Winter Birds (41 page)

“ . . . but he looked them in the eye,” Patrick is saying, “and told them he
wouldn’t
worship the ghosts of his ancestors any longer! That’s when they tied him up and ran a spear through his hand. The next day they did his other hand, and the next day they ran the spear through his heart.”

I could remind him that the martyrs, if the stories are true, will have their reward beyond the grave, if his religion is true. “Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,” I could say to him, “for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” I could remind him of other words spoken by the apostle Paul, words I have heard Patrick himself read aloud: “Having nothing, and yet possessing all things.”

I could also remind him of the large gifts of money he and Rachel have already given to the Martyrs for Jesus organization. I could tell him that the two of them cannot be expected to provide all the funds for all the projects described in the magazine: the children’s home, the supply of Bibles for new converts, the vocational training, the food, water, clothing, bicycles. Leave something for others to do, I could tell him. Don’t be greedy about your giving. Show some moderation.

But I cannot say this, for I am not supposed to know about the gifts of money. This is information I gathered surreptitiously, by looking in Patrick’s checkbook one day while he and Rachel were at church. Imagine, Patrick and Rachel praying and singing hymns while Sophie snoops through their checkbook at home.

“But a new bathroom would be nice for Rachel.” This is something I can say. And I remember something else I can say, something I read in the Bible: Besides, “‘ye have the poor always with you.’” I do not look at him, but I imagine his mouth falling open to hear me quote from the gospels.

And he agrees. “Yes, that’s true. It really is. I keep thinking of how much Rachel would enjoy it.”

An hour later Patrick is watching me take the pies from the oven. He admires them enthusiastically, exclaiming over the design of a flower I have cut into the top crusts. “You ought to go into business, Aunt Sophie!” he says.

Rachel is still across the street helping with the preparations. She has not walked in on the surprise. Teri knows about the secret of the pies. She was also the one who told me about the bathrobe Rachel had admired in a catalog, the bathrobe I will give her on her birthday. It is a summer robe, pastel green with small yellow flowers stitched along the placket of snaps in the front. Teri has wrapped it for me in white paper and a silver ribbon.

Patrick has a plan. He will come home to get the pies after we have eaten our fill of hamburgers and potato salad. He will present them to Rachel and tell her they are a gift from me. I will cut the slices, and he will serve them. For now he carries the pies to my apartment to cool so that Rachel will not see them if she happens to run home before the party. I do not ask him if he has a plan to remove the smell—the evidence of things not seen. He takes the watermelon and goes across the street to check on the progress of things, promising to come back for me at four o’clock. “You take a little breather now,” he says, “and I’ll be back to carry you across the street.”

“I would like to see that,” I say. I know, of course, that he is using the word
carry
as southerners do, to mean accompany or transport by car.

He finds great humor in my remark and is still laughing when he finally closes the door. “You are one funny lady,” he says. This is something he has said before.

I go to my recliner to take a breather. From here I can see the two pies sitting on a wire cooling rack on the round table. The Fonz and Richie Cunningham are arguing about a sum of money on the television, so I turn to the Nature Channel, where I hear a man’s voice say, “Not everything that looks like a whisker is really a whisker.” Imagine this: On July Fourth Sophie sits in her chair and learns about whiskers. She learns that porcupine quills are spiny hairs, not genuine whiskers. She learns that certain birds have bristles around their beaks that look like whiskers but are actually feathers. She learns that the long feelers of catfish are flesh, not whiskers. She learns that human beards cannot accurately be called whiskers, for they are not sensitive to touch.

True to his word, Patrick returns promptly at four to escort me to the cookout. I have put on my shoes and am ready. Several of the other guests have already arrived, he tells me excitedly, and Steve and Teri’s backyard looks beautiful. This is the word he uses—
beautiful
. At times Patrick speaks like a girl. He holds out an arm, as if he is an usher at a wedding. I take it, as if I am the grandmother of the bride, and together we make our way across the street. There are three extra cars parked in front of Steve and Teri’s house.

And this is how the cookout begins: Patrick takes me into Teri’s kitchen by way of the back door. But first we must go through the laundry room. I hear voices before I see people. I hear a woman’s voice say, “And she
lives
with you? My word, how old is she?” I hear Rachel’s voice: “Yes, she has her own room and bath. She’ll turn eighty-one in a couple of weeks.” Patrick and I stop. We do not look at each other, and neither of us says a word. Perhaps he is as stunned as I to be stumbling into such a conversation.

“Well, that sure must be a lot of fun, taking care of your husband’s
aunt
full time,” the other woman says in a tone that means it is no fun at all. “That must be like having a child underfoot.”

“Don’t forget, Catherine honey, I lived with you and Blake for a while.” This is a light, trilling voice I recognize as Helena’s friend Della Boyd.

“Yes, but that was different,” the other voice says. “You pulled your weight. You cooked and cleaned and did all sorts of things to help out.”

And then I hear Rachel’s voice again. “Oh, but I love Aunt Sophie. She’s a wonderful person. She’s part of our family.”

And then Della Boyd says, “Oh, watch out, Teri, that pitcher’s dribbling. Here, let me wipe it up for you.” I hear Teri laugh. “Oh, goodness, I hope it didn’t get in the baked beans!” From another room I hear more laughter and other voices, the voices of young people.

Patrick calls out, “Hello! Here we are! Any chance of getting something to eat around here?”

We step into the kitchen, and Rachel smiles at me. “Here, sit down, Aunt Sophie,” she says as she pulls a chair from the kitchen table. It is at that moment that I wish I had a thousand peach pies to lay at her feet. I wish I had bought her a new bathrobe for every day of the year. She turns back to the counter, where she is arranging pickles and lettuce on a platter. I stare at her back. She is wearing a white T-shirt with a picture of an American eagle on the back and
U.S.A
. printed below.

I hear her words echoing in my mind. She used the word
love
and said I was part of the family. She called me a wonderful person. This, I know, is a great exaggeration, yet I feel as if a round of fireworks has quietly exploded within me.

Steve sticks his head in the back door. “Hey, Pat, quit loafing! I could use some help out here at the grill.” He waves at me. “Hi, Aunt Sophie. Got any interesting facts to share with us today?” I think of asking him if he knows about catfish whiskers but shake my head instead. Somewhere outside I hear a shriek and then a voice I know well. Ahab has arrived. I hear the sound of Potts’ laughter.

“How you doing today, Aunt Sophie?” Teri says. She is carrying a tray of paper cups filled with pink lemonade. “Hey, somebody tell the kids to come on out back,” she says. “We’re going to get started in a minute.” From the other room I hear a Woody Woodpecker laugh, then a girl’s voice: “Just ignore him. He’s always trying to get attention.” I hear a boy’s voice: “Trying? You must be kidding. I’m just a magnet when it comes to attention. I could try
not
to attract it, but it would still come. Just like those little iron filings in science class—helpless under power like mine.” I hear laughter—a girl’s—and I wonder if it could be Mindy.

Minutes later we are gathered in the backyard, a score of disconnected souls. I stand behind Patrick, beside Rachel. I do not like crowds of people. I can sympathize with the greased pig at the church picnic. He looked up, saw a crowd of people, and keeled over from dread and fright.

It is easy to tell which ones among this crowd are parents, for their eyes seek out their children. I see Steve and Teri watching Mindy anxiously for signs that she likes having other young people around. I see Mitchell gazing down at Ahab, who is squatting on the ground digging with a stick. I see another couple I take to be Della Boyd’s family, looking across heads and settling on the faces of the other three teenagers. They are good-looking children. The older boy is wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt with a fringed cowboy vest.

I think of all the energy that goes into raising children, the expense of feeding, clothing, and sheltering them, the outpouring of love and labor, none of it lost. Not even on a child like Veronica, not even on a boy like Prince, both gone in different ways. It all counts for something, every act of love, though perhaps not measurable on this earth.

I think of birds about which I’ve read, birds that go to all lengths to protect their young, those that fight outright though greatly outsized by a predator, those that devise various ruses to draw away the enemy. I think of stories I have read of birds charred in fires, yet underneath their wings their babies survive.

Steve takes his eyes off Mindy’s face long enough to ask Patrick to say a blessing over the food. Don Armado takes a step forward and clears his throat. As he begins his prayer, I observe the nineteen people around me. People from all walks and all stages of life. Handsome and plain, tall and short, fat and thin, black and white. I hear Patrick’s words rising loftily into the blue Fourth of July sky. I feel Rachel’s presence beside me. And here is the thought that comes to me: Oh, the variety of ways to live one’s life.

Chapter 32

No Other Tribute at Thy Hands

The American kestrel, with its rust-colored back, smoky blue wings, and distinctive black markings, looks too small and too ornamental to be a predator. One of its favorite times to hunt is after a snowfall. It hovers above the snow, scanning intently for mice holes and smaller birds, then dives feet first to capture its prey
.

Having made a presentation speech on my behalf, Patrick is now holding the peach pies on a tray, the same tray that has been used since last October to deliver my meals. Though I have heard Rachel weep when talking on the telephone, this is the first time I have seen her tears. For a certainty, it is the first time I have caused her to cry. I think perhaps it is the first time anyone has ever shed tears over a peach pie.

She looks at me as if I have given her precious gems, and she cries openly and profusely. “Oh, Aunt Sophie, I can’t believe you did this for me,” she says over and over. Everyone else is sitting in Steve and Teri’s backyard observing this display. I expected gratitude, yes, but not this. The look on Patrick’s face tells me he is likewise astounded by Rachel’s effusive weeping. Teri, sitting beside her, pats her shoulder comfortingly.

“Why is Aunt Wachel cwying?” Ahab says and everyone laughs.

“Maybe she wanted cherry instead.” This comes from one of the teenagers related to Della Boyd, the one named Hardy, who is wearing the cowboy vest. There is more laughter.

“Oh no, these are called tears of joy,” Potts says.

Della Boyd, in her twittering way, says, “Isn’t it an interesting thing how tears can express so many different emotions?”

Another voice, a stage whisper: “Am I missing something? Why all the fuss over a couple of pies?”

“Or maybe she wanted apple,” Hardy says. “Or blueberry.” Besides the cowboy vest, he is wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts made of squares of colorful madras plaid. On his feet are red high-top canvas sneakers with no shoelaces. If one can overlook his garb, he is a handsome boy. He looks to be eighteen or nineteen. Mindy has been watching him closely, as if trying to figure him out.

And now Rachel rises from her chair and moves around the table toward me like a large shy child, wiping her eyes and smiling uncertainly. “I can’t believe you did this for me,” she says again. “Why, it’s the best birthday present you could have given me, Aunt Sophie. Did you know peach pie is my favorite?” She leans down and puts her arms around me. It is an awkward way to embrace, but she does not hold back. And I do not resist as she pulls me close. My head rests against her heart.

I cannot speak, but Patrick can and does. “I told her how much you liked it,” he says proudly. “I brought the peaches home. They’re especially good this year!” I expect him to expound upon the favorable weather conditions, to inform everyone that he peeled and sliced the peaches, to boast that it was his idea to present the pies as an early birthday gift at the cookout. But he doesn’t. Instead he says briskly, “Okay, we need a count of how many want pie. Aunt Sophie is going to do the slicing. We’ll serve it over here next to the ice cream so you can get both at the same time.” He carries the tray to a table and sets it down.

And still Rachel holds me. I would not think of pulling away.

In the background I hear Hardy say, “It’s what’s called a tableau in drama.”

At last Rachel lets go and steps back. “Thank you, Aunt Sophie,” she says again. “I’ll never ever forget this.”

I remember something. “Oh, you’re welcome,” I say, waving a hand in the air, “but it’s such a little thing.”

“It is not a little thing, Aunt Sophie,” she says.

“Oh, watch out, they’re going to start arguing now,” Hardy says.

Della Boyd laughs merrily. “My, there’s just nothing like fresh peach pie in the summertime, is there?” she says. “Isn’t this a treat for us all? We’re so glad you’re having a birthday tomorrow, Rachel.” And she starts singing: “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.” Others join in. Ahab, out of his chair now, is beside himself with excitement, twirling around in circles.

“Okay now, raise your hands if you want a piece,” Patrick says in his manager’s voice, and he proceeds to count out loud. “Form a line here, everybody, and we’ll get you served. I need you over here, Aunt Sophie. I’ll dip the ice cream while you cut the pie.”