Winter Birds (34 page)

Patrick stands on a platform of the small chapel inside Wagner’s Mortuary for his reading. He is wearing a dark suit, a white shirt, and a tie with gray and red stripes. His shoes are shined, and his hair, thinning on top, appears to have been treated with some of his grandfather’s Magic Hair Tonic and combed wetly to one side. He holds the Bible aloft, a large black one, and speaks importantly, as if addressing the United States Senate. As he reads, I think of another verse in the book of Revelation: “And I heard the voice of harpers harping with their harps.”

Perhaps Steve intended for Patrick to read a brief passage. If so, he should have told him. On and on he reads, not bothering to omit parts that offer no comfort. He reads of murderers and whoremongers and idolaters, all of whom “‘shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire.’” He reads of “‘seven vials full of the seven last plagues’” and of the length and breadth and height of Jerusalem.

But he also reads of the fountain of the water of life, of twelve gates of twelve pearls, of trees with healing in their leaves. At last he finishes: “‘Behold, I come quickly: blessed is he that keepeth the sayings of the prophecy of this book.’” He stops and bows his head, as if preparing to pray, or as if allowing time for others to stifle the urge to applaud, and after a brief silent moment he dismounts the platform and takes his seat beside Rachel and me on the third row.

The funeral ends, the coffin is left behind at the graveyard, and we return to Edison Street, where Rachel and Patrick open the doors of their home to Steve and Teri for a family dinner. It is nearly five o’clock in the afternoon. Besides Teri’s parents and Steve’s father, the only other out-of-town relatives are Teri’s sister and her aunt Helena from Yazoo City, whom I remember from Christmas dinner. Helena’s friend Della Boyd, strangely quiet today, is with her. I can’t help wondering if the family turnout would have been larger had Veronica been a normal child.

I think about the headstone Steve and Teri have chosen for Veronica’s grave. It is “on order,” I have heard them say. The one they selected features an engraving of a lamb and the words “A little child shall lead them.” I think about the fact that no one will know from looking at the headstone on Veronica’s grave that she was deficient in any way. Death equalizes all children in a cemetery. A bystander may see the stone, may take note of her beautiful name, of the four short years of her life, and may think, “How sad—such a sweet young child plucked from the vine, denied a full and fruitful life.” He will have no way of knowing that she could not laugh, hold a spoon, or run into her mother’s arms. This little child could lead no one. She was denied a full and fruitful life from the day she was born.

A few friends have been invited for the dinner, also—one of Steve’s co-workers at the catfish plant, two of the therapists who had worked with Veronica, a former neighbor from the trailer park. Patrick has taken the afternoon off work for Veronica’s funeral, and Potts also attends.

Steve and Potts have become friends over the past few months, ever since discovering that they share two interests: guitar and chess. Some nights they get together to play their guitars and sing. For many weeks they have had two running chess games in progress—one at Steve and Teri’s house and one at Potts’. I have heard Teri tease Steve about something she read in a magazine. People who play too much chess, she said, often “go off the deep end.” She cited a story about a former world chess champion who became convinced that people were trying to frame him for crimes he didn’t commit. Walking down the street, he would whirl around and accuse total strangers of following him in hopes of collecting samples of his DNA. I doubt that there will be much singing or many chess games in Steve and Teri’s house for some time. I doubt that Teri will be teasing Steve about going off the deep end.

Because Steve and Teri have been visiting the church where Patrick and Rachel are members, the women’s Sunday school class has prepared food, many platters and bowls of it, and have brought them to Rachel’s kitchen. During the funeral two of the church women came to set up extra folding tables and chairs in the living room, to lay out plates, glasses, silverware, and napkins for fifteen or twenty people.

When we arrive home from the cemetery, all is in readiness. Patrick hurries ahead so he can stand at the front door and direct the guests to gather in the kitchen. Averse to being part of a herd, I prefer to wait in the car until the others have gone in. Rachel waits with me and then accompanies me slowly along the front path marked by large paving stones, which is Patrick’s idea of a sidewalk. She is at my elbow as I mount the three steps to the front door.

The food is arranged on the kitchen table. After everyone is assembled in the kitchen, Patrick thanks the church ladies for their help, then announces that after prayer the guests may serve their plates and sit anywhere they like in the dining room or living room.

Instead of the men’s clothes she usually wears, Teri is dressed in a black skirt and a pale blue blouse. Whereas the men’s clothes hide her body, the skirt and blouse reveal the fact that she has put on weight. The skirt puckers at the waist, is tight around the hips. Steve is solicitous of her, standing behind her like a wall during Patrick’s speech and prayer, his large hands on her shoulders. Teri’s eyes, void and unfocused, look like the eyes of a blind person.

Mindy stands behind her parents, staring at the floor, a small crease between her eyes. I wonder if her mind is here in Rachel’s kitchen or if it is in a cell in the county jail. I wonder how Veronica’s death has touched her, if it has drawn her heart to her family. Nothing has been said about the resuming of our daily lessons. I wonder if after this week Teri will take up her duty of guarding Mindy during the day or if she will give it up as a game for which she has forgotten the rules.

When a woman loses a child, does grief sap her love for a remaining child? Or does her love for that child double? And when a woman loses two children at the same time, where does all that love go? These are the thoughts that circle through my mind as Patrick begins his prayer.

Today Mindy wears a short black knit dress that clings to her body, her hip bones visible. Having never been thin, I try to imagine what it would feel like to live inside such a body. Her long blond hair is pulled back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, but shorter ragged strands hang loose around her face. She wears no makeup, no jewelry except for a brown leather strap around one wrist. There are hollows under her eyes and cheekbones. Still, she is beautiful.

As Patrick prays, I look at the other people standing in Rachel’s kitchen. Teri’s parents are standing beside her. She and her mother, who is wearing a childish-looking dress with a large white Pilgrim collar, are holding hands. Her father has a full head of gray hair and a gray beard, which he strokes absentmindedly. His eyes have the hard look of someone brooding over a misfortune. They are not closed.

Teri’s aunt Helena is wearing a brown hat on her head. It is an old-fashioned hat with several long brown feathers sprouting from the band on one side. Della Boyd’s hair looks as if small animals have been nesting in it, but she is dressed neatly in a dark blue dress with a large, floppy red flower pinned at the neck. Teri’s sister has a fleshy cheerful face that looks out of place among a group of mourners. She is wearing a large flowing dress in a floral print and long twisted strands of turquoise beads. Her eyes have the innocent look of someone not attuned to reality, perhaps of an adult child still dependent on her parents. But perhaps I am reading too much into people’s eyes today.

I have studied everyone before Patrick has finished praying. There is not a distinguished-looking person among them. Potts is wearing the same maroon sport coat he wore when he came for Christmas dinner. Perhaps he looks at me and says, “Aunt Sophie is wearing the same sweater and the same bird pin she wore at Christmas dinner.” I am wearing a different dress, however, and for the first time in many months I am wearing shoes instead of bedroom slippers.

But of what importance are the things one wears on his body? I look at Rachel standing beside me. No denim jeans today, no T-shirt or sweat shirt, no brown bathrobe. Her dress is of a dark green crinkly fabric with a high ruffle about the neck, which hides the fading bruise from the ides of March incident. It is the dress Patrick gave her for Christmas. Some women would look pretty in such a dress, but an objective eye would note that Rachel does not. Mine is not an objective eye, however.

“And so, as we gather ourselves to partake of this food so lovingly prepared,” Patrick says, “we thank you, our wise and loving father, for being in our midst, for ministering to our grieving hearts with the salve of your merciful kindness.”

There is no telling how long he could go on in this vein, but a bird interrupts him. It is not a bird I can identify by name. It flies at the kitchen window over the sink, near where Rachel and I are standing. It strikes the pane with its long hard bill, then retreats to the bush beneath the window. Almost immediately it launches a second attack. The noise is a loud
thunk
, like that of a stone thrown at the window. Several others open their eyes to search out the source of the sound, and even Patrick halts momentarily, as if wondering whether to stop or keep going. After the fourth thump, he closes his prayer. By now everyone else is staring at the window.

Again the bird comes, this time stopping before he collides, raising and spreading his claws before him, fluttering his wings wildly as if in warning. Then once again he charges at the window with his sharp bill. He falls back again, disappearing within the bush, but seconds later he is back at the window.

Della Boyd clucks her tongue and says, “Well, look at that. The poor thing must think his reflection is another bird.”

Teri’s sister emits a little snort of laughter. “We had a cat once that would paw at hisself in the mirror. Remember, Mama?” Her mother nods sadly.

“Or maybe he’s just trying to get our attention,” says Patrick. “Maybe he’s trying to warn us about something.” This is typical of Patrick’s attempts at humor, weak and ill-timed. Yes, I want to say, maybe the bird is warning us that there’s a fool in our midst.

“Maybe he’s telling us the food is getting cold,” says Teri’s sister. Perhaps she and Patrick will sit at a table together so they can try to match wits. I would guess the two of them to be a close match.

“Come on, everybody, please take a plate and get something to eat.” This is from Rachel. She moves up behind Steve and Teri and nudges them to go first. The honor of going first at a dinner like this belongs to those who are hurting most. I think of the habits and instincts that will die hard for Steve and Teri. I think of their eating a meal, turning often to the space between them, ready to wipe a mouth or offer a bite and then remembering that Veronica is gone. I think of Teri waking in the mornings, having no one to bathe and dress, no therapy schedule to keep. I think of her sitting on the edge of her bed for a long time, wondering how to fill all the hours stretched out ahead of her.

Everyone slowly migrates toward the table, but I move closer to the window. I see the bird nestled among the branches of the bush, his eyes darting here and there, alert for danger from above. He looks plump, his gray-brown feathers ruffled from the frightening encounters at the windowpane.

You, sir, are not the most intelligent of your species, I think. Your fears are of your own making. While you fight with a phantom enemy, your little ones might be starving. Come, leave your hiding place and do something useful.

“Aunt Sophie, can I get you a plate of food?” Rachel is beside me again.

No need to tell what food she puts on my plate, where I sit, what I hear. It is a funeral supper. That is enough. When someone dies, the living gather to eat, to keep themselves alive a little longer. This much I will say: As I eat, someone asks, “Did I tell you LaDonna is having
ten
bridesmaids at her wedding?” And someone else says, “I think showy weddings are tacky.” I hear someone laugh.

A funeral, a wedding, tears, laughter—a single day may hold them all. “The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.” I can quote three lines from
All’s Well That Ends Well
, one being these words spoken by an unnamed character and another spoken by Helena as part of a riddle: “’Tis but the shadow of a wife you see, the name, and not the thing.”

I do not agree with Shakespeare’s title, that all is made well by a good ending. Suffering cannot be waved aside by a moment of relief. I do agree, however, that our lives are of a mingled yarn. And I know that a wife may be such in name only. The third line I recall from the play is spoken by an old man, who says, “Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon.” There is much in life to make one weep, yet with practice one may learn to postpone his tears, sometimes indefinitely.

During the dinner Patrick scampers about refilling glasses, removing empty plates, entreating everyone to go back for seconds, offering desserts. Rachel brings me a plate with a slice of lemon icebox pie on it, and I eat it slowly. Steve’s father makes the mistake of asking Patrick what kind of work he does, and Patrick pulls up a chair beside him to deliver a speech of which he never tires: My Life as Manager of the Main Office Supply. Once again I hear the voice of harpers harping with their harps.

At last the meal is finished. The church ladies have packaged the leftovers and washed the dishes. Teri’s parents and sister, who live less than an hour away in Rolling Fork, head home, and Steve’s father, who is spending the night, walks across the street with Mindy. Helena and Della Boyd get in their car to return to Yazoo City. Everyone is gone except Steve, Teri, and Potts. They are standing by the front door, preparing to leave. It is after seven o’clock and is growing dark outside.

“This time next week it’ll still be daylight,” Patrick says. “We set our clocks ahead this weekend, you know.” This hardly seems like a fitting remark for the end of such a day, but no one points it out. Steve is even polite enough to express his approval of Daylight Savings Time. “I like the extra time after supper,” he says. The concept of extra time is a fallacy, but no one points this out, either.