Ben and I smile at Birdy’s name for “kindergarten.”
“I’m going to look for the toad in our yard tonight. Sometimes they come back to the same home.
“You can help look,” says Birdy.
Ben lifts his shoulders as if tossing something away.
“I’ll help,” he says.
“I’ll help, too,” I say.
“Can I use our flashlight at night?” Birdy asks Ben as she walks backward.
“Yes,” says Ben. “Watch out for the curb, Birdy.”
“Birdy!” says Aggie, stopping cars so we can cross.
“Aggie!” says Birdy, holding up her hand to touch Aggie’s hand.
We walk past the cemetery. Past the library and the bakery.
“Miss Skylark was right,” Ben says quietly.
I look sideways at him.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice calm and clear like Miss Skylark’s voice.
I nod. I can’t find words to say.
Ben holds his hand out and we link fingers the way we did years ago when we were very little.
We have a pact, Ben and I.
Miss Skylark is right—
It doesn’t matter.
5.
Secrets and Toads
It’s night. Birdy holds the flashlight. Ben and I help hunt for the toad and his home.
Mother opens the back door, turning on the porch light.
“What are you doing out there?” she calls.
“Toad hunting!” calls Birdy. “Come help!”
Mother doesn’t answer at first. She watches the flashlight in the darkness. I see her smile in the porch light.
“Happy hunting!” she calls, then closes the door.
Suddenly Birdy shouts. She is on her stomach, the flashlight shining on a stump at the edge of the woods.
“Look! I made a moss walkway to the hole in this stump,” says Birdy. “And I put a bowl for water outside.”
“You did all that?!” asks Ben.
“Last year when I was just a kid,” says Birdy.
She looks up at us.
“See inside?”
Ben and I kneel down in the damp grass.
I catch my breath.
The flashlight shines on the red eyes of a toad, peering out. We can see his leaf green and brown body.
“My toad!” says Birdy, sounding like she might cry with happiness.
“My toad,” she says more softly.
I feel like I might cry, too, at the joy of Birdy’s voice.
Ben lies down in the grass next to Birdy. I lie down beside them. And we stay there until we shiver in the cool, damp grass.
The toad tires of us and backs into his safe, warm stump home.
Birdy comes into my bedroom after her shower. Her damp, light hair curls around her neck.
“Birdy, I have another tube for you to spit in.”
“I get to spit again?!” asks Birdy, excited.
“Yep,” says Ben.
He looks sideways at me.
“It’s a secret, Birdy,” he says carefully.
Another secret.
“Where’s the tube?” asks Birdy. “I like spitting.” Ben hands her the tube. She spits.
“I won’t tell the secret,” she says.
She thinks for a moment.
“Who do I not tell?” she asks very seriously.
Ben sighs. “It’s all right, Birdy. The secret is for the three of us.”
“Okay!” says Birdy.
She turns at the door.
“I love you two,” she says quickly. Then she is out the door on her way down the hall to bed.
“We love you, too!” calls Ben after her.
Then it’s quiet again. I know Ben is thinking of Birdy. Thinking of sending off a new secret search.
“You’re feeling guilty,” I say.
Ben shakes his head. “Sad,” he says.
“I’m trying to remember Miss Skylark’s words,” I say.
He looks at me.
“And this may all be a mistake in the end, you know,” he adds.
He starts to go out the door.
“Ben?”
He turns. “What?”
“Whatever happens—” I begin.
“Does it matter?” says Ben, finishing my sentence.
6.
Love
It’s a two-day school break for teacher meetings.
“So the teachers can talk about us,” Birdy tells us.
“I’m sure they talk about you all the time,” says Father.
We all mill around the kitchen, my mother at her alcove desk.
“What’s in Una’s View today?” I ask.
Father hands me the newspaper, open to Una’s View.
“It will interest you,” he says.
I look at the column quickly, then at my father.
“It’s about love!” I say, surprised.
“It is,” he says.
I read.
Una’s View
Let’s Talk about Love!
My story—
Love painted me
before I knew love
It painted me
on a summer day
in a field of wild blooms.
I didn’t see the painter
painting a copse of trees
high above me—
but he turned and painted me
alone—
not yet knowing love.
The painting is beautiful.
And because of the painter
I am now beautiful, too.
—Una Rossi
I stare at Mother. She’s written a poem! Not a regular column.
“I wanted a new topic,” she says.
“But is this true?!” I ask.
“Yes,” says my father, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I was the painter.”
He sees my surprised look.
“I was a painter once,” he says softly.
“It’s a poem you wrote!” I say.
Mother shakes her head. She pulls her hair back tightly with combs.
“I don’t write poetry anymore, remember? It’s more of a scrambled essay,” she says.
Father shakes his head, more to himself than to Mother.
“Where’s the painting?” asks Birdy suddenly. “Why isn’t it hanging up?”
“Good question, Birdy,” says Ben.
“I think your mother is shy about some things—like hanging her portrait on our house walls,” says Father.
Ben smiles a bit.
“But, Mom,” he says, “you did write a very personal poem—or essay—about falling in love.”
Father sits down at the kitchen table and looks over at Mother.
“Ben’s right, Una,” he says.
“Where is the painting?” Birdy repeats. “Mother wrote that it’s beautiful.”
“I don’t think . . .” Mother begins. She looks over at Father.
“Oh, all right, Geo,” she says, giving up.
Father gets up and goes to their bedroom. He comes back carrying a frame. He turns it around for us to see.
“Oh! That is beautiful!” I say.
The painting is Mother alone in a field filled with wild blooms, her hair around her shoulders.
“We were married in that field, your mother and I,” says Father, remembering. “With a friend of mine, and Mother’s best friend, Linnea.”
“Linnea,” says Birdy. “A beautiful name. Like the beautiful painting.”
Father and Mother quickly look at each other, then away again.
“Did someone take pictures of your wedding?” asks Birdy.
“Maybe stashed somewhere—Geo and I will look for them one day,” says Mother.
“I want the painting in my room!” says Birdy, excited. “Can we hang it on my wall?”
She looks at Mother.
“You won’t be shy about it hanging in my room, will you?” asks Birdy.
Mother gets up and puts
her arms around Birdy.
“No. I won’t be shy. And every time I come to say goodnight I can see how beautiful the painting is.”
“And you can see how I painted you into my life,” says Father softly.
He picks Mother up, gently turning her around and around and around in his arms. She slips down, her hair combs falling to the floor, her hair around her shoulders like in the painting.
“Are they dancing?” Birdy whispers.
“Sort of,” I say.
“There’s no music,” whispers Birdy.
“They don’t seem to need music,” Ben whispers back.
“They’re loving each other,” says Birdy, smiling.
And they dance around and around again.
I beckon to Birdy and Ben and we walk down the hall to our rooms—leaving Mother and Father alone—leaving Mother and Father “loving each other,” in Birdy’s words.
7.
Tillie
It’s morning. I knock on Birdy’s door.
“What?” she calls.
“Mother’s making pancakes,” I say.
I turn the doorknob. It’s locked. I wait until Birdy unlocks the door and slides out, quickly shutting the door again.
“Are you up to something?” I ask.
“Maybe,” says Birdy.
This makes me smile.
In the kitchen, Mother is happy, flipping pancakes and dancing to the table! She reminds me of Birdy skipping to school.
“What happened here?” I ask.
“Love did it,” says Ben. “Her column had a ‘high tide’ of responses.”
He has a plate of pancakes.
“Look at my computer, Nora!” says Mother. “‘Let’s Talk about Love’!”
She puts a tall stack of pancakes on the table with a flourish. She goes back to the stove.
“Thanks, Una. I think we have plenty,” says Father.
Across the table Ben stretches up to look over the stack.
“You think?” he says, grinning.
I read Mother’s responses.
Yesterday an artist painted me on my horse
and I fell off.
He kissed me.
I plan to fall off my horse again today.
And tomorrow.
It’s Love.
—Ella
My wife chased me when we were children. It seemed fruitless to keep running.
—Married forever.
—Bud
I met my husband in the backseat of the car driving us to preschool. We held hands between our car seats. We have never stopped.
—Rose
I found my dog Lulu in a field, just like yours!
It is hard to paint how much I love her.
—Jess
A wonderful poem that tells us much about love. And much about you. Thank you!
—Sheldon
I tried not to love my baby sister.
But I can’t help it.
—Timmy
I’m a painter.
Where’s the field?!
—Joe Z.
“I know Joe Z.,” says Father. “Joe’s one of my painting students.”
Mother laughs. “You made that up, Geo.”
“Nope. My painting student Joe Z. is looking for love.”
I scroll down on dozens of responses.
“There are many responses about love,” I tell Mother.
“All kinds of love,” says Father. “One of my students loves his pet rabbit so much he brought it to college with him.”
“Falling off a horse for love!” says Ben.
“And a loved dog found in a field of blooms,” I say.
“Have you kissed again today?” asks Birdy, making Father smile.
“I will hug today,” he says.
He gets up.
“I’m going off to plague my art students,” he says. “It’s the day they show their photographs. I have a quote for them to think about.”
“What’s the quote?” asks Ben.
“The quote is from the photographer Diane Arbus. About photographs.”
He puts it next to Ben’s plate to read.
“A picture is a secret about a secret, the more it tells you, the less you know,” Ben reads out loud.
I look up at Father.
“I don’t know what that means,” I say.
“Neither will my students,” he says. “But it will make them think.”
“I have a secret myself!!” blurts Birdy suddenly.
Ben’s fork clatters to his plate, a startled look on his face. I think about the secret spit Ben sent to be tested.
“Want to tell us?” asks Mother.
“I’ll show you!!”
Birdy runs to her room. She comes back with a kitten in her arms. I know what Birdy was hiding behind her door. The kitten is gray with white paws and face.
“My secret,” Birdy says. “Can I keep her? I’ve already named her.”
Birdy looks at Mother and Father.
“You’re not mad, are you? Mad that I have a secret? You’ve had a secret, I bet. Lots of people have secrets, my teacher says.”
Father looks at Mother. She is smiling.
“What’s her name?” asks Father. He takes the kitten in his arms and holds her under his chin.
“Tillie,” Birdy says happily, knowing that Tillie is hers to keep. “My friend Milo—across the street? The one who plays kick the can with me—his mother said to make sure to check with you before I keep her.”
Tillie puts a tiny white paw up to my father’s cheek.
“Tillie girl,” he whispers, and he hands her to Mother. Mother holds her cuddled in her arms.
“I once had a gray cat named Mitzi,” she says.
She hands Tillie to me. Tillie yawns and curls up in my lap, her body warm.
“Now, I have two very important things to say, and then I’m leaving for class,” says Father.
“What?” asks Birdy.
“First, buy a litter box for Tillie soon,” he says. “The second important thing is that I will now hug you all goodbye.”
And he does—Birdy and Ben and me.
And when he hugs Mother he slips a sparkling jeweled comb out of her hair and we see him put it in his pocket.
Birdy puts her hand over her mouth and points.
Mother’s hair tumbles to her shoulders. She is becoming the woman in his painting.
8.
Beautiful Sense
It’s Saturday morning. We are surprised to find Father painting on the sun porch—a canvas of colors over colors.
“You’re not in your studio,” I say.
“I like the morning light here,” he says, still painting in light strokes.
“Where’s your dead tree?” asks Ben, looking out the window.
“I’ve been working on it inside. Out of the rain. I’ll bring it out later to surprise you.”
“What is that?” asks Birdy, pointing to his painting.
“I don’t know yet,” says Father.
“Aren’t you supposed to know?” asks Birdy.
Father nods. “I’ll know when I’m finished.”
“Like finishing a book,” says Birdy.
Father smiles and paints.
“And like my poetry,” says Mother. “I never know what I’m really saying until I get to the end.”
“That makes beautiful sense,” says Ben.
Father looks quickly at Ben.
“Do you mind that we’re talking while you paint?” Birdy asks.
“Not now,” he says. “I’m almost done.”
He steps back, holding his brush. He paints again.
“There,” he says to himself.
And when we look up at the painting of color there is a bird flying out of the painting into a sky we can’t see.
“Miss Skylark once said it’s heroic to make something beautiful out of a blank page,” I say. “With art or words.”
“Beautiful sense,” says Ben as if he likes saying it.
Father steps back to look at his painting. He smiles.
“I’m liking painting again,” he says, looking surprised. “That bird just flew in and out of my painting.”
“Like the words in a poem,” says Mother thoughtfully.
“Maybe I’ll like writing poetry again, too.”
“Beautiful sense, Una,” says Father.
We leave Father with his painting and walk to the vegetable market. I pull the shopping cart behind me for Tillie’s litter box and litter. Mother carries an armful of flowers, yellow and white.
“A cemetery worker gave me a vase left behind—he’ll water the flowers for me,” says Mother.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“He’s been there a long time,” says Mother.
“You too,” says Ben.
“What’s her name?” asks Birdy. “Your friend.”
Mother doesn’t answer but opens the gate.
“You want to walk ahead to the market? Or wait for me?” she asks.
“Wait,” says Birdy.
And Mother goes inside.
I take out a small notebook to write a list.
“What do we want to buy at the market?” I ask.
“Vegetables!” Birdy and Ben say at the same time.
“Of course,” Ben says to Birdy. “That’s all you eat!”
They make up a verse together.
Tomatoes
Carrots
Squash and dill.
Corn and lettuce,
Eat your fill!!
After a while Mother comes out of the cemetery, waving to the caretaker.
We all walk away to the market, Birdy skipping all the way, singing the verse—
Tomatoes
Carrots
Squash and dill.
Corn and lettuce,
Eat your fill!!
“Where did that come from?” asks Mother.
“Birdy and Ben made it up,” I say. “They’re kind of a pair, don’t you think?”
Mother nods.
“I’d say you and Ben are a pair, too. He knows what you’re thinking most times.”
“And I know everything he thinks,” I say.
“In the way of twins,” says Mother.
“I like that—‘in the way of twins,’” I say.
“Twins know each other. When you were toddlers you and Ben knew things about each other that Geo and I didn’t know,” says Mother.
Ben comes over and takes the shopping cart from me.
“I know you’re tired of pulling this along,” he says. “I’ll take over.”
A Secret Shared Page 2