When Sparrows Fall

by Meg Moseley

  Tears like rivers. Eyes like deep wells of sorrow. And more than sorrow.

  She’d lost a child, that was plain, but he couldn’t understand why her grief was mixed with so much fear.

  The children were all in bed—Rebekah’s worries relieved, Martha’s tears dried—and Miranda had finally stopped shaking, at least on the outside. The wind snarled at the windows. Timothy, then Jack, had stoked the fire, but she was still cold in spite of the blaze.

  Curled up in Carl’s chair with the cuddle-quilt, she met Jack’s worried look. The poor man had waited all evening for her explanation. He sat in the center of the couch, his hands gripping the edge of the cushion.

  “I’ve been praying about how much I could tell you,” she said. “Or whether or not I should tell you at all, but Timothy isn’t our firstborn.”

  Jack nodded, eyes narrowed as if in cold-hearted calculation.

  “Jeremiah,” she said, the name familiar to her heart but foreign to her tongue. “Jeremiah was our first child. When he was five years old, just after we moved here, he fell from the cliffs.”

  Horror dawned on Jack’s face. “Oh, Miranda.”

  She closed her eyes and recalled the familiar scripture. “ ‘If any man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go and search for the one that is straying?’ But I couldn’t, even though I only had three lambs then. Two by my side. One at the bottom of the cliffs.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was late afternoon. I was upstairs, getting Rebekah up from her nap. I heard the front door slam and I knew Jeremiah had run outside. Twice before, he’d gone all the way to the cliffs by himself.

  “I hurried to get jackets and shoes on Rebekah and Timothy. We went after Jeremiah, calling his name. We’d had some rain, and everything was muddy. We tracked his footprints past the barn. Through the clearing. Through the woods. I carried Rebekah and I tried to make Timothy hurry. We followed Jeremiah’s footprints to the edge of the cliffs. I didn’t let the little ones see, but—”

  She opened her eyes. It was easier to look at Jack than to see the scene that still burned on the inside of her eyelids. “He lay at the bottom. So still. I couldn’t leave Timothy and Rebekah alone at the top of those tall, slippery cliffs. They might have fallen too. And I couldn’t take them down with me. You’ve seen how steep it is. And how far it is from the house. Tell me, what would you have done?”

  He studied the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “I had to make a choice. I abandoned one lamb on the mountain to be sure the others would be safe. I ran back to the house, carrying Rebekah and dragging Timothy. Carl was just getting home from work. He ran all the way to the cliffs, but it was too late.”

  “Oh, Miranda,” he said again.

  With her forefinger, she traced the holes left by the stitches she’d made when Jeremiah was a tiny baby. “We buried Jeremiah two weeks before you came to meet Carl.”

  Jack’s head came up. “You’d just lost your son?”

  “That’s why Carl wouldn’t let you stay. He was afraid Timothy would say something. He’d been asking for Miah—that’s what Timothy called him—and Carl wanted Timothy to forget.”

  “Do you mean the other children have never known?”

  “Never. It’s best that way.”

  A log shifted in the fire. It thudded in the quiet, in the space she left in her story.

  Jack’s face had that calculating look again. “I think I understand. Timothy and Rebekah might have blamed themselves one day. For being there, for keeping you from reaching Jeremiah in time. And Carl wanted to spare them that. That softens my heart toward him, a little.”

  “Good.” Never mind that his theory was wrong.

  “And that’s why you have no mementos, no photos of Jeremiah. Nothing but his quilt.”

  “I have one photo of Jeremiah, but everyone thinks it’s of Timothy.”

  “The little guy in overalls? The one where you look like a teenager?”

  “I was nineteen, almost twenty.”

  “So you were about twenty-four, twenty-five, when Jeremiah died.”

  “Yes. I loved him so much. If I could have taken his place, I would have.”

  “I believe you.”

  She nodded, remembering that terrible, sleepless night, ringing with the sounds of Carl’s saw and hammer, and then the cruelest of mornings when the sun came up on a world that no longer held her living, breathing son.

  “Jeremiah. The name means ‘God will raise up,’ ” she said. “But God didn’t raise him.”

  Jack knelt beside the chair and drew her hand to his chest. His heart beat steadily under her fingers.

  That kind heart. His kindness might have persuaded her to tell him the rest, but it wouldn’t have been fair.

  Jack stood in the kitchen, slicing into a loaf of Rebekah’s whole-wheat bread and trying to put the puzzle together. He was still missing a few pieces.

  Why had Carl insisted on keeping Jeremiah’s death from the younger kids? They didn’t need to know the details, but surely they needed to know about their brother.

  Anyway, it seemed that Carl’s plan had failed. Timothy remembered. Miah, not Maya. A boy, not a girl. Real, not imaginary. Miranda wasn’t ready to hear it, though.

  First, she needed to eat.

  When Jack brought her the bread and a glass of apple juice, she’d moved to the couch. She still had the quilt wrapped around her.

  “I have no idea what’s good for breaking a fast, but I’m gambling on bread and juice.” He sat beside her and placed the glass in her hand. She fumbled, nearly spilling, so he took it back and held it to her lips. “Once you have some food in your stomach, you won’t be as shaky.”

  He broke off a piece of the bread for her. She chewed and swallowed mechanically, but she seemed very far away.

  “Miranda, where’d you go?”

  She focused on him with unnerving force. “Back to about AD 33, and I met you there. And I met Jesus—” She touched his chest with her forefinger. “Here. In you. And in Yvonne.”

  Bewildered, he shook his head. “Far be it from me to comprehend the workings of a woman’s mind. Eat, please.”

  “I’m seeing so much. Hearing so much. Hearing from God, inside. I was ‘naked, and you clothed me.’ That was Yvonne, bringing those hand-me-downs. ‘I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink.’ Even if you spiked my food with pain pills, sometimes.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  She smiled, blue eyes drowning in tears. “And ‘I was sick, and you visited me.’ You dropped everything and showed up to take care of me. ‘I was in prison, and you came to me.’ I wasn’t in a literal prison, but—”

  “Hush, now. I’m no saint. Not even close. More of a bully, it seems. Eat—and there I go again, telling you what to do.”

  She took a tiny bite of bread. “It’s all right, now and then.”

  “I’m very thankful that you and the children won’t be moving.” Jack ducked his head. “I’ve become quite fond of the whole kit and caboodle, including you.”

  He handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She was a mess, dripping tears like a leaky faucet.

  “But I have some more questions,” he said.

  “I knew you would.”

  “Are you sure Timothy doesn’t remember Jeremiah? Because I’ve heard him mumble ‘Miah.’ I thought it was a girl’s name. Martha’s imaginary friend. I thought Timothy was imitating her, but it might have been the other way around. Martha might have heard him talking about Miah and made an imaginary friend out of the name. And she must have heard him say that Miah fell and died, because that’s what she told me.”

  Miranda passed her wadded-up tissue from one hand to the other, squeezing and shredding it. “No. Timothy was so young. How could he remember?”

  “It’s quite possible, and it could be unse
ttling if he remembers his brother but you’ve led him to believe there was no brother.”

  She shook her head, hard, and a lock of hair fell across her face. Her hand trembled when she tucked the hair behind her ear. “Timothy doesn’t remember.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, and if I were him, I’d feel cheated. That’s how I felt about never knowing Carl, but the brother Timothy lost was actually part of his life, if only for a few years. That must be even harder than losing a brother you’d never met until the day you lost him.”

  “I don’t believe Timothy remembers.”

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” Jack searched her eyes and saw growing uncertainty. “But why not tell him anyway? Why not tell all the kids? You don’t have to share anything that would make Timothy and Rebekah believe they were somehow to blame. Give them the short version. Jeremiah was your first child. When he was five, he fell from the cliffs and died. That’s all they need to know.”

  She looked away, pressing her lips tightly together, and he could have kicked himself. A grieving woman needed comfort, and he’d offered another lecture instead.

  Thinking back to eighth grade, he remembered hating the hollow expressions of sympathy people had given him when his mother died. Some claimed to know how he felt. Some had the gall to say all things worked together for good, and God wouldn’t have allowed it to happen if it hadn’t been for the best.

  Wiser souls, though, had the wisdom to make one short, truthful statement, wrapped in heartfelt sympathy, and then shut up. His favorite teacher, Mrs. Hurst, was one of them. She’d known what to say. It was so simple, and he’d loved her for it.

  That lock of hair had fallen across Miranda’s face again. He brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear. Putting his whole heart into the words, he repeated in its entirety what Mrs. Hurst had said to him.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Those simple words opened the curtains that hid Miranda’s heart. She gave him the tearful version of her Princess Diana smile and dropped her head to his shoulder. He cupped her cheek with his hand as if she were a weeping child, and like a child, she wet his shirt with her tears.

  It must have been two or three in the morning. Miranda didn’t want to know.

  Jack paced the porch, smoking one of his smelly cigars, and she was alone. Although her feet were planted on the rug in front of the wood stove, she felt lost. Disoriented. Like a tourist in a foreign land who didn’t know the language or the laws. Or maybe there were no laws.

  She only knew she was done with Mason’s church. Done with obeying his rules.

  She wasn’t sure she knew who she was though, apart from the church. Already, she’d been nobody’s daughter, nobody’s wife; now, she was nobody’s disciple.

  No, that was wrong. She wished Jesus were there in the flesh though, to stand between her and Mason. And to reassure her He was real. Sometimes, she just didn’t know anymore. All those things she’d told Jack about seeing Jesus in him and in Yvonne? They’d sounded good at the time, but now nothing felt good or solid or real.

  The children had been asleep for hours. Still, Miranda tiptoed to the bookshelves as if someone might be listening.

  She pulled Carl’s books and pamphlets off the top shelf. They were thin. They didn’t look dangerous.

  She stood still, chasing elusive memories, tracing out the maze of the past. They’d meant well, both of them, but they’d gone so far wrong that some things couldn’t be mended.

  “Oh, Carl,” she said. “You did the best you could. I did too.”

  The home-printed booklet on top was bound in a translucent plastic folder. The title showed through: Raising Your Family God’s Way—Heaven in Your Home. Carl had always referred to this one when she expressed an opinion about discipline. After a few years, she’d stopped trying to change his mind. She’d simply handled things her own way whenever possible.

  She carried the pamphlets to the wood stove and opened the door. The blaze toasted her face as she threw Carl’s treasured teachings into the fire. She closed the door and backed away as the stench of burning plastic filled her nostrils. The scent of freedom.

  She shut off the living room light, leaving the room in darkness except for the fire. Out on the porch, a small orange glow bobbed in the night as Jack moved his cigar to his lips and lowered it again. He was a sentry, standing guard.

  Soon, though, he would return to Chattanooga to stay. She would have to stand alone against Mason.

  twenty-four

  The house reeked of burned plastic in the morning, as it had when Jack had come inside at three. Miranda must have smelled it, but she had neither complained nor explained.

  He poured coffee into two mugs and glanced over his shoulder at her red nose and puffy eyes. She’d cried, off and on, for hours.

  When a woman’s husband died, a specific word defined her; she was a widow. But a woman who lost a child had no special title. She was still a mother, whether or not she had other children, and she had to carry on.

  Jack took the coffee to the table, where he ran one of the mugs under her nose. “Where in the Bible does it say herbal hay water is godly and coffee isn’t?”

  She let out a long, appreciative sigh. “It doesn’t.”

  “Exactly. Take anything in it?”

  “Just a little sugar, please.”

  “From the forbidden sugar bowl in the cupboard? Yes, I’ve already learned most of your secrets.”

  He stirred in a generous spoonful of sugar. She took her first sip and smiled as if he’d given her a brand-new Mercedes.

  “Pretty decent coffee?” he asked.

  “Perfect. I haven’t tasted any in years. Carl wouldn’t allow it in the house. He even threw away my favorite coffee mug.”

  Overnight, she was talking more and talking faster. Like a spring that had been paved over and broken open again, she bubbled. These were bitter waters, some of them, and they needed to run and run until they ran clear and clean.

  He sat across from her, and Hellion jumped into his lap. “Why did he trash the mug? You could have used it for your hay water.”

  “It had my unfeminine nickname on it.”

  Beneath Jack’s hand, Hellion’s bony back vibrated with a purr. Lucky animal, so far removed from human craziness.

  “How long have you doubted Mason’s teachings?” he asked.

  “For a long time, but especially after Carl died. I … I sort of fell apart after Jonah was born. I clashed with Mason. He told the men to keep their wives away from me so I wouldn’t contaminate them with my rebellion.”

  “And did they stay away? They made you a pariah?”

  “Yes. Abigail stayed in touch though. She stuck with me even when I was really down. When I probably wasn’t quite rational.”

  “Postpartum depression, maybe,” Jack ventured, “after the shock of losing your husband. But I suppose Mason told you to pray your way through it?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’ve run into his type before. You should have told him to get lost.”

  “I needed Abigail.” Miranda’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I was on my own, with six children including a colicky newborn. If Abigail hadn’t stood by me, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “I would’ve taken Mason behind the barn and shot him right into a pre-dug grave. Like they do with old horses.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “Yes ma’am. Back to your clash with Mason. It was about …?”

  “My camera. I wanted to earn money with my photography, but Mason said I had to be a keeper at home and trust God to provide.” She stared into her coffee. “Robert Perini said that if the church wouldn’t let me earn money, the church should make up for it. Mason has mailed me a small check from the benevolence fund every month since then, but he never lets me forget that I’m a Jezebel.”

  “You don’t believe it, do you?”

  “I try n
ot to. I’ve tried to find scriptures that show he’s wrong, but I’ve found just as many that seem to show he’s right. Sometimes, I don’t want to read my Bible because I always seem to hear Mason in my head, putting his spin on every verse.”

  “Enough about Mason. I’d like to hear more about Carl, if you don’t mind. I don’t even know what he did for a living.”

  She leaned the coffee mug against her cheek. “He drove a truck for one of the textile mills.”

  “What was he like? What were his hobbies, who were his friends, what did he do in his free time?”

  “He liked woodworking and fishing. His friends were the men in the church. He spent most of his free time serving the church, being Mason’s disciple. I know you don’t like Mason—and neither do I, now—but he straightened Carl out about a few issues.”

  “Like what?”

  Miranda lowered her coffee to the table and studied it as if it held answers. “Carl wanted to be separate from the world’s systems as much as possible. He didn’t want to buy insurance, for instance. If Mason hadn’t told him to buy good life insurance, I’d be in a tough spot.”

  “When you met Carl, did you realize his beliefs weren’t exactly mainstream?”

  She lifted her shoulders in an offhand shrug. “He seemed very spiritual. When he asked me to wear more conservative clothes and throw out my jewelry and my music, he said it was about consecrating our lives to God. He made it sound good and holy. When I married into his church, everybody believed the same way he did.”

  “You’ve been in Mason’s church since you were nineteen, then?”

  “No, we didn’t move to Slades Creek until Carl’s mother died and left the property to him. Before that, we lived near Ellijay and went to a church that wasn’t too different from Mason’s. Small. Strict. Very similar teachings.”

  “Did it all seem normal after a while?”

  “Not really, but I was trying to be a good wife. I was trying to be”—she fell silent but her lips moved, trying different positions, different shapes, as she sought exactly the right word—“obedient,” she said finally. “I was an obedient wife.”