Winter Birds (16 page)

Mama mashes the potatoes with milk and margarine. You throw the greasy wrapper away.

Once, when a car passes outside, everyone looks at everyone else.

Mama says, “He won't be back for a while.”

She sets the bowls of food on the table, and the pan of biscuits golden on the top, and when she opens the oven door again you watch the chicken and pour tea from the jar, careful not to spill any, while Amy takes the glasses one by one to the table.

Mama says for you to sit down, that you have stirred the gravy half to death, and you find yourself smelling the food and feeling glad you don't have to eat it when Papa is here. For a moment everything seems peaceful and right.
Mama heaps everybody's plates. You see how she watches all of you, waiting to see if it makes you happy to have this—and even though you could not say it does, you understand she has worked hard, and wanted something better.

At last, because you are hungry, you eat. Mama eats too, chewing slowly because of the bruise. Your brothers tell her how good everything is, and you say the same thing, and so does Amy, and Mama smiles almost shyly. At last she says, “Well thank Amy too, because she sure helped. If she hadn't thought to turn off that oven, there wouldn't be a mouthful fit to eat.”

“We'd have us this big old piece of charcoal for dinner,” Duck says.

“We could of cooked one of them birds I killed at the river,” Grove says.

“Did you kill a bird?” Amy asks, and Grove nods, laughing when she shivers and says, “It makes me sick to think about it.”

“There wouldn't have been two mouthfuls to it,” Allen says. “It was this little old sparrow.”

“And him too little to lift the gun,” Mama says. “Is that why your arm is bleeding again?”

He shakes his head, waving the fork at her. “No ma'am. It started when Papa was shouting. That gun didn't do nothing.”

“Didn't do anything,” Mama says.

Through the meal you watch her. She only eats a little. The look in her eyes is like before, strange and far away, frightened now and then. She is continually staring
into the living room. When someone speaks, she listens, though nothing she hears changes any part of her expression. The more you watch her the more you feel dread yourself, and even when she tries to smile you feel afraid, though you don't know why.

Grove says, “I saw a piece of snow while we were running from Papa.”

“He means he saw a flake of snow,” Amy says.

“Amy saw it too,” Grove says.

“No I didn't.”

“You said you did.”

“No I did not. You said you saw it, and you asked me if I saw it. But I never said I saw it.”

“It fell right under your nose. Mama, is it going to snow?”

Mama looked out the window and slowly nodded. “The way it looks, it's bound to. It's cold enough on the ground.”

“I hope it snows all day long and Papa gets stuck somewhere and can't get home for a week.”

“Your Papa will get home one way or the other,” Mama says quietly. “You ought not to wish bad things on him.”

Duck says, “I hope he don't keep us awake all night again.”

Mama rubs her forehead. “Nothing we can do about it, son. If he does, he does. If he don't keep you awake, he'll keep me awake.”

“I hate him sometimes,” Duck says, but Mama lays
her hand across his mouth. Grove says if it snows he's going to make a snowman with a rifle in the front yard, so Papa will see it and be too scared to come home. Mama says for him to hush too. “Don't talk about Papa for a while,” she says.

A moment later Grove whispers, “Maybe you can make snow cream.”

Finally Mama laughs, and for a moment her face clears. “I don't have any vanilla flavoring. You can't make snow cream without that.”

“I bet Papa would get some at the store,” Grove says.

“I bet he would too,” Mama says.

IN THE
living room you watch television with your brothers, listening to Mama and Amy clear the table in the next room. From the sound of Mama's voice you can tell when she is near the table and when she is beside the sink. You can almost guess the look on her face. “Rinse them good,” Mama says, “and stack them in the sink. But don't drop any; I've been saving them dishes for the longest time.”

“The pots need to be rinsed before this stuff dries on them,” Amy says.

“Leave them to soak,” Mama says. “I'll wash them and put them away when I feel like it.” She sits in a kitchen chair, near the sink maybe, with the sweater wrapped close round her. You hear the clanging of pots in the sink, and Amy says, “I could wash them fine by myself if I could reach the durn hot water.”

“Don't say ‘durn,'” Mama says. “What would your teachers think about me if they heard you say a word like that.”

“Oh Mama, I got better sense than to say ‘durn' in front of my teacher.”

“Better not to say it at all,” Mama says, and stands in the doorway. Grove lies on the couch, head submerged in a vast pillow, a bag of ice resting against his elbow. He watches television quietly though anyone can see he doesn't like to lie still. Mama asks, “Is that ice melted, honey?” and bends to touch the bag gently.

“It feels okay,” Grove says, though without looking at her.

“There's more ice if you need it changed.”

“The cold makes it feel good,” Grove says.

“We got to take care of you, don't we?” Mama says, stroking his forehead.

“He's spoiled,” Duck says.

“I am not.”

“You are too. Allen Ray lets you shoot the BB gun more than anybody.”

“Don't talk about that stupid stuff now,” Allen says. “Mama doesn't feel like hearing it.”

“Watch TV,” Mama says. She kisses Duck's white forehead. “Is there a good movie on, or is it just football?”

“This is a western,” Duck says. “And then there's a monster movie next.”

“I want to watch that, if it's scary,” Amy says, coming to the door. “We ain't watching no stupid football.”

Moving toward the window, Mama says quietly, “I wonder why they would show a monster movie on Thanksgiving Day.”

“To give all the regular movie stars a day off,” Duck says, and Grove laughs, and Allen says, “That's so stupid.”

“I think I'm going to lie down,” Mama says.

“You probably better rest while you can,” you say.

She looks out the window again. You know she is staring at the road. For the moment the only sound is the wind. Grove lays back his head and closes his eyes. Mama checks the kitchen and kisses the top of Amy's head, for cleaning so well. Amy makes Mama hold her for a moment, and closes her eyes too. “If I could get to the shelf I'd put them away,” Amy says.

Mama strokes her hair. “Leave them where they are and go sit down. You've done plenty.”

Mama turns away again, watching the highway a long time. Allen asks her if she sees something but she says no. It rests her to look at the trees and the clouds, she says. Arms folded, she drifts to the bedroom, and Amy helps her put on her nightgown. Amy comes back a little later, closing the door.

You glimpse your mother through the doorway before it closes. She stretches out on the bed, pale as the sheets except for her dark hair. Unconscious of anyone watching, she lies like a child, curled in a tiny ball. Her face contracts as if with some nagging pain even when she closes her eyes. If you called her softly now she would hear you at once, even if you stood in the farthest corner of
the kitchen and whispered. Mama never sleeps but that she listens for the least sound.

She lies frightened as something to be sacrificed. She brings her fist up to her mouth. Even after Amy closes the door you can hear her breathing.

In the afternoon darkness closes over the house, and the wind increases. High in the trees you hear a crying of many voices, a blended choir; almost, now and then, a sob.

A car passes on the highway once, and later, a truck drives by and makes everybody's breath catch, until you whisper from the window, “It's not Papa.” Amy stands with her hand on the doorknob, ready to wake Mama at a moment's notice. All of you pretend to watch television, but you yourself listen beyond that box of noises.

Mama's breathing becomes deep and regular.

After a while you see some motion at the window and it makes you rise up in terror, you hurry to the glass expecting to see your Papa.

But snowflakes have begun to beat soft down along the world. Your whispered, “It's snowing,” is hardly needed, your brothers and Amy see what you see and crowd beside you at the window. “Oh my God,” says Amy Kay, “I can't believe my eyes.”

“Now the roads will get icy,” Duck whispers, but Amy shushes him. Everyone looks at everyone. Grove comes to the window too, propping his swollen elbow on the sill, holding the ice against the skin and watching the snow. The snow tumbles and spins, a wash of white, enormous motion across the fields, over the tops of the trees, blending sky and earth to complete whiteness like a fallen cloud. Duck presses his nose against the glass. His lips leave a print, from outside snowflakes brush against it. “I wonder if it will stick,” Allen whispers.

“It's plenty cold out there,” Grove says.

“It's cold enough in this old house for it to stick, if the snow could get inside,” Duck says.

“We should listen to the weather report,” Amy says, peering up at the eaves. “I hope it makes great big icicles.”

“Like the ones in a cave,” you say.

Grove leans his forehead against the glass. “It's all over the ground,” he says softly. “You can see it everywhere.”

“Boy, even if there was school tomorrow, we wouldn't have it,” Amy says.

“Is it snow on the highway too?”

“I can't tell.”

When you step back from the window they go on talking, and someone takes your place; no one notices you at the door. They chatter about schoolbuses sliding smack dab into ditches but you don't join in. You watch them a moment. Then you turn the front doorknob and go.

Outside the cold blast of air is a kind of fire, and hot
tongues of wind lick your skin. The snow is collecting on the porch, laces of white over the gray concrete. Wind whirls the flakes and tones hollow notes in the trees. Everywhere the clouds have thickened, the sun is a patch of paleness, not even a distinct disk. You have stood there watching it with the front door open, but now you open the screen and step out, hearing Amy say, “That crazy fool is going to turn out every bit of heat in the house.”

By then Grove has followed you. The two of you stand arm in arm in the cold. Out here you can see snowflakes miles away in the pale light, tumbling down across the whole world. In the yard the flakes hover atop the dry grass. You dream them shattering against each other, soft silent breaking all around you, though when you taste one, cold and furry on your tongue, you are glad they are too soft to break, you understand snowflakes can rest easy on each other, their touch is light.

Grove says, “It's so cold out here I don't even need an ice pack on my arm.”

“I never saw anything like this,” you say.

“I wish I could fly around in it,” Grove says.

“But even the birds don't fly around in snow,” you answer.

At the door Amy says, “What if Papa comes home now? How can we lock the door with you two fools standing on the porch?”

“Papa won't drive nowhere in this mess,” you say.

“He might. You never know with Papa.”

Grove says, “We don't want to come inside. You can lock us out here if you want to.”

She watches you, silent. You lift your hands to catch a snowflake that slowly melts in your palm, and then another, and then another, white dissolving to a tingle and a spot of water on your skin.

“The snow makes my arm feel good,” Grove tells Amy.

“The snow makes everybody feel good,” Amy answers.

“Except Mama doesn't like it much,” you say.

“Well maybe she'll like this one.” Amy steps onto the porch beside you, crossing her arms as the wind strikes her, making her squint and even drawing tears from her eyes. “It's so cold,” she says, blinking, and Grove laughs, and you say, “What did you think it was going to be?” She sticks her tongue at you. Snowflakes strike her all over, washing her hands and arms, till at last she laughs.

Across the yard you watch the crystal gathering, the whiteness spreading, and the snow falls now so thick and fast it makes you dizzy, as if the world is moving upward toward the snow and the clouds.

Snow gleams in the forks of tree branches and along the roof of the house.

Soon beyond the river somewhere the sun is setting unnoticed behind the solid clouds. Millions of flakes of crystal drink the light. Out in the woods the snow is drifting down in even sweeps across and between the trees,
collecting on the last leaves and on the ground. Beside the river the snow settles on the bank, along the bed of honeysuckle, a white lace beside the dark water. You wish you were there. Turning your face upward to let the cold flakes fall on it, you can almost imagine you are walking through a whole world of gray tree trunks and white snow, in twilight with the river beside you and the clouds piled so thick that even when darkness comes you cannot see the stars. You like the whiteness most of all. You would like to lie face down in the snow; you would like to gaze into the whiteness.

You shake your head at the cold, laughing, feeling the beats of your blood going off like a bomb, though you cannot even feel the hurt in your shoulder anymore.

“I wish we could play in it,” Grove says.

Over his hair he wears a white veil.

“If you played outside in it you'd fall down and that would be the end of all of us,” Amy says. But smiling, she finishes, “It don't hurt a thing to stand here and watch, though.”