Birds of Summer

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  “You’ve got to swear you won’t tell anybody.”

  “Okay. I swear.”

  He sighed, shook his head and began. “We’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Summer was puzzled. Growing pot in large quantities had gotten lots of people in the county in trouble in the last few years; but the kind of trouble she’d heard about had mostly been fines and confiscation of the crop, with now and then a trial that ended in probations and deferred sentences. Some renters had been put off the land, but apart from some violent encounters between growers and would-be thieves, she hadn’t heard of anything very serious happening to landowners like the Fishers. “Because of the pot?” she asked.

  “Well, yes. Because of the pot. But the real trouble is … See the way it happened was Jude told these dealers—I mean real professionals. At least to hear Bart tell it, Angelo’s been in on smuggling runs from Central America and big deals from eastern suppliers and drug wars and assassinations—the whole bit. Anyway, Jude met them, and they were talking about wanting to get in on the Mendocino action; and then the little nerd told them about our place and the greenhouses. They decided it would be a great place to grow a crop—you know, because the narc planes wouldn’t be able to spot it. Nobody would suspect anything because everyone knows about Mom’s winter berries and everything.”

  “But Galya always said she’d never get involved with growing pot.”

  “Yeah, I know. At first she and Dad both said no. But these guys kept on talking about how easy it would be and how much money we’d all make, and after a while they gave in. Then they all moved in, Jude and Angelo and the hulk.”

  “Bart?”

  “Yeah, him. The first thing they did was to make my folks take Marina out of school. They said it was just because she couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut about what was going on; but pretty soon it was more like they were holding her hostage. And after my dad tried to back out on the whole deal, they began to keep Marina shut up in the house all the time with one of them watching her. They made my dad build that new gate, and recently they’ve strung tripper wires on all the paths around the clearing, like that one on the way to the spring. Every time my dad starts to object to anything, Angelo starts making threats—about how an accident could happen to Marina if the rest of us don’t cooperate.”

  “My God,” Summer said.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Couldn’t you just go to the sheriff?”

  “Dad’s afraid to. He says Angelo keeps telling him about how innocent people can get shot by accident in a raid, and how, if our place is raided, he has a feeling that it will be the innocent who will suffer. God, Summer. Jerry’s scared to death. You know how crazy he is about Marina. He’s absolutely paralyzed. All he can think about now is getting the crop harvested and getting rid of those terrorists without any of the family getting hurt. I’ve tried to talk him into letting me tell the narcs, but he won’t listen. I think if we knew just exactly when the raid was going to be, we could all hide or something just before and …”

  Nicky was still talking, but Summer had lost track of exactly what he was saying. Her mind had gone blank, and a dark whirlpool of corrosive anxiety was beginning to spin in her stomach. She closed her eyes, fighting an almost overpowering urge to jump up and run.

  “Summer?” Nicky was looking at her apprehensively. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak, fighting the need to run until she found Oriole.

  “Yeah,” Nicky said suddenly. He reached out toward her; and then, as if not knowing what kind of contact he wanted to make, he left his hand in midair. “Look. It’s not her fault. You know how she is about good-looking guys. And she doesn’t really know what’s going on. My mom hasn’t told her about the threats and everything. All she knows is what he’s told her, and he can be Mr. Nice-Guy when he wants to be. He had all of us fooled at first. Even Jerry, and you know how suspicious he is. Oh, she knows about the crop, of course, she helped plant it; but she just doesn’t have any idea about the rest of it. Come on, Summer. Snap out of it.”

  She breathed deeply, letting in the fierce anger that could burn the panic away. “There are some things she knows.” The words sounded bitten. “She knows that he shot Cerbe.”

  Nicky’s dark eyes narrowed, and something happened to his jawline. He slammed his fist down on his leg, tipping his sandwich into the sand. He stared at it for a moment, and then he picked it up and threw it a long way down the beach: two whole wheat flying saucers trailing a comet’s tail of roast beef particles. A startled sea gull skittered away, cocked its head and followed the trail, gulping greedily. Summer giggled hysterically, and Nicky put both arms around her. She stiffened, waiting for the next move, but it didn’t come.

  “Damn him! Damn him to hell!” Nicky’s voice grated with bitter, frustrated anger; and almost of their own volition, Summer’s arms went around him. She shivered, and the shiver turned into a continuing inner commotion that she couldn’t quite identify. There was her own fear and anger, and Nicky’s, and the relief of sharing all of it. And the shock of finding that the relief was almost as fierce as the anger. At last Nicky sighed sharply and turned her loose so suddenly she almost fell over. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he shook her hard, frowning angrily.

  “What am I going to do?” he demanded; but when she opened her mouth to answer, he shook her again and said, “Don’t tell me. I’ve got to decide myself. I’ve got to—” He let go of her shoulders and looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to The Pelican” he said urgently and jumped to his feet.

  “Why?” Summer said.

  “The nerd is picking me up there.” He looked at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes.”

  “Did he bring you in to town?” Summer said in amazement.

  “Yeah. He thinks people might start getting suspicious if Adam and I quit coming to town. So when he has to go someplace, he usually leaves one of us off here. We’re supposed to see our friends—act normal—talk to people to find out if anyone suspects. He tells us what we’re to talk about and what we’re not to talk about, every time he brings us in.”

  They were halfway up the steep path that led up the bluff when Nicky suddenly pulled her to a stop. “Look, Summer. Remember you promised not to tell anyone. Not anyone. Particularly not Oriole. Even if she didn’t tell him, she couldn’t help acting different if she knew about the threats and everything. And he’d get it out of her. If he found out that she knew, he’d be sure that you did, too. So promise again—that you won’t say a word to anyone.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. Nothing maybe. But if I do decide to do anything I’ll let you know first.”

  “Promise.”

  “Well—okay. I promise.”

  During the rest of the day, she refused to think about it. Instead she just kept very busy, a technique that, when successful, made it possible to at least postpone the panic. It was still there, the dark, mind-swallowing wave of anxiety, lurking behind the mental barricades, but for the moment at least it was not in control. And this time Meg was there to help—Meg and women’s lib and hand guns.

  Meg was always into various political movements—Summer could remember seeing her manning a variety of sign-up tables—and two of her current favorites were women and guns. She was pro women and con guns. It just happened that her piano students for that afternoon were away on vacation and she was at loose ends and in the mood for conversation. So while Summer was working at the sink, Meg wheeled herself and her mending basket into the kitchen and began a debate. Summer took the opposite points of view, not through conviction, but because she was good at taking the opposite point of view and also just to keep Meg going. With Meg holding forth on women and guns, there was no time to think about Oriole.

  Oriole was at home when Summer and Sparrow got there that afternoon, but so was he—lounging on the foam rubber like a Roman emperor. The clothing wasn’t
Roman—urban cowboy boots and a European-cut shirt open halfway down his hairy chest—but the smile was. The smile was Nero or Caligula.

  “Hullo, ladies,” he said. And, as Summer headed for her room, “Well then, hullo, Sparrow, and good-by, Dummy.” Lately “Dummy,” with a hard nasty edge to it, had taken the place of phony amusement and “Garbo” or “Gabby.” She liked Dummy better. At least it was out front.

  Through the thin wood of the sliding door, Summer listened carefully to the conversation that followed—the Creep finishing a story he’d apparently been telling Oriole, something about a winning streak he’d had once in Las Vegas. And then Oriole questioning Sparrow about her day at summer school. Sparrow was comparatively untalkative. Afraid, probably, to say much for fear of saying something she shouldn’t. Poor kid. Summer had not only lied to her—about what she had seen when she looked in Marina’s window—but also had scared her to death with terrible stories about what would happen if she told about the midnight visit to the Fishers’. The strain of her effort to keep her tongue under control must have been obvious. “What’s the matter, baby?” Summer heard Oriole say. “Are you tired?”

  “Yes, I’m tired. I’m very tired,” Sparrow said quickly in what was clearly a “that’s-a-good-idea” tone of voice. “I think I’ll go rest. I’m going to go in the bedroom and rest.”

  The door slid open, and Sparrow came in looking pleased with herself. “I didn’t tell,” she whispered. “Did you hear how I didn’t tell?”

  Summer stayed in her room until she heard the Creep leave. She had to come out then and pretend that she didn’t know that Oriole’s latest lover was not only a pot grower and drug dealer, which Oriole obviously knew, but also a blackmailer and terrorist, which perhaps she didn’t know. Trying to behave normally, Summer answered when spoken to and even volunteered a few comments, all the while watching Oriole and wondering.

  Most of the evening she was very prudent, but at one point she couldn’t resist asking, “How are the Fishers?” Oriole’s phony answer, a crassly cheerful lie, brought justifying anger, so she went on to ask, “What do they hear from Marina? Will she be coming home soon?”

  She threw the questions out like a baited hook, staring at Oriole, a surface smile hiding a bitter “this-ought-to-be-good” expectancy. But this time Oriole couldn’t rise to the bait. She lifted her eyes slowly to Summer’s. The phony cheerfulness was gone, and in its place was something so helpless and pathetic that the hard satisfying anger disappeared and in its place was, once again, the threatening shadow of the dark wave.

  10

  CROWN RIDGE WAS GLORIOUS that morning. The breeze smelled of sunlit forest and distant ocean, and the wide stretch of lawn, bordered by flower beds and sprinkled with peacocks, was like a commercial photo, too rich in color to be believed. Sparrow squealed with delight and ran. Summer followed more slowly.

  Sparrow was still fascinated by the peacocks. She’d given them all names—Princess Topknot, Prince Rainbow, Royal Mightiness—and made up stories about them. Fantasy-type stories about kings and queens and fairy godmothers, obvious spin-offs from her favorite fairy tales. She was so intrigued by the luxurious beauty of their feathered exteriors, she seemed never to have noticed their less enchanting qualities, such as their loud, raucous voices and their aloof, antisocial behavior. Slowing to a walk and then to a crawl, she managed to get quite near the panic-prone flock before she came to a stop. She was squatting, chattering away at the big dumb birds, as Summer approached.

  “Hello, your Royal Mightiness. Have you had your breakfast yet? I’ll ask Nan to let me feed you. Would you like that? Would you like me to bring you some nice breakfast?”

  The peacocks went on stalking across the lawn, their heads nodding to some weird reptilian rhythm, while Sparrow watched them, and Summer watched her. Her eyes wide and glowing, her mouth partly open, Sparrow was as completely out of the real world as if she were stoned. Miles away, floating somewhere in a dream of palaces and peacocks and princesses, she was entirely unaware that Summer had caught up and was staring at her. Living completely in and for the moment—that was Sparrow for you. A Chicken Little who would never notice that the sky was falling until it hit her, not if the sun was shining however briefly and there was something fun to do or pretty to look at. Just like Oriole. Just like Oriole in a lot of ways, including her looks—the fragile-faced, pliable prettiness that attracted everybody, especially the ones who were looking for easy prey.

  “Come on, Sparrow,” Summer said. “We’ve got things to do.”

  There was a great deal to do that morning, more even than usual, since Richard was due to arrive home shortly before noon with some special guests who were going to stay for lunch. The guests were business associates, Nan said, some of the new partners who were involved in the expansion and who had come out from New York to look at the California plant.

  Elmira, the extra help who came whenever there was a party, arrived soon after Summer and Sparrow and set to work in the kitchen, while Nan made flower arrangements and set the table in the dining room. When the cleaning was done, Summer was to help in the kitchen and do part of the serving, since Elmira would be very busy with the souffles.

  Richard and his guests arrived around twelve-thirty in two cars, Richard’s solemn blue Cadillac and a suavely silver Mercedes Benz. Summer and Sparrow watched from the kitchen window as five businesslike men and one even more businesslike woman got out of the car and Nan, cool and classy in a cotton lace dress, went out to meet them. A bar had been set up on the patio, and there were to be drinks there before everyone came in to lunch. As soon as they were all drinking, Summer in a white cap and apron, was to take out the tray of hot hors d’oeuvres.

  She didn’t plan it ahead of time at all. It came to her suddenly while she was arranging the parsley around the edge of the tray—and Sparrow was still standing on tiptoe at the window with the sunlight making a coppery halo around her head. Picking up a paring knife, Summer sliced the stems off some bunches of parsley and then carefully ran the sharp blade over the end of her forefinger.

  “Damn,” she said. “I’ve cut myself.”

  Hot hors d’oeuvres can’t wait, the closest bandages were in the master bathroom, and Elmira was too busy with the souffles to put up much of an argument. A few moments later after a quick rehearsal, Sparrow, with the frilly apron tied around her tiny waist over well-worn jeans, was off to the patio with the hors d’oeuvres tray. On her way to the bathroom, with a paper towel around her bleeding finger, Summer paused by the French doors long enough to hear Sparrow’s clear little voice giving a Sparrowish version of what Summer had told her to say. “Summer cut herself with the parsley so I had to bring the horders”—and the chorus of ooohs and aaahs and questions and comments that followed.

  It could have all gone wrong. Nan and Richard could have been angry. But they weren’t, or if they were, they forgot about it later because of the way things turned out. Summer stayed in the bathroom for a long time, and Nan and Sparrow had to do the serving. Apparently Sparrow was the hit of the party. Everyone made a big fuss over her, and when it was all over, Richard actually picked her up and carried her out to the driveway to say good-by. That afternoon when Sparrow gave Nan her usual good-by hug, Richard asked for one, too. And for once Nan had sense enough not to comment.

  It was beginning to look as if a door that had refused to budge, in spite of Nan’s obvious pushing, had started to come ajar. Not a magical door that led to some wonderful daydream castle, but one that just might lead to a last resort umbrella for Chicken Little in case the sky fell before the summer was over.

  On Monday, Summer began what was to be her last week of work for the Pardells’. Meg’s cast had been removed, and after a few days of getting used to her crutches, she’d be able to take over. At least, that was what she said. Alan didn’t agree. He wanted Summer to stay on for at least another two or three weeks. “Look,” he said to Meg while they were all having tea and Summer’s homemade
oatmeal cookies on Monday afternoon, “if those crutches bring down your domestic efficiency rating by even a degree, we may get posted by the department of health.”

  Meg laughed and said that he’d have to go back to getting along without oatmeal cookies and ironed handkerchiefs sooner or later, and the state of their checkbook suggested that sooner was a good idea. And Alan said, “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve found it?” And Summer asked, “Found what?” and Meg said, “Our checkbook. It’s been missing since Saturday. Since right after someone-who-shall-remain-nameless used it to pay the paper boy.” Alan was pleading guilty and throwing himself on the mercy of the court when Summer got up and got a checkbook off the sinkboard.

  “Impossible,” Alan said. “I looked in that very same spot at least a dozen times last night.”

  “Well,” Summer said, “that was before I found it under the cushion of your favorite chair—just this morning.”

  So Alan said, “See, we can’t do without her.” And Meg said maybe he was right and she’d think about it and check it out with the checkbook, now that it had reappeared.

  Summer hoped, hoped very much—hoped desperately in fact—that Meg would decide to continue the job. It wasn’t just the money. Important as it was, the money was a small part of it. A larger factor was having someplace to go every day to get away from the trailer and Oriole and the Creep. But there was another reason that was more difficult to define, something uncertain and nebulous, but that had to do with a feeling of restfulness. A feeling that she had at the Pardells’ and nowhere else. It made no sense because she worked longer and harder at the Pardells’ than at the Olivers’, and she often went home feeling exhausted—physically exhausted, at least. But while she was scrubbing the cracked linoleum in Meg’s kitchen or chatting with Alan over tea and cookies at the end of the day, something else rested. Something deep in the pit of her stomach and crammed into the dark corners of her mind rested at the Pardells’ in a way that it never really did anywhere else.