Finally, I hear the truck. Uncle Joe gets out and gives a big stretch and then yawns. I can tell he needs a shower and clean clothes.
“Sister Bard, it’s a pleasure to meet you in the driveway. What’s up?”
“Nothing. How’s work going?”
“Well, to be honest, it’s work all right and not all that fun, but it pays the bills.” He exhales a big breath, and I do too. He leans against his truck and pulls out the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. I lean next to him and stare at the wild grass growing between the oak trees. I feel his eyes on me.
“Your work is school. So, sister, how’s school going?”
“Terrible.”
“You’re so smart, how in the world can it be terrible?”
I look at him to try to read his face. Is this a joke or does he really believe this? “I just get bored, that’s all.”
“I used to get bored too. In fact, I’m really bored hammering nails all day, but that’s what’s required to get a paycheck.” He shakes out a cigarette from the pack. “Think I have time for a smoke before dinner?”
I nod, hoping he has time for the entire pack. Then, I can’t help myself. “Father thinks I’m like you.”
“Really. What do you think he means by that?”
I feel my stomach drop. I had thought he’d give an answer. “I don’t know.” I feel his eyes upon me. I like the smell of cigarette smoke mixed with leaves. I glance over and say, “I just heard him say I might be like you.” His face stays serious, so I add, “Like, always figuring out a way to joke about things. And were you good at telling stories when you were young?”
“Not like you. But I guess you can say I had a good imagination, which I think is true for you.”
Now I see his smile, and it makes me feel good inside even if I stretched the truth. “That’s what my mom says, but I’m not so sure it’s a good thing.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s the way she says, ‘It’s just your imagination.’ And Ethan’s father didn’t like it that he had an imagination.”
“Is Ethan a friend of yours?”
“Yeah. And he has a friend who happens to be a fairy.”
“Well, that could come in handy. I wouldn’t mind a friend like that.”
“Me either. Especially if it were Yram.”
He takes a final puff of his cigarette and smashes it into the ground. “Hmm. Speaking of imagination, I’m imagining a wonderful dinner at this very moment. How about it, sister?”
“Maddie, I’m ready to hear more of the story,” Danny says as he slides on his socks across the white-and-tan linoleum floor.
“Not until you start bringing in some dishes.”
He twirls around and returns with a stack of plates. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Well, remember how I told you that every time he was by himself or with his parents, Ethan forgot that he was able to walk and even run with Yram? Yram did do magic and allowed him to fly with her, but Ethan for sure was also running all on his own.”
“So why would he keep forgetting?”
“Actually, it’s sort of hard to understand. You see . . . he wants to believe it’s true that he can do these things, but he grew up believing what his parents told him. He has a weak heart, and he really does get dizzy if he moves too fast. So what Yram noticed is that when he doesn’t think about getting dizzy, he usually doesn’t.”
“But you said he does really get dizzy.”
“What I mean is, it’s like when you have a bad cold and you have to blow your nose a lot, and the more you think about being miserable, the more you feel that way. But if something exciting is going on, like going to the fair, and you have a cold, it’s sort of like magic the way it doesn’t bother you as much.”
“So, he does get dizzy but sometimes doesn’t notice it.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. And his parents kept telling him that he needed to use his cane when he walked and that he couldn’t be out of bed very long, especially running around. So every time he’s not with Yram, he forgets what he was able to do with her and starts believing what his parents say, but it’s not quite like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, his parents also want him to try and get around more, so it’s not like they are saying, ‘Ethan, stay in bed, you’re too weak to go to school.’”
“What do they say?”
“They keep reminding him of his bad heart and telling him to take it easy, and”—I make a point of pausing and looking right at Mom before saying loudly—“they don’t believe in fairies.”
“What does that matter? You know that I don’t believe—this is just a story.”
“Danny, it matters because they . . . well, it’s hard to explain. Anyway, Yram saw that Ethan couldn’t hold on to what he wanted to believe in and have happen. This upset her because she planned on helping him.”
“So what did she do?”
“Remember the leprechaun, Brogan? He’s the one who told her what she needed to do to get a halo. Well, he sent her to a thick forest called the Forest of Wisdom to meet a wise spider.”
“Ew. I don’t like spiders,” Danny whines.
“I know. I would have been so scared, and so was Yram at first. She could hardly make herself look at the spider because it was really big. But Yram followed Brogan’s instructions and . . .” I look up. Mom’s all done with the pots and pans and has chosen to sit and listen. I love it when she does this.
“She met a huge and very old, ancient spider named Gwendolyn. Yram’s a small fairy, and the spider was much bigger and had hairy legs.”
“Ew, that’s creepy.”
“But at first what she saw wasn’t Gwendolyn—it was her web. The web was made of threads of different colors that sparkled, like gold was mixed in. It was so beautiful that Yram was no longer afraid of Gwendolyn. She knew she was going to learn something very important. So she was able to turn her eyes and look right at the spider and listen.”
“What did Gwendolyn say?” Danny stands motionless in the middle of the kitchen with the dish towel dangling from his hand.
“You need to keep drying all the silverware and put it away, and then I’ll tell you.”
“But I am. I’m just working slowly to listen carefully to the story.”
“Well, this is the hard part to understand. I’m not so sure I even understand everything Gwendolyn was saying. She was passing on some ancient secrets about webs and how they are used by spiders to catch what they need in order to live.”
“That’s easy to understand.”
“Mrs. Zinc said even though Gwendolyn is talking about a web, she is really talking about something bigger. She wasn’t talking about humans really using spiderwebs to also catch insects, she was talking about the idea of a web, how it’s important to catch and hold on to good dreams and hopes and happy beliefs. That was Ethan’s problem. His dream was to be healthy, and he believed it but didn’t hold on to the belief—it kept getting away.”
“So Yram used a spiderweb?”
“No, Gwendolyn taught her about dream catchers because they work like spiderwebs.”
I notice Mom has moved into the other room; it’s just Danny and me finishing up. I’ll tell this part to her later. Danny’s standing still again, wide-eyed. I can tell he likes the story almost as much as I do. I motion to the few plates left in the draining board before continuing.
“A dream catcher is made to catch only the good dreams and to hold on to your hopes and best wishes. The bad dreams don’t stick—they fall through it. The dreams that do stick, the good ones, grow and get better. Gwendolyn taught Yram how to make one for Ethan. Before Yram left, Gwendolyn gave her a warning. Let’s see if I can remember what she said. It was something like this.” I clear my throat and then speak in the halting, crackling voice of an old woman: “‘Yram, you must guard against those who place fear above dreams. They will claim to be acting out of care, but they are hope snatchers and dream destroye
rs in disguise. You must protect the dream catcher from those who don’t believe.’”
“Then what happened?” Danny whispers.
“Yram begged Ethan to help her. She said, ‘There is something I need to make tonight, something very important that I deeply care about that will not survive if you do not help me.’ So, of course, Ethan felt like he was somehow saving Yram. He had no idea that this important thing was the dream catcher she was making for him because it would help him keep believing in what he most wanted.”
I stop and take a deep breath so I won’t start crying in front of Danny. “Danny,” I say, “tomorrow is the last day of hearing this story. We only have about a chapter left.” How can I keep going to school without The Fairy Angel’s Gift to look forward to?
“Tell me what Ethan had to do, and did he do it?”
I have to swallow hard and try to take a normal breath before continuing. Danny doesn’t understand.
“Yram really did need his help. She needed spider silk to make the dream catcher, and she had several spider friends who had bundles of sticks with lots of sticky, silky web to give her. Except Yram knew that the other fairies, especially her cousins—”
“Zerko and Zilla!” Danny yells out.
“That’s right. They don’t like her, and it would be horrible if they saw her carrying the silk and found out what she was doing. They’d destroy it.”
Danny gasps. I wash the last of the dishes, and then continue. “It had to be a secret. Ethan needed to deliver the thread all by himself.”
“Did he?”
In walks Mom, and I know what she’s about to say.
“Okay, kids, time to get homework out. Madelyn, get your book bag. We need to see what the homework is.”
“Maddie, can you please answer my question?” Danny whines.
“I’ll tell you more later, but for now, yes, he brought it to her, and no one followed.” I turn to Mom. “You left at the best part.”
“You can tell me all about it Saturday when we dust the furniture. Now, what do you have for homework?”
~CHAPTER 19~
1967
MRS. ZINC STANDS in front of the class holding the paper that only comes out for special occasions. It’s bright white, not muddy brown. Even though it’s a very sad day, this makes me happy because it means we won’t be copying sentences out of the grammar book. Instead, we’ll get to make up our own.
“Class, since today I’ll be reading the last chapter of The Fairy Angel’s Gift, we’re going to do something special for language arts.”
Last week, when the white paper came out, Mrs. Zinc asked us to write what we most liked about The Fairy Angel’s Gift, and I had so many things to say, all I could do was write single words instead of sentences. Paulette helped me spell them. Mrs. Zinc called it a poem and asked me to read it out loud:
Yram
Flying high
Angel wings
Imagination
Catching dreams
Bobby argued, saying a poem has to rhyme, but Mrs. Zinc said that’s not true of all poems. Later, during recess, he said it was a stupid poem and called me knuckle-brain. Mom’s voice chanted in my head, Sticks and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you. Mrs. Zinc also believes words don’t hurt; I found this out the first week of school when she made it clear she doesn’t allow tattletales.
“I’d like each of you to pretend that you were given a special dream catcher like Ethan’s.” A smile spreads across Mrs. Zinc’s face. She holds the stack of crisp paper close to her chest. I’m sitting up tall in my seat, bouncing my right leg. “What are the dreams you would want a dream catcher to catch and hold for you?” I picture myself meeting Yram. My dream would be to fly with her the way Ethan did. “I’d like you to write at least two paragraphs. Remember, a paragraph starts with a topic sentence and then has three or more sentences that provide details.”
My heart is racing. I want to fly with Yram more than even having a horse. I look down at the lined white paper waiting on my desk. This isn’t a dream I can share; they’d all laugh. I see most everyone else has started.
I write my name in the top corner. I have other dreams. I want to be a nun. Not only a nun, but I also want to work my way up to being a saint. One that does miracles and answers all kinds of prayers. I’ve only shared this with Mom, Uncle Joe, and Miss Stanley. People who aren’t Catholic, like most of my class, don’t know about nuns and saints. This is also a private dream.
I look around. Everyone is busy writing, even Bobby. I hardly have to look to see Paulette’s paper. It’s almost halfway filled with perfect penmanship. Everyone has dreams they want to catch. I look back down at my blank paper. At least it’s mine and hasn’t landed on my desk full of words needing to be read and blanks that can only be filled with one answer. Thinking about this, I suddenly remember my other dream, the dream that no one will laugh at and Mrs. Zinc will understand. I too begin to write fast, filling up my paper.
Mi drem is to sum ba b a ritr, I wunt to rit storez that r az wondrfl az The Fare Anjls Geft. This wud b mi brem, to rit a duk that evrywon luvs to reed and I can desid hw it ends and wut hapenbs in it.
It’s not two paragraphs, but I know Mrs. Zinc is going to be pleased because I wrote sentences, not just words, and it’s the most I’ve written all year. I glance over at Paulette. Her page is all filled up, and her hand doesn’t even look tired. She stops, turns to me, and smiles. Then she flips her paper over. I was hoping she was done so she could help me. I sit and wait while she writes another whole paragraph. If I could write as much and as fast as her, I’d be able to write about all three of my dreams. She finally finishes, holds the paper up, looks at both sides, and smiles. I know she’s happy with it, and she knows I’m sitting with my mouth dropped open.
“Are you done?” she says, glancing down at my paper, which no longer looks like much.
“Yeah.” I hold it up thinking she might be surprised, but when she only sighs, I understand—it’s not much.
She takes out the extra piece of nice paper Mrs. Zinc gave her, clears her throat, acting all teacher-like, and then says, “Okay, I’m ready. Tell me what you wrote and I’ll write it out for you.”
“My dream is to someday be a writer.”
“A writer?” She says in a high-pitched voice as if she hadn’t even heard of such a thing.
“Yes, that’s what I want to be.” I decided that I can be both a writer and a nun.
“But you can’t be a writer if you can’t read. You have to be able to read words to write words.”
“That’s not true. I just wrote this. I wrote more than I usually do. I can be a writer.”
“Okay, what else did you try and write here?”
“It says, ‘I want to write stories that are as wonderful as The Fairy Angel’s Gift. This would be my dream, to write a book that everyone loves to read, and I can decide how it ends and what happens in it.’”
Paulette writes neatly and fast. I can hardly believe how beautiful my words look; they fill five whole lines of paper. My body tingles in excitement with each new line. Maybe I really can be a writer. I can hardly wait for Mrs. Zinc to see.
“Madelyn,” says Paulette in the familiar voice I put up with, “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you really can’t be a writer if you’re not a reader.”
“That’s not true!” The words spill from me with such force I hardly recognize myself. “All I need is help spelling the words I wrote.” I then say even louder, “I wrote this.”
“No, you didn’t. I did. All you did was tell me what to write.” Paulette is so loud, Mrs. Zinc looks up and comes over, and I’m glad she does.
“Thank you, Paulette, for helping Madelyn.”
“Madelyn thinks she can be a writer without being a reader. This is not a dream that can work.”
Mrs. Zinc bends down and reads the words Paulette wrote that are my words and my dream in Paulette’s perfect handwriting, with each word spelled co
rrectly. I wait for Mrs. Zinc to tell Paulette she’s wrong.
“Well, Paulette, you’re right.” She then looks at me while talking to Paulette. “I don’t know of anyone who has learned to be a writer who didn’t first learn to read well.” My face burns red. “Madelyn, I’m happy to see that you’re writing complete sentences. And you should thank Paulette for helping you.” She then walks away to check someone else’s dream, leaving Paulette with a big grin on her know-it-all face. I snatch my paper out of Paulette’s hand and shove it deep into my desk. I turn away from her and send my eyes out the smudged window, looking for some place else to be. I hate school.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Zinc asks for volunteers to share what they have written. I keep looking out the window, not even pretending to listen. It would be easy to shut Mrs. Zinc’s voice out, but I’m finding it impossible to shut out the voice of Paulette sitting right smack next to me.
“Yes, Paulette, go ahead and share.”
“My dream is to be a teacher. I’m good at reading, writing, and math, so I know that I will be an excellent teacher someday. I like to help my classmates.”
She pauses. I look over to see if she’s finally done, but it’s a pause on purpose, so she can look me in the eye and everyone will notice. I whip my head back toward the window, but it’s too late. Everyone sees and knows what Paulette means: I’m her stupid practice student.
Paulette continues. “I’m good at helping to spell and write words; all my grades are A’s . . .”
When she’s finally finished, I silently whisper, “You’ll make a horrible teacher.”
“Yes, Bobby,” Mrs. Zinc says.
“My dream is to be a champion kickball player. I’m already very good, so I think I will only get better. I will one day be famous. As a famous athlete, I will travel all over the United States and meet lots of other famous people, like maybe the Beatles. My other dream is to be a champion fisher. My dad and I go fishing every weekend . . .” Bobby and the others are much easier to tune out than Paulette.
Once Upon a Time a Sparrow Page 10