When Sparrows Fall

by Meg Moseley

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I could have tried at least. Some people say they listen when God speaks. I didn’t even listen to my own common sense. Common sense told me my mother needed help. Common sense told me to tell an adult—my dad or a teacher—anybody—but I didn’t want to look like a fool if it was all my wild imagination. I didn’t speak up; I didn’t act; I didn’t do anything. I kept quiet until there was nothing to do but pray for her. I still do.”

  “Pray for her? Isn’t she …”

  “Dead? Yes.”

  “You pray for the dead?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. Luther prayed for the dead too. ‘Dear God, if this soul is in a condition accessible to mercy, be Thou gracious to it.’ That’s in Luther’s writings. It’s no secret.”

  “You said it so mechanically. Like you’ve prayed those words a million times.”

  “Maybe I have.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. “Oh, Jack. I see what you’ve been doing. You have such a tender conscience.”

  He frowned, flicking a speck of lint from his knee. “What are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t been praying for your mother. You’ve been praying for yourself. Asking God to have mercy on your soul. Because you feel responsible.”

  “Because I am.” He escaped her grip, started the engine, and rocked the gearshift into first.

  “Says who?”

  “Says God, apparently. Yvonne’s senile father keeps prophesying over me, and it’s spot-on.”

  Miranda’s expression held more amusement than was appropriate for such a grim conversation. “I thought you didn’t believe in that. But if it was spot-on. Do you remember what he said?”

  “ ‘Silence is brother to lies,’ ” he said. “ ‘The truth is sister to mercy. This time, say the words you’ve been given to say. Do the deeds you’ve been given to do. This time, hear Me and obey.’ ”

  Miranda’s smile faded. “That’s almost generic. It could apply to you, me, anybody.”

  “Sure it could.” He tried to speak lightly.

  Her eyes were haunted again with that thing he couldn’t name. “If anything happens to me, will you still be the guardian of the children?” she asked.

  “Now you’re both moody and morbid. The combination worries me.”

  “I’m not being morbid.”

  “That phrase, ‘If anything happens to me,’ popped into your head for no good reason?”

  “Answer my question about being the guardian, please.”

  “Yes, of course, I would still be the guardian of the children, but why—”

  “Thank you, and never mind why.” She settled back in her seat. “I wish we weren’t doing a campout tonight. I’m just not in the mood for it.”

  “Neither am I. Not while you’re playing this game, Miranda. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said, barely audible above the idling of the engine. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s hardly a reassuring answer. Look at me, please.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  twenty-nine

  Barefoot, Miranda slipped out of her bedroom at dawn. She wished she could fly to the end of the day with her children and keep them safe forever.

  Abigail hadn’t called about the files. Maybe she never would.

  Holding her breath, Miranda tiptoed past the couch where Jack still slept beneath that ratty old quilt. The first one she’d ever made, before she’d started making baby quilts.

  At the front door, she flicked off the security lights and unlatched the dead bolt. The door creaked as it swung open, but Jack didn’t stir.

  She stepped onto the porch and shut the door. Everything was a murky shade of gray except her van looming like a great white dinosaur. Jack’s car sat beside it. Having decided to postpone the campout for a day, he’d smuggled the camping gear into the shed after dark. The children still didn’t know a thing about it.

  Miranda slipped her feet into her gardening shoes and crept down the steps. She longed to walk all the way to the cliffs, but the garden would be private enough if she kept her voice down.

  She stole around the side of the house and made her way across the grass to the garden. Then, pacing up and down the rows where last year’s crops had grown, she tried to pray.

  Her worries refused to make room for prayers.

  She stopped at the end of the row, where a few sunflower stalks still stood. Breathing deeply, she tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

  She didn’t want to uncover anybody’s sins, but she wanted to live free. She wanted the church to live free too.

  Birds were waking in the woods, in the brush, in the sky. As dawn began to color the clouds behind the black bulk of the mountains, Miranda lifted her face to heaven.

  “God, that crazy prophecy … it’s for me. I’ll say the words You’ve given me to say. I’ll do the deeds You’ve asked me to do. I’ll do what I can—if You’ll help me. Please help me.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. Committed to her plan, she walked back through the garden. When she was nearly at the house, she heard the phone.

  Nobody ever called this early. It had to be Abigail.

  Miranda clomped up the steps, no longer worried about noise. The phone would have woken Jack already. She kicked off her shoes, leaving them on the porch, and ran into the living room.

  The couch was empty. The quilt lay crumpled on the floor with the kitten tottering across it.

  Jack stood in the kitchen in his flannel sleep pants, the phone to his ear, his hair wild. He squinted sleepily at the kitchen clock.

  “This is Jack,” he said into the phone. “Who’s this?”

  She hurried to his side. “It’s for me.” She would have yanked the phone out of his hand except she recalled too clearly what it felt like to receive that kind of treatment.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Jack said. “She’s right here.” He handed her the phone.

  “Hello,” Miranda said.

  “Sorry it’s so early,” Abigail said in a low voice. “I had to call before Mason woke up.”

  “Did you find—” Miranda stopped.

  Jack moved across the room to turn on the coffee maker. And he stayed there, making no effort to give her any privacy.

  “Yes,” Abigail breathed. “Come over about ten.”

  “Thanks,” Miranda said, trying to sound cheerful and calm. “See you then.”

  She hung up the phone. Avoiding Jack’s eyes, she walked over to the refrigerator and rearranged a couple of paper hearts. And the two business cards.

  “I need to run an errand this morning,” she said. “About ten. I’ll leave the children with you. It won’t take long.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need to drop something off for Abigail.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Don’t you remember what curiosity did to the cat?” She held her breath.

  The coffee maker gurgled. Bare feet padded up behind her.

  Jack gripped her shoulders. “Hard as bricks. You’re up to something.”

  “I’m dropping off a sweater.”

  “Yeah, let me get this straight. Abigail called about a sweater? At this hour? Must be some sweater.”

  “I’m dropping off a sweater,” she repeated. “You can stay here with the kids.”

  Jack tugged her away from the refrigerator, turned her around, and searched her eyes at close range. “You want me to stay with the kids and be prepared to be their guardian in case anything happens to you?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “Those are your own words, and they’re worrisome. And now you’re going to Mason and Abigail’s house by yourself?”

  “I won’t be by myself. Half the church will be there for a workday.”

  “Then you’ll be outnumbered.”

  “Stop, Jack. You’re making it sound like a battle.”

  “If ‘it’ is only an errand, you wouldn
’t even think in those terms.”

  Afraid of digging herself in deeper, she didn’t answer.

  “Has your doctor cleared you to drive?” Jack asked.

  “No, but it’s only a few minutes away. On back roads. It’ll be fine.”

  “Tell you what.” Jack put his arms around her and pulled her close. “I’ll play chauffeur. I’ll ask Yvonne if we can drop the young ’uns off at her house for a while.”

  Miranda opened her mouth to argue, then nearly cried with relief instead.

  If the children were at Yvonne’s, a social worker wouldn’t know where to find them.

  It was almost ten. Standing by the bedroom window with Abigail’s red pullover tucked inside a Walmart bag, Miranda tilted her head and listened for the van. Jack would be back soon from delivering the children to Yvonne.

  Springtime had arrived overnight. The sun shone, the air was warm, and the ornamental cherry tree had burst into bloom. Every year, when the pale pink blossoms were at their thickest, she loved to lie on the grass and stare up at them. Sometimes a gust of wind blew a flurry of petals into the air, and they would fall like pastel snowflakes.

  They weren’t quite at their peak yet. Maybe tomorrow.

  She didn’t know where she would be tomorrow, but within an hour, her conscience would be free. As free as the fresh air that streamed into her bedroom.

  When Jack had muscled the window open for her, he’d said something about the smell of sunshine. Of course sunshine had no smell, but that was so typical of Jack.

  He’d been laughing too much, talking too much. Stealing too many kisses. A kiss for good morning and here’s your coffee and one more time just to be sure. Whatever he’d meant by that. She could see right through his flirtations to his worries.

  It wouldn’t be fair to tell him everything. He would know soon enough, but to keep him out of trouble, she had to go it alone.

  She caught part of her reflection in the window and sized herself up. Jeans, a lightweight blue pullover, and a touch of the makeup she’d bought at Kroger. It was beginning to feel all right. Like it wasn’t sinful.

  She heard the van rolling up in front of the house.

  “God, make me brave.” Taking the Walmart bag and her huge, straw-colored purse, the biggest one she owned, she went outside. She locked up and tucked the house key into her pocket.

  Having abandoned the van, Jack was lowering the convertible’s top. He gave her a wolf whistle.

  “Stop that,” she said.

  “Make me.”

  This, perhaps, was what Mason had always warned against. The lust of the eyes, the lust of the flesh, the pride of life. She and Jack had been acting like giddy teenagers, even in front of the children. But under it all, for her, lay the sharp taste of panic.

  Then they were off. Her hair blew free in the wind, too short to be restrained in a braid.

  She found herself clinging to the Audi’s seat like she’d clung to it on the ride home from the hospital. She hadn’t trusted Jack’s driving. She hadn’t trusted his heart, but she’d had no one else to lean on.

  Today, she wished the ride could go on all day, with no worries. But they pulled onto Hollister Road in no time and wound around the curve that led to Mason and Abigail’s house.

  Jack parked at the end of a line of vehicles on the shoulder. Abigail had left her car at the foot of the gravel drive where she couldn’t be blocked in.

  Bringing her purse and the Walmart bag, Miranda walked up the steep slope, hand in hand with Jack. A chain saw buzzed and a hammer spanked wood. An extension ladder leaned against the side of the house; a couple of the men were on the roof, replacing shingles. Robert and Wendy’s muscular teenage son, Matthew, knelt at the front door, painting it a dignified shade of dark green. Led by Wendy, a handful of women and girls planted lavender and yellow pansies along the walk and around the birch tree on the lawn. Judging by the number of vehicles at the road, there must have been dozens of people working inside.

  Good people, all of them. Godly, loyal, hard-working, kind, they obeyed God the best way they knew how. Miranda wondered, though, how many of them had confessed painful, private secrets to Mason, as she had done. Half the church might be afraid to cross him.

  Wendy and a few others smiled and said hello, but Miranda caught some curious glances as people sized up her new look and the man by her side. Thankful for the warm reassurance of his touch, she looked up at him—just as he looked down at her.

  “You can’t fool me, Mrs. H. You’re not just dropping off a sweater.”

  “I’m picking something up as well. Do you see Abigail anywhere?”

  “She’s in the garage.”

  “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Abandoning him on the gravel, Miranda walked into the open garage, careful not to appear hurried. Abigail stood at the rear amid moving cartons. She held a large cardboard box full of odds and ends. A wicker basket, a tarnished copper tea kettle, a dented cookie sheet. Donations for the thrift store—or cover for the last few items she needed to smuggle to her car.

  “I’m glad you made it,” Abigail said, as serene as ever. “The things you wanted are tucked behind the cookie sheet. Go ahead, reach in. You’ll find them.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Miranda breathed.

  She found two file folders labeled with her name and Carl’s. She opened the one marked with her name and recognized her own words written in Mason’s crisp, square printing. He’d always been a stickler for neatness and accuracy.

  Her hands shook as she hid the files in her gigantic purse. Without revealing the Walmart bag’s contents, she tucked it into Abigail’s box.

  “Make sure you take the bag all the way to your destination,” Miranda said, keeping her voice low. “I’m returning something that belongs to you.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Abigail smiled, but the strain showed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’ve already said all I can say, but his heart hasn’t changed.” Her eyes snapped with anger. “I could have picked a different time, but this is perfect. He’ll have to explain my disappearing act.” She set the box down long enough for a hug so quick that nobody would have noticed if they hadn’t been looking at exactly the right moment.

  “Good-bye,” Abigail whispered. Taking the box, she walked into the sunlight, right past Jack, who waited on the driveway. He nodded. She nodded back and kept going.

  Miranda rejoined him, her heart pounding.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Just watch. And don’t get involved, whatever you do.”

  As casual as could be, Abigail proceeded to the middle of the lawn. She looked up at the men on the roof, then at the women working in the flower beds.

  “I hope you all know how wonderful you are,” she said.

  Some of the women smiled at her; some kept their eyes on their work.

  “I love you all,” she added in a brisk tone, “and don’t you ever forget it.” She shifted the box in her hands. “Has anybody run across any more boxes marked for the thrift store?”

  “Not me,” somebody called back.

  “All right then,” Abigail said. “I’ll put this one in my car.”

  It was hardly an award-winning performance, but it served its purpose.

  Her shoulders squared, she walked down the steep slope, her skirt swaying with her gait and her old-lady shoes sending bits of gravel flying. She disappeared behind the curving line of dark pines. Moments later, the Buick’s engine came quietly to life, its sound muffled by the belt of trees. No one paid attention.

  Abigail was on her way. Miranda had no more excuses. Even if DFCS swooped down on her house, they wouldn’t find the children, who would be either with Yvonne or with their legal guardian. Safe.

  She heard Robert Perini’s gentle voice and looked over her shoulder to confirm it. His gray hair sprinkled with sawdust, he’d joined Wendy on the lawn. They shared a smile of approval as they surveyed the flower p
lanting.

  Miranda looked up at Jack. “I wish I’d been able to tell you everything days ago,” she said quietly. “Weeks ago. Years ago. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “Would you please speak in plain English?”

  Define terms, she thought, lightheaded. Dig for the truth. Earn it, and you’ll own it.

  “The truth is coming out. About a number of things.” She stopped, wishing she could halt time long enough to be sure she knew what she was doing. No. She could only proceed. “Jack, do me a favor, please. Take out your phone and dial a number.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket. She recited the number she’d memorized as she’d sat facing the fridge with that shiny black cape over her shoulders.

  Frowning, Jack placed the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Who am I talking to?”

  “Not you. Me. I’m doing the talking.” She held out her hand. “Please.”

  “Darlin’, I’ve just about had it with your little mysteries,” he said, but he relinquished the phone.

  Thomas Dean answered, and she spoke into a cell phone for the first time in her life.

  thirty

  Jack was convinced of it this time. His ears had gone bad. Miranda could not have called the cops—on herself—for some vague, generic crime. “That’s right, 3742 Hollister Road. I’ll be here.” She handed the phone back.

  Numbly, he hit the “end call” button. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Taking away the weapon he’s been using against me.”

  “Who?”

  “Mason. They’ll believe him, they’ll follow him, unless I deal with him. Once and for all.” She made a slashing gesture with her hand. Her purse gaped open, revealing manila folders.

  “What the—”

  She placed one finger on his lips. “Hush. It’s my turn to talk. Let me handle this. I mean it, Jack. Don’t get involved.”

  With her head held high, she walked across the grass and onto the porch steps. She drew some looks, but she also caught friendly smiles from the friend with the baby bump and her pale, shy daughter who’d baked those dreadful sourdough muffins. The Perini women.