My Name Is River

by Wendy Dunham

  She keeps galloping full speed, then yells back over her shoulder, “Just doing my exercises, Sugar Pie!” I remember Gram saying her physical therapist knows what he’s talking about, but I’m beginning to wonder. I run ahead and catch up to her when she stops galloping and begins to hop. She hops down the middle of the road the rest of the way, which is just as embarassing as her galloping.

  When we finally reach the trail, I look across the street at the Whippoorwills’ house and hope no one’s watching from their front window. But that’s not likely because with Pastor Henry, Mrs. Whippoorwill, Billy, and all six little Whippoorwills, there’s eighteen eyeballs altogether. I can only hope the entire family is sitting around the kitchen table praying with their eyes closed.

  Once we’re in the woods, Gram stops hopping and slows to a snail’s pace. She’s huffing and puffing so hard I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack right before she gets to see the birding place. But since her heart is extra big, I guess it can handle stuff like this.

  We walk along the wooded trail, and then I let Gram step out into the field first. She stands still, looks around, then takes a deep breath in, and smiles (she looks as happy as she does after she’s eaten a dozen chocolate-chip cookies dunked in milk).

  Gram keeps smiling as she looks across our ecotone. All of a sudden, her eyes stop short, and she points to the bucket and rope (I wonder if all grown-ups have something against a bucket with a rope tied to it). Gram walks over to it and looks at the riverbank and then back at me. “You’ve been getting water with this?”

  I try to remember the words Billy used… “The river’s a natural resource, Gram. It’s not chlorinated like tap water, and the birds and flowers need it to thrive.”

  Gram’s jaw drops (she’s probably impressed with how smart I’ve gotten). “That’s all well and good, Sugar Pie, but this bank is too blasted steep. I wouldn’t want to see anyone fall off the edge… cuz if they did, they’d never see the light of day.”

  “Don’t worry, Gram. Remember what Pastor Henry said this morning? We can’t make anyone’s life longer by worrying.”

  “Sugar Pie, there’s a difference between worrying and using your noggin.”

  12

  Suet Cakes

  The next morning I oversleep and miss the bus, so Gram drives me to school. At least I make it in time to hear the morning announcements and menu—spaghetti with meatballs for lunch. I check my schedule and realize I don’t have English today. For the first time in my life, I actually wish I did.

  Later at lunch, Billy spots me in the cafeteria and hurries over. “Hey, River, I’m glad I found you.” He sits across the table from me. “Want to come to my house after school? My mom went shopping and bought our ingredients, so now we can make suet cakes and hummingbird nectar.”

  Since my mouth is filled with spaghetti, I nod. Then I don’t know how he does it, but Billy opens his milk carton with one hand. When I think he’s not looking, I try opening mine one-handed but end up spilling chocolate milk all over my spaghetti, myself, the table, and the floor. Two seconds later the overhead speakers blare, “Maintenance to the cafeteria. Maintenance to the cafeteria.”

  Billy grins and shakes his head. “Nice try, but it takes years of practice.”

  I shrink to the size of a meatball and want to roll out the door.

  After school we hurry to Billy’s house. When we get there, it’s totally quiet and looks like no one’s home. Mrs. Whippoorwill has everything we need for making suet cakes and hummingbird nectar sitting on the kitchen table. There’s also a plate of chocolate-chip cookies.

  In all of the quietness, I hear Mrs. Whippoorwill tiptoe down the stairs. She comes around the corner looking like she’s just completed a marathon while carrying all her little Whippoorwills. “I just put the last one down for a nap,” she says. Even though she looks like she doesn’t have an ounce of energy left, she smiles at me, and her blue eyes sparkle. “It’s nice you could come over, River.” She makes me feel warm all over, as if the sun is shining only on me. She places her hand gently on my shoulder and says, “You’re always welcome here.” Then she takes a cookie from the plate and excuses herself. “Let me know if you need my help. I’ll be on the couch taking a quick nap.”

  I guess it’s just me and Billy cooking for the birds. I hope he knows what he’s doing because I sure don’t. Last year in Punxsutawney, I flunked home economics. Gram couldn’t believe it. Neither could I. Apparently Mrs. Hawk didn’t like the way my banana bread turned out (no one told me I had to peel the bananas). So what if it was like chewing an eraser. I still don’t think that was grounds for failure. But then again, there was also the sewing project I messed up when I had to make a skirt. I didn’t think it was a big deal that I sewed the wrong sides of the material together, but obviously Mrs. Hawk did. I tried explaining that I’d never wear the stupid skirt anyways, but that only got me an F.

  Billy arranges our ingredients in alphabetical order: cornmeal, flour, oatmeal, peanut butter, and suet (he’s way too enthusiastic). “Let’s make suet cakes first,” he says. “Step number one, we need to melt the suet.” He turns the stove on and hands me a spoon. “Here, you can stir first.”

  I move the chunk of hard, white suet around in the pan. Within minutes it starts melting, transforming into a crystal clear liquid. I wonder if this is how it feels to be a scientist. Then all of a sudden, I realize I have no idea what suet is or where it comes from, but since it looks interesting, I stick my finger in for a taste test (just like Gram would do). But before my finger reaches my lips, Billy stops me. “I wouldn’t do that—it’s not going to taste good.”

  “Oh,” I say, “right… I was just checking the temperature.” But I think Billy catches on to the fact that I have no idea what suet is.

  Then he explains so I don’t feel so dumb. “Isn’t it amazing how we can take a chunk of fat that used to surround the kidney of a cow and use it to feed birds?”

  I try staying calm and hope I don’t turn green. “It’s unbelievable,” I say (but I’m really thinking it’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard). I imagine the insides of a cow and visualize huge globs of fat packed around the kidney of a cow… which I’m pretty sure has something to do with the whole process of making pee.

  Billy looks in the pan and seems satisfied. “There,” he says. “One cup of suet completely melted. Now we need one cup of crunchy peanut butter.” Billy measures it and dumps it in. “Okay,” he says, “keep stirring.” Then he adds two cups of oatmeal, two cups of cornmeal, and one cup of flour.

  After it’s mixed, Billy steadies the rectangular cake pan on the table, and I dump the massive glob in. We press it flat with bare hands (I use two, and Billy, one). “Eeewww,” I say, cringing. “This feels disgusting. It’s greasier than earwax.”

  Billy laughs hysterically. “I’m not sure about the earwax, but the peanut butter sure makes it smell good. The birds are going to love this!”

  Once it’s flat, Billy puts it in the fridge to cool and harden.

  Next we make the hummingbird nectar. Billy starts by pouring four cups of water into a pan. Once it’s boiling, he adds one cup of sugar. I stir until it dissolves. I scoop a little onto a teaspoon and blow on it. Since I’m absolutely sure it’s only sugar and water (without an ounce of kidney fat), I bring it to my lips and sip. It tastes like liquid cotton candy.

  “Want to hear something interesting?” Billy says. I look at him and wait because I know he’s going to tell me either way. “A hummingbird’s heart beats more than six hundred times a minute and a human’s only beats about seventy-two.” Billy’s so smart.

  I wonder if I’ll ever be as smart as him.

  13

  Black Leather Boot

  Billy pushes aside the branches as we walk into the woods. It feels cool and fresh after working in the hot kitchen.

  “Hey, River, I almost forgot to tell you. My dad said he’ll help us make the bluebird houses.”

  “That’
s great if you want an F. You heard Ms. Grackle—no parents.”

  “But it’s for safety reasons, and he’d only cut the wood. There’s no way he’d let us use the power saw.”

  “I guess you’re right. That is great news.”

  As soon as we reach the field, Billy freezes. So I do the same thing. There are tiny birds at the feeder, and a bigger, bright red one right in the middle of the birdbath. We crouch, moving low along the ground like two Indian hunters until we reach the log, where we sit without a sound. Neither of us says a word. It’s kind of a sacred moment. I can’t believe there are birds. I never thought they’d come.

  Billy whispers, “The red one’s a northern cardinal. He’s a male. Females aren’t as colorful.”

  “Well, that’s not fair.”

  Billy laughs and then leans close and whispers again. “The other birds at the feeder are black-capped chickadees. When they sing, they sound like they’re saying their name. Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”

  Billy cracks me up.

  It must have been his last dee-dee that made the birds fly away. But Billy says eventually they’ll get used to people being around, and they’ll stay longer. He takes a deep, satisfied breath and looks my way. “We’d better start watering,” he says. “And I’m filling the bucket first.”

  As Billy positions himself at the edge of the bank, I start getting nervous. “You know, Billy, maybe we should listen to your father and get water from your house.”

  “He didn’t say we had to get water from the house. He said he’d ‘rather’ we did.”

  “It’s the same thing. And Gram doesn’t like the idea of us using the bucket either.”

  “Don’t worry, River. We’ll be careful.”

  As I watch Billy throw the bucket over the edge, I hold my breath and have to force myself from grabbing onto his belt loop. But after a few minutes, I see he’s doing fine, and he pulls a full bucket of water up over the edge. I let out my breath and remind myself that I didn’t need to worry. I whisper the words from Matthew.

  We water the seeds and fill the birdbath too. Then just as we’re ready to go back and check the suet, Robert Killdeer comes by on his bike. He glares at Billy. “Hey,” he says, “I was here ’bout an hour ago, and there was some ugly birds at your feeder.”

  Billy doesn’t look at him.

  Robert points to the bucket. “That yours?”

  Billy nods.

  Robert wanders over to it. “If you guys are getting water from the river, you’re crazier than me. I wouldn’t stand at this edge if you paid me.” Then he steps on the bucket with his black leather boot and presses down on its side. He transforms the opening to an oval.

  “Stop it!” I shout. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Billy touches my arm. “It’s okay, River.”

  Robert gives the bucket a kick. “If you was smart, you’d go down river where the bank ain’t so steep.”

  I want to tell Robert there’s no such word as ‘ain’t,’ but I keep my mouth shut.

  Robert spits, gets back on his bike, and rides away.

  I search Billy’s eyes for an answer.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. Then he steps on the inside of the bucket and pulls on the squished side, trying to fix it. “Let’s just go back to my house and see if the suet’s hard.”

  Billy opens the fridge and pokes the suet with his finger. “Yep, it’s hard just like we want.” He puts the pan on the table. I hold it still while he cuts it into six perfectly square pieces (which he says are cakes). He places one inside the feeder. “Look at that. A perfect fit.”

  “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

  Billy laughs. “What did you say?”

  “Snug as a bug in a rug… something Gram says.”

  We save the rest of the cakes in the fridge and then fill the hummingbird feeder. Billy steadies it over the sink while I pour the nectar. We make a pretty good team.

  We carry the feeders to the birding place, and this time we see even more birds. Billy whispers, “We should’ve brought my camera.”

  “We’ll remember next time.”

  While we’re hanging the feeders, Mrs. Bunting comes by, carrying a cardboard box. “I was hoping you’d be here,” she says. “Here’s a patch of my Carolina phlox like I promised. And I brought you some daylilies too. Those ruby-throated hummingbirds will go crazy over them.”

  We thank Mrs. Bunting and tell her to come back soon.

  Later when I get home, I find Gram sitting on the couch with a milk jug tied to her ankle, doing leg lifts (which somehow doesn’t seem normal). And I’m pretty sure she reads my mind because she immediately starts explaining herself. “Just doing my exercises, Sugar Pie.” Then she unties the jug from her ankle and stands up. “Whoooeee! Now that’s good exercise!” As she walks to the kitchen with our milk, I notice she’s not waddling as much as she used to. Maybe her physical therapist does know what he’s doing.

  “Glad you’re home, Sugar Pie,” she says in a singsong way, “’cause I’ve got a pot of stew that’s brewing just for you!” Gram gets goofy like that sometimes, which never used to bother me when I was little. And it’s too bad, really, because I’ve been thinking about inviting Billy over for lunch. But on account of Gram’s peculiar ways and her physical therapist’s harebrained ideas (plus the fact that we don’t hold hands and pray before we eat), I decide I’d better not. I think I’d nearly die if I brought Billy home and Gram was galloping around the house or doing leg lifts with our milk jug. But maybe I will anyways. Billy’s so nice—he probably wouldn’t mind if she was.

  14

  Hummingbird

  Tuesday when school lets out, Billy runs over to me. “Hey, River, my dad cut the wood for our bluebird houses. Now all we have to do is nail the pieces together. Can you come over to work on them?”

  “Sure. I’m not doing anything.”

  Billy’s so excited he looks like he might burst. “These are going to be the coolest bluebird birdhouses ever!”

  I figure I should tell Billy I haven’t used a hammer before, except for when I was nine and tried helping Gram nail pieces of paneling to the walls in our living room. Gram was holding up the paneling and told me to pound the nail. But when I did, I accidently slammed the hammer clear through to the other side. Her face got redder than a hot pepper, and she said, “Sugar Pie, you’d better skedaddle. Get outside and take Paddles for a long walk. And you’d best stay out ’til the sun goes down.” Later when I came home, there was a mirror hanging over the hole. I felt bad it was so close to the floor, but Gram just shook her head and said, “At least it’s the right height for Paddles.” Gram never could hold a grudge.

  Billy and I take turns holding pieces of wood while the other one nails. First Billy holds and I hammer. The sides of the birdhouse go together first, and then the bottom. The front piece has a hole for a door, which is only the size of a quarter. It has to be small like that so squirrels can’t get in. The last piece to go on is the roof, which is slanted like an obtuse triangle (and that is probably the only thing I remember from geometry).

  I place my nail where I think it should go and lift my hammer, when all of a sudden, the wood moves. I look at Billy and say, “Can you please hold the pieces still?”

  “I’m trying my best.”

  “Okay then, here I go.” Instead of hitting the nail, I whack my thumb. “Ouch! That hurt!”

  “Sorry, River. I’m having a hard time keeping the pieces still.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say. And since Billy didn’t ask to have only one hand that worked, I try making him feel better. “I just have really bad aim.”

  After we switch, I wonder how Billy’s going to hold a nail and use the hammer with just one hand (and I sure don’t want to hold the nail for him because I’ve already whacked my thumb enough). So I hold the pieces together for him and wait to see what happens.

  “Watch this,” he says, reaching up to a shelf wher
e he finds a small wooden block with a hole in it. He takes the block, positions the hole where the nail should go, and makes sure it’s balanced and steady. Then he lets go of the block and puts a nail inside the hole. He grabs his hammer and taps the nail—just enough so it’s stuck in the wood. Then he lifts the block off. He grabs the hammer again and taps the nail, only harder this time. After a few hits, the nail’s all the way in (even straighter than mine). Billy looks pleased. “My dad came up with that idea. Neat, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “Sure is.”

  After we finish our last bluebird house, we load them in the wagon and head back to the birding place. This time we remember Billy’s camera.

  Our seeds have sprouted, and they’re growing like crazy. And the plants we were given are covered with blossoms (me and Billy know the secret to our green thumbs is the river water—it makes the plants very happy). We’ve got a flower for almost every color you can think of: pink coral bells, purple irises, and even a bunch of white angel coneflowers. We’ve already seen so many different kinds of birds and butterflies. With the nectar, suet cakes, birdseed, and all the flowers to choose from, this place must seem like heaven for them. You can bet that if I were a bird in Birdsong, I’d definitely be hanging out here.

  But of all the birds I’ve seen, I like the hummingbirds best. They zip from one flower to another in a second, and disappear right before my eyes. And if I’m close enough, I can hear the sound of their wings beating and the cute chirping sounds they make.

  We sit on the log and watch the birds for a while, which helps them get comfortable with us. Then we decide to start working on the rest of our project, so I begin taking notes while Billy takes pictures. My job is to write down any bird or butterfly behaviors I see, like what flowers they seem to like best, if they eat more seeds or suet, and if they get along with each other.

  Billy positions his camera and tries getting close to three chickadees eating from the feeder, but they fly away. He moves back a little, then tries getting a picture while hiding behind the daylilies. All of a sudden, he yells, “River, come here!”