When Sparrows Fall

by Meg Moseley

  Click. Timothy slapped his book shut. “Mother buys organic. She doesn’t want us eating junk, Jack.”

  “He’s Uncle Jack.” Martha stuck out her tongue at her brother. “And he’s nice. You’re not.”

  “Now, now. Don’t be ugly.” Jack handed her a tissue, then tossed the box to Rebekah so she could deal with Jonah’s snotty countenance. “Blow your noses, you little ruffians, and let’s get this show on the road.”

  Nobody argued. Not even Timothy. The children were so compliant and well organized that Jack was leading them to the van in only five minutes. Like the Pied Piper.

  That story didn’t end well for the parents.

  Walmart might as well have been Tiffany’s; the children, refugees from a third-world country. Dazzled, they stared at everything—and everyone—and their fellow shoppers stared back.

  Jack shouldn’t have cared. He didn’t know anybody in their neck of the woods, so he shouldn’t have minded being seen in the company of two girls in elf capes and four polo-shirted boys who might have escaped from 1960.

  There was a bit of gender discrimination afoot. The boys, in their store-bought jackets and jeans, blended in more easily than the girls did in their home-sewn dresses and voluminous capes. It hardly seemed fair.

  Jonah sat in the seat of the cart while Michael and Gabriel pushed it, shoulder to shoulder. Martha clung to Jack’s hand, her cape sweeping the leg of his jeans with every step. Rebekah and Timothy followed a few paces behind. Jack sensed that they’d taken up the rear so they could keep him under surveillance.

  So far, the cart held orange juice, three boxes of Frosted Flakes, bagged salad, and applesauce in individual plastic tubs. All Martha’s requests. Nobody else had asked for anything.

  Questionable items lurked throughout the store. To Miranda, nearly everything might have been questionable. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she objected to frozen dinners on general principles. He herded his flock toward the freezer section, anyway, and contemplated smuggling a portable microwave into the house at some point.

  But why should he have to smuggle it in? He’d be bold. He’d call it a science lesson.

  “What do y’all like best?” he asked. “Lasagna? Pizza? Burritos?”

  The resulting argument did his heart good. The kids had definite opinions.

  After stocking up on freezer meals, then two gallons of milk for the Frosted Flakes, he tried to direct the children toward the checkout. Martha spotted the meager book department first. She drew in an awestruck breath and yanked his hand.

  Jack let her tug him along. Her siblings followed and filled the aisle.

  Martha spied the early readers. She dropped his hand and sat on the floor as if she were in a public library and about to commence reading for free, for as long as she pleased. She started with The Cat in the Hat, a classic beloved by generations of kids for its anti-adult propaganda.

  On the other hand, Ava had said it taught her kindergarten classes that it was okay to let a stranger into the house as long as they cleaned up the evidence before Mom came home. What Mom didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

  What Miranda didn’t know.… When she came home, though, she would know.

  Jack tugged the book out of Martha’s surprisingly strong fingers and replaced it with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. “This one’s better,” he said, hating himself for being a censor like Miranda.

  Martha started to argue, but the colorful fish snagged her attention. He replaced the first Seuss book on the shelf, above her eye level lest she be tempted again.

  Rebekah had picked up a historical romance. The cover art depicted a buxom, satin-clad lass who appeared to be fainting in the arms of a lusty highlander.

  Jack swiped the romance and replaced it on the rack, upside down and backward. “Why don’t you try …” The cookbooks saved him. “This!” He planted a Mexican cookbook in Rebekah’s hands.

  He checked on the boys. Thank God, they’d gravitated toward the outdoor magazines that featured hunting, fishing, and other wholesome, manly activities.

  “Look, Uncle Jack.” Martha jumped up, holding the Disney version of Cinderella. “What’s this one about? I want it. Please?”

  “Sweetie, I can’t buy you every book you haven’t read. You need to have your own library card and pick your own books. A library card, that’s the best little piece of plastic you’ll ever own.”

  With a sigh, she settled on the floor again, her cape pooling around her, and leafed through the book. Fiction, not to mention magic. Miranda wouldn’t have approved.

  A teenage girl entered the aisle and gave Jack a bold once-over. Her hair was an unnatural black, and the same morbid color clothed her from head to shiny boots. As well endowed as the lass on the paperback, she bore a rose tattoo above her left breast, a ring in her lower lip and a spiked dog collar around her throat. Jack was accustomed to seeing such styles, but he could only imagine how Miranda would react if her kids gave her a report.

  The teenager stepped around Martha, then stared at Rebekah. And back to Martha, with a sneer.

  Jack tried to see his nieces as a stranger would: braids, matching jumpers, and old-fashioned capes. All three young ladies attracted attention, but in the Goth girl’s case, it was by her own choice. Not by her mother’s.

  Rebekah straightened her shoulders and met the teenager’s sable-rimmed eyes. Martha also examined her. And wrinkled up her nose. The little Pharisee.

  Smelling of cigarettes, the girl in black brushed against Jack’s shoulder as she walked past. “Some people don’t know what century they’re livin’ in,” she said under her breath but no doubt intending to be heard.

  “Forsooth, fair damsel, good manners yet remain in style,” he said, earning a snort from the girl as she turned the corner.

  “She was staring at us,” Martha said, loud and clear. “I hate it when people stare at us.”

  He seized his chance. “Martha, Rebekah, you want to pick out some jeans? People wouldn’t stare if you wore—”

  “No, thank you,” Rebekah said. “Mother wouldn’t like it.” She returned the cookbook to the shelf and took charge of the shopping cart with Jonah still fidgeting in it. “We’re leaving. Martha, put the book back. Timothy, round up the boys. Let’s go.”

  Now Rebekah was the Pied Piper. Martha held on to the side of the cart and trotted to keep up with her sister’s longer stride. Timothy and the archangels followed them to the nearest checkout. Jack trailed behind, put in his place by a ten-year-old who might as well have been leading all of them back to prison.

  “Anybody hungry?” he asked. “There’s a McDonald’s, right here in the store. Let’s hit it.”

  Rebekah paused in the unloading of the orange juice to look him right in the eye. “No, thank you. Mother wouldn’t like it.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.” Jack descended into gloom, though he didn’t even like McDonald’s.

  Freedom. That was what he liked. What he wanted for the kids.

  Martha craned her neck for one last glimpse of the bookshelves, like Eve longing for her lost garden. Jonah, seated in the cart, tried to reach the gum and candy rack, while Michael and Gabriel foiled his efforts.

  Timothy stood apart, his hands in his pockets, and scowled at the groceries as they traveled the short conveyer. He wanted to protect his family, yet he hungered for a wider world at the same time. All of them did, or they wouldn’t have latched on to those books and magazines.

  Mother wouldn’t like it.

  Jack was starting to see what he was up against. Miranda had every right to raise her children as she saw fit. They were hers. He was only the uncle with no rights in the matter.

  But rights or no rights, he had to do something.

  His phone vibrated. He answered, making no effort to disguise his testy mood.

  “Jack? Where are you? Why aren’t you answering the phone?”

  “I just did, Miranda.”

  His phone beeped a wa
rning. It was on its last breath of battery power.

  “I meant the house phone,” she said.

  “I am not at the house.”

  “Where are you? I’ve been trying—reach you.” The dying phone cut in and out. “The doctors—tests look good—discharging me today.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll run the kids home, and then I’ll pick you up.”

  The phone made its last-chance beep.

  “I … wh … but … er … are you?”

  “Walmart. Those all-American purveyors of dangerous books and frozen pizzas.”

  No reaction from Miranda.

  He checked the screen. Dark. Dead.

  Pretending the phone hadn’t expired, he returned it to his ear. “I’m bustin’ some kids out of prison,” he said into the useless instrument. “And hang on to your hat, Mrs. H., because you’re next.”

  An aide had put Miranda’s hair in a French braid so loosely that it was already a mess. At least she had clean clothes to wear and her spare cape. Jack must have brought them on an earlier visit, when she was sleeping.

  She’d called the house again, and Timothy assured her they’d come home safely. Jack was on his way. Too edgy to sit still, she hauled herself out of the bedside chair and hobbled to the window. Her head throbbed and her vision swirled. She ached all over, and her ribs stabbed her with every breath, but she was done with narcotics. She needed to be alert. In control.

  Still resenting the sling that supported her right arm, she braced herself against the windowsill with her good hand and looked out on the rainy day. She was on the second floor with a view of a narrow, brown lawn, the visitors’ parking lot, and a short stretch of Lee Street. A truck rumbled past, sending sheets of rainwater splashing over the curb, but the hospital’s thick walls muffled the sounds of the outside world.

  A young woman, drenched with rain, jaywalked between a pickup and a car. In a brown parka and worn jeans, with a phone to her ear, she dodged puddles in a gamey, cheerful way that made Miranda smile.

  Her wish list kept growing. A cell phone. Jeans. And instead of a cape, a parka. A red one. Once Mason had moved away, she would go on a shopping spree for herself and for the children.

  She never had extra money, though, and she’d have even less when the checks from the church stopped coming. She didn’t even want to think about her medical bills.

  Miranda squinted at the local paper her roommate had left folded up on the corner of the bed. It was no use trying to check the want ads for work until her vision cleared. She’d never dreamed that a concussion could cause so much trouble.

  Footsteps approached her room. There was a light knock, and a dark-haired, dark-eyed man entered, wearing a rumpled raincoat. She knew him immediately—yet she didn’t know him. Although he bore some resemblance to the idealistic young man who’d come in search of family, years ago, this Jack carried himself with an intimidating air of confidence.

  Speaking with him on the phone had been awkward, but this was worse. She couldn’t think of a blessed thing to say. Couldn’t think of a blessed thing to think, except: This was Jack “Tsunami” Hanford, and she was in trouble.

  Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes. “Hey, Miranda. Remember me?”

  “Hello, Jack.” The room resumed its merry-go-round routine. “Thank you for everything. Thank you so much.”

  “Glad to help. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a freight train.”

  “The kids can’t wait to have you back. They’ll want to pamper you half to death.”

  “That sounds good. I’ve missed them.”

  “I can imagine. They’re great kids. Very well-behaved. Never having been the sole custodian of a passel of young ’uns, I’m grateful for that.”

  Despite his education, he still sounded like a country boy. In fact, he sounded very much like Carl, whose southern accent had once charmed a lonely Ohio girl.

  Still at a loss for words, she bit her lip. She hadn’t imagined facing Jack in person.

  “You weren’t supposed to show up unless I died,” she blurted. “Not that dying would have been a better outcome—” Seeing his frown, she stopped. “You don’t think I meant to fall, do you?”

  “The thought occurred to me. Did you?”

  “Of course not. I must have fainted.”

  “Miranda, if you’re depressed, it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. It’s—”

  “I know what it is. But I’m not depressed. Not now.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  “Please do. I want to stop talking and hurry home to my babies.” She waited, holding her breath. If he believed she was suicidal, and if that rumor somehow reached DFCS.…

  He slid his hand inside his raincoat. From a shirt pocket, he extracted a slender black pen and a paper. “First, we have business to tend to.”

  She exhaled. “What kind of business?”

  “You need to sign this.” He unfolded the paper and held it in front of her.

  To her unfocused vision, it was only a block of his cramped and nearly indecipherable writing followed by a list of some sort in Rebekah’s neat penmanship. The lines wobbled and blurred. “What is it?”

  “This authorizes me to obtain emergency medical attention for the kids if the need should arise. Rebekah listed names and dates of birth, and I understand they’re a healthy crew with no allergies or medical conditions. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but why would you need this? You won’t be staying more than a day or two.”

  “I’m not quite so optimistic. You can’t even drive yourself to the store. Or to your checkups with various and sundry physicians.”

  “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

  “I would only use it in an emergency. For instance, if Rebekah whacks off a finger with one of those butcher knives she’s always slinging around.”

  “But—”

  “Or if Jonah does a face-plant into the wood stove.”

  “Yes, I suppose—”

  “Sign, please.” He placed the paper on the tray table beside the bed and offered the pen.

  She wiggled the battered, swollen fingers that extended from the sling. “I can’t grip a pen.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  With a pleasant smile, he placed the pen in her left hand. She considered tucking the pen right back in his shirt pocket, but that would have required reaching inside his raincoat.

  “Come, now,” he said. “Don’t argue about signing a simple form that deals with the short-term when you’ve already named me as the children’s guardian.”

  “But that won’t go into effect unless I die.”

  “And you’ll live for another seven decades or so, I hope.” He gave her a boyish grin and tapped the pen with one finger. “Please cooperate with me.” His grin faded. “God forbid that I should ever need this paper, but you’re living proof that accidents happen.”

  She lowered herself into the chair. “You’re right. I should be thanking you instead of arguing.” Despite the way the room rotated around her, she made the pen connect with the paper and produced an ugly, crooked scrawl.

  Jack reclaimed the pen and paper. “I’ll run down to the pharmacy and pick up your ’scripts.”

  “My what?”

  “Prescriptions. Might be a while.”

  “I don’t need the prescriptions.”

  “Wrong.” And he was out the door.

  seven

  Jack’s sleek black convertible was lithe and sure on the curves, but Miranda wished he would slow down. He navigated the slick roads in the pouring rain as if he’d driven them all his life.

  Of course he did. He was mountain-bred like Carl.

  The fall must have jostled some memories out of hiding. She kept remembering the first time she saw Carl’s blond head bent over his books between classes. The oldest student on campus, he’d towered over the boys her age, not just in stature but in maturity. When the news came, he’d helped her buy a pla
ne ticket. He spoke with her professors, drove her to the airport, and picked her up when she came back from Auntie Lou’s funeral. He’d been a fortress.

  Miranda hadn’t known, then, that a fortress could be a prison.

  Rain on the windshield made blurry stars of oncoming headlights, but then the wipers cleared the glass and the lights became sharp white knives slicing into her. Blurry stars, then brutal knives, they alternated every two seconds, but she had to keep her eyes open.

  Jack hadn’t spoken since they’d turned onto the county road. She gave him a cautious look and knew he was unaware of her discomfort. He tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel in time to some private song, his mouth graced with a faint smile.

  Her muscles clenched with panic. She would never be able to explain him to Mason—or vice versa—and Mason would show up soon. Even before her accident, he’d rebuked her for procrastinating. She hadn’t listed her house or called a handyman. Her excuses had worn thin.

  The car swooped through another pass, making her feel as if she were in a blender. She clung to the black leather seat with her left hand and turned slowly toward the rain streaming down her window. With the slightest movement, pain hammered her.

  “Could we clear up a few questions?” Jack asked.

  “We could try.”

  “Why did you name me as guardian?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. I didn’t die.” Too late, she realized her answer was both flippant and illogical.

  “Yes, we’ve already established that you didn’t die—thank God—but why me, a divorced curmudgeon with no experience in raising children? And you don’t know me. We’ve had only one conversation, nine years ago. A conversation that ended with Carl ordering me off the property.”

  “I’ve always been sorry about that. We were going through a rough time, and … he wasn’t quite himself.”

  “I’m happy to know that wasn’t the real Carl, but back to my question. Why me? Why not your own relatives?”

  She pictured her mother’s pleasant, uncomplicated face. Her honey brown hair in a classic, simple style. Her closet, jam-packed with expensive clothing and shoes.