My Name Is River

by Wendy Dunham

  Mrs. Whippoorwill smiles. “Sure, Billy. Just make me a list. There’s paper and a pencil near the phone.”

  Billy hands them to me and tells me what to write (I’ll bet his mom can’t read chicken scratch either). He says, “We’ll need sugar, suet, oatmeal, yellow cornmeal, flour, and crunchy peanut butter.” Then he puts the list by his mom’s purse.

  We head back to the birding place. As Billy pulls the wagon, one of the rusty wheels cries out screek, screek, screek. Billy laughs. “That sounds like a bird that’s having a real rotten day. Like maybe he was fighting with his brothers and sisters, and they pushed him out of the nest.”

  Now he’s got me laughing. “Or maybe he sounds like that because he stuffed too many worms in his mouth.”

  “Or maybe that’s what a bird sounds like when they’re learning to talk. ‘Mama! Dada!’ ”

  “Whatever,” I say and kick a stone off the trail.

  “Sorry, River. I didn’t mean to make you think about your parents.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not your fault. I think about them all the time, anyways.”

  When we reach our ecotone, we throw pieces of blue and yellow yarn and scraps of green material all over the place, tossing them into the wind like confetti. Some land on the branches of shrubs and trees, some near the edge of the woods, and some fall on the ground near the bird feeders and birdbath. Who knows? Maybe every bird in Birdsong will come and build a beautiful nest. I hope they do because Billy would really like that (and I think I would too).

  Since we’re ready for water, I get the rope and tie it to the bucket. I use a bowline knot that Gramp taught me. I remember him guiding my hands over the rope, saying, “The rabbit hops out of the hole, goes around the tree, and back down the hole.” It still works like magic.

  “Time to try it out,” I tell Billy, “but I’m going first” (I’m not trying to be bossy—I just think it’s too dangerous for Billy, and it’s scary enough standing at the edge of the river with two good arms, so it could be twice as scary with only one).

  I stand at the edge, dig my toes into the ground, and throw the bucket as hard and as far out into the river as I can. Then I watch it drop. It lands close to where I wanted and sinks deep into the water. I pull it up, one hand over the other, all along the length of the rope. When it reaches the top, I bend down, steadying myself with one hand, and grab the bucket with my other. But since it bumped against the cliff on the way up, it’s barely half full. “Maybe we should get the water from your house,” I say. “This is trickier than I thought.”

  Billy shakes his head. “The river’s a natural resource. It’s not chlorinated like tap water. The birds and flowers will thrive if they have it,” he says. “We need the river water.”

  “Well, the bucket idea isn’t working that great. Besides, don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

  “Not if we’re careful.”

  “Okay,” I tell him, “but I get the water, and you do the watering.”

  Billy glares at me. “You’re afraid I can’t do it, aren’t you?”

  “No,” I say feeling a little guilty for lying. “It’s just that—”

  “I know,” he says, “it’s just that I only have one arm that works, right?” He reaches for the bucket. “Give it here, River.” I want to tie a rope to his belt loop in case he falls, but mostly I want to tell him not to do it.

  He tucks the free end of the rope under his right foot and shifts his weight to secure it. Then he grabs the bucket in his left hand and throws it. But the wind has picked up and blows against us, so the bucket bangs against the cliff and gets caught on a root. He yanks it free and tries again. This time it goes a little farther and lands at the base of the cliff where the boulders are. Billy looks at me. “I’m not giving up,” he says. “I can do this.” He throws it again, and after reaching the water, it sinks fast. He pulls the rope and draws it closer. After each pull, he secures the rope under his foot. He does it over and over until it reaches the top. Then he kneels on his left knee, grabs the bucket, and brings it up over the edge. “See?”

  I look inside. It’s more than half full. “Wow, you did it.”

  He carries the bucket to the birdbath and sprinkling cans and fills them. Then when we’re watering our seeds, Pastor Henry comes back to check our progress. “You chose an excellent idea for your project,” he says. “I think it’s wonderful to make something for our community, and I’m sure Mrs. Kingfisher would have been pleased.”

  All of a sudden, Pastor Henry looks at the rope and bucket. “Is that how you’re getting water?”

  Billy nods. I don’t say a word.

  “The riverbank is too steep, Billy. I’d rather you use the wagon to transport water from the house. Understand?”

  Billy looks like he’s about to say something, probably about the river being a natural resource, but an older couple strolls over to us before he says a word.

  “Hello, Pastor Henry and Billy,” the older man says, and his wife smiles like she’d said it too. He reaches out and shakes my hand. “I’m Mr. Bunting, and this is my lovely wife.”

  “My name is River. I’m Billy’s new friend.”

  Billy tells them every detail about our project.

  “What splendid news,” says Mr. Bunting. “A perfect way to honor the Kingfishers.”

  Mrs. Bunting nods her head. “Perfect indeed. You know, I have plenty of pink and purple Carolina phlox in my garden that’s already blooming. I’ll dig up a patch to share. You’ll be happy to know the hummingbirds and butterflies absolutely adore it.” Then Mr. and Mrs. Bunting say the same thing, “See you at church tomorrow.” With that they head down the river path, holding hands.

  Pastor Henry turns to look at me. “Speaking of church, would you like to join us tomorrow morning? Service starts at eleven o’clock, but everyone comes a bit early to visit.”

  I’m not exactly sure what to say. “Ummm… Gram and I don’t go to church, but she used to. We do chores on Sundays. And she just spent a lot of money on gas moving here, so she doesn’t plan on driving for a while.”

  Pastor Henry keeps looking at me (he probably thinks I’m making up excuses, but I’m not). “I understand,” he says, “but we keep our service short because we believe in spending time with family on Sundays too. And we’d be happy to give you and your grandmother a ride. We could pick you up just before ten thirty.” Pastor Henry puts his strong hand on my shoulder and says, “I’d be happy if you’d pass the invitation on to your grandmother.”

  I tell him I will (even though there’s no chance we’ll be going).

  10

  Gram Accepts

  Gram’s bag of tools seems heavier as I carry it back home. And the walk feels longer too. When I finally get there, it’s supper time, and Gram’s pulling a steamy tuna-noodle casserole out of the oven. She’s wearing her old apron with purple violets all over it, so even though it’s not our kitchen back in Punxsutawney, it almost feels like it is.

  “My goodness, Sugar Pie, you’ve been at that river the whole livelong day. Must be some project you’re working on.” Gram sets the casserole on the table with a clunk. “I thought I’d be eating alone. Now, wash those hands and sit down to have a bite with your old gram.” Then she plops a giant scoop of tuna noodle right in the middle of my plate (maybe Mrs. Whippoorwill is a little like Gram, after all).

  I tell Gram all about our birding place, about the Kingfishers, Billy’s seed packages, our ecotone, the suet cakes and hummingbird nectar, the gazillion little Whippoorwills, Pastor Henry’s workshop, Mrs. Martin and her licking dog, Mrs. Bunting’s Carolina phlox, and about Robert—the kid with long, greasy hair who tried to intimidate Billy.

  “Well, that’s all wonderful, Sugar Pie, but I don’t like the sounds of that Robert. I gotta think a kid who tries picking on a nice boy like Billy doesn’t have both oars in the water.” Gram puts a heaping spoonful in her mouth and swallows. “Well, I can hardly wait to see that birding place. How about we walk
there after chores tomorrow?”

  “It’s about a quarter mile, Gram, so it’s too far with your leg. We’d better drive.”

  “We’re walking, Sugar Pie.” Then she gives me a wink. “My physical therapist says walking will make it stronger.”

  I swallow my tuna noodle in one big gulp and almost drop my milk. “What? You went already?”

  “I wasn’t gonna start ’til we were all settled in, but this morning I heard the wind. It told me to take a drive through town, and wouldn’t you know—I end up seeing a sign that said, ‘Birdsong Physical Therapy Welcomes You.’ So I parked Tilly on the side of the road and went right in. Come to find out, someone had just cancelled an appointment, so I grabbed it faster than a dog will lick a dish. And let me tell you, that therapist knows what he’s talking about. He’s no nincompoop, that’s for sure. He showed me all sorts of exercises that’ll make my leg strong. So tomorrow, Sugar Pie, we’re walking to that birding place.”

  I smile at Gram. “I can’t wait to show you.” Then I remember Pastor Henry’s invitation (even though she’ll say no). “Billy’s dad invited us to his church tomorrow. He’s the pastor, so everyone calls him Pastor Henry. He said he’d give us a ride.”

  “Well, that’s a nice invitation, Sugar Pie. You tell him we’ll go.”

  I can’t think of any other explanation for Gram saying yes, so I start worrying about aliens again.

  After dinner I clear the table, and Gram washes, just like we did in Punxsutawney. Then before I know it, Gram looks like she’s in ballet class and starts to relevé right in front of our kitchen sink while she’s washing the tuna-noodle casserole dish. She raises up high on her toes, then goes down flat, up high again, then down, and all the while she’s smiling like a delicate ballerina. There’s just one problem. She’s not. I’m pretty sure her physical therapist must have something to do with this (I just hope she doesn’t start wearing a tutu).

  11

  The Worrying Thing

  At exactly ten twenty-five Sunday morning, the Whippoorwills’ big white van (which is the size of a bus) pulls in our driveway. Gram and I hurry out the door (well, I hurry and Gram waddles).

  Pastor Henry rolls down his window to greet us, so I introduce Gram. “Gram, this is Pastor Henry. Pastor Henry, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Nuthatch.” And to her surprise, I do it so eloquently that she freezes, speechless (and Gram is never speechless). Then she shakes her head and whispers, “Well, I’ll be!”

  Next thing I know, Billy jumps out, opens the van door for us, and pulls it shut once we’re in (the whole while his right arm is swinging back and forth like a pendulum). I forgot to tell Gram about his arm. I wonder if she noticed.

  As Gram and I squish together in the second row of seats, we’re instantly surrounded by a flock of little Whippoorwills. Every one of them wants to sit on Gram’s lap, and she makes sure each one does (I bet Mrs. Whippoorwill already likes Gram).

  Pastor Henry’s church feels real comfortable, like a bathtub filled with warm sudsy water. And no one’s dressed up fancy. Most of the men are wearing jeans, and hardly any of the ladies are wearing dresses. But Gram and Mrs. Whippoorwill are. I’m wearing a skirt (only because Gram made me). It used to be a maxi and reached all the way to my toes. But since I’ve had it for three years or more, it’s directly at my knees. I hate wearing it, but Gram says I’m a young lady now and need to start looking like one. The only good thing about this skirt is that it’s made of denim (which is as close to a pair of jeans as Gram would let me get).

  Everybody must know everybody in Pastor Henry’s church because everybody’s giving hugs to everybody else. All the little kids are running around playing and hiding from each other, and the older ones are huddled in a group talking. Billy and I decide to sit with the grown-ups. Mrs. Whippoorwill pours Gram a cup of coffee, and then Gram lets me drink some just like she does at home.

  Pastor Henry’s church smells delicious because at the same table that has the coffeepot, there are seven very big boxes of donuts. There are all kinds—cream-filled, jelly-filled, cinnamon swirls, glazed, sugar-coated, and fried cakes (which are my favorite). And hanging right above that table is a huge picture of Jesus standing all by himself, wearing a pair of sandals and a long, white thing that looks something like a bathrobe (but not exactly). He’s holding his arms stretched out wide in front of him, so it actually looks like he’s guarding the donuts. Maybe Pastor Henry hung the picture there on purpose so no one takes more than they should, which is pretty smart. I don’t think anyone would have the guts to take more donuts than they should if Jesus is watching. I decide to take one fried cake covered with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles (I hope that’s okay with Jesus).

  Gram and I are meeting everyone in Birdsong this morning because Billy says this is what everyone in Birdsong does on Sunday mornings. They come to hang with Pastor Henry and have free coffee and donuts.

  Pretty soon the piano lady begins playing, and everyone moseys into the big part of the church, where there are beautiful stained glass windows. One of them is boarded up. Billy said someone threw a rock through it (which means Birdsong has at least one bad person). All of a sudden, I imagine Robert Killdeer holding his fishing pole in one hand, and instead of his beat-up tackle box in the other, he’s gripping a rock. I never met anyone who gave me the creeps like he does.

  Gram and I sit beside all the Whippoorwills, except for Pastor Henry, of course. He gets to stand on the stage so everyone can see him. I wonder if God can see him too.

  The benches we’re sitting on are in rows, and they’re made of wood. But at least they have red velvety cushions on them. But they’re not very thick, so you actually sink down to the wood. When I sneak a peek at Gram, she’s grinning ear to ear, looking more comfortable than ever (I guess having a big bottom like Paddles can come in handy).

  Once everybody finds a spot to sit, Pastor Henry says a prayer. “This morning, Lord, we want everything to be for you. Let our thoughts, our songs, our church, and our community be all for you. Bless our time together with your holy presence. Amen.” Then he asks everyone to stand and turn to page one hundred thirty seven in our hymnal (I figure that’s the blue book hanging on the back of the bench in front of me because everyone else is reaching for their blue book too).

  The piano lady begins a song called “It Is Well with My Soul.” Everyone joins in, even Gram. I just listen because I’ve never heard this song on the radio before, and I can’t read music any more than I can read chicken scratch.

  Then out of the blue, I start thinking about Gram’s physical therapist, so I cross my fingers and make a wish that she doesn’t start to relevé right in the middle of church while everyone’s singing about their wellness and their soul. But I must have crossed them too late, because by the second verse she’s up on her toes. “Really, Gram?” I whisper (probably a little too loud for being in church).

  Then Gram whispers back (even louder), “Don’t you worry, Sugar Pie. Nobody’s gonna notice.” So I try not to and close my eyes to concentrate on the words while everyone sings them. I try to figure out what they mean. “When peace like a river attendeth my way. When sorrows like sea billows roll. Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, ‘It is well, it is well, with my soul.’ ” Then I’m not exactly sure when it happened, but the song ended.

  Pastor Henry begins his lecture. “This morning I want to share some key points from the book of Matthew, where Jesus talks to us about worrying. He tells us not to worry about our life. Wow! Isn’t that a challenge? He tells us not to worry about the food we’ll eat, what we’ll drink, or the clothes we’ll wear. He tells us to consider the birds, to think about how they live. They don’t bother storing food for themselves because they know our heavenly Father feeds them. God provides them with food and shelter. God created birds. And he takes care of them. And since we are worth more than birds, we can be sure our heavenly Father will take care of us. Jesus also makes it clear that we cannot add a sing
le moment to our lives by worrying, so there is no sense in fretting. Therefore,” Pastor Henry tells everyone, “don’t worry! Our heavenly Father knows everything we need.”

  It sounds like Pastor Henry must like birds as much as Billy. And after hearing what Pastor Henry just read, it sounds like God probably likes birds too (he must since he goes around feeding them). And about the worrying thing, maybe I didn’t need to worry about Billy falling over the edge and into the river because it sounds like no one can make anyone’s life longer by worrying. Not even by a moment. I had no idea going to church could make you think so much.

  When church is over, Pastor Henry stands at the door and says goodbye to every single person and shakes their hand. He even knows everyone’s name. While he’s busy saying goodbye, Gram and I help Mrs. Whippoorwill and Billy clean up. We vacuum donut crumbs, wipe coffee spills, push in chairs, and then straighten all the blue songbooks (which takes quite a while because Billy says they have to be perfectly straight).

  As soon as Pastor Henry brings me and Gram home, we get right to work on our chores. They actually haven’t changed much from the ones we did back in Punxsutawney, except that I don’t have to sweep down thirteen stairs anymore. That’s because now we live in a one-story house. And now we have only one bathroom to clean (which most people would be grateful for). But honestly I’d rather clean two than have to wait all day for Gram to come out of the one we do have. Some days I think she’s fallen in and accidently flushed herself away (every now and then, I go and check to make sure she hasn’t).

  After our chores are done, Gram and I head to the birding place. We start out walking at a pretty good pace (considering Gram’s leg), when all of a sudden, she lets out a “Yee haw!” and charges down the road.

  I shout ahead, “Gram, what are you doing?”