Silhouette of a Sparrow

by Molly Beth Griffin

  But I was wrong. “I’m done with secrets, done with lies,” she said, her words sharp as razors. “Do you want to know what Garnet’s been up to this summer?”

  Our fragile pact broken, Hannah spilled out the truth about Isabella. Or most of the truth. Thankfully there were still intimate details that she didn’t know and couldn’t tell. She told about my lies, my sneaking off, my adventures on the town and in the park with “that common harlot from the dance hall, that little slut with the drinking problem and the tiny dresses.”

  “How could you associate with such riffraff?” Mrs. Harrington gasped. Then her voice dropped and an ugly sneer spread over her mouth. “First the business with Rachel, then your father, and now this, as if your family needs another scandal! I will be telling your mother about your behavior, young lady.”

  “Fine. Tell her. It doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.”

  And then I was out the door and running, running to the lake. Heartache and anger poured down my face in tears as I ran until I could hardly see where I was going. Then I stood at the shoreline, in the little inlet that would never host a summerhouse for Mrs. Harrington. I stared out at the hypnotic waves until my sobs mellowed into sniffles and hiccups. I reached down and took off my shoes, dipping my bare toes into the cool, clear water. That coolness jolted me awake, and I knew I had to feel it against all of my skin. Like Trudy, like the loon. Trudy was strong enough to make her way in the world of men. But there were all kinds of strength. If she had to make sacrifices for her family, to leave behind anything and anyone who tempted her away, wouldn’t she do it?

  I looked right, and left. No one. Once I was sure I was alone in the secluded cove, I pulled my dress over my head and tossed it on a rock. My underclothes would serve as an even more scandalous bathing costume than Trudy’s, but with no one there to disapprove, I didn’t care. The breeze tickled my bare arms and legs.

  I crept slowly into the water, letting the coolness inch up my body and pull my mind into my skin. I shivered and strode out farther as the water climbed to my knees, then my waist, then my chest. I took a deep breath and allowed my legs to buckle under me.

  The water lapped against my chin and I felt suddenly light, as though the lake cradled me, rocked me in cool watery arms. Water pressed against my skin and my skin pressed back against the water and the boundary was, in that moment, so wonderfully defined. I was myself because I wasn’t sky or water or sand. Where I stopped, the lake began, and I began where it stopped. The water opened up a space for me and held me close. This is who you are, the lake said to me, speaking through my skin. Just like a dark bird against a clear sky, just like a sleek black loon against glimmering waves, I had a silhouette. I’d thrown away the one I cut of myself at the island, because my dream for what I could be had gone up in smoke when Mother’s letter arrived. But now I had to retrace myself, fit myself into a different shape. I could do that, couldn’t I? I could be the shape of a young lady, a beautiful bride, a wife, a mother, a good daughter. That was the shape I needed to be now. And maybe life was just a matter of putting on the right costume moment to moment, and smiling for your audience.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep breath, and dunked. The world I knew disappeared. There was a moment of close, silent darkness, and then I emerged, sputtering into the daylight. It was a rebirth, I told myself. Now I was ready to do what I had to do—to meet Mother at the station and tell her yes, of course, I would help us survive without Father. I would put aside all those selfish desires, leave Isabella, and go home to Teddy and to the rest of my life.

  I almost had myself convinced.

  And then I heard a voice call my name like a rock shattering glass:

  “Garnet!”

  It was Isabella, standing on the beach, pulling her shoes off, stripping down to her underclothes without a moment’s hesitation. No! No, no, no. Not now. She ran into the water with splashes of her pale legs and ducked under the waves. Before I knew it she was right there, on me, her slick wet limbs entwined with mine as she tried, playfully, to drag me under the water.

  Every kiss and embrace we’d ever shared came flooding back to me. My very skin rebelled as I forced myself to pull out of her grip. It’s for the best, I thought.

  “Where on earth have you been?” she said. “I’ve been looking for you for days. You haven’t been to work, or to town, or to the park . . . I didn’t dare go to the hotel. Avery said something was wrong, but he didn’t know what.” She turned serious then. “There’s, um, something I need to tell you. Something important.”

  “No, I have to say something first.” My voice cracked. Where had all that strength and sureness gone? “I’m ... I’m leaving. Going home.”

  She looked at me. Blinked. “What? When?”

  “My mother is coming on the streetcar today. She’s taking me home on Sunday.”

  “Why? I thought you still had some time before school started.”

  “Something’s happened. My father, he’s—he’s left us.”

  “Oh, Garnet, I’m so sorry.”

  She reached for me and I flinched away. I knew that her touch would weaken my resolve.

  “I’m going home and getting m-m-married.”

  Her look turned in an instant from sympathy to incredulity. “But—”

  “I have to. My mother can’t support us on her own. And I want to finish high school and graduate with my class. We need a breadwinner—and quickly—so I have to marry. And Teddy, well, he’s a good man. He’ll take care of us. He can start working his father’s business while he finishes school. We’ll get by.”

  “I can’t believe you. What about the birds, Garnet? What about college?”

  “I can’t, Isabella.” I had to make her stop asking those questions, those painful questions. The pain turned to meanness and I could feel it building in me, needing an enemy, needing to spit the pain back at someone. At her. “I’m not like you. I have an obligation to my family and I’m going to honor it.”

  That stung her. She turned from me. “Fine. Throw your life away.”

  Tears mixed with the lake water on my skin, and underneath it all the meanness boiled. “I have to do this. I don’t expect you to understand. And I have to leave you now.”

  “But I had something to tell you.”

  I was firm—ice in my eyes and hot lava behind them, just waiting to spew out. Whatever she wanted to tell me, I didn’t want to know. I was done with her. Done. “Mother will be here soon and I need some fresh clothes before I go pick her up. I can’t see you again.”

  “You hypocrite. You coward.” She threw the words over her bare, trembling shoulder and they hit me like blows. Coward? But I was being strong, doing what I had to do. What did Isabella know about obligation, responsibility? She just threw out rules when they didn’t suit her, and threw out people when they got in her way. Even family. Family! My fury built up until I couldn’t help but hurl it at her, all the pain and meanness erupting. It came out in Hannah’s voice.

  “At least I’m not a common harlot,” I said.

  And I hated myself instantly.

  She turned to me slowly; her smudged scarlet tanager lips fell open in shock at my cruelty. Other people’s insults she could shrug off, but from me those words sunk in deep. “Do you know where that rumor comes from? No? Well, I’ll tell you. The job I worked before this one didn’t mind a bit that I was underage as long as I was willing to leave my dressing-room door open after the show and let men in—any man who paid the manager the price. I was supposed to entertain them, and I did, even though some nights I had to swallow a fair amount of gin first. Tough job, huh? But I did it. I’m no coward. I was willing to do anything so that I could dance onstage. Anything. So I guess that makes me a common barlot and not fit to associate with a fine lady like yourself. And that’s fine with me. Just fine. So go,” she said. I didn’t move. Lead had filled my bones and I was so heavy. “Go!”

  I turned, the sand under my feet suddenly fe
eling rough, and sloshed back to shore. I threw my dress over my wet underclothes and picked up my shoes in one hand. I trudged off, barefoot, forcing myself not to look back.

  Eastern Screech Owl

  (Otus asio)

  That night Mother slept beside me in the small bed. She’d been so relieved and grateful to hear of my decision, so proud of me for putting my family first. Mrs. Harrington told her about Isabella, using the most alarming language she could find, claiming that even though we were “no longer family,” she would hate to see me bring my mother disgrace. But Mother was so pleased with me for deciding to marry that once I assured her the friendship was over she didn’t bring it up again. Her approval felt warm and comfortable and affectionate and safe, and it was reassuring to go to sleep with her close-by. I hadn’t slept next to her since I was a child, since those lonely nights when Father was first away at war, and I’d forgotten just how soothing it was to have her near.

  But my dreams were anything but soothing. I dreamed of Isabella. She wore the oriole dress even though she wasn’t working. It was night, and the park glowed like a sparkler with dancing, spinning lights. Isabella pulled me through the whirling mess of rides, laughing that nuthatch laugh of hers, and lured me onto the roller coaster. I’d made a point of staying off that frightful contraption all summer, but now somehow Isabella strapped me in beside her and I couldn’t move. We lurched forward and then her laugh became a shriek. The sound was light and joyful in the beginning, and so close it could have been coming from my own mouth as we climbed the first hill. Then we paused at the top and my heart stopped beating for what felt like an eternity while we waited for the plunge. Finally, we inched over the precipice and the world dropped away beneath me. Isabella’s close, happy shriek became a scream, and when I looked over, she was gone, and a gray-and-white-patterned screech owl perched on the bar where her hands had rested a moment before. The small, stocky owl looked at me with yellow eyes and then lifted up on its great wings and silently flew off. In the distance, I heard it calling in that descending whinny that gave it its name. The roller coaster vanished, and I was looking for her, trying to follow the muffled screeching that was so filled with pain and fear. The lights swirled around me as I stumbled aimlessly into the night.

  Mother shook me awake.

  “Fire, Garnet. Wake up. Fire!”

  I opened my eyes into even deeper darkness than the sleep I’d left behind.

  But this darkness was heavy and filled my lungs. Stung my eyes.

  I coughed.

  “Come on,” Mother said. She grabbed the sleeve of my nightdress and yanked me out of bed, then fell to her knees and pulled me down with her. The air near the floor was clearer.

  Muffled screams came through the darkness. Not birdcalls but human screams. Flames rumbled somewhere far off. Glass shattered. Wood splintered in some other world.

  Here, near the floor, it was quiet.

  “Wait,” I said, coughing. I reached up and grabbed the blue jay handkerchief from the night table. I ripped it in two and dunked both halves in my water glass. “Your mouth,” I said, handing one to Mother.

  She felt for it in the dark and took it. With the wet cloth over my mouth and nose I could breathe a little easier. “The door’s here,” I said through the cloth as I crawled like a three-legged dog across the floor. Mother followed; I could feel her close behind me.

  I traced the route through the small bedroom by memory, and when we reached the door, I knelt and put my hand up to grope for the knob.

  “Ah!” I cried. The metal burned like a skillet.

  “Oh, Garnet,” Mother murmured. “It’s too close. I hope the Harringtons got out. Can we go another way?”

  I clutched my hand to my chest. It screamed. I tried to think over the throbbing of my skin. “Yes.” I scrambled back toward the bed and past it. Toward the dimly glowing rectangle on the opposite wall.

  “The window?” she said when we reached it. “But we’re too far up.”

  “No. The veranda. Trust me.” The drapes were already pulled back and the window was open—even mother slept immodestly in the August heat. I stood up and stuck my head out into the night. The air was clearer there and my lungs sucked it in. I bunched up my nightdress and hauled one leg over the sill, and then the other. My feet hit hot shingles. Hot, but not skillet hot. The roof of the veranda. I turned and helped Mother out.

  Here, the sounds weren’t as muffled by smoke. The screams were close. The flames were close. The breaking building cried out with pops and cracks and moans. I led Mother to the edge.

  “It’s too far down,” she said. And it was. Farther than I’d thought. Fifteen feet? Twenty? I’d forgotten about the staircase down from the veranda to the ground. We were nearly two stories up, not one. But there wasn’t any other way.

  “We have to,” I said.

  “They’ll come for us. The firemen.”

  “We can’t wait.”

  “They’ll come,” she insisted.

  “No, I have an idea.” I sat down on the hot shingles and reached with my feet, swinging right and left. Then, yes! They hit wood. The support column. We could climb down. I turned to motion for Mother to come.

  Then, with a sudden pop, the roof we perched on tilted dangerously. I gripped the edge with my knees and my hands, the burned one sending a wave of pain up my arm. Mother dropped to all fours and clung to the shingles like a cat in a tree.

  “It’s under us,” she said.

  We couldn’t climb down—we’d be climbing into the blaze.

  “We have to jump,” I told her.

  “They’ll come,” she said.

  “I’ll go first.”

  She looked at me with wide eyes for one, long moment. Then she inched toward me. At my side, she gripped my arm and met my eyes. She nodded once. “Courage, Garnet,” she said.

  My father’s voice echoed in my head: Fly, Gigi, fly!

  I looked down, and down, and down. The ground stretched out safe and solid beneath me, but I knew its solidness might kill me. And if I had the courage to jump out of a burning building, I also had the courage to speak the truth. If I was going to die in the next minute, there was something I had to say to my mother first.

  “I can’t marry Teddy, Mother,” I said into her panicked eyes. “I need to go to college.”

  Then I jumped.

  Northern Cardinal

  (Cardinalis cardinalis)

  I jumped—and I flew.

  In my white cotton nightdress I hovered there, suspended above the panic and pain, the chaos and confusion. The whole scene paused for a single moment and my desperate childhood wish for flight was granted. I felt the wind against my skin and turned my eyes to the stars. The brightest ones burned calmly through the smoke and the wavering heat.

  In that moment I knew that wanting was not the same as selfishness. Wanting was pure and right and beautiful. And the real me could not change shape to suit the needs of others—not even loved ones, not even family. I knew who I was. The rest could be worked out. I could find a way. If Miss Maple had done it, so could I.

  And then, I crashed to the ground. The pain came rushing in with a breathless jolt. My knee burned, and a stabbing ache pierced my shoulder. Every inch of me was on fire, like the hotel on fire, threatening to collapse.

  Mother appeared beside me then. She must have followed me out into the night air. I didn’t see her jump, but there she was. She clutched her ankle, but her relief seemed to overpower the pain. She took me in her arms and we lay there, on the ground, rocking each other amid the panicked crowd.

  It might have been mere minutes later that I regained rational consciousness, but it felt like hours. Mrs. Harrington’s voice cut through the bustle.

  “Well, go in and get them,” she was shouting to a fireman.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but your finery is not our first priority.”

  She gaped at him, appalled. “Young man, those dresses and hats and jewels are worth more than your
annual salary—more than twice your annual salary, I should think—so march in there and retrieve them. Room 209—”

  But the young man in question was gone, off helping an old woman that another fireman had just carried from the blaze.

  “Do I have to do everything myself?” Mrs. Harrington said in a huff, heading toward the burning building.

  “No, Mother, don’t!” Hannah cried. “It’s not worth it!”

  “Not worth it?” Her voice lowered then, but I could hear her still as she lectured her daughter. “It’s all we have, Hannah. You know that—you told everybody all about it this morning. What do you want, the poorhouse? Do you want us to have to sell the estate? We’ll never get you a husband without at least the trappings of wealth. The credit’s run out. Lord help us, Hannah, it’s all we have.”

  Hannah Harrington turned her furious face to her mother and aimed one pointy finger at the huge woman’s chest.

  “It is not all we have, Mother. We have each other, don’t we? If you go in there and that building collapses, then we’ll have nothing—or at least I’ll have nothing. No finery and no husband and no mother. If that’s what you want, fine. Go.”

  The finger pointed to the blaze.

  The singed woman stood staring at her furious child for a long moment, her own anger turning ever so slowly to incredulity. The whole scene around us seemed to pause, to hold its breath.

  “What’s gotten into you today?” Mrs. Harrington said sharply, but then her scolding tone shifted, softened. “You’re not my little girl. You’re a young woman. A fierce, beautiful young woman. What on earth am I going to do with you?” Then she gathered Hannah up in her enormous arms and sobbed.

  As if someone took a piece of charcoal and decided at that moment to redraw her, Hannah’s hard angles all melted. I watched, and finally I saw the two of them for what they were: a pair of people facing the world together, trying to do right by one another without losing themselves in the process. Just like me. Just like all of us.