A Summer of Sundays

by Lindsay Eland

  The screen door creaked, and Mom and Dad walked out, sitting on the stairs with steaming cups of coffee.

  My brothers’ giggles and shouts echoed around me as I stood once more in that unfamiliar place between too old and too young. After a few more moments, I slipped away into the house and up to my bedroom.

  Picking up The Life and Death of Birds, I went to the window and looked out, my brothers’ shadows dancing and the fireflies blinking around them. I plopped onto my bed and let myself drift into the pages.

  “SO,” Jude asked the next morning. “Any letters from the authors yet?” He was pouring syrup on a small stack of pancakes slathered in butter, even though he said he’d already eaten gluten-free granola and homemade nonfat sugar-free yogurt before coming over.

  I shook my head, flipping through the Alma Gazette. “Nope. They probably just need more advance warning.”

  He mumbled through a bite of pancake.

  “When you finish eating, we should head over to Ben Folger’s house.” I’d just gotten to the part in The Life and Death of Birds where Hunter went against her aunt’s wishes to take care of the injured bird, and I wanted to see what Ben thought about it.

  Jude looked out at the gray sky and the puddles that were starting to form in the grass. “I don’t think we’ll be able to work in the rain.”

  “I think we should go over and at least ask.”

  Jude stuffed another bite in his mouth and shrugged.

  My eyes landed on a short article on the fourth page of the paper. “Hey, look at this.” I turned the paper toward Jude and pointed at the bold title: ALMA LIFE. “It says it’s by Joanne ‘Muzzy’ Hopkins.”

  Jude stopped mid-chew and squinted his eyes at the paper. “Wow, I never knew she wrote for the newspaper.”

  I read the article aloud, hoping to find a clue:

  “ ‘Monday was a sunny day, though a few clouds passed over in the mid afternoon.

  ‘Mrs. Fielding’s son, Aaron, who has been in California for the past two years, came for a long-awaited visit. To celebrate, she made one of her delicious apple pies, which was always Aaron’s favorite. It’s good to see Aaron applying himself, as I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Svently still remember the year he put toilet paper in their maple tree. In other news, Mr. Goldfine, an English teacher at Alma Area High School, has finally decided to cut his long braid and donate it to an organization that makes wigs. Scott O’Deary has informed me that because of the recent aches in his knees, we are in for a low-pressure system. Until next week, keep smiling.’ ”

  Jude laughed. “Was that it?”

  I looked up. “Maybe she wrote the story I found?”

  “No way, Sunday.”

  I licked the blob of syrup hanging off the end of my fork and shrugged. “Well, it definitely doesn’t seem like the same writer, but who knows? Maybe she’s brilliant and undiscovered.” I ignored Jude’s snort. “Besides, we need to check out all the possibilities.”

  By the time we finished with breakfast, the rain was just a drizzle. Jude and I started across the wet field.

  Ben Folger must’ve been watching for us, because he stepped out onto the porch just as we pushed through the front gate. Jude sucked in his breath.

  “Relax,” I whispered. “If he was going to kill us he would’ve done it yesterday. We’re fixing his flower beds.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably where he’s planning on burying us. I thought I found a cat bone yesterday.”

  I rolled my eyes and glanced at our work. The dirt was a deep chocolate brown, rich and healthy looking. I imagined deep green leaves poking out from the surface.

  “It’s raining,” Ben Folger said from the porch.

  “Yep,” I said.

  Jude didn’t say anything, but I felt him step closer to me, his arm brushing against mine.

  Ben Folger took his glasses off and wiped them on his plaid shirt. “I don’t think it’ll last much longer. I suppose you should come inside and wait it out.”

  I said “All right” at the exact time that Jude said “No thanks.”

  I glared at him. “Jude,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Ben Folger turned and stepped inside. “It’s up to you.”

  I reached for the door, catching it just before it closed, and then stepped inside. Jude stood on the other side of the screen. I motioned him with my hand. “Come on.”

  He rolled his eyes, opened the door, and followed me into the living room. Ben Folger was nowhere in sight, though I heard a cabinet being opened and closed, and the sound of glasses clinking together.

  “Sit anywhere,” he called out.

  “I’ll sit here, next to the telephone,” Jude whispered. “That way I can dial 911 in case he turns on us. You sit closest to the door and make a run for it if he does.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes at him. “Jude, you’re being ridiculous. How many times do I have to tell you that he isn’t going to kill—”

  The whistling of a teapot interrupted our whispering. “I’m just saying that we should be prepared.” He sat next to the telephone, resting his hand on the small end table so that his fingers brushed the phone’s base.

  I walked around the room, my eyes settling on a stack of records on top of the cluttered piano—something I hadn’t seen since I was probably Henry’s age, standing in front of my grandparents’ record player.

  “Have you ever listened to a record?”

  “What?!” I jumped at the sound of Ben Folger’s deep voice behind me, the record sleeve clunking to the floor. “I … I’m … I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”

  He waved his hand and picked up the record. “Please, it’s … it’s okay.”

  He smiled as he looked down at the record.

  “It’s just about finished raining out there,” Jude said, standing. “Come on, Sunday. I think we better—”

  Ben Folger went to the record player. As he busied himself with clearing it off, I grabbed Jude’s arm.

  “What’s he doing?” he mouthed.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back.

  “Well, I think we should make a run for it.”

  “No. Don’t run.” Ben Folger turned around and held out the record. “This was always one of our—one of my favorites. I haven’t listened to it in years.”

  He sat down as the needle skimmed the record, crackled, and then filled the room with music.

  “I’ll go and get our hot chocolate. I know it isn’t lunchtime yet, but I made brownies this morning. I’ve never tried to make them before, but they seem to have turned out. Maybe you want to try one?”

  That was all the persuasion Jude needed.

  Ben Folger handed me a steaming mug.

  As he set the plate of brownies and three plates onto the coffee table, I couldn’t help but wonder how relaxed, yet awkward, he seemed.

  Jude reached for one of the dark chocolate squares and took a generous bite. Clearly he wasn’t worried about being poisoned anymore.

  I did the same. “These are really good.”

  “Sure are,” Jude mumbled.

  Ben Folger took a sip of his hot chocolate, looking pleased.

  “I’m on chapter six in The Life and Death of Birds,” I said, hoping to get him talking.

  “And what do you think?” he asked.

  “I really like it. The main character, Hunter, is funny and I like how the book has a little bit of everything in it: mystery, funny lines, and sad parts.”

  He nodded and smiled. “Some say it’s the best book written this century. I’ve read it ten times.”

  “Ten times?” Jude said, reaching for another brownie. “I don’t think I could ever read a book that many times.”

  Ben Folger nodded. “I never thought I would, either. But Lee Wren was brilliant.”

  I’d been waiting for the chance to ask him about the manuscript in the library. This seemed like as good a one as any. “Do you like to write, Mr. Folger?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I do.”


  I looked at Jude, but he was too busy dabbing at the crumbs that had fallen onto his shirt to notice. “Really?”

  “Yes, but I’ve only written boring things like grants and library articles. Nothing like this.” He reached over and picked up his copy of The Life and Death of Birds.

  My excitement deflated. So he hadn’t written the story.

  “I recognize that cover,” Jude said, pointing at the book Ben Folger held out. “My mom has it at home; I think she really liked it.”

  Ben Folger blew across his hot chocolate. “Is that so?”

  Maybe Ben Folger had been the person who got Lee Wren to come in the first place since he was a librarian. I think I remembered that headline in the newspaper articles we looked up. “You probably met her before, right?”

  He nodded, stood up, and turned to the record player. “I did.” He lifted the needle, bringing the room into silence except for the hum of the air conditioner. “She was … she was wonderful,” he said.

  “What was so wonderful about her?” I asked.

  Instead of answering, he glanced to the window, where the rain had stopped. “Actually, it’s looking pretty muddy out there. Not good for yard work. Maybe you can come back tomorrow morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I sighed and set my mug down on the table. He was done talking and I didn’t want to push him. “Thanks for the hot chocolate and brownies.”

  Jude stood up. “Yeah, thanks.”

  Ben Folger didn’t turn around, but I saw his head nod ever so slightly.

  Jude and I left, letting the screen door close behind us. The air was muggy and the gray clouds were spread across the sky.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess he wasn’t the one who wrote the story from the library.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you have to admit he isn’t going to kill us.”

  Jude shrugged. “I guess. But he could just be waiting until we let our guard down. Or fattening us up like the witch in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’ ”

  I rolled my eyes and closed the gate behind us. “You’re hopeless.”

  THE NIGHT was hot. I lay on my side on top of the blankets with the manuscript beside me. The fan blasted just inches away from my bed. I reached over and took a sip of water, turning the page:

  They loved all the seasons of the year. The apple cider of fall, the smell of pine in winter, the puddles in spring. But summer—summer seemed made just for Lilly and Mark—forts and ice cream, fireworks and fireflies. Lilly opened her eyes, glanced over at the daisy on her windowsill, dressed, and raced over to Mark’s house. He was always up early, at least always earlier than her.

  But the summer before they began seventh grade was the most wonderful.

  On the Fourth of July Lilly remembered first seeing Mark differently—his face lighting up under the glow of fireworks. She didn’t mean for her cheeks to blush so deeply, nor for her heart to dance in staccato beats.

  But it did.

  It was like the author had been there with me when Robo Matthews first said hi to me in the hallway. I had felt the staccato beat of my heart, and my cheeks filled with heat just thinking about it—even now. I couldn’t help but smile. My eyes drooped and I yawned, flipping to the next page. I felt like I’d hit a dead end. And even though I’d spoken with Ben Folger, he was by no means befriended yet.

  There was a knock on my door. Probably Bo. “Just a second,” I said, and quickly reassembled the manuscript and slipped it under my pillow.

  I grabbed Lee Wren’s book and opened it to a random page. “Come in!”

  The door opened and Emma stood in the doorway, her hands filled with fabric. She had never ventured up here—neither had May—so it surprised me to see her now.

  She dropped the bundle of fabric on my bed. Her cheeks were flushed, there were hives dotting her neck. “You have to help me, Sunday. Please, please, please.”

  I pulled out a piece of olive-green fabric. It was a sort of skirt thingy. “Help with what?”

  “All the fairies in the play are tiny like you. May’s you-know-whats are beyond huge, so she’s no help. Could you try them on for me? The director wants to see some of the costumes tomorrow and they need to be right.”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  I barely had put on an outfit before she stuck me with pins and threw another one at me. Still, it was fun. We giggled at some of the pieces that were beyond help, while other things I tried on were close to perfect.

  When I had the last piece on—a toga-looking dress that was meant for one of the queens to wear—Emma walked me over to the mirror on the closet door. She pulled my tangled hair off my neck. “You look real pretty, Sunday. You have a long, slender neck, not like the rest of us, and I think your eyes are a darker shade of brown. And wow, I only wish my eyelashes were as long as yours.”

  “Really?” I laughed, feeling my cheeks redden at the compliment. Sure, my parents said I was beautiful, but parents have to say that sort of stuff. I stretched my arm around my back and reached awkwardly for the zipper. “You know, Emma, you’re really good at this.”

  She helped me step out of the robe-dress-toga thing and laid it on top of the others. “You think so?”

  “Sure.”

  Gathering up the garments in her arms, she sighed. “I hope you all come to the show.”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Oh, you know. Everyone has their own stuff going on, and sometimes I feel like it’s easy to get forgotten in the middle of everything.”

  I swear it took all the muscles in my face to keep my jaw from dropping open. A small laugh escaped. “You? Forgotten? That would be impossible.” I shook my head. “No, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  She smiled and turned, opening the door. “Well, I gotta try and fix these tonight. It’s going to be a late one.” She stopped and turned. “Thanks, Sunday. It was fun.”

  The door closed behind her, and when the sound of her footsteps disappeared, I walked to the mirror.

  But she was right, it had been fun.

  The next day, just as Jude and I tilled the last bit of soil in one of the flower beds, the screen door opened.

  “Lunchtime,” Ben said through the screen. “If you like, you can eat in here.”

  We set down our tools, brushed our hands off, and followed him inside. The table was set with three bowls, steam rising off them, and three plates with grilled cheese sandwiches cut into triangles. My stomach grumbled.

  Once we had scrubbed off the dirt that was caked under our fingernails, Jude and I sat down on either side of the small table, and the three of us dug in. It was tomato soup, mozzarella cheese already melted into the rich, creamy red. The smell reminded me of when I had been sick last year.

  Everyone else went to school except, of course, Henry, who hadn’t started yet. But Mom had sent him over to one of his friend’s houses for the day.

  I lay on the couch, my nose red and stuffed up, my throat scratchy, and my head aching. I remember how Mom covered me up with a thick red blanket and sat down on the couch so that my feet were resting on her lap. We watched the cartoon channel together, her hand on my feet. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew she was gently pushing my hair away from my eyes and whispering my name.

  “Sunday? Wake up and try to eat something, sweetie.”

  I sat up, trudged over to the table, and sat down next to Mom. I sipped my tomato soup as she told me about the day I was born. I’d heard it before, but usually it got mixed up in the jumble of prying questions from my siblings, who wanted her to tell their stories. She still didn’t get to finish that day because Dad had walked in, his clothes and hair white with dust.

  “I came home for lunch to see how my Sunday was doing,” he said, kissing my forehead.

  “I’m okay.”

  We ate lunch together, just me and my parents. After I was done, I slept until my brothers and sisters came home. Even though
I had been sick, I loved that day.

  A loud slurp from Jude brought me back to the present.

  “So,” I said, “how is your day going?”

  Ben took a bite of his grilled cheese sandwich. “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  Silence.

  The rest of lunch was similar. I asked generic questions, Ben gave convenient, one-word answers, and after the plates were set in the sink I was no closer to befriending him than I was before lunch.

  I needed to find something that he’d want to talk about. I needed to switch strategies.

  “Thank you for lunch,” I said, walking casually around the room. I looked at the various small pictures I hadn’t seen the other day. One was of him standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris, another was a picture of a big ornate clock I didn’t recognize, and a third was a picture of him waving from in front of the Taj Mahal.

  “Is this you in all these pictures?” I asked, though I already knew the answer was yes.

  Mr. Folger nodded and smiled slightly.

  “Which one was your favorite?”

  “India.” There was no hesitation in his voice. “There’s a magic in India that you can’t really explain. The colors, the people, the beauty, the ugliness—all of it mixed together.”

  Encouraged that he was talking more, I asked, “Can I look at your books again?”

  “Anytime.” I heard the chair squeak across the floor. “So, what grade are you two in?”

  Letting Jude answer, I bent down, my eyes scanning the very bottom shelf until they landed on a long white book with a spine that read: ALMA AREA HIGH SCHOOL 1962

  I turned my back toward the table and pulled the book from off the shelf. Flipping quickly through the black-and-white glossy photos of girls wearing dresses and bobby socks and boys in shirts and ties, I reached the section where the individual senior pictures were. There was Ben Folger, smiling into the camera, his hair rich and dark and his smile warm yet serious.

  “What are you looking at, Sunday?” Jude asked.

  I jumped a little and turned the page quickly. “Just some books.” I pulled another down from the shelf, looking at it briefly, and then put it back.