”

“I’m afraid Miranda will try to drag us back into the church.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. Mason has a way of getting his claws into people.”

“Have you found another church?”

“No way. Not even interested. I can’t sit there and listen to somebody telling me what to believe. They’re all wolves in sheep’s clothing.”

“Come, now. Most members of the clergy are trustworthy.”

“Believe that if you want, but I’m done. Good luck.”

Before Jack could respond, the connection went dead.

Pocketing his phone, he blew out a sharp breath. All those questions he’d asked Miranda weeks ago might have stirred up her doubts, leaving her vulnerable to the cynicism that had infected Terry Gilbert’s wounds.

Sick at heart, Jack rose and went to the window. On the patio, the birds scrapped over the bread crust. It was almost as big as they were. One bully kept dragging it away, hogging it.

Dappled things. Finches’ wings
. Fragments of the Hopkins poem beat in Jack’s head. The birds were sparrows, though, not finches.

Four sparrows out in the open. Two under a table. One on the back of a chair. One sparrow flew away. Two new ones soared in. No, three. He couldn’t keep up. God could count grains of sand and stars in the sky, every leaf on every tree that had ever grown on every continent, but Jack couldn’t keep track of a handful of sparrows.

In his imagination, he heard Thomas Dean.
Keep countin’ noses
, the deputy had drawled.

Jack counted two squirrels. One crow.

The boys—where were they?

He hit the back door at a run, scattering sparrows to the sky. No sign of the archangels. No voices. Just the brown, dead lawn.

He tore around the side of the house, shouting the boys’ names. How would he explain to Miranda that he’d lost two of her children?

“Uncle Jack, Uncle Jack! We found a snake hole!”

Michael’s voice. The boys raced around the corner and across the grass, their faces flushed.

Jack sagged against the nearest tree trunk and offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. “Great. Always happy to hear about snake holes.”

The archangels’ polo shirts had come untucked. Dirt disguised their freckles. Their jeans bore grass stains and mud. Gabriel’s shoes dragged untied laces. Both boys looked entirely disreputable, like small, blond Huckleberry Finns in search of trouble. Jack had never been quite so fond of them.

“Let’s go to your school now,” Gabriel said. “I wanna see it.”

“Sure,” Jack said. But he wouldn’t let them out of his sight.

He was beginning to understand why a parent might want to control a child. When you kept a child under your thumb, you weren’t as likely to lose him. It probably worked for adults too.

twenty

M
iranda checked the clock on the living room wall. She might have a few hours before Jack and the archangels returned from Chattanooga.

Archangels? She’d picked up Jack’s nickname for the boys.

In the backyard, Rebekah pinned the freshly laundered cuddle-quilt to the clothesline, where it would sweeten in the sunshine. Another load tumbled in the dryer. Other chores had gone by the wayside, but at least Rebekah had started the laundry.

Had
started
it. Wouldn’t necessarily finish it, judging by the way she kept losing herself in her latest library book.

As Miranda walked into the kitchen, Rebekah raced inside, picked up her paperback from the coffee table, and plopped down on the couch. She’d plowed through
Jane Eyre
, then
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
. Now she’d started
A Little Princess: The Story of Sara Crewe
. Funny how she’d started with the hardest and had worked her way down to a slender, easier-reading book.

“Mama,” Martha called down the stairs. “Can I play bride?”

That would be a big, messy production, but Miranda was inclined to be indulgent. Martha had been terribly disappointed when Jack denied her plea to join him for the long ride in his pretty car. And it would keep her busy, giving her mother more time to work her scheme.

“Yes, you may play bride,” Miranda said.

“Where’s my veil?”

“Rebekah, would you mind getting it down for her? I’m afraid to try it. The ribs … the shoulder …”

Rebekah furrowed her brow and turned a page. “If she’s a pretend bride, why can’t she have a pretend veil?”

“When you were four, you wanted real lace too. It’s in my closet, on the top shelf by the door. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Rebekah tucked the book under her arm and went off to find the dingy curtain panel that she had once used for dress up. She emerged from the bedroom with the lace draped over her arm and took both it and the book upstairs.

After five minutes, she still hadn’t come back. No doubt she wanted to disappear for a while so her mother couldn’t make any more demands on her.

Timothy was already upstairs; Jonah was the only one within earshot. Still, Miranda savored the freedom of using her “new” cordless phone, a replacement for the plug-in phone Gabriel destroyed when he was four. Carl had never seen the need to slip away from the family for a private phone call, but he’d never planned to blow up his pastor’s life either.

While Martha’s unique version of the wedding march floated down the stairs, Miranda took a few minutes to collect her thoughts. She’d been fasting and praying, but now it was time to act.

She sat at the table with the phone and the church contact list. She intended to reach every woman on the list. Except Abigail and the elders’ wives. They were too risky.

The married women might or might not convey their doubts to their husbands; that was out of Miranda’s hands. And she could do nothing about the
single men because she couldn’t think of a good excuse for calling them. She had the perfect pretext for chatting with the women though.

Miranda decided to start with one of the chattiest, friendliest people. Lenore Schwartz.

Lenore answered on the first ring. “Where have you been, girl? It’s been weeks since you’ve been in church. I don’t care how many children you have, the chickenpox can’t last
that
long.”

“About the time the last one was past being contagious, I took a tumble and—and got a little banged up.”

“Oh, honey! Are you all right?”

“I’m doing fine, thanks. Say, do you ever share your recipe for three-bean soup? Mine never comes out like yours does.”

“Oh, sure. I know it by heart. It was Ronnie’s favorite, God rest his soul. You have a pen and paper handy?”

“Yes,” Miranda said, though she planned to use the pen only to check off names.

“You take three-quarters of a cup of dry pinto beans …”

“Three-quarters pinto,” Miranda echoed as if she were writing it down.

“Three-quarters of a cup of garbanzos. Oh, but you might need to triple it for your family.”

“Right. Will do.”

It was a terrible time to talk about food, while her stomach begged her to end the fast, but it had to be done. Miranda pretended her way through the entire recipe, thanked Lenore, and arrived at the true purpose of the conversation.

“Have you put your house on the market yet?”

“Not quite,” Lenore said. “I had the repairs done, and I had an agent walk through and set a price, but the listing papers are still sitting here on my desk. I just can’t make myself sign.”

“Why not?” Miranda’s heart beat faster.

“I don’t know if Mason’s word from the Lord is for all of us. You know? It
doesn’t seem right, somehow, a word that covers everybody. Why, look at the LeBlancs. If the Lord led them to buy their house just six months ago, did He change His mind already?”

“Good question.”

“Now, don’t you go telling anybody I’m having doubts, Miranda. I’m just prayin’ it through.”

“Me too. I know McCabe is supposed to be a beautiful little town, but how can it be very different from Slades Creek?”

“Amen,” Lenore said. “Mason keeps saying it’s like heaven there, but honey, there’s no corner of God’s green earth that’s safe from sin.”

And Miranda had thought the woman didn’t have a lick of sense.

Upstairs, a scream rent the air. “I am
not
!”

“I need to go, Lenore. The girls are fighting.”

“That’s what girls do.” Lenore sighed. “Oh, I’ll miss my girls and my grandkids if I move.”

If
. The tiny word encouraged Miranda. Lenore remained undecided.

Before they’d finished their good-byes, Martha stomped down the stairs, spitting mad. She yanked the lace off her head, making her hair stand up with static electricity.

“Rebekah’s mean. She says I’m making too much noise.”

“Maybe you are.”

“I’m not! I’m just singing.”

“Stay down here, then, because I love to hear you sing. Let me fix your veil.”

Martha submitted to the rearranging of the lace. Miranda stepped back to admire the effect.

“There. You’re a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” Martha said, her woes forgotten. “I need a bouquet.”

“Here.” Miranda pulled the dismal remnants of Yvonne’s flowers out of the vase on the counter. The alstros had gone in the trash long ago, but the
mums were hanging on. Miranda shook the water from the stems and placed the wilted blooms in the bride’s hands.

“Ooh, pretty. And I need some other stuff.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Have fun.”

As Martha rummaged in a cupboard, Miranda checked the first name off her list. Lenore had provided the perfect question for the next call: Had God changed His mind about the beautiful house He’d led the LeBlancs to buy only six months ago?

Miranda tried to remember what Lisa LeBlanc brought to potlucks. Baked spaghetti, usually. Miranda’s children hated it, but that wouldn’t keep her from asking for the recipe.

Vaguely aware that Martha was creating more havoc than necessary, Miranda dialed Lisa’s number. If Martha wanted to destroy the house, fine. A tidy house wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things.

“Lisa? Hi, it’s Miranda. Do you have time to give me your recipe for baked spaghetti?”

“Sure, but … oh, Miranda! I’ve missed you. And you’re the only one I can talk to.”

Miranda’s heart sank. More infidelity? Another broken marriage?

“What do you need to talk about?” she asked gently, prepared to scrap her plan, at least in Lisa’s case.

“I can’t move. I just can’t.” Lisa started to cry.

Miranda had never been so happy to find a friend in such misery.