The Nature of Small Birds

by Susie Finkbeiner

  “Where’s Uncle Chris?” Sonny asked, giving Teddy’s foot a shake between her thumb and finger.

  “I don’t think he’ll be here this time, honey,” Dana said. “I’m sorry. He wanted me to tell you how proud he is of you, though.”

  “Is he okay?” I asked, putting out my hands to take the baby.

  “Yeah,” she answered, putting the diaper bag on the floor by the stairs. “He just has this car in the shop that’s turning out to be a difficult nut to crack. You know. He has to work late to fix it.”

  From the way she didn’t meet my eyes when she said it, I wondered if it was true.

  Hilda wasn’t the only one in the family who had tender feelings about us adopting Minh. For some reason, though, it hurt less that Chris had kept his distance. Somehow, I had more grace for him than I ever did for Hilda.

  “Sweetie,” I said to Sonny. “How about you go get washed up for supper. All right?”

  I held Teddy against my shoulder and bounced, waiting for Sonny to make her way out of earshot.

  “Dana?” I said. “I know having Minh here is probably hard for him.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she said. Then she met my eyes. “Being over there stole a lot from him. But he’s still a good man.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “It might take him a little time.”

  “We can be patient.”

  Teddy squirmed in my arms, and I adjusted my hold of him until he eased back into comfort.

  Hilda had asked Ivan earlier in the week to put in an order for a sheet cake that was to say “Congrats, Sonny!” in pink frosting. When he’d gone to pick it up from the bakery that afternoon, she’d told him to check it before he left to make sure everything was correct.

  So, when she brought out the cake box after supper and lifted the lid, she scowled.

  “I thought you checked it,” she said.

  “Yup,” Ivan answered.

  “But they spelled her name wrong.” Hilda pointed. “They wrote ‘Sunny.’”

  “Like I told them to.”

  “Dad, you know her name’s spelled with an o, right?” Bruce asked, spelling it out loud.

  Ivan tapped the end of his chin and looked from Hilda to Bruce as if trying to decide if they were pulling his leg.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “I’m certain,” Bruce answered.

  “Her real name’s Sondra,” I said by way of explaining.

  “It is?” Ivan pulled his mouth into a thoughtful frown. “How about that?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Hilda said, cutting into the cake as if to teach it a lesson.

  Dana and I met glances and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

  Out the window behind Dana I saw Chris’s Pinto parked in the driveway. He stood against it, examining his nails.

  “Chris is here,” I told her. “Do you mind if I go talk to him?”

  She took Teddy from me—I was, admittedly, a baby hog that day—and told me to go ahead.

  Chris looked up when I stepped out the front door.

  “You know, doesn’t matter how much I scrub my hands,” he said. “They’ll always be grease stained, I guess.”

  “Just shows you’re a hard worker,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Hilda saved a plate for you.”

  “That’s nice of her.” He focused his eyes on the cement between our feet. “I don’t talk about Nam much.”

  He worked his mouth like he was trying to figure out what he needed to say next. I didn’t want to step over his words, so I didn’t say anything.

  “Try not to think about it either.” He shrugged. “Not that I can help it.”

  One of the neighbors drove by and tapped their horn in a friendly honk. I waved.

  “The memories that bother me most are of the kids.” He bit his top lip. “Too much happened to them that no kid should ever have to live through.”

  He lifted his eyes. Chris Francis had the most earnest eyes I’d ever seen. Truly. And that day they were full of hurt, so much that it made me want to cry.

  “I never hated them,” he said. “The folks over there.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I said.

  “In fact, I wanted to help them.” He closed his eyes. “Wish I could’ve done more for them.”

  He pushed his lips together and breathed in and out through his nose a few times before opening his eyes, again with that sincere expression.

  “I’d like to meet my niece now. If that’s okay,” he said.

  “Of course.” I nodded toward the house. “Come on.”

  I had Chris wait on the steps off the entryway and went to find Minh who, blessedly, had finished eating her piece of cake.

  “She gobbled it right down,” Bruce said, wiping the frosting from the corners of her mouth.

  “Chris is ready to see her,” I whispered into his ear. “But maybe not with everybody watching.”

  “Oh,” Bruce said, nodding to let me know he got it.

  He scooped up Minh and the two of us did our best at sneaking out of the dining room without drawing too much attention.

  When he saw us walk in, Chris stood and pulled on the bottom of his T-shirt.

  “This is Minh,” Bruce said, lowering her to the floor. Then to her, “That’s your Uncle Chris.”

  Chris squatted down, putting out his right hand to her. “Chào,” he said.

  She took his hand with her left, not shaking it. Just holding it. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good.”

  “Bye.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “She’s just showing off now,” Bruce said.

  “I can see that.” Chris turned his eyes to their hands. Hers tiny and with a little smudge of frosting on her thumb, his big and with nails rimmed black from years of working on cars. “It’s good to meet you.”

  “You better come and get some cake before Sonny and Dad eat it all,” Bruce said.

  “Sonny,” Minh said.

  Chris stood, Minh still holding his hand. He took two steps toward Bruce and pulled him into a hug.

  There was something fierce, almost wild about that hug. As if all the past hurts between them stood no chance against the way they slapped each other’s backs. As if they put it all behind them right that moment.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-Six

  Sonny, 1988

  By the end of July all anybody talked about was the drought we seemed to be in the middle of. The grass in everybody’s yard turned yellow then brown because of the watering ban. At church on Sundays the prayer request list had a new section headed with “Pray for Our Farmers! Pray for Rain!” listing all the farming families by name.

  It was hot. It was dry. It was completely miserable.

  “It was 108 in Arizona yesterday,” Mindy said when I complained.

  “They’re used to it,” I said back. “I, on the other hand, am not used to it being ninety degrees at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “I’m just saying that it’s hotter in Arizona.”

  “Yeah. Because it’s supposed to be.”

  Dad set the air-conditioning to blast our house with freezing air all day and all night for Mom’s sake. He told her not to go outside for any reason, not to get the mail or to run to the store or anything.

  “Stay inside no matter what,” he told her.

  “What if there’s a fire?” Mindy asked.

  “Well, it’d probably be cooler inside than out anyway,” he said. Then, to Mom, “Linda, I’m serious. I don’t want you risking it.”

  Mom, ever the free spirit who wasn’t all that fond of being told what to do, nodded.

  It wouldn’t have surprised me at all if she pointed one toe out the door once we were all gone for the day just because she could.

  The only person in the history of the world who looked good in a muumuu was Mrs. Olds. On her, the oversized dress didn’t look shapeless or frumpy, it was flowing, and
the bright print of green leaves and pink hibiscus wasn’t cheesy, it was exotic.

  “I bought this in Hawaii when I was there in the late sixties,” she said, running her hands along the fabric. “I was there with my second husband for our anniversary and fell in love with this as soon as I saw it.”

  “It’s pretty,” Mindy said.

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Olds put a hand to her heart. “Now, I think we should do our work in the cellar again. What do you think?”

  Neither Mindy nor I needed to give it a second thought. It was at least twenty degrees cooler in the cellar. We grabbed the boxes Mrs. Olds pointed to and hauled them downstairs to sort through them.

  I didn’t even care if I got cobwebs in my bangs.

  On one side of the cellar we had a table for all the things to keep, and on the other side Mrs. Olds had set a garbage can for the things that were to go. For most things, it was pretty clear which side of the room they belonged on. Other things were a little more complicated, and Mindy and I debated each other over the fate of the particular artifact.

  Our most heated argument was when we found a set of clown figurines. I said that they were chic and Parisian. She said that all clowns—French or not—were creepy and that she didn’t want to be responsible for giving every kid in Bear Run nightmares.

  I thought she read too much Stephen King for her own good.

  In the end, Mrs. Olds had the final say—as she did with all things—and she decided to put them in the yard sale to raise money for the museum.

  It was a good thing that most of the stuff was either obviously a keep—a strand of pearls that had belonged to Mrs. Huebert or a first-edition copy of To Kill a Mockingbird—or toss—an old, crumpled-up hamburger wrapper from McDonald’s or a decapitated Cabbage Patch Kid. Otherwise we would never finish the job of sorting.

  The box I’d picked that morning was, so far, all toss, and I was getting bored.

  “Why do people donate trash?” I asked, picking a doily up between my thumb and finger, holding it far away from myself. The lacy trim was pulled all out of shape and the whole thing was stained and nasty. I could just tell that it would stink if I got it too close to my nose. “Gross.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something,” Mrs. Olds said, putting her hand out so I’d drop the doily into it. “When something holds a memory for someone, it can be very difficult to let go of.”

  “Even if it’s ruined?”

  “Imagine this belonged to a dear auntie of yours,” she said. “It was pinned on the back of a velvety chair she had in her sitting room where you used to sit with her and read stories when you were little.”

  “Okay?” I said.

  “You’ve grown up. Your auntie has passed away. Even the velvety chair is gone, sold to some yahoo that came to a garage sale and paid twenty dollars for it.” She held up the doily, letting it spin. “All that’s left is this, and when you see it, you feel all those happy memories like they’re brand new.”

  She pulled at the trim, trying to reshape it, and scratched at a bit of filth with her thumbnail.

  “Eventually,” she went on, “you realize that you can’t keep everything that was someone else’s. If you did, you’d have no room for what is yours. But it’s too difficult to throw it out. It would feel like tossing that memory of sitting in the chair, sharing stories with your aunt.”

  “So, I donate it to the museum instead?” I asked.

  “Exactly. Because that feels more honoring of her memory.”

  She considered the ratty thing before shrugging and flinging it in the direction of the garbage can. When she noticed Mindy and my shocked faces, she put her hands on her hips.

  “Well, she wasn’t my auntie,” she said.

  Coldhearted.

  She was so awesome.

  Mom was in the baby’s room when we got home, standing at one end of the crib and looking down at the duckling print of the sheets and the fuzzy duck stuffed animal in the corner. It still smelled like fresh paint in there, the walls a happy yellow color that Mom begged Dad to paint them. A stack of tiny disposable diapers was lined up on the middle shelf of the changing table. Itty-bitty green-and-yellow footed pjs hung in the closet.

  I stood in the hallway, watching her before she knew I was there. Mom rubbed her hands around the front of her stomach and hummed a gentle tune, just loud enough for me to hear over the noisy air conditioner.

  When she’d been pregnant with me, Mom had Dad read books next to her belly so that I’d get used to his voice. I knew because there was a picture of it that Aunt Dana took. Even though she hated spinach, she forced it down so that I’d grow healthy. She quit her band to settle down and be a mom.

  That last one made me feel a pinch of guilt when I thought about it even though she’d never said she regretted it.

  “Oh, honey,” Mom said, catching a glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye. “I didn’t know you were home.”

  “We are.” I took a step into the room. “It’s coming together, huh?”

  “Yup.” She shook her head. “Baby will be here before we know it.”

  “Are you nervous?” I tapped one of the ducks hanging from the mobile over the crib.

  “Not really,” she said. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

  “I don’t think they let pregnant women participate in rodeos.”

  “That’s probably true.” She reached out and put her hand on my cheek. “But I might have considered it when I went into labor with you.”

  “What?” I said. “Why?”

  “Oh, Sonny. You were a stubborn one,” she said. “I was in labor for thirty hours with you.”

  “Is that a long time?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded slowly. “A very long time.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “They always say you forget the pain. It’s sort of a lie.”

  I grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “You were worth every single moment of it.” She smiled. “How’s that for a self-esteem boost?”

  “Actually, pretty good.”

  “I was so scared when we brought you home from the hospital.” She reached into the crib to smooth a crease in the sheet. “I worried that I’d mess everything up.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “Oh, honey. I made mistakes,” she said. “Plenty of them. And as soon as you started talking, you had no problem letting me know about them.”

  “That sounds about right.” I laughed.

  “I used to sing to you at night.”

  “I remember.”

  “If I sang a song that was high, you’d stop me and tell me to ‘sing it right.’” She smiled. “I think you wanted me to use my lower voice.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, sweetheart,” she said, grabbing my hand. “I love the person you are. Bossy pants and all.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “You’re just trying to make me cry.”

  But instead of my eyes welling up, hers did.

  “I can’t believe you’re moving in a month,” she said. “I’m going to miss seeing you every day.”

  “You’ll get used to me being gone,” I said.

  “No. I don’t think I ever will.”

  In my mother’s room, tucked away in a keepsake box, was a little green dress and a pair of white lace-up shoes. She used to pull those out for me to look at when I was little, telling me it was what she brought me home in.

  I hadn’t seen them in years. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about them much either.

  Still, I knew they were there.

  I wondered if, while I was away at college, Mom would pull them out, letting them remind her of the good feelings of the first moment she saw me, held me, called me hers.

  CHAPTER

  Thirty-Seven

  Bruce, 2013

  There was a sunrise today like every morning, I just couldn’t see it for the cloud cover that obscured my view. It’s all right. I still enjoyed a cup
of coffee while I looked out my living room window to greet the day.

  A murmuration of starlings has descended on my yard recently. I suspect there are a good number of them that fledged in the early summer. Since then they’ve grown so as to be indistinguishable among the others.

  They grow up so fast.

  “Goodness, they’re noisy this morning,” Mindy says from the bottom of the steps. “I could hear them all the way upstairs.”

  She crosses the room and turns the old rocking chair so she can sit and watch out the window.

  “You ever heard of Eugene Schieffelin?” she asks.

  “Can’t say that I have.” I take the wingback chair and angle my body so I’m looking straight at her.

  “I read about him in a book, gosh, forever ago. He was alive in the nineteenth century, I think,” she says. “Lived in New York. He loved Shakespeare and got this crazy idea to bring all the birds from the plays to live in Central Park.”

  “In captivity?”

  “No. Just in the wild, I guess.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “He imported a couple different species. House sparrows, bull finches, nightingales, starlings. A few others. I just can’t remember all of them right now.”

  “Huh. How about that?” I say.

  “Most of them couldn’t make it here. But the sparrows and starlings were fruitful and multiplied aplenty.”

  “Boy, I’d say.”

  “I think they’re doing okay for themselves.” She leans back in her chair and crosses one leg over the other. “There’s your little bird nerd lesson for the day.”

  “I look forward to another one soon.” I wink at her before looking once more out the window.

  “I’m going to look at a few apartments today,” she says. “If you aren’t too busy, I’d love to have you come with me.”

  I want to tell her there’s no hurry for her to move out, that we love having her here. But I know she needs her space, a little more independence than she’s afforded by living under her folks’ roof.

  “I can do that,” I say.

  We sit there watching the starlings just a little bit longer until they all at once take off, filling the sky with their dipping and divings, a single unit of flight with hundreds of independent wings.