Once Upon a Time a Sparrow

by Mary Avery Kabrich

  I settle into my chair across the dinner table from Rob and next to Jack. Father’s deep voice leads us in prayer.

  “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.” Our hands make quick motions forming a sloppy sign of the cross, while Father’s move straight up, down, and across.

  “So, what did everyone learn in school today?” Father always asks this question. On days that we have science and Mrs. Zinc reads from the science book or the Weekly Reader, I have lots to report.

  Between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes, Jack blurts out, “I started—”

  “Jack, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Father says. Jack gulps big and then wipes his mouth on his shirtsleeve. Father winces.

  “My reading group started a chapter book today.” Since he’s only in second grade, I figure it was a flat chapter book like Spot the Dog. But I’m wrong; it’s a real chapter book called My Father’s Dragon, which my parents and Rob know about. I only look at Jack once and see his chipmunk smile and know that I need to keep my eyes on the mashed potatoes and pork chops.

  “We also started reading a new book today,” said Rob. “It’s really good. It’s called The Hobbit, and it has three hundred and twenty pages. I’m already on page one hundred and fifteen. I can’t wait to get back to it.” I practically choke on my mashed potatoes. I knew he read a lot, but is it even possible to read that many pages in one day?

  “What’s a hobbit?” Jack asks.

  “It’s a make-believe kind of person. They’re like dwarfs, but they have hairy feet. Bilbo Baggins is a hobbit who just wants to stay home and be comfortable, but his friends talk him into taking a big adventure, and now he’s on one.”

  “Sounds like a fantasy story,” Mom says.

  “It’s make-believe,” Rob says. “But it seems real when you’re reading it.”

  “When you read a good book, that’s what happens—you feel as though it’s really happening and you’re in it,” Father says.

  “Even if you don’t read but just listen, that can happen,” I say.

  “Yep, when Maddie tells me the story, it does seem real, but I know fairies are not real,” Danny chimes in.

  Father clears his voice, and we all look up at him. “Last night, Uncle Joe called. He’s in between jobs, and down the road, where that new resort is coming in, they need carpenters. So, Uncle Joe is going to be staying with us for about a month while he works there.”

  I remember the phone ringing last night and Father looking all serious after he hung up. I knew something was happening; probably he wanted to talk with Mom first before telling us. But now that he has, it feels like Christmas. Everyone except Father is excited.

  “When’s he going to come?” Jack asks.

  “I met with him today. He plans on moving a few things in tomorrow so he can start work Friday with Lakeside Development. He should be here sometime after you get home.”

  Danny spontaneously claps, and Jack joins in. I thought back to the last time Uncle Joe stayed with us, when he came to help build the garage. He’d listen to the stories I made up, and he had a special name for me—Sister Bard. He always had a funny joke or two, and he’s so smart, he knew how to fix the rock tumbler that had broken. Father had said it should be thrown out, but Uncle Joe knew what to do.

  “I can’t wait for Uncle Joe to come,” Danny whines.

  Rob looks up from his empty plate of food and asks, “What happened to his other job?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure,” Father says. “I think Uncle Joe wants to take a little break to think about what his next job might be, but in the meantime, he needs to make money to pay his bills. Rob, were you able to get the information on junior golf?”

  Rob looks first at Mom and then Father, and back down at his plate, before answering.

  “No.”

  Father places his fork on his plate so he can give a good hard look at Rob while Mom continues to keep her eyes on the couple bites of potatoes sitting alone on her plate.

  In a trembling voice, Rob continues. “I told you, I’m not interested in golf. I want to try out for track.”

  We all stay quiet, and the silence is so heavy I think it might choke me. Then Danny breaks it.

  “What’s track?”

  “You know, that round racing track behind the kickball field, where the big kids have to run,” Jack says, but I can tell Father is still upset, and Mom is staying quiet.

  I don’t like the quiet, so I say, “I wish I could go out for track.” No one responds, so I add, “I’m the fastest one in my class.”

  “Maybe when you’re older,” Mom says in her choppy voice.

  “It’s not all running. It could be jumping or throwing the discus or shot put,” Rob says.

  “You’re right, Rob, it’s not all running, but we have already had this discussion. It’s much too risky for you even if all you did was participate in the field events. What if you were sixty miles away and had an asthma attack in the middle of a meet? End of discussion.”

  Rob stands up. His plate is empty, but not all of us have empty plates, and he doesn’t even ask to be excused. He turns and leaves. I think of Ethan, how upset he was when his father didn’t believe he could handle duck hunting.

  “Maddie, I’m ready for the story,” Danny says while setting a stack of plates on the counter next to the sink. “I remember what happened.”

  “What?”

  “Ethan stopped talking to his father for a whole week because he was mad. I don’t see how that can really happen. And Yram had her wings wiped with slug slime. Did the mean cousins do it again?”

  “No, they left her alone. But they started a rumor. Do you know what a rumor is?”

  “A room or something like it?”

  “No. It’s when you say something about someone to someone else and it’s not true. Just like at the start of the school year, and I was cold so I kept my coat on, and Bobby started telling everyone that the reason I always wear my coat is because I have to wear ugly clothes. That’s a rumor.”

  “Oh, so it’s telling lies. Why did he say you were wearing ugly clothes?”

  “I don’t know. I think he was mad because I beat him at tetherball in front of everyone. The lie that Zerko and Zilla started telling is that Yram was a cruel fairy who was making children get in trouble with their parents on purpose.”

  “That’s mean.”

  “Yeah, and it upset Yram because it was sort of true. Ethan was having a hard time getting along with his dad, and he wasn’t at all happy. He started feeling more sorry for himself. Yram wanted to help, so she decided to show up at dinnertime.”

  “You mean she just flew right in the door or something?”

  “No, that’s not how Yram does things. She made a point of flickering real bright outside the windows. Ethan knew it was her and yelled out, ‘Look, Dad and Mom, that’s my fairy friend.’ Yram waved, and Ethan could even make out a smile. She was hard to see, but he knew it was her. Well, when his parents looked out the window, they started to laugh.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what they saw was not a fairy—what they saw was a firefly. Their laughing made Ethan really mad and hurt his feelings.”

  “Is that why you get mad when we don’t believe you?”

  I stop rinsing the plates and turn to face Danny. He stops twirling the damp towel and waits for my response.

  “Yes. Because you really don’t know what I see.” I look over at Mom, who has begun to sweep the crumbs from the floor; I can tell she’s listening.

  “But this is just a story, and Dad says—”

  “I know,” I snap back. “Danny, you need to help. I’ve done everything so far. Here, dry this.” I hand him a plate and dish towel.

  “What else happens?” I ignore him and wait until he at least finishes drying off the plate, and then I continue.

  “Ethan wanted to run of
f. When he got up to leave, he saw the way his parents looked at him. He saw the worry in his mother’s eyes and disbelief in his father’s eyes.”

  “Why didn’t Ethan’s parents see Yram?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get to that part. But first, here’s what happened to Ethan. He took a couple of steps, got all shaky, and his heart started beating real fast, so he fell to the floor. His mother helped him walk back to his room. Once he was alone, he began to wonder if his parents were right, that maybe it wasn’t Yram he’d seen. It could have been he was seeing things. This upset him more. Later, when Yram came back, he was mad at her too.”

  “Why? She did try to show herself.”

  “Ethan asked, ‘Where were you?’ and Yram said, ‘You saw me waving at you.’ Ethan said, ‘Why didn’t you come in the house the way you always come in my bedroom?’ He was still feeling upset about his parents’ laughing, which I can understand.” I pause and look over at Mom, who is now wiping the counters. “Here is what Yram had to say: ‘Ethan, no matter what, they wouldn’t have seen me because they don’t believe. If you think something is impossible, then no matter what happens, you’ll miss it.’”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Yram is saying that if someone has their mind made up that there are no such things as fairies, then no matter what they see, they’ll not believe in fairies. Last night, I saw a fairy outside my window, and when Mom looked, she said it was the moon and stars flickering through the leaves.”

  “Who’s right?” Danny asks, darting his eyes from me to Mom and back to me. Mom stops her cleaning and turns toward us.

  “We both are,” Mom says. “Madelyn saw a fairy, and I saw the stars twinkling. Madelyn has a fantastic imagination. She’s able to see things that we don’t see.”

  “But was there really a fairy?” Danny asks.

  “Yes,” I say at the same time Mom is saying, “No.”

  Danny looks first at me and then at Mom. His face scrunches up as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

  ~CHAPTER 11~

  1967

  THE FIRST THING I do each night before going to bed is make sure my window curtain is cracked open enough to let in a sliver of outside just in case a fairy happens to fly by. I saw one the day after Mrs. Zinc started reading The Fairy Angel’s Gift. At first, I thought I had seen a giant firefly, but then I realized it was much too big to be a firefly and it was the wrong time of the year because the leaves on the tree were only beginning to push out. When Mom came to tuck me in, I had her take a look, but all she could see were stars.

  “Mom, this time I know I saw a fairy. I was lying in bed looking at a star, and it flew right up to my window.”

  “Honey, it was probably a firefly. Some of them can get pretty big.”

  “But I thought fireflies were only around during the summer, and it’s not summer yet.” I gave her my pleading face, and she squatted down next to me, separated the curtains, and tilted her head to peer out the window and shut them much too soon to have seen anything.

  “I even saw its wings,” I added, because the more I thought about it, the more certain I was.

  “What I saw were lots of stars flickering.” She smiled the way she always does when I tell her a joke and she knows it’s supposed to be funny—but this was not meant to be funny. She motioned me back to bed in her no-nonsense way, like I imagine her at work in the hospital, poking a thermometer under a patient’s tongue and reminding him to lie still with his mouth closed.

  “I can tell you don’t believe me.”

  “Sweetheart, you have a good imagination, and sometimes you get a little carried away.”

  “But maybe fairies are real. Lots of people believe in them—I’m not the only one. You know Grandma O’Leary saw a fairy.”

  “Honey, I think your grandmother was pulling your leg.”

  “No, she wasn’t. She even said that in her country most people believe in fairies and leprechauns.”

  “Well, the Irish people love to tell stories, and sometimes the stories are so lifelike that people imagine things. Your grandmother was a good Catholic, and Catholics don’t believe in fairies.”

  “I do.” I pulled the blankets over my head and tucked my stuffed donkey, Eeyore, under my arm.

  I’ve shared with Saint Rita that I believe in fairies, and I think I heard her answer that she does too.

  Each night after tucking me in, my Mom reminds me, “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” She’s always reminding us kids to say our prayers. If we lose something, she suggests we pray to Saint Anthony, the patron saint for lost objects. Mom prays to Saint Anthony whenever she loses her keys, and he always comes to the rescue. They usually show up under a pile of papers on the kitchen counter or in her purse. He helped me a few times, but he also let me down, like when I lost my loose tooth during recess. Mom says prayers don’t always turn out the way we want them to.

  That’s why I plan to be a nun when I grow up. If I’m good at it, I’ll learn to do miracles and then go on to be a saint. If I were a saint, I’d work extra hard to listen to prayers and make sure all of them were answered.

  I found out about Saint Rita last year when I asked Miss Stanley what a patron saint for lost causes meant, like Saint Jude, who my Mom prays to when she’s upset.

  “I don’t see why anyone would be a saint for lost causes. If I lose something, I pray to Saint Anthony. Does this mean praying to figure out the cause of losing something?”

  The other kids in class had giggled just like when I had asked the week before, “If a saint sins, do they still have to go to purgatory?” They never understand the importance of my questions, but Miss Stanley always understands.

  “Being a patron saint of lost causes is quite special,” Miss Stanley answered in her gentle voice. “A lost cause is not like a lost toy—it’s when you want something, and you lose your willpower to get it and you give up. Or when you are in a desperate or what appears to be an impossible or hopeless situation.” It had made me sad to think that my mom sometimes feels this way, but at least she has Saint Jude.

  “Saint Jude is not the only patron saint for lost causes. There is also Saint Rita, whom I pray to on occasion. Sometimes, I’m in a situation that feels a little hopeless.”

  I could hardly believe what I had heard: Miss Stanley feeling hopeless? She knows so much about saints and the Bible.

  “Like learning a new and difficult song on the organ well enough to play it on Sunday. When I’ve lost hope, I pray to Saint Rita. She has never failed me.”

  Miss Stanley plays the organ so beautifully on Sundays, I knew she was right. It must be Saint Rita helping her.

  “I didn’t know two different saints could be in charge of helping with the same kinds of problems.”

  Miss Stanley laughed. “There are probably more than two. I just relate better to Saint Rita.”

  “So do I.”

  Before class was over, Miss Stanley reached into her desk and handed me a holy card with Saint Rita’s picture, and when I imagined a colorful scarf instead of the white habit, I was amazed at how much she looked like Miss Stanley.

  Now that I’m in third grade and still a Sparrow, I’m thinking reading’s a cause that’s so lost even Saint Rita can’t help. I still pray to her. I know she’s a powerful saint because I listen to Miss Stanley play the organ music on Sundays, and everyone bows their heads to listen, and if clapping were allowed, that’s what would happen because her music is perfect.

  Mom doesn’t need to remind me to say my prayers, and since I had told her I planned on being a nun, I think she knows this. Praying is how I settle down to fall asleep at night. I do more than say a couple of Hail Marys and Our Fathers. I organize the problems from my day and put them in imaginary rooms so I can shut each door and take care of one room at a time. I call it cleaning my rooms. One by one, I open doors and make myself lie still and feel the upset, and then I discuss it with Saint Rita.

  Usually, it’s teasing or getting s
colded for not following along in class. Sometimes it’s my father raising his voice. Tonight the messiest room is what happened during PE. That’s all I knew when I made a room for it. My thoughts drift back to PE, and my stomach tightens with the image of Bobby and kickball. When I open the door and listen, I know it’s not about kickball. I had my best kick all week; I ran with my head held high. I didn’t even need to slide into home, but I did anyway because it’s fun. Maybe I shouldn’t have showed off so much. I know I was smiling when I brushed the dirt from my clothes. Bobby stood waiting for the ball that was still way out in left field.

  I play this over in my mind, and my stomach tells me that’s not what’s making me upset; it has nothing to do with my perfect kick. My stomach stays tight, and that’s how I know it’s what Bobby said to me that has me tied up inside. The closer I get to it, the more my stomach aches, and, like a loose tooth, the only way to make it better is to pull it out, real fast. I let his voice say what he said.

  “Just because you can kick a ball doesn’t mean you’re smart.”

  I feel my stomach go into a knot, but right away I tell Saint Rita, “It’s just because he was mad. I had caught his pop-up and it was an out. That’s why he told me that on the way back to class.”

  I chant one Hail Mary after another as the twisting, aching feeling is smoothed out, and the room is clean enough to let me sleep.

  ~CHAPTER 12~

  2005

  IRENE INGERSOLL, like Matt, is a social worker; not a clinical psychologist. Which I find comforting. I keep a referral list of twenty or more psychologists for parents and teachers. Yet therapy is not something I’ve ever considered for myself, even when I was getting divorced. I’ve always worked my problems out using my journal.

  My first journal, now a broken-spined, five-by-seven-inch sketchpad stowed under my bed, was a birthday present from my brother Jack. As a child, I liked to draw, but it was writing that ultimately captivated me. Sometime toward the end of seventh grade, when I could read most of my inventive spelling, my sketchpad shifted from pictures to words, which only I could decipher. That first journal introduced me to the pleasures of crafting my thoughts into a meaningful code. I wrote solely for myself, and rules of spelling, grammar, and punctuation were tossed aside. At times, my writing taught me something I neither knew nor thought I might want to know—a painless birth delivering untold satisfaction. I’d create stories about children conquering all kinds of evil forces, and in the course of a leisurely afternoon, regardless of frightful misspellings, I fancied myself a writer.