When Sparrows Fall

by Meg Moseley

  “That’s what I tried to say before, but it didn’t come out right.” Timothy’s voice was rough but held no hint of mockery. “Thanks, Uncle Jack.”

  Uncle Jack. He was finally in, but he sensed that in some terrible way, Miranda was out.

  “People die all the time,” Timothy said. “Mrs. Perini’s mother died, and the Tenneys’ baby died, but their families still talk about them.” Still gripping the seatback, he hunched his shoulders, shrinking into a younger, smaller version of himself. Frightened—yet brave enough to keep talking. “Why didn’t you ever talk about Jeremiah before?”

  Jack waited. If Miranda explained the fear that Timothy and Rebekah would have blamed themselves, Timothy surely would blame himself.

  “That was your father’s decision,” Miranda said. “I didn’t agree with it, but I obeyed.”

  “You mean he told you not to talk about Jeremiah?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Why? What happened? Did you … hurt him or something?”

  Raw pain flashed across her face. “We never would have hurt him. We loved him. We loved him, Timothy. We’ll talk about it again, soon, and I’ll tell you more. But not now.”

  Timothy nodded, leaving the room with his questions unanswered. Jack had never felt more kinship with the boy or more distance from Miranda.

  His doubts winged back to roost in his mind. There were too many questions she had never answered to his satisfaction.

  Even her good-bye kiss was tentative. When he let go of her, his heart felt as empty as his arms.

  He walked down the steps and made the rounds of the children, giving each one a hug and steeling himself against Martha’s tears. When he reached Timothy, they shook hands, man to man.

  “You have my number,” Jack said. “Call anytime. I mean that. And would you like some of my dad’s history books? I’d like to pass them on to you.”

  Timothy shrugged.

  “You’re his grandson,” Jack said. “I think he would have liked for you to have them. I can bring them next time I come.”

  “You’re coming back?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t not come back.”

  Slowly, Timothy nodded. His eyes warmed. “Okay. I’d like the books.”

  “Then I’ll bring them.” Jack surveyed the semicircle of grave faces. “Cheer up, y’all. I’ll be back in a few days. Be good.”

  He climbed into the car amid a chorus of good-byes. Miranda stood alone on the porch, leaning her shoulder against one of the pillars.

  He turned the key in the ignition, then looked back at the porch and counted the blond heads he’d first counted in a family photo, before he met the younger kids. He’d wished then that Timothy had a smaller number of siblings.

  Jack shook his head. Now, he wished Timothy had just one more. Jeremiah.

  The younger kids were still clumped together, waving, but Timothy stood apart. As wary and watchful as a Border collie guarding a flock of sheep. Quiet, canny, determined. He might have been capable of helping his mother stand up to the wolf, except he was only twelve.

  twenty-eight

  In the checkout line at the Slades Creek Kroger, Miranda tucked her checkbook into her purse and imagined drawing a big red X across another day on her calendar. In a little over twenty-four hours, Jack would be back in town.

  She dreaded his visit.

  She hated the way he’d looked at her just before he left for Chattanooga. Timothy was acting chilly too. Neither of them trusted her, but she couldn’t offer apologies or explanations until it was safe or at least until it was over.

  The red-haired bag boy made short work of pushing her cart out to the van in the warm sunshine, then loaded the bags into the back and closed the door. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

  “Thanks.” She dug in her purse for keys. “You too.”

  The boy looked so nice and normal. And—she smiled despite her worries—so did she. Even the checker had noticed her new haircut and the jeans that felt like her personal Declaration of Independence every time she put them on.

  “Miranda, wait!” Abigail scuttled between parked vehicles, her long skirt flapping and her face as pink as if she’d run a block.

  Miranda scoped out the parking lot, her heart pounding, but didn’t see Mason anywhere. Not that her jeans should matter, but a Declaration of Independence could start a war.

  “I can’t talk long,” Abigail said, breathing hard. “Mason’s at the bank. He’ll pick me up in a couple of minutes.” She stopped a few feet away. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  “Is it too much?”

  “No. You look wonderful.” Abigail waved her hand at her hot cheeks. “Mason’s still fixing up the house to sell. He’s scheduled another workday on Saturday. I’ll try to slip away while he’s distracted. Even if he figures it out, he can’t stop me with people watching.”

  “This Saturday? The day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, and if you’d like to tell everybody why, be my guest. Just wait until I’ve had a decent head start.”

  Miranda felt faint. She’d wanted it to happen soon, but now it was happening too fast. And she was losing Abigail.

  “Does Mason keep the notes he takes in counseling sessions?” she asked.

  Abigail frowned. “I suppose so.”

  “But does he hang on to files from years ago? If he does, could you find mine? And Carl’s?”

  “I don’t know. He has so many file cabinets, and I don’t know how they’re organized.”

  “Could you look though? Please? Just open some drawers, take a quick peek?”

  “If he caught me at it … Miranda, they’re confidential. I’ve never even wanted to look.”

  “I’m not asking you to read anything. Just bring me anything with my name or Carl’s. Why would Mason need them anymore? Abigail, please.”

  Abigail regarded her doubtfully. “All right. I’ll call if I find them, but there’s not much time left. Not many chances to call either. He’s always there, always listening.” She moved closer, lowering her voice. “Don’t share my plans with anybody until I’m on my way. Promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” Abigail was still breathing hard.

  The bag boy had rounded up half a dozen stray shopping carts. He pushed them past, their wheels rattling and shaking on the rough asphalt.

  A louder rumble drowned out the racket of the carts. The pale blue flank of Mason’s truck crept forward, taking the empty parking spot beside Miranda.

  Her fingers like ice, she dropped her keys. She stooped to pick them up, then straightened, turning her back on the truck.

  She was torn. Part of her wanted to tell Mason she knew what he was doing. It was all about sex, money, and power, like Jack had guessed.

  Part of her only wanted to run.

  “Go,” Abigail said. “Or he’ll take it out on me.”

  Miranda moved faster than she’d moved in weeks. By the time Mason climbed out of his truck, she was behind the wheel of her van. She started the engine, looking through the dirty windshield.

  Abigail stood stolidly in her baggy dress and old-lady shoes. Mason hurried around his truck’s hood and stopped beside her, trim in his black trousers and white shirt. The wind ruffled his hair, softening his immaculate appearance and giving a glimpse of the handsome young man who’d married homely Abigail. She must have loved him so.

  Miranda had once thought his eyes were a striking, silvery blue, but they were only the same faded shade as the peeling paint on his truck. His hold over her had weakened. He had no authority over her.

  Yet he had all the power he needed. He knew about Jeremiah.

  Moving closer, Mason held up his forefinger as if to ask her for a moment of her time.

  She hit the gas. She would not give him one more moment of her life until Abigail was safely away.

  The campus, nearly deserted on Good Friday, had been the perfect place for catching up on writing, research, and administ
rative paperwork. Jack could breathe easier again.

  His mental energies had already shifted toward the weekend and a ramshackle log home rich with children. A domain ruled by a peasant-princess with dazzling blue eyes and heavy burdens.

  He missed her. And the kids. Even Timothy. Miranda’s oldest boy had called with a question about a school assignment, and they’d progressed from awkward silences to a friendly argument about the necessity for book reports. Neither of them had mentioned the tension between Timothy and his mother.

  “It’s quittin’ time,” Jack said, shuffling piles of papers on his desk.

  An early escape meant hitting Slades Creek while he still had some daylight for pitching the tent. And he’d be so busy that the Friday night demons wouldn’t have a chance to catch his ear.

  He gathered a batch of papers and stuffed them into his briefcase. Once he’d locked up, he strode toward the side exit.

  “Jack!”

  Farnsworth. Farther down the corridor, between Jack and the exit, she conversed with a custodian but held up one finger to tell Jack he’d better not run off.

  He suppressed a groan but told himself to be patient. In five minutes, tops, he’d be out of Farnsworth’s clutches. On his way to Miranda.

  He walked down the hall, remembering her curves in her jeans. How her waist felt in his hands. The downy blond hairs at the nape of her neck. The way her shoulders relaxed when he kneaded them with his fingers. Her shoulders were always so stiff.

  Your shoulders are hard as bricks, he’d told her once.

  Life is hard as bricks, she’d answered with a—

  “Jack.”

  “Uh—huh?” He’d almost walked right past Farnsworth.

  Her eyes bored through the thick lenses of her black-rimmed glasses. She’d dismissed the custodian. “Are you catching up on your work?” she asked.

  “I’m getting there.”

  A short woman, she could still make a man feel she was looking down on him. “Last time I saw your desk, it was a disaster.”

  “There’s always a backlog.”

  “You’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

  “I know. Thank you.” He consulted his watch with exaggerated interest. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to hit the road.”

  “I presume you’re going down to Georgia for the weekend.”

  “Yes, I am.” His phone vibrated, and he checked it. Miranda’s number. One of the kids, probably; they called more often than she did. He let it go to voice mail. He’d call back once he’d ditched Farnsworth.

  She dogged him down the hall, slowing his flight. “It seems you’re quite smitten with your hillbilly homeschoolers.”

  “They’re not hillbillies. The six-year-old reads on the high school level. The eight-year-old has a flair for writing like you wouldn’t believe, if you can make him sit still. And the four-year-old …”

  He patted his shirt pocket to hear the rustling of the blue paper heart. Miss Martha loved her Unkul Jack. It was one of the highest honors he could ever hope for. He might even consider finding work closer to Slades Creek. Closer to Miranda and the kids. Jobs were scarce, but so were good women, and it wasn’t as if he’d be giving up a position at Yale.

  He’d be giving up Dr. Vera Farnsworth.

  She snapped her fingers. “Jack! You’re drifting off. Acting like a teenager in love.”

  “I’m in love with the whole family. Good night.” He broke into a run before she could think of some complication to throw in his path.

  Outside, unlocking his car, he checked the sky. A storm had been threatening all day, but it kept backing off, changing its mind. With some luck, it wouldn’t hit Slades Creek, miles away.

  The trunk and the backseat of his car were crammed with borrowed camping paraphernalia, sleeping bags, and an eight-man tent that smelled of old suns and old rains. In the trunk, he’d stashed some of his dad’s history books and the impulse buy for Miranda.

  No, he couldn’t call it an impulse. He’d hovered over eBay for days, nervous as a cat until the prize was his.

  He was only two miles from the turn for Slades Creek when he remembered the incoming call from Miranda’s number. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he put his phone to his ear and listened to the recorded message.

  “Uncle Jack?” It was Martha, still timid about this new voice mail business. “Hi? Uncle Jack? Hurry up and come home.”

  “I’m almost there, sweetie.” He wished she could hear him.

  The recording continued. “Mama’s been crying a lot. She’s sad and she’s mad, but she won’t tell me why.” Martha sniffled. “Okay, bye.”

  He stomped on the gas, trying to outrun his doubts about Martha’s mama. Those doubts mingled with memories of his own mama, who’d done most of her crying in private.

  Eleanor Hanford hadn’t had a tender-hearted four-year-old to help her through. She’d only had a thirteen-year-old who’d let her down.

  “God, help,” Jack said. It was a Friday. Good Friday.

  Catching a glimpse of Miranda just around the first bend of the driveway, Jack made the engine growl through a downshift to grab her attention. She turned, holding a handful of mail. Her hair whipped by the wind, she put up her thumb to hitch a ride and gave him a smile that seemed artificially bright.

  He braked beside her and reached over to open the door. “It’s a blustery day for hitchhiking, Mrs. H.”

  “It’s a blustery day for anything, Dr. H.” She climbed in, the puffiness around her eyes confirming Martha’s message.

  Still hanging on to his smile, he pounced, trying to lose himself in the warmth of Miranda’s embrace. She cradled his head in her hands and kissed him as fiercely as he was kissing her.

  She drew back and studied him. “What’s wrong? The worry in your eyes … it worries me.”

  “No, you’ve got this all backward, darlin’. I’m fine, but Martha tells me you’ve been crying. May I ask why?”

  “When did you talk to Martha?”

  “I didn’t, but she left a voice mail. Answer my question.”

  “As you like to remind me, I’m recovering from a brain injury, and moodiness may be part of the package. Let me be moody, please.”

  “There’s moody and then there’s moody. Martha said you were sad and mad but you wouldn’t tell her why.”

  “I’m more mad than sad, and you’re making me madder.”

  “Good,” he said. A woman with a lot of fight left in her wasn’t as much of a worry. “But who are you mad at, besides me?”

  “None of your business. You’re not all sweetness and light either. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Baloney. If you’re going to use Martha’s gossip against me, I’ll use it against you. She told me you did something really, really bad, and that’s why you’re sad.”

  “I am not—”

  “In your eyeballs,” Miranda said, leaning closer. “She told me you’re sad in your eyeballs, and she’s right.”

  He drew back, afraid she would try to poke his eye like her daughter had. “Everybody has something to be sad about sometimes. Everybody makes mistakes. Or call them sins.”

  “Oh, no. You don’t mean.”

  “Whatever you’re imagining, it’s wrong.”

  Turning away from her penetrating stare, he flashed back … how many years? Forty minus thirteen. Twenty-seven years had passed since a nerdy kid walked through the door of his mother’s house with his books and clothes for the weekend.

  Hey, Mom, I’m here. Where are you? Mom … Mom?

  The blue parakeet, dead in its cage. The cat, frantic with hunger. The light left on in the bedroom.

  The neighbor was the first to realize something terrible had happened. Mr. Olson dropped his garden hose and raced to the porch where Jack stood, screaming. The water ran endlessly to the street, into the gutter. Even after the cops came, the water kept running. That image was seared on Jack’s brain as clearly as the other. He still couldn’t see
water swirling into a storm drain without remembering the rest.

  Miranda touched his cheek. “Jack, tell me. Or did you do something so horrible that you can’t?”

  “It wasn’t anything I did.”

  A squirrel flounced across the driveway, tail waving like a flag, then scrambled up the trunk of a pine. A crow cawed, far away.

  Miranda took Jack’s chin in her hand and tried to make him face her. “Why do you feel guilty then?”

  “It was something I didn’t do.”

  “What didn’t you do? Come on. I told you about Jeremiah. It’s your turn.”

  True. She’d leaned against him and cried, that night beside the fire. She’d told him a tale that had ripped her heart in two. She’d earned the right to ask for his honesty.

  “It’s nothing recent,” he said. “It was years ago.”

  She moved her hand to his arm and squeezed it. “That doesn’t make it go away though. Who was involved in this situation, whatever it was?”

  “My parents.” There was no retreating now. “They split up when I was thirteen. I lived with my dad—he was the fun parent—and spent weekends with my mom. I’ve heard you say Timothy and I have a lot in common. Well, we each had a mother who needed help. But Tim did the right thing, the responsible thing. He got out of bed, early in the morning, and followed you to the cliffs because he worried about you. Me? I couldn’t be bothered to make one phone call for my mom’s sake.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “She was all alone from Monday to Friday. Alone except for a cat and a parakeet. She took a wicked assortment of pills sometimes. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants. And she was careless about dosages.”

  “No,” Miranda breathed.

  “I showed up on a Friday night and found her lying across the bed. There were pill bottles on the nightstand.”

  “Oh, Jack.”

  He adjusted the rearview mirror, tried to lose himself in the peaceful reflection of pines lining the driveway. “Maybe it was an accidental overdose. Maybe not. She didn’t leave a note. But whether it was deliberate or accidental or accidentally on purpose, I could have stopped it.”