The Nature of Small Birds

by Susie Finkbeiner

  She put out her hand to stop us in the middle of the yard.

  “When life changes, and it does on the regular, we can be sad,” she said. “But pay attention, lovelies. Oh, pay attention. Because the ending of one thing almost always means the beginning of something else.”

  Her eyes were watery, and it surprised me to see a tear fall down her cheek.

  “God is so kind,” she said. “And he’s always up to something.”

  She brushed the tear off her face and turned back toward the large number of rocks still to be moved.

  “Let’s keep at it,” she said.

  That night I sat on the back patio to watch the sunset. When Mom noticed me out there, she joined me on the glider. We went back and forth at an easy pace, and she held my hand on her stomach where the baby was kicking.

  The whole time we kept our eyes on the fire-red sky that darkened to a deep blue with each minute that passed.

  When it was finally over, the sun completely sunk, I sighed.

  “Everything okay?” Mom asked.

  “Yeah. I just wish sunsets would last longer,” I answered.

  “Me too.” She turned her head and kissed my cheek.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Two

  Bruce, 2013

  The breeze is just strong enough this morning that it sends a flutter through the leaves, breaking some of them loose, and the big old clouds move slow and lazy across the sky. A blue jay announced my arrival when I first got to the river, jeered a loud warning to all the other critters in the woods.

  Apparently the fish took heed of his alarm. I can’t get a single one of them to bite.

  That’s all right, though. I don’t mind standing here in my waders, the river moving around my knees and the sun keeping me warm.

  Linda knows well enough after all these years that every once in a while I need to get out in the water by myself, even if I don’t bring a single fish home for supper. It’s good for my soul, being in the woods, in the river, in creation.

  If a man walks long enough on this earth, he’s bound to have seen his share of change. Some of it he chooses, but most of it chooses him. He weathers some of it with grace and joy and wisdom. Other times he pouts about it for a little while, which is a lot better than pitching a temper tantrum.

  I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve reacted badly more than a couple of times when change came along that I didn’t want.

  But I’m a fortunate man who has witnessed God’s new mercies coming every morning whether I deserve them or not.

  More often than not, I’ve needed Linda to point them out to me. She’s always on the lookout for the goodness of God.

  My life would have been so much different without her in it.

  We’ve done a lot of living together, her and I, in the years since we first met. In that living we’ve had our share of ups—grandbabies and retirement and more beautiful days than I can count—and plenty of downs—financial hiccups and Mindy’s divorce and troubles getting along with my mother. Mixed in with the good and bad is a whole lot of stuff that was just normal, everyday living.

  Isn’t that life, though? So much all jumbled together.

  Shakespeare said something about our life being a web of mingled yarn. The good and bad is twined together.

  That’s a paraphrase. He, of course, said it better.

  When I was a younger man I thought if I worked hard, cared deeply, and read my Bible every day that life would be happy, without any bumps in the road.

  How naive, huh?

  I reel in my line, readying it for another casting. Pausing a moment before I do, I turn my face upward, closing my eyes against the sun.

  Man alive, it’s a great day to be outside.

  Really, though, any day is.

  Rain or sun, storm or calm; nature is good, full of glimmers of God’s glory.

  Opening my eyes, I cast my line, knowing full well that I might not get anything for my efforts. Knowing there’s even a chance I’ll get an old boot or a rusty tin can. Then again, I might get something big and tasty.

  It’s a risk.

  There’s just no way of knowing.

  What I know is this, that mingled yarn of Shakespeare’s? It’s stronger than a thread of good, bad, or normal could ever be on its own. There’s no morning without night.

  And there’s no need of overcoming if in this world we don’t have trouble.

  How’s all that for a little navel-gazing?

  I throw out my line one more time.

  The only fish I bring home is the kind that’s deep fried and comes packed up in a Styrofoam box from a restaurant in town. I can tell Linda’s relieved when she realizes she won’t have to worry about me cleaning my catch here at the house.

  Mindy comes downstairs, bleary eyed and yawning, rotating her hands to loosen up her wrists.

  “You feeling all right?” I ask, handing her a plate.

  “Yeah. I’m fine.” She pulls out her chair at the dining room table and sits. “I brought work home so I could redline some articles before they have to go to print tomorrow. The sportswriter pushes back on every edit I make.”

  “That must be frustrating,” Linda says. “Do you want iced tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Mindy answers. “Thank you.”

  “Anything we can help with?” I ask.

  “Aside from coffee delivery?” Mindy smiles. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I’m not tough enough for this job.”

  “Sure you are, honey,” Linda says.

  “The worst part?” She pauses to take a sip of tea. “I don’t think he’d fight me if I weren’t a woman.”

  “Probably not,” I say.

  I’ve known the sportswriter—a guy named Jim Rogers—most of my life. We went to school together, and he was a bully then. But only to the girls, if I remember right. I never knocked his block off, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.

  If he doesn’t ease up on my daughter, though, I might take a chance. I may be in my sixties, but I’ve still got a little fight in me yet.

  “Anyway, he’s retiring next year,” Mindy says. “So I’ll be rid of him soon enough.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Linda plops a dollop of tartar sauce on her plate.

  “I’m a little frustrated, though.” Mindy grabs a hush puppy from her plate, dipping it in a puddle of hot sauce. “I haven’t had much time to look into the Vietnam stuff.”

  “Well, I could help a little,” Linda says, then points a thick-cut French fry at me. “Bruce, don’t we have a folder of paperwork from the adoption agency somewhere?”

  “We sure do.” I rub my palms together. “Upstairs in the safe.”

  “What kind of paperwork?” Mindy asks around a mouthful.

  “You know, I haven’t even thought about it in years,” Linda says. “Once the adoption was final, we stuck it in the safe and all but forgot about it.”

  I push away from the table and place my napkin next to my plate. “I’ll go get it.”

  “No, eat your dinner,” Mindy says. “You don’t want it to get cold.”

  “It won’t take me but a minute,” I say. “And I’ll pop this in the microwave if need be.”

  I take the stairs, the ache in my knees reminding me of my age. It won’t be long before I’m not able to stand all day in a river and expect to go up and down the steps.

  Linda and I have talked a little bit about finding a smaller place sometime, one without a second floor. She’s even got her dream house picked out. A cute Arts and Crafts home in town that probably won’t be up for sale any time in the near future.

  But I let my Linda have her dreams. And I add a few of my own too.

  I get the safe cracked and locate the manila envelope in a jiffy. When I pull it out from the stack of forms and files and such, a couple old newspaper clippings come with it, dropping onto the carpet. I bend at the knees to pick them up.

  One has a grainy picture of the four of us—Linda, Sonny, Mindy, and me�
��standing on the front stoop of our old house a week or two after Mindy came. We’re holding hands, the girls between me and Linda.

  The headline reads “Bear Run’s Own Babylift Delivery.” I shake my head. It’s still a hokey line, as far as I’m concerned.

  Boy, though. Looking at that picture of us brings up some pretty good feelings. We were scared, sure. We had no clue what we were doing. But, man, we were happy.

  I look at the other clipping. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s Dale’s obituary.

  After putting that particular paper back into the safe, I shut the door and turn the lock.

  Good and bad together.

  The fish is still warm enough when I get back to it.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Three

  Linda, 1975

  Bruce sat on the couch, guitar resting on his knee, finger picking a little ditty for Minh. She stood no less than two feet from him, her hair still damp from her bath. One of the straps of her overalls had slid off her shoulder, but I didn’t dare reach out to fix it for fear of making her jump. She was still unsure of us—me especially—and I tried not to let that get to me.

  It would take her some time to grow accustomed to all the new people and places in her life. Lucky for us, we weren’t in any hurry.

  As she listened to Bruce, she swayed back and forth, just barely. I imagined if Sonny was there, she’d have been turning pirouettes until she fell down dizzy.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall, wishing that lunchtime would come sooner so Sonny could come home and meet her sister. Some strong urge in the pit of me couldn’t wait for my girls to be together.

  Minh took a few shuffling steps closer to Bruce, gripping her baby doll tighter as she did. I lowered the basket of dirty laundry to the floor and leaned into the frame of my bedroom door.

  She’d been home with us for less than a full day, but I already knew that she found a certain calm with Bruce. He eased her in a way that I doubted I’d be able to. I batted away the seed of jealousy that wanted to plant itself in my heart. That wouldn’t do any good for anybody. Instead, I let a deeper love for my husband take root.

  When I was a girl, my mother told me once to only fall for a man who had money. And a lot of it. I knew she’d said it out of concern for me, only wanting for me what she’d never hoped to have. My mother hadn’t known there were better things in the world than social rank or large houses.

  Maybe if she’d had the chance to meet Bruce she could have known it was possible to be just making it money wise, but to be happier than a lark. For me, happiness was a man who loved my children.

  It hurt my heart that my mother had never known that sort of goodness.

  I blinked away thoughts of my past and refocused my eyes on Bruce and Minh, wishing I had a camera so I could capture the moment. My memory would have to do.

  He sang “Blackbird,” somehow keeping his voice steady and deep. I could never make it through that song without my voice cracking with emotion. There was just something about those lyrics.

  As the song went on, Minh inched little by little to Bruce until she was right beside him, her hip against the couch cushion. She stood there until the very end of the song, her eyes moving from the fingers of his left hand as they picked the guitar strings to his face as he sang.

  Through the open window I heard the crunch of car tires in our driveway and saw the flash of green that was Ivan’s Chevy.

  Bruce lifted his head when the car door slammed.

  Minh, though, jumped at the sharp noise, holding the baby doll tight against her neck.

  “It’s okay. It’s just Grumpy,” he said, pointing out the window. “Can you see him?”

  Minh nodded, not looking outside. Her bottom lip pushed out into a pout and her chin quivered.

  “He’ll be nice to you.” He propped the guitar against the couch and put out his hand to Minh.

  She looked at it but didn’t reach for it.

  Ivan tapped on the screen door, coming in when I told him to. In his hand he had a brand-new teddy bear. A pink one with a purple bow around its neck.

  “Hey, Dad,” Bruce said, getting up to greet him.

  Ivan extended his hand and shook Bruce’s, something that always made me want to yell, “Just hug each other already!”

  I didn’t, though. It would have embarrassed them too much.

  “Did Mom come?” Bruce asked, looking out the door toward Ivan’s car.

  Ivan dropped his head and gave it a small shake. “Not this time, son.”

  “Oh.” Bruce blinked twice, hard.

  “I’ll keep working on it,” Ivan said. “She’ll come to her senses sooner than later.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’m glad you’re here at least. Come meet Minh,” Bruce said, stepping aside to let his dad pass.

  “Hey there, girlie,” Ivan said, stooping with the bear extended toward Minh. “This is for you. You like pink?”

  Minh nodded her head but didn’t take the stuffed animal.

  “Go on, honey.” Ivan put it on the arm of the couch. “It’s for you. Don’t let that sister of yours steal it, all right?”

  He moved it just a tiny bit closer to her and she reached out, taking it by the paw and gathering it in her arms next to the baby doll. She nuzzled it against her cheek. It did look soft.

  “You and me are going to get in all kinds of trouble together.” Ivan cleared his throat. “You just wait and see.”

  He reached out to bop her on the nose, but she flinched and took a step back. Her little chin trembled.

  “Minh,” Bruce said, going on one knee beside her. “It’s all right. It’s okay.”

  “Oh, golly,” Ivan said, nodding at him. “Did I scare her? I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s fine. She’ll be just fine,” I said, nodding at him. “She’s overwhelmed, that’s all.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am.”

  I put an arm around him, leading him to the couch to have a seat. In the seven years that I’d known him, I’d never seen him so flustered. It made me love him even more than I already did. How gentle of him, to care so deeply about the feelings of my little girl.

  “Turn toward me, okay?” I said.

  He did and I bopped him on the nose with my fingertip and he smiled, catching my drift. He tapped the tip of my nose in response. It was so ridiculous that I laughed, which got Ivan going too.

  Minh stood beside Bruce, watching the two of us. She straightened, allowing a hint of a smile to tug at the corners of her mouth. Then she pointed her finger, touching the end of her own nose.

  “There you go,” Bruce said, then took her hand in his, having her touch his nose.

  That was when we heard her laugh for the first time. It was small, but it was beautiful. I would have cheered for the pure joy of it, but I didn’t want to startle her.

  I offered Ivan a cup of coffee, making sure he got all the sugar he wanted.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Four

  Sonny, 1988

  The first time I heard of Clinton Montgomery was at church camp when I was just starting middle school. The counselors had let us stay up late on the last night and we sat around the bonfire, swatting at mosquitoes and singing cutesy little Sunday school songs. Amelia and I shared a bench near a couple of boys we’d been too afraid of to talk to all week.

  They hadn’t talked to us either, so I thought they were kind of scared too.

  One of the camp counselors started telling ghost stories. Every one of them about Clinton Montgomery—otherwise known as the Bear Run Boogeyman. Each of them more terrifying than the last.

  Amelia and I huddled together, trying to act cool so the boys nearby wouldn’t think we were total losers. I thought about getting up and going back to my cabin so I wouldn’t hear any more, but I was too frightened to walk through the dark woods.

  When told in the daylight, any story about his mangled hand or half-melted face didn’t seem so bad. But in the dark, with all the sounds
of the woods snapping and creaking, they were horrifying.

  The next year at the last bonfire of camp was the same thing, only that time Mindy was on a bench across the pit from me, sitting with her friend Becky. For as many Stephen King novels as my sister read, I wouldn’t have thought that those ghost stories would have bothered her. But they had. A whole lot.

  She never admitted to having had any nightmares of the Bear Run Boogeyman, but I was sure she did. How could she not?

  So, when Mrs. Olds told us that we were setting up the collection from the Clinton Montgomery estate, Mindy and I met eyes, our mouths hanging open.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, turning toward us. “But he was not a monster.”

  “It’s just that we heard stories,” I said.

  “Oh, I know you have.” She wagged her finger at us. “Follow me.”

  Mrs. Olds made her way to what had been the parlor where Mrs. Huebert had served her teas. There, leaning against the wall and split into four stacks, were at least a dozen fancy picture frames—the kind used in an art museum. A shoebox sat on the windowsill nearby, and Mrs. Olds reached into it, lifting out a few photographs.

  “Oh, the poor man,” she said and then made a tsking sound. “Mr. Montgomery fought in the Great War.”

  “Didn’t he die in one of the battles?” Mindy asked.

  “He did not, dear,” Mrs. Olds said. “He survived the war. But he came home looking like this.”

  She held up an old picture that was so gross and so shocking I knew that I’d never, ever forget it. Mindy grabbed my hand, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lift her other hand to cover her mouth.

  “The fighting in France was brutal,” Mrs. Olds said. “Like General Sherman said, ‘War is hell.’”

  I jerked my eyes from the picture to Mrs. Olds’s face. Never in my life had I heard an old lady swear. I didn’t think it was possible.

  “What happened to him?” Mindy asked, seemingly unfazed by the curse word.