“Cora. The moon’s coming up and it’s full,” he said.
She stopped gyrating. “It is?”
“Yes. I watched it my whole drive home.”
“You know what that means, Fern,” Cora said. “It’s a night for jumping.”
Fern laid down her koala and hurried outside.
“What is she doing?” I asked.
“They don’t do it in California?” said Josie with a teasing squint.
“Do what?”
“She’s just jumping at the moon,” Granma said.
“It’s something we do, we Crows, when we are young,” added Jim.
“Kids know they’ll grow up good and strong if they jump when bilítaachiia is rising,” Josie explained, no longer teasing but serious.
“Where do they jump?”
“You know. Just up. Should we let her see?” Josie asked.
“Of course,” Jim said hastily. “Of course she can see. Come on.”
Outside, the air was hot. A lone lark, seduced by the moon into nightsinging, sang a stop-and-go song. The moon was high, but not yet as high as it would be. It was still rising, as if hung on a transparent cord and lifted heavenward by the stealthiest of hands. Beneath the bird’s aria we heard a recurring thud, the sound of feet falling on dirt.
We saw them in the distance. Cora, too big for jumping, stood still, her body slender and dark against the blue prairie. She watched Fern leap again and again toward the white light. When the child rose, the moonglow reflected off her outstretched arms, her splayed little legs. When she landed, it shone off the top of her head. She looked like a star, one that was bound to the prairie and belonged there somehow, as if a star could flourish anywhere at all.
THE NEXT MORNING, I WOKE BEFORE DAWN after a dream I couldn’t remember, but it was one that made me throb. I worried I may have even made a sound—a moan or a murmur—and disturbed Cora who slept so lightly, but her breathing was peaceful and regular, punctuated by occasional chirps from the previous night’s lark, still singing outside. My neck was stiff because, apparently, I’d been using my pillow as something to cling to rather than lie upon, and my legs were twined tightly around it. I was damp everywhere, from the pads of my bare toes to the place where my forehead met my hair. My throat was parched and my lips were chapped. I lay still and concentrated, and tried to follow one fine thread of the dream back to its spool of origin, but I couldn’t. The thread only shivered a few more times with some electric desire and dissolved. The lark called and waited for an answer that didn’t come.
I had not pressed my damp skin against anybody else’s for so long—not since I had left Simon’s house. Had the dream, I wondered, been about Simon, who had milled me, who had made me his own in a musty office where the light snuck in through the slits in the shut blinds? Simon, who had plump earlobes and plump palms, whose dear girl I had been? It might have been about him, but there were no vestiges of jasmine in my nose, no hint of the hyacinths with which he had bathed my face on so many nights before he tended his wife’s wild garden and told me he was tired. A lot had happened since then, all of which I had chronicled in my long letter to him, and I wondered if he had read it yet.
I heard the soft squeak of the screen door open and close. I rolled onto my belly carefully, soundlessly, and bent my head to spy out the window. I saw that the star quilt Granma kept on her bed was wrapped around her shoulders and her feet were bare, and I wondered if there was dampness on the grass the way there was on me. I watched her walk out to a low hillock where she stood, unmoving, to pray.
Sometimes her head was tipped upward, sometimes down. Sometimes she looked in one direction, sometimes another. She was too distant and the light was too dim for me to discern the words her mouth might have been shaping. Even so, my gaze felt like an invasion and I moved my face away from the window. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling above me.
At Holy Rosary back home, the ceiling was an enormous concave circle, representative of the sky, painted the same shade of blue as Mary’s cloak the way it was rendered in so many paintings of her—Virgin Mary blue, I always called it. I used to tilt my head back to look at it when Father Murphy prompted the parishioners to pray and everyone else bowed their heads. I used to look up at the ceiling and know that the actual sky, the one that arched over us all out of doors, was also the cloak of Mary. Yes, the sky was her cloak, the orange blossoms her crown of stars, the swaying forests her eyelashes, the Sierra Nevada mountain range her spine, the sand at the beach the skin on her elbows, the magnolia blossoms on the tree in our front yard the whites of her eyes, and the September Santa Ana winds her sighs. She wasn’t just the mother of God, I thought—she was the mother of all creation.
Once in CCD a sister asked, “Where are your thoughts and your hearts during Mass, children? In what direction do they turn?”
I believed she meant the question to be rhetorical, but still I raised my hand and volunteered an answer, explaining the many earthly manifestations of Mary I pondered when I looked up at the skylike ceiling of the church.
“That sounds pagan, Marjorie,” the sister said. “Stop thinking so much about nature and how things smell. The mother of our Lord is not sand at the beach.” But my ideas, unorthodox though they might have been, remained in place. And even though I never attended Mass after I left home for college, I still had those Mary thoughts, and when I saw laboratory mice or undernourished birds or frightened chinchillas, I always (unbeknownst to Simon or the crew) said silent prayers to Mary, because I knew she must be the mother of all animals, and that was why I never stopped wearing the Mary medal Dad had given me to commemorate my first communion, and why even during my visits to Jack Dolce in Little Italy I often walked at sunset down the block to Saint Anthony’s Church (where the same gray-haired matrons who had come to our party knelt in their black dresses) and paused at the Mary statue to leave a few oyster shells at her feet (for oysters, I thought, were the muscles of her heart, and she was the sea, too, because in Latin, I’d learned from Simon, the sea is mare). Jack Dolce always shook his head at me. “She’s not real, Margie,” he said. “She’s an image. Made up.”
I contemplated all of this at dark face time while Granma stood outside in prayer. Then, as I always did, I fell back asleep before she returned to the house.
• • •
CORA AND I SAT ACROSS FROM EACH OTHER at the table and ate bowls of cereal in sleepy silence. Beside her, Cora had placed her peach pit, which she had refused to relinquish to Granma.
At night, Cora stored the peach pit in a jewelry box on her dresser. Once opened, the box displayed a mechanical ballerina who pirouetted to a tinkling tune. Cora always spent a few meditative minutes examining the pit before bed. When she was through, she placed it in her jewelry box and lowered the lid with secretive swiftness. I wondered if the ballerina kept on pirouetting after the lid was closed, and if she and Daphne’s exercise wheel and my dreams and Cora’s would spin together according to some mysterious nocturnal choreography while all else in the world was still.
Now, I noticed, the pit was slightly worn down on one side, and after breakfast I discovered why. Cora stepped out onto the porch and blinked in the bright morning sun. She removed her spectacles and polished them with the hem of her nightgown. Then she sat on the ground, picked up the brick that Granma used to hold the screen door open when she craved a breeze, placed it before her, and set about rubbing the pit against the brick’s rough surface.
“What are you doing with the peach pit?” I asked.
“Making a ring.”
“A ring? To wear on your finger?” Cora nodded. “How?”
She sucked in a big breath, and I knew it was a subject of significance to her. “You rub away one side and then the other until you see the seed on the inside of the pit. Then you pull out the little seed that’s in there. Then you shape the inside, sort of, and …” Cora’s voice faltered. “I’m not sure yet what you do after that, but I’ll figure it out when
I get there. My mom told me about it a long time ago.”
“Oh?” Cora had never spoken to me about her mother.
“She said her mom taught her how to do it. They came from Georgia, where the peaches grow.”
“Really?”
Cora was silent. Had there been a jewelry box with a ballerina twirling inside of it right there on the porch, she—I was sure—would have tucked the topic of her mother inside it and closed the lid tight. I decided to change the subject.
“Did you hear me talking at all in my sleep last night?” I asked. “Or this morning?”
“No. Why? Were you dreaming a lot?”
“I don’t know,” I said, thinking of the dark-haired dream strangers who always held the back of me against the front of them in spooning embraces. “Yes, I guess I was.”
Jim stepped outside smelling of the soap from his shower. He kissed the top of Cora’s head. “I’m not even going to ask what that’s about,” he said, baffled by the peach pit.
“It’s going to be cool. You’ll see.”
“Did you get a chance to look through that cookbook, Margie?” He sipped from his coffee mug and stared at the horizon.
“Oh, I—yes. I did.” It was true. I had looked at the book just before falling asleep. But I could remember nothing from it, nothing at all, apart from some sort of raspberry tart drizzled in ribbons of red glaze, because when my eyes had scanned its pages my thoughts, as they so often were, had been in another place. “It’s a nice book,” I said. “Thank you again.”
As if he hadn’t heard me, Jim said, “Well, I’m off to work. Have a good day you two. And keep Granma out of trouble.”
Cora and I watched Jim’s truck depart until it became a tiny yellow prairie flower that finally blew away in the breeze.
“I dream a lot,” she said. “Granma says it is because my mind is sorting through all the possibilities for my future.” She scraped the peach pit against the brick several times in silence, then eyed me sideways through her cat-eyes. “What were you dreaming of?” she asked. “Or who?”
7 WOLF (Canis lupus)
THE MOON WAS JUST A SHY CRESCENT on the night we all sat around the table and ate the stuffed bell peppers—some made with meat, some with rice—Jim and I had prepared together. They were our first attempt at collaborative, Three Hundred Thrifty Thirty-Minute Meals!–inspired cooking, and they were received by Granma, Cora, and Josie with great greed and enthusiasm.
During our time together in the kitchen, Jim had asked me about my charm bracelet after it jingled against a can of tomatoes. “Oh, it was a birthday gift,” I said.
“I like the bird.”
“Thanks.” I lifted my wrist in front of the window and let the light from the sinking sun glint off the silver. “My friends used to call me She-Bird.”
“She-Bird?”
“Yes. I think it sounds like an Indian name.”
“Kinda does.” My wrist remained raised for a few more moments as if suspended by a puppeteer, and we both looked at the other charm, the half of a heart with its jagged edge. I hadn’t bothered to take it off, for it had always seemed an integral part of the bracelet. I didn’t say anything about that charm and Jim didn’t ask about it, but still the image of Simon pointing to his own bare chest, as he had on the night he gave it to me, flashed through my mind.
The preparation of the peppers took decidedly longer than half an hour (which led Cora to declare the cookbook’s title “false advertising!”) and was punctuated by several seemingly interminable silences, occasional nervous laughter, and three bodily collisions—inevitable in the cozy kitchen. But Jim wore his mother’s rose-printed apron while we cooked—more for the purpose of putting us both at ease, I suspected, than to protect his unfancy clothes—and it was amusing to see him wrapped in flowers with a big bow tied at his back.
We lingered at the table after the food was gone. Josie burped. “Oh my,” she said. “That was delicious. I actually liked the meatless ones just as much. Who knew?” Outside, Belly whimpered for scraps that didn’t exist.
Just as I got up to gather the empty plates, Cora’s eyes went wide. “Oh,” she said. “I almost forgot!” She disappeared into her room and emerged with a big, golden manila envelope. “This was at the post office today. It’s for you.” She slid it across the table and Jim’s eyes watched it closely, the way they never watched me. A drawing of Charlotte, unmistakable with her droopy ears and dark fur, decorated the envelope’s front.
“Funny bunny,” Josie noted.
“This looks like it’s from Bumble,” I said.
“Bumble-not-your-boyfriend,” Cora singsonged. Jim blinked.
“Right.” I blushed.
“If you write him back,” Granma said in her soft way, “give my regards to his mother.” I nodded. “And go enjoy your letter in peace, honey. We’ll handle the dishes.”
• • •
UP ON MY BUNK, I TORE OPEN the envelope only to find another envelope inside. It was wrapped in a sheet of paper on which Bumble had printed a note.
Bird, Simon asked me to give this to you. I admit I held onto it for a while. I didn’t read it, I promise. I just wasn’t sure if I should send it. I’ve been hoping your life is peaceful, and I don’t want anything to upset you.
No news here. No run-ins with your nemesis, Agent Fox. No more newspaper articles, either. The gang says hello and Charlotte, as I believe her portrait illustrates, is doing great! I think going away was a good decision. I think the whole thing is going to blow over. I’d say you can return to civilization in a couple of months, and start fresh in a new city, with a new name, so long as you promise to stay out of trouble forevermore, and give up driving to eliminate the possibility of being pulled over. NYC? Why not?
I’ll keep in touch. In the meantime, here’s this … (drumroll) …
Simon’s sharply slanted cursive spelled out my first name across the envelope. The sight of it gave me a Ferris wheel feeling. The envelope was fat with many folded-up pages, and I found that his letter to me was almost as long as mine had been to him. Upon reading the first sentence, however, I realized Simon had not received my letter before he had written his and given it to Bumble.
Margie,
I read about the restaurant fire in the Sun and, in light of your conspicuous absence from school, have guessed that you’ve gone away somewhere. Bumble is unwaveringly loyal to you, and refuses to inform even me of your whereabouts, but I persuaded him to do me the favor of sending you this letter.
Where to begin? At the beginning, I suppose, when you had the misfortune of meeting me.
You touched me very deeply with your aura of a sad little girl who is always trying to be brave. I will never forget the sight of you with your bicycle, the sight of you always alone. From the moment you first appeared in my classroom, it was all I could do not to stare at you unceasingly, not to have conversations only with you, not to forget my job altogether. I swore I would never allow myself to be alone with you, but I couldn’t help it. When I led you to my office that day, I didn’t know I was leading you to an eventual life on the run (assuming you are not just two hours north of me sitting in your shambles of a house with your tragically remiss father, which wouldn’t be much better). If I had known, I never would have done it.
Don’t misunderstand me: I loved the time we spent together. I loved having you in my home. I loved sharing the Operation with you. It was fear—no, pragmatism—that broke the spell—that and the specter of my wife, with whom I wage a constant battle, one that persists even now. But I’ll get to that shortly. I sent you away in part because, I admit, I was not yet entirely over Anna. She haunted me and at times my anguish was unmanageable. But mostly I sent you away because, deep down, I knew there was no way you would stay. Being young, bright, and so beautiful, it was only a matter of time, I was certain, before you would come to feel you had no use for an unhappy, dried-up old man like me—a man with a rather distasteful history. I sensed your restlessne
ss. One night at Gelato Amore I overheard you talking with the crew about that unkempt ice cream boy who worked downstairs, and there was such a dazzle in your voice. I knew how sedate and gray I must have seemed to you, or would seem to you soon enough. I saw the way strangers looked at us when we were together. What would happen when I was 70 and you were barely 40? It was too ridiculous to even consider. The feeling of waiting for you to tire of me, as you inevitably would, was one of unbearable suspense. I couldn’t stand it.
Also, I saw Annette’s sisterly attachment to you growing—how could it not? She sensed your inner beauty and your gentleness—and I couldn’t stand to think of her being disappointed in the future. She has suffered enough loss already. True, I was entirely to blame for having created the situation in the first place, but I let romance and hope overpower reality and common sense. Can you blame me, Miss Red Shoes?
I couldn’t explain myself to you this way then because of course you would have simply told me I was wrong, bitten my earlobe and insisted on staying. And by that point I would have been in no position to argue because, my dear, you were so seductive, though you did not know it, which was partly the reason why. So, I put it to you the way I did. I know it was cruel and swift, but it seemed to me to be the best way. Oh Margie, you must forgive me. Not only for hurting your heart, which I know I did, but for unwittingly helping to land you in this fix.
I gave the Operation to you because I was too tired and depressed to keep it up, and you so clearly needed a family and a cause to give your heart to. I should have known that you, with your passionate nature, would take it further than I had ever dared with that bold campaign—a fine finale, if I do say so—concerning Untamed. Still, your subsequent information session at Gelato Amore should not have resulted in this mess. And it wouldn’t have, were it not for the fact that you were being watched by people who were just waiting for you to say the wrong thing. And I believe you—we—were being watched before I retired from the Operation. And that, I suspect, was the specter’s doing.
The Lovebird Page 20