Nightingale's Nest

by Nikki Loftin

  I nodded again, and Pastor Martin straightened up as Mom approached. He smiled at both of us. “Now, I’m going to take you two home, and I’ll pick your mom back up in the morning. Can you stay home tomorrow, hold down the fort?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll hold it down.”

  I did as I was told. I held down the fort—which meant reheating the casseroles that Mom’s church circle had brought over and put in the fridge, feeding the cat, and cleaning the dishes—until Mom went to sit, TV on, in the living room recliner.

  I held down the fort until she fell asleep there. But then?

  I’m pretty sure only the whip-poor-will calling outside my window heard me bawling through the night. And that was the only good thing I could say about the whole day.

  The next two days we spent in the hospital, waiting for doctors to come and talk to us. Waiting for nurses to ask Mom to sign more papers. Waiting to find out if Dad was coming home anytime soon.

  Nothing had changed, except that my stomach hurt every time I thought about the money.

  How were we going to pay rent? I’d thought about asking Pastor Martin for it, but didn’t. He wouldn’t understand any of it.

  A sick twist in my gut told me what I’d have to do, where I’d have to go to get the money back, but I didn’t want to think about that. Not yet. It felt like breaking another promise.

  Friday morning came. It was a good day for Mom, which surprised me. I’d expected her to get more upset. But the women in her circle had been coming by the hospital, coming by the house, too, to check on the cat and water the plants. They’d filled the pantry with food, and the fridge with Jell-O casseroles. It had cheered Mom up, even though Dad was still in bad shape.

  I got up, and breakfast—oatmeal with sugar in it, and a glass of milk—was waiting for me at the table. “Mom?” I asked. Her eyes were ringed by dark circles, and her hair was wild. But she smiled at me. She even came over and patted me on the shoulder.

  “Sweetheart, there you are! I thought you were going to sleep the day away!”

  “Are you—okay, Mom?”

  She patted me once more and moved back to the sink. “What a question. With your father hurt like he is? All right.” She sighed and went back to washing the dishes that had been piling up for two days. “Now you need to get dressed,” she said.

  “Are we going to the hospital?” She shook her head.

  “I need you to stay here today,” she said. “Pastor called a few minutes ago. Said he was coming by in a half hour to take me back to Brownwood. There! I’m done.” She pulled off her apron, catching her hair in the pocket button. I stepped across the floor to help untangle it, but she waved me off. “No, no,” she said. “I’ve got it. I just need you to”—and she yanked so hard on the knot of hair, I saw several strands tear free of her scalp—“stay here and give the landlord the rent money. You can do that, can’t you?”

  I was glad she wasn’t looking at me right then—I knew for a fact I was showing what I felt on my face. Horror, panic, guilt. But Mom was busy hanging up her apron.

  “Yeah, I can,” I said.

  “Fine,” she answered, on her way to her bedroom. “I’ll get the money for you, then. Make sure you get a receipt from him,” she called back.

  I raced after her. “No, Mom, it’s okay. I can get the money.”

  “No, you can’t,” she answered. “It’s hidden.”

  I couldn’t actually call out that I knew where her hiding place was. But then I saw someone walking up our sidewalk. It was Pastor Martin. “Mom!” I yelled. “Pastor’s here! He looks like he’s in a hurry, too!”

  Which wasn’t exactly true, but it got her out of the bedroom. “Oh, no!” she called. “Is it nine o’clock already?” She pushed her hair back from her face, the money completely forgotten.

  I shepherded her toward the front door, and she opened it. “Pastor Martin, won’t you come inside?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m so sorry I had to come a bit early. A homebound parishioner is dying, poor soul. You may remember Mrs. Davis? She hasn’t been to church in years, after her fall. I got a call this morning. So I’ll need to take you now, if that’s okay?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. She turned back to me, distracted. She leaned close for a hug, I thought. But it was just to tell me about the money. “The rent is in a box under my chest of drawers. He gets six hundred dollars, not a penny more.” She called out again as she followed Pastor Martin to his car, “And get a receipt!”

  I went to the box first, to see how much money there was left. I remembered seeing some other bills. Was it possible there was still six hundred dollars there?

  There wasn’t, of course. If there had been, Mom would have paid the landlord before now. There were four twenty-dollar bills, two tens, and a bunch of change.

  There was nothing for it. I knew what I had to do, even if it was awful to think about. I grabbed a handful of the change and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I stuck the twenties and tens into an envelope and tacked it to the front door for the landlord. It wouldn’t be enough, though. Wouldn’t keep us from getting evicted. I was going to have to go back over to the Cutlins’ and get the rest of the rent money back out of Gayle’s nest.

  She hadn’t really cared about it, I told myself, as I put my shoes on and got ready to run the ten-mile round trip. She didn’t care about money. What was it she had put in her nest? Treasures, she’d said.

  Maybe I could trade her something! But what would an eight-year-old girl treasure?

  It was so obvious, I felt stupid. I ran into Raelynn’s room and grabbed up the one thing I knew for a fact Gayle would love—and I knew she didn’t have. Her hair ribbons. Then I started running.

  I stopped for a minute at the 7-Eleven to soak in a little air-conditioning. The girl behind the counter frowned and asked me what I was planning to buy. “A Coke,” I said, like I had been planning that all along. I had just enough change left over—if I used the three pennies from the dish by the cash register—for a piece of gum for Gayle. The girl frowned at me again when I scooped up the pennies, but then smiled when I told her the gum was for the Cutlins’ foster girl.

  I ran on, my feet feeling the soreness from my run the day before. My tennis shoes were getting tight again. Was I still growing? I hoped not; shoes were expensive.

  A mile or so out of town, I passed the black dog that had been hanging around the Emperor’s house. I pitched a rock at it, just to keep it from following. It slunk off into the brush, but I could feel its eyes on me for a long time after.

  When I got to the Cutlins’ front yard, I stopped. I could hear Gayle singing, as clear as day. It wasn’t the best I’d ever heard her sound—her voice seemed a little trembly, and she was singing awfully loud. She usually made sure to sing softer in the Cutlins’ yard. “Gayle?” I yelled out. The front door opened.

  “What are you here for?” Jeb Cutlin had on a pair of running shorts and a shirt I’d seen in the church donation box. I knew, because it was one I’d worn the previous year and outgrown before it got old-looking. It made me feel better, knowing I wasn’t the only one in town whose mom did some of her clothes shopping from the donation box. And knowing Jeb couldn’t tease Gayle for wearing old hand-me-down clothes, since he was wearing them, too? That almost made me smile.

  Jeb caught me looking at his shirt. He looked down and flushed red. Maybe he remembered it had been my shirt, too.

  “What do you want?” he asked again. “Why aren’t you at the hospital with your folks?”

  I wasn’t about to tell him I was here to get the money out of Gayle’s nest. So I just shrugged. “I got something for Ga— Suzie.”

  “Ga-Suzie?” he repeated, stepping closer. His voice got softer, and he looked back at the house. I wasn’t sure, but something in his eyes looked familiar, like the same thing I’d been feeling all day, all week—g
uilty. “What do you got there? Maybe you should give it to me. I’ll give it to her for ya.”

  Sure he would. I pulled the ribbons out of my pocket. “Girl stuff,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d want them, you not being a little girl.” I gave him a look that said I thought he was exactly that. He flushed even redder and looked like he wanted to pound me, but he held back. I kept teasing him. “But you know, Jeb, this blue one would just match your eyes.” I held out one ribbon, stepped toward him like I was going to put it in his hair for him.

  “Go to—” The screen door slammed on the last word, but I knew what he’d said. I didn’t care. With him gone, I could run around the back of the house and talk to Gayle. I could still hear her singing, loud as could be.

  She’d gotten her voice back. I smiled. At least one good thing had happened today.

  But when I got to the backyard, the singing stopped. “Gayle?” I called.

  The singing started back up, the same song. It wasn’t coming from the Cutlins’ at all, I realized. And it wasn’t Gayle singing—I’d never heard her sing the same song twice, and not in that shaky voice.

  It was a recording.

  I ran to the fence and looked over. The Emperor had his windows open, the curtains blowing in and out with the breeze, and he was listening to the recording of Gayle he had made. I scanned his garden and the Cutlins’ yard.

  Gayle wasn’t there. I looked up, into the sycamore tree. “Gayle?” I called, but I saw immediately that Gayle wasn’t there. She couldn’t be there.

  Because her nest was gone.

  Where was it?

  There was nothing left in the limbs of the sycamore, noth-ing to show there had ever been a nest to begin with. I scanned the ground for traces of it and found them, though. A candy wrapper—the silver one I’d given her, I thought. And some pebbles? I leaned down and picked up one. It had a streak of quartz running straight through the middle, a jagged line that looked like a hatching egg. I gathered up what I could find—mostly bits of paper that had words written on them in eight-year-old handwriting. Had it been a letter? I could only make out a few words—Mom and song and miss. I stuffed everything I could—the candy wrappers, the papers, and even the pebbles—in my pocket.

  A fluttering by the fence made me realize the breeze had caught something else. When I got there, I realized it was—hair? Long hairs, twining around the rough wood of the fence posts. I gathered it up and rubbed it between my fingers. I knew the softness. It was the same downy feeling of the baby swallow I’d picked up outside the garage. It was Gayle’s hair. Had she pulled it out to make a soft place in her nest?

  She’d always had such a tangled mess up there, underneath all her flower crowns, I wouldn’t have known if she was missing a patch or two.

  But there was so much, I realized. It was blowing all around the yard. Had she cut her hair?

  I remembered Raelynn cutting her hair in kindergarten, coming home to Mom, who was madder than a wet hen. Not because her hair looked terrible, but because Raelynn had cut the softest part of her hair the shortest—the curls that gathered at the base of her neck. Turns out a little boy had been teasing her, calling her “piggy with a curly tail.”

  I knew why Mom had cried; Raelynn’s hair had been beautiful, softer than anything. As soft as dandelion fluff, as flower petals.

  Just as soft as Gayle’s hair.

  “Gayle?” I yelled. “Gayle, where are you?” Had she run off? The music next door stopped at my voice, then started again.

  The back door of the Cutlins’ house opened up, though. Verlie Cutlin stepped out. She was wearing an apron, wringing her hands like she couldn’t stop. “What are you back here for, boy? You get on home now.”

  “Where’s Gayle?” I demanded, marching toward the house. Mrs. Cutlin took a step back, then scowled at me. I didn’t care if she was afraid. She should be. I wanted nothing more than to hit something, someone. Hurt whoever had taken down the nest.

  “Where’s who?” She spat to one side.

  “Suzie. Where’s Suzie?”

  “None of your business,” Mrs. Cutlin said, her eyes going so squinty I couldn’t see the whites at all. “You got no business here.” She moved to block the doorway. What was she hiding? Had she been hurting Gayle? Had she and her miserable kid laid hands on that little girl? Mrs. Cutlin gasped and took another step back; I wondered what my face looked like.

  “I’ll call the police,” she blustered.

  “I’ll go once I see her,” I said, trying to calm down. Ticking off Mrs. Cutlin wouldn’t do Gayle a lick of good. “Just call her out here.”

  Mrs. Cutlin looked like she was going to spit again, this time at me, but she didn’t. “Fine.” She hollered over her shoulder, “Suzie! Suzie. Get on out here.”

  We waited there for ten, twenty, thirty seconds. The sound of Gayle’s recording started up next door again. I could tell Mrs. Cutlin didn’t like hearing it. I didn’t, either. She was just about to call out for Gayle again when the screen door behind her squealed.

  “Oh, God,” I said. “What happened?”

  “She did it,” Mrs. Cutlin said, her voice defensive. “With her own hands. I don’t even let my fosters have scissors. She did it herself.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m gonna tell the caseworker. Girl’s crazy. Just look at her.”

  Gayle looked terrible. Of course, all I could see was the top of her head. The strands of hair in my hand dropped to the ground. She hadn’t cut her hair, I could see that now. She had pulled it out. The top of her head was missing great patches of hair, like a dog with mange.

  My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. I couldn’t speak, didn’t know if I’d be able to force words out, through the shock of seeing her like this.

  Gayle’s scalp was red and scraped in places, almost bleeding. She’d torn at it so hard she’d almost taken the skin with the hair. For a moment I was reminded of the fawn in the fence. How long had Gayle been like this? Hours? All night?

  It had to have taken her some time to do this much damage. It had to have hurt terribly.

  I kneeled down to see her face. “Gayle? What’d you do?” She looked up at me, not even trying to smile. Her eyes moved slowly over to the ground where the remains of her nest lay. “What happened to your nest?” I asked, softer. “Did it fall down?” Had she torn it down?

  “Jeb,” she whispered.

  “Go back inside, girl,” Mrs. Cutlin said, and Gayle started to obey.

  “I found these,” I said, and pulled the leftovers from the nest out of my pocket. “Do you want them?”

  She turned back, and stared at my open palm like I had a poisonous snake in it. “No.” She shuddered, and shuffled back toward the door.

  I guessed she was right. It might have been treasure before, but it was ruined now. Jeb had done that.

  “Wait,” I said, remembering what I’d come for. Remembering and realizing at the same time what had happened. “Did you put—what I gave you yesterday—in the nest?”

  Gayle didn’t turn back, but she nodded once before she shuffled inside.

  Then I knew what had happened, and why. It wasn’t Jeb’s fault, not really. It was mine. I had given her the money in plain sight. Jeb must have seen me do it, and then gone up into her nest to take it.

  A kid his size would never have fit in her nest. He broke it up. I couldn’t even blame him—if someone had put five hundred dollars in my yard, I’d have climbed the tree, too, if I hadn’t been too scared.

  It might as well have been me. I was responsible.

  And now I was responsible for getting the money back.

  If I’d eaten anything for breakfast, I would have thrown it up. I walked back around to the front of the house and knocked on the door.

  I shouldn’t have bothered.

  Mrs. Cutlin came out, madder than before. “
I told you to go, boy. I’m calling the police this time. You’re being a nuisance.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cutlin,” I said, trying to shrink down, look smaller, so maybe she would think of me as a kid. “But I left some money here yesterday—”

  She cut me off. “Then that was stupid of you, boy. Now get home. I got work.”

  The screen door slammed in my face, and I backed up a step. I knocked again, louder, but all I heard in answer was the lock sliding into place.

  I had to get money for the landlord, and soon.

  First, I went to the base of the sycamore and settled the scraps from Gayle’s nest there, so she could find them if she changed her mind. Then I started walking back to town, thinking hard. There wasn’t anyone in our town with much money—not five hundred dollars for a kid like me, anyway. I could mow lawns, but that meant only twenty-five dollars a yard, and I couldn’t do more than a few lawns a day.

  I’d had to make my own spending money for so long, I knew how hopeless it was. I’d done it all—sometimes with Ernest, even though he never really needed the money. We’d picked up aluminum cans from the side of the road to sell at the recycling center, collected dewberries from the banks by the railroad tracks and sold them to teachers at school every May. I’d mowed lawns, raked, and walked dogs for anybody who would pay me a dollar.

  The problem was, all my friends did the same thing. There just weren’t that many lawns in town that weren’t already being taken care of. And no real jobs for a twelve-year-old kid.

  I walked slowly, though, trying to think of something—anything.

  When I got back to the house, my skin burned from the sun and my head ached from thinking. There were two notes on the door. One was from Ernest. I read it quickly. Come over for dinner. I’ll show you my birthday stuff. I’m sorry about your dad—E. P.S. It’s pork chops tonight, so please come.

  I almost laughed. Ernest hated pork chops, and I loved them. He would always wait until his mom was out of the room, then switch his whole one for my gnawed-on bone. His mom had a thing about her kids eating everything on their plates.