“Remember,” she calls out behind us, “God’s eye is on the sparrow.” She erupts again in deep-toned laughter, causing wild green Quaker parrots to scatter with the pigeons. I glance back quickly to see the flock of birds circle as she returns her sparrow to its colorful cage, locking the clasp securely. His sweet song calls out behind us, as if to echo the woman’s sage advice: “What good is it to have feathers if you don’t fly?”
As the chimes fade, Miss Henderson holds her right arm straight above her head and sends three quick breaths through her silver whistle. I rush the girls past chatty tour guides, each urging us to rent a horse-drawn carriage draped in beads and flowers. We reach the designated landmark and climb the concrete steps while rhythmic hooves clop through the streets behind us.
I squeeze past a group of nuns discussing All Souls’ Day to join six other parent chaperones. Some take quick photos of the Jax Brewery sign. Others show off bargain buys they gleaned during their frantic French Market shopping spree. From the waters, the paddle-wheeler cranks its calliope, and the tunes transport us into another era. Racing past us, the children tackle the incline at record speed, determined to be first to the summit—until the teacher sounds her whistle once more and they swarm to form a line.
“Impressive,” I whisper to Raelynn, who has been so busy rummaging through her purse for something sweet she has no idea what I’m talking about. I point toward the orderly queue, in awe of Miss Henderson.
“Teachers.” Raelynn rolls her eyes. “Never did like me much.”
“They liked you.” I offer a gentle giggle to remind Raelynn I’m on her side. “They just didn’t like how you couldn’t keep your thoughts to yourself.”
“Still can’t.” At a loss for candy, Raelynn plugs a cherry cough drop inside her cheek. The smell of menthol brings me back a year to my mother’s final days. I coated her chest with Vick’s VapoRub the way she had done for me when I was a child.
Tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear, Raelynn tilts her head toward Café du Monde. “She’d better let us get beignets ’fore we board that bus.”
Of course she says this loud enough for Miss Henderson to hear—a classic Raelynn move that works every time. As if on cue, the students turn toward the famous riverfront café where batches of hot, fried dough draw visitors from around the world. Then she drives her final nail. “They’ve got a bathroom.” And here comes the smile, the one where Raelynn’s strong spirit shines through to melt even the most reluctant soul.
Miss Henderson checks her watch, turning toward the row of round white bulbs that trace the café’s roofline. Next she eyes Gator’s bus, parked parallel, ready for departure. “Does everyone have your buddy?”
The students check in with their partners-for-the-day and nod.
“Let’s do a head count.”
Sarah is first in line, as always. She sends up a clear “One,” which is followed by Ellie’s “Two,” and so forth down the line of jittery grade schoolers until the final student yells, “Twenty-four.”
“We have just enough time for a treat. Stay with your buddy and follow me. Parents, would you guide them to the restroom, please? I’m going to rush our order at the to-go counter instead of waiting to be seated. We’ll eat on the bus.”
Like the students, we do as she says.
“No dillydallying.” Miss Henderson almost sings this command.
“Is that even a word?” Raelynn snaps. “Who is this woman? Mary Poppins?”
When the girls pause for a photo, Raelynn allows Nate to move ahead with another parent. Then, with a sideways glance, she asks, “Okay, Amanda. What gives? You’ve been walking the moon all day.”
“The moon?” I laugh.
“Your head’s been on some faraway planet. What’d he do now?”
Wind whips my hair across my face, and I pull it away to give Raelynn a direct stare. Without any words, I let her know I’m done talking about Carl.
But she doesn’t back down. “For real, Amanda. What’s wrong?”
Ellie and Sarah skip ahead a few feet, and I call out to them, “Wait a second, girls.” They come to a halt as their last classmate ambles past.
“Helicopter,” Ellie whispers to Sarah. Both girls roll their eyes, frustrated with the way I hover. I give Ellie a look, and they continue walking, slowly. Nearby, a man has coated his entire body with gold spray paint. He stands frozen in place on the sidewalk. They stop to watch him as they wait for us to catch up.
“Amanda?” Raelynn pries. “Absolute truth. And absolute trust.” She repeats the oath we made when we were ten years old. The three of us climbed into Raelynn’s tree house, pricked our fingers, and swore on our own blood. Absolute truth. And absolute trust. Now I opt for an easier path.
“I’m just missing my mom, is all.”
“Oh, Amanda. I should’ve realized.” Raelynn touches my shoulder in a sisterly way and pulls close. I assure her I’m fine.
“Have you heard from your dad?”
“Nope.” I shrug it off.
“Still living down in Florida?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.” I lead the way toward the café, hoping she’ll give this topic a rest, but when she urges me to say more, I give in. “You already know the story. I was ten the last time I talked to him, the day he moved out.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you call him? To tell him about your mom?”
“I left him a voicemail, thinking he might want something from the house. He never returned my call. It’s been a year. I’m not holding my breath.”
“You ever think about looking for your birth parents?”
I fumble with the camera, still strapped around my neck. “I don’t know.” No matter how hard I try to avoid these tender topics, Raelynn is determined. “Feels like it wouldn’t be right. To Mom.”
“I still can’t believe she’s gone,” Raelynn says. “For the cancer to have taken her so fast. It’s not fair.” Then she adds, “I’m sure she would want you to find them.”
“Honestly, we never talked about it much, and I never asked.”
“Why not?” Raelynn limps more now.
“Maybe I needed it to come from her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.” I don’t have to explain. Raelynn knows I’ve carried a hole in my heart my entire life. No matter how much love my mother gave me after the adoption, even more so after her divorce, I was unwanted, abandoned, and unloved from the start.
We approach the café, where tourists and locals scramble by us. I scan the crowd, something I’ve done for years, searching the faces for my dull brown eyes or dirt-floor-brown hair, as Carl calls my unruly strands. I find no one with the familiar hitch in my step or the crooked curve of my nose. No one who might be my birth mother.
One road-worn young woman does catch my eye. She is squeezed into a tight, low-cut tank top and a miniskirt that’s more than a few sizes too small. With a cocked hip, she brushes against men, dropping temptation their way. Although her smile might be described as captivating, her gaze is heavy, hungry. I am tempted to pull Ellie and Sarah to the side. Come up with something to say to ensure they will never end up like this. Pay attention, girls. See this woman. As soon as I think it, I chastise myself, wondering if this street-hardened girl has ever had a mother whisper to her at all.
On the same corner, the old man from the ferry now slumps in his wheelchair. He shoots me a strange look, one that puts me on guard. His wiry hairline recedes nearly six inches back from the mark of his youth, and his teeth are worn down and yellowed, like his eyes. The young girl I assumed to be his granddaughter is nowhere to be seen, but by his side the short-skirted woman, no more than twenty at most, throws me a bold, whatcha-lookin’-at stare. I assume they’re together. I turn my head, ashamed.
While I’ve been lost in a mother’s worst fears, Raelynn’s focus has been on something else entirely. She drops her arm around my shoulders and gazes toward a handsome saxophone player in front of the café. “NOLA,” she says with a grin. “Doe
s a body good.”
She doesn’t notice my dramatic sigh. The dark-eyed musician has her full attention, performing with his hardscrabble jazz group beneath the boughs of a billowing oak. Peppered hair, cleft chin, Gypsy vibes, he is a beautiful mix of Johnny Depp, George Clooney, and Jared Leto with enough years on him to be fair game for my wild-hearted friend. Sensing the possibility of a tip, he offers Raelynn a flirtatious gaze, pumping his tunes for the travelers who sip café au lait and spill powdered sugar from heaping piles of beignets.
Raelynn tosses another corny line my way. “He’s saxy!” Then, to make sure I didn’t miss the punch line, she nudges me with her elbow. “See what I did there?”
I give her the laugh she’s after and turn my attention to the opposite corner. There, three school-age boys tap the sidewalk with rapid rhythms, competing against the lively bucket drummer one block down. Lucky Dog vendors and plein air painters fill the gaps between bartenders, drag queens, and paper boys, making it hard to tell who is in costume for the charity luncheon and who would look a little wacky no matter the day.
Tuning out the chaotic clash of sounds, I follow the girls through the open patio and into the café. The soothing smell of sweet dough and fresh-brewed coffee works wonders. Outside, the clouds build, while inside, an attendant keeps the restroom line moving, ushering the students through as quickly as possible.
“Mo-om.” Ellie says this in two syllables, with a hushed tone. I’m flying too close. I’m the only parent standing in line with the kids for the restroom, so I take the hint.
“I’ll go see if Miss Henderson needs help with the food.” I convince myself we are safe enough here to give them some space. “Hold my pack? You’ve still got water. The first-aid kit, too, if anyone needs it.”
I drop my cumbersome bag and head for the counter, finally able to handle the small space without bumping into people. Behind me, Ellie and Sarah start rock-scissors-paper, giggling at the end of the line. I stop for a second to watch them play the innocent game of chance. Despite being surrounded by all this commotion, they seem completely content within their own simple world. Just the two of them.
After grabbing bags of beignets from the teacher, I make my way across the patio, where the wind tosses paper napkins like tiny white kites. Above us the storm swells, but this hasn’t stopped a second line parade from forming on Decatur Street. People young and old pile out from the crowded shops to join the impromptu party. Without warning, umbrellas begin to bob up and down as people dance to the beat of the renegade brass band. Tambourines and trumpets, tubas and trombones sprout from out of nowhere, pulling a song and a story from every side street, every alleyway. Beneath scrolled-iron balconies, folks wave handkerchiefs, some with the fleur-de-lis.
Just as the parade begins to wind away, a white split of lightning jags the dark divide. Thunder announces the downpour, and torrents begin to fall with force. The savory smells of roasted coffee and sugared treats are now replaced by the metallic scent of steam rising from rooftops. Mere feet away, the rain-speckled river rolls on.
“Take a bag,” I instruct the students. “We’ll eat on the way home.”
Hurriedly, one of the moms takes a group to the bus. They scurry ahead as Raelynn looks out toward the Mississippi. “Mark my word. That river’s gonna burst right through someday.”
“Let’s hope not!” I serve the last of the beignets and rush through the rain.
As we reach the bus, Miss Henderson’s levee lesson echoes in my mind. “Here in the bottomlands and bayous, we have built our lives on soggy soil, perched below sea. The water is always eager to regain its domain.” When she said this, we were crossing back to the east bank, cutting across currents too deep, too powerful to tame. Raelynn’s not the only one who believes it’s only a matter of time before the Mighty Mississippi claims her stake and all of New Orleans washes away.
But not today.
Today, the musicians splash through soggy streets, and the boys remove their tap shoes to run with bare feet. Umbrellas protect the brass from the rain, and the music plays.
And the music plays.
Chapter 4
SIXTEEN, SEVENTEEN . . . MISS HENDERSON COUNTS HEADS AS THE children shake water from their matching green shirts. Strong winds sway the bus as the last student jumps up the steps and Gator snaps the doors shut behind him. He has agreed to drop the parents back at Mardi Gras World, where we’ve left our personal vehicles for the trip home to Walker. The annoying school district policy kept Raelynn complaining for nearly the entire drive down.
As she slips in to share the front bench, she carps again, “Still don’t understand why we can’t just ride with the kids. They’re so afraid of lawsuits they’ve lost all common sense.”
Miss Henderson lets the comment slide. She claps three times from the adjacent row and the children settle, welcoming relief from the rain.
“Can I have one of those water bottles?” Raelynn asks, already opening her bag of beignets.
I call over to Ellie, trying to salvage my tousled hair. “Pass my backpack, please.” Wrinkling my nose does little to dim the overwhelming odors of wet and sweaty tweens.
“Sarah’s got it.” Ellie turns her attention to the row of friends who are bouncing behind her.
“Whac-a-Mole,” I say, pointing to their jarring motions.
Raelynn laughs. “Somebody needs to give them a few bonks to the head!”
“We need a recount.” The patient teacher claps three more times before speaking again, finally silencing the sugared crowd. “Does everyone have your buddy?”
Children swap spots and pair off into their designated duos. The organized structure collapsed in the café, where they grabbed bags of beignets before darting toward Gator in the downpour. Soaking and shrieking, they had crammed onto the aging vinyl seats without any regard for partners.
Now, as the last kid finds her mate, Miss Henderson still counts only twenty-three students. Not the twenty-four she is responsible for, the twenty-four she loaded onto the bus this morning, the twenty-four she brought together an hour earlier, warning everyone to stay with their buddy. Now that the children have divided back into pairs, one student remains without a companion. My daughter sits behind me, alone.
“Where’s Sarah?” I whisper.
Ellie’s wide-eyed expression says it all.
“It’s not like them to be separated,” I tell Miss Henderson.
Throughout childhood these two girls have lived like twins, sharing everything: sleepovers, birthday parties, homework sessions, summer vacations. Now, as I search the bus, my stomach twists as though I’ve lost my own daughter. I try not to panic.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
Ellie shrugs. “At the bathroom.”
“Where’d she go from there?” Miss Henderson this time.
Ellie narrows her eyes.
“You never saw her after that?” I ask, hoping my voice holds steady.
Ellie shakes her head. The teacher clutches her clipboard.
“I’ll run find her,” I say.
I dash through the rain without bothering to dodge puddles, but as the seconds spin, Sarah is nowhere to be seen. I scan crowds for a bright-green shirt that matches my own.
“Have you seen a blond girl? Twelve years old? Green shirt?” I shoot out quick questions in every direction, raising my voice to a frantic yell above the pounding rain. “Black backpack? Field trip student?” Folks in the café turn their heads as I dart among the tables. I move toward the restroom where I last laid eyes on Sarah. The man who helped us manage the long line is still here, tucking tips into his pocket with a gap-toothed grin.
“We’re missing a student,” I tell him, describing Sarah’s blue eyes, blond ponytail, green bow.
The man shakes his head and insists he hasn’t seen anything out of the ordinary. “Take a look,” he says, opening the door between customers to prove the room is empty. My backpack rests against the corner wall. I grab it and ques
tion him again.
“She had this backpack,” I shout. “She wouldn’t have left it.”
He tilts his head as if trying to make sense of what I’m saying.
“She was here. In the restroom. Where’d she go?” I’m spewing questions too fast. He shakes his head and draws his shoulders up to his ears, as if he doesn’t know anything more than I do.
Frustrated, I rush into the crowded kitchen without asking permission, boosting my voice over singing fry cooks and clanging plates. “Have you seen a blond girl? Sixth grade? Green shirt?”
Many of the employees are first-generation immigrants. With muddled expressions they shoo me, determined to get me out of their kitchen. I don’t let them stop me. I search all the way to the trash room, opening the wooden door that leads out to Decatur. Then I turn back toward the fry cooks. Waiters circle through the pick-up line for orders. Again and again I ask. Again and again heads shake. No one has the answer I need.
Panic clenches my jaw tight. Wiping rainwater from my forehead, I slide past piles of dishes, scanning the chaotic space with a frantic intensity. I hurry back into the dining area, slipping a bit on damp tiles. I rush out back to the alley, past ivy-cloaked walls and rain-soaked hedges. I run up the concrete steps to the riverside parking lot. I loop through cars and run to the river, searching the waters, crying out her name.
Still no Sarah.
Winding my way back past the colorful fountain, through the café, and then out to Decatur, I take in every sound. Every sight. She’s got to be here. Where else would she have gone?
I shout down the sidewalks, screaming her name. A few curious folks turn in confusion, sipping Sazeracs or iced mint juleps beneath the balconies, but most ignore me, carrying on their normal routines as if I’m just another party girl who’s had too much to drink.
But this is no stunt, no street show. Sarah is missing, and no one seems to care.
The Feathered Bone Page 4