Fly Like a Bird

by Jana Zinser

  Uncle Walter kissed Ivy goodnight. “She lived this long for you, you know.”

  Ivy nodded. “I know.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Walter.”

  “Merry Christmas, Ivy.”

  After Uncle Walter left, Ivy sat on the bed beside Grandma and gazed out at the shadowy woods and the moonlight glistening on the snow. She washed Grandma’s face and spread lotion on her hands and arms. Then, keeping her promise, she took the tweezers and plucked Grandma’s few chin hairs. Ivy knew that somewhere deep inside her silent sleep, Grandma smiled.

  Chapter 38

  WILL THE NIGHT EVER END?

  As the night went on, Grandma’s labored breathing became louder and more irregular. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes, darkly rimmed, remained closed. Her skillful, soothing hands, now gnarled with age and use, rested limply at her sides. Throughout the night, Ivy gently held Grandma’s hand and stroked her sunken face, talking softly to her.

  The night owls hooted mournfully, as if calling out their distress.

  In the middle of the night, Grandma suddenly opened her eyes. Fear temporarily replaced the knowing. “Why won’t this night ever end? I need to see the morning light.”

  Ivy patted Grandma’s hand. “Just a few more hours now. I’ll wait with you for the morning.”

  After that, Grandma slept fitfully. She shifted from side to side, fidgeting like an impatient child and moaning with each movement.

  Before sunrise, a bad odor filled the air. Grandma’s bladder and bowels stopped working. Death approached. Ivy cleaned Grandma’s body with a warm washcloth. She changed her nightgown and sheets, the same way Grandma had changed Ivy’s urine-soaked nightgown and bed when she was little.

  “No need to worry, Grandma, it’s easily fixed.”

  The end to Grandma’s magnificent life approached. Faced with her death, Ivy realized that the responsibility for her future belonged to her alone. She must be strong enough to accept the challenges of her life.

  Grandma’s strained breathing signaled to Ivy that Grandma’s body was surrendering, and she had to give up the fight to keep Grandma on Earth. Time always wins.

  Ivy stroked the loose-skinned arms of her beloved grandmother, once so vigorous and plump, and pulled the quilts around her. “Grandma, I’m glad my mother left without me. I would have been so alone in this world without you. And you were right about Coffey. It’s home. I can explore the world from here. You can go now. I’ll wait for your sign, when your soul’s at peace.”

  Grandma stopped breathing. Many seconds passed. The empty silence screamed in Ivy’s ears. Then Grandma sucked in a deep breath as if emerging from the ocean’s depths, and she continued to breathe.

  Ivy heard a sound, like the settling of a hawk’s wings after a flight. When she looked up, Carly stood in the doorway, framed by the early morning light from the window. Ivy motioned for her to come over to the bed. As the five-year-old walked toward Grandma, she sang “Red River Valley,” the song Grandma always sung to put her to sleep.

  Carly took Grandma’s hand. Violet Taylor opened her eyes and gazed at them both with a look of surprise, as if in disbelief that life’s end had actually come and with regret at the leaving. But there was no strength left for words. Holding on to life’s last moments took all her effort.

  Ivy kissed Grandma’s cheek. “The morning finally came. You can go now. Goodbye, Grandma. I love you more than the great blue sky.”

  Then the look in Grandma’s eyes softened, as if recognizing familiar faces. A tear, or perhaps the last of life’s nectar, fell from Grandma’s weary eyes.

  Carly reached out and wiped it away. “Don’t cry, Grandma. We’ll never forget you. Go to sleep, Grandma. Mommy and I will be all right. We’ll take care of each other.”

  Grandma’s raspy breathing stopped and a shuddering bolt of loss surged through Ivy. The hollow silence filled her with dread. She raised her arms and gazed up at the ceiling as if she expected to see Grandma’s defiant spirit hovering there.

  “Grandma, where did you go?” Ivy said. Then she closed Grandma’s all-knowing eyes and Grandma silently disappeared from the earth. On the quiet wisp of a snowy winter breeze, her spirit passed from this world. Violet Taylor was no more.

  As night gently faded into Christmas morning, all of Grandma’s bird friends startled awake and suddenly took flight. The sound of beating wings filled the air. Through the window, Ivy and Carly watched birds circling the house in an act of indescribable fury and unbearable misery, the birds expressed their grief. Ivy wrapped her arms around Carly, gazing out the window. “Oh, Grandma, I wish you were here to see this.”

  “She is,” Carly pointed to the feathered frenzy. “Grandma’s flying with the birds.”

  They sat by the body that once held the great spirit of Grandma and stared out the window at the flurry of suffering as the birds flew past the window. They listened to the loud fluttering until all the birds finally vanished.

  Ivy knew what she needed to do. She called Uncle Walter. He arrived a few minutes later with his coat mis-buttoned, and his slippers wet and covered with snow. Ivy and Carly greeted him at the front door and hugged him. They cried from the pain seeping deep within the caverns of their souls. They did not cry for Grandma. Death freed Grandma from the devastation of her cancer. They cried for themselves and for having been left behind.

  Together, they climbed the grand staircase to Grandma’s bedroom. They sat beside her, unwilling to let go. But the great Violet was already gone.

  As Uncle Walter said his final goodbyes to his mother, Ivy collected Grandma’s burial clothing and the Hereafter quilt waiting on the closet shelf. Then Ivy called Dr. Kelsey. As she hung up the phone, unbearable fear swept through her with the knowing that soon, the last physical remnant of Grandma would be taken from her in a long black zippered bag, and she would have to face life without Grandma.

  Ivy shook her head and sighed. “You know Uncle Walter, I’ve tried to get out of this old house and away from Coffey all my life. And now I’d do anything to live another lifetime here, with Grandma and you and Carly.”

  Uncle Walter nodded. “I know.”

  As they waited for Dr. Kelsey to arrive, they were startled by a loud crash. The largest limb of the old Maple tree in Grandma’s front yard broke off from its strong base, splitting the trunk in two and barely missing the house. Nothing lasts forever. Plans change.

  At twenty-seven years old, Ivy found herself an orphan again.

  PART VI

  THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS

  (1985-1986)

  Chapter 39

  THE GERIATRIC SCUFFLE

  A few days later, the heavens remained cloudy and dark during Grandma’s funeral, as if the sky mourned her passing as well. The birds in the backyard had vanished after Violet’s death, which was strange because they were usually so plentiful, even in the winter. But that winter, they flew away with their sorrow, their songs silenced.

  The brisk wind tangled the skeletal branches of the weeping willows at the cemetery. Their slender tentacles bowed over the graves like grieving loved ones. The pallbearers: Uncle Tommy, Uncle Walter, Russell and Reuben, carried Violet Taylor to her final resting place, next to her beloved husband and youngest son Robert. Ivy, Carly, and Patty trudged through the snow, hand-in-hand behind Grandma’s casket. The rest of the mourners, nearly the entire town, followed in a long sorrowful line except for Otis. Thelma had denied Otis’ request to attend, saying the cold air would be bad for him.

  When they reached the gravesite, just over the second hill, Carly dropped Ivy’s hand and pointed to Reuben’s field at the edge of the cemetery. “Look, there they are. There’s Grandma’s birds.”

  Ivy gasped at the long row of birds perched on a barbed-wire fence, reverently lined up in a final salute to their friend. When they lowered Grandma’s casket into the ground beneath the weeping willows, the birds flew in unison into the dim, gray sky in a flutter of frenzied motion and lamentation.
Ivy hoped Grandma could see the birds’ touching memorial from her back porch in the Great Hereafter.

  When Grandma’s service ended, Ivy saw a woman who looked like Angela at the edge of the crowd. The woman with her hood pulled up, stepped back into the woods and hurried away. Ivy sighed. She knew she would have to face Angela about Justin eventually, but that would have to wait.

  Many of the mourners returned to 4120 and Ivy was glad. She didn’t want to grieve alone in a house that now seemed so empty. Ivy helped Matilda, Violet’s mushroom companion, serve the food in the kitchen. She peeled back the aluminum foil to reveal each delicious dish.

  Ivy looked outside and watched the snowflakes tumble in the wind. She remembered Reuben once told her that sometimes your home is worth the sacrifice. Ivy finally understood why he had stayed in the haunted house all these years.

  This was her home. This was where she belonged. Coffey was her town. They knew her here. Everyone she loved was here. Well, almost. Nick wasn’t there. But she understood. She had grown up. She’d learned to let go. Everyone has to find their own path and no one should have to give up their home. The ghosts be danged.

  Ivy couldn’t focus on any more sadness. She’d had her fill. She couldn’t think of Nick anymore. If Nick could be happy without her, she had to accept it.

  Matilda put her arm around Ivy and walked her into the large dining room set up for the potluck dinner. “Save your tears for later. Everyone’s counting on you to be strong.”

  Ivy took a deep breath. If she could survive Grandma’s death, she could do anything, including live without Nick.

  Dishes of food covered the huge dining table. It resembled one of Grandma’s family holiday feasts. Russell lined up the dishes in symmetrical order. “Ivy, you okay?”

  Ivy nodded, afraid to speak. He shook his head and hugged her. “Me neither.”

  Miss Shirley bustled through the kitchen door, carrying an angel pie. Russell stopped fiddling with the dishes and held out his hands. “It wouldn’t be an official funeral without your angel pie. Let me help you with that.”

  Miss Shirley smiled and handed him her traditional funeral contribution. The angel pie stood tall, piled high with pink creamy fluff and a whipped cream topping with a meringue crust and crushed Heath bars sprinkled on top.

  He looked at the pie and then at Miss Shirley. “You only made one angel pie?”

  She wagged her finger at Russell. “Now don’t you go eating more than your share.”

  “Save me a piece,” Ivy told Russell.

  Russell counted the pieces over and over. Then he shoveled the largest piece onto his plate. He pushed the rest of the pie out of sight behind the roaster pan on the kitchen counter.

  Bertha Tuttle, the perpetually hungry mourner, anxiously stood first in line for the food. Grandma’s friends ate, shared their condolences, and soon went home to their own lives. The living had to go on.

  Eventually, only Grandma’s family remained at 4120, where Violet Taylor had held her family together for generations. But now, Grandma was no longer there to keep the tentative peace.

  Everyone but Uncle Tommy gathered in the kitchen. Russell sighed and patted his hair. He pointed to the piece of angel pie on Uncle Walter’s plate. “The only good part about today was the angel pie, huh, Uncle Walter?”

  Uncle Walter leaned back against the kitchen counter, taking the weight off his bad knee. “That’s true. There’s nothing like a little angel pie to take the edge off of death.” He took another a bite of the rich fluffy pie.

  Uncle Tommy hustled into the kitchen. “Angel pie? Did you say angel pie?” He stared at Uncle Walter’s plate. “How come Postal Boy got angel pie and I didn’t?”

  Uncle Tommy hurried back into the dining room and raced around the table, desperately searching for the angel pie. “Where is the dang pie, you selfish old mailman?”

  They all watched from the kitchen as Uncle Tommy frantically looked around for the funeral pie. Uncle Walter shrugged and pointed to the empty pie tin on the counter. “I found it over on the counter, behind the roaster pan.” He lifted his plate. “This was the last piece.” He scooped another bite from his wedge.

  The rest of the family stared at the two brothers. For the first time in Ivy’s life, Uncle Tommy and Uncle Walter required no family interpreter. Pastrami on rye had started the uncles’ sandwich war and a piece of Miss Shirley’s angel pie was going to end it.

  Uncle Tommy grabbed at Uncle Walter’s plate. “Give me that dadgum piece of pie.”

  Uncle Walter pulled his pie away and took a step back. “This is my piece.” He crammed another bite into his mouth. “Um. Um.”

  Uncle Tommy pointed his trembling finger at his brother. “This is just like that time you took my pastrami sandwich at Robert’s funeral. Well, you’re not going to get away with it this time, Letter Boy.”

  “It wasn’t your sandwich. It was on my plate, just like this pie. And I’m fed up with your pranks and name-calling. You’ve been bullying everyone your whole life. I’m sick of it.”

  “Oh, right. What are you going to do?” Uncle Tommy trembled, pretending to be frightened. “Go postal on me with your bad knees and scaredy-cat fists?” He lunged for the pie plate again.

  But Uncle Walter stepped out of the way just in time, dodging Uncle Tommy’s attacks. He pushed his ruffian brother. Uncle Tommy stumbled and sprawled across the kitchen floor, his arms and legs splayed out like Bambi on ice. His glasses flew off his face.

  Uncle Walter poked his finger at his brother. “You’re the thug. The traitor. You’re the one who takes things that don’t belong to you . . . like . . . like Robert’s wife.”

  Uncle Tommy picked up his glasses and struggled to get up from the kitchen floor. He raised his unsteady fists at Uncle Walter. “You’ve never had anything worthwhile to say your whole life. You better keep your dadgum mouth shut now.”

  Uncle Walter adjusted his belt and shifted his weight. “Why? Because then everyone might find out that if it wasn’t for you, Robert wouldn’t be dead?” He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for years. He set the pie plate on the counter.

  Uncle Tommy balled-up his stiff fingers into fists. He stepped forward and swung at Uncle Walter. His attempted blow looked like the frustrated slow-motion of a dream.

  Again, Uncle Walter dodged his brother’s awkward strike, but the momentum of Uncle Tommy’s lunge caused him to stumble headlong into Russell who held him upright. “Dad, get a grip. You’re old. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

  Uncle Tommy pushed Russell away. “Leave me alone, you hair-patting, thing-counting, food-separating weirdo.”

  Russell’s eyes narrowed, but this time, when the insults came, he didn’t fidget. Instead, he pushed his father back as hard as he could. The force made Uncle Tommy fly off-balance toward Uncle Walter, like a senior citizen projectile. Grunting and wheezing, the two men moved back and forth in a geriatric scuffle.

  Russell stood his ground. “You shouldn’t make fun of people.” Then Russell stuck his foot out and tripped his father.

  As Uncle Tommy fell, he grabbed Uncle Walter’s belt. Uncle Walter’s bad knee buckled, and he fell on top of Uncle Tommy. The two brothers wrestled clumsily on Grandma’s linoleum kitchen floor. The rest of the family watched in disbelief and stunned horror as the uncles fought. Around them, the china birds rattled uncontrollably on the kitchen shelves. Aunt Hattie kicked her husband as he writhed on the kitchen floor. “Now you two old men calm down. Has Satan completely taken over your minds?”

  Russell pulled Uncle Tommy off the floor and glared at the bully-father he had grudgingly endured all his life. Ivy helped Uncle Walter to stand up.

  “What did you mean, if it wasn’t for Uncle Tommy, my father wouldn’t be dead?” Ivy asked, grabbing Uncle Walter’s shoulders. Her face was pale and sweat beaded on her forehead. “Please, Uncle Walter, tell me what you meant.” She squeezed his arms. “Tell me right now. I need to know.”

  U
ncle Walter patted Ivy’s hands and turned to Uncle Tommy. “Tell her. Tell her about you and Barbara. Tell her what really happened that night.”

  Aunt Hattie stepped between the two brothers as they tried to catch their breath from their melee and growled in her throat. “You two old worthless fools shouldn’t be airing your dirty laundry now. That was the devil’s work. It was over and done with a long time ago.” She turned up her stubby nose as if she could smell something rancid. “Woe unto thee—”

  Ivy put her hand up in front of Aunt Hattie’s contemptuous face. “Be quiet, Aunt Hattie. For once, just be quiet. I deserve to know what they’re talking about.”

  Aunt Hattie pursed her lips and pointed at Carly. “Shouldn’t she leave the room?”

  Carly went over and held Uncle Walter’s hand, hiding her face in his sweater. Ivy shook her head.

  “No, she’s staying right here. No more secrets.”

  Uncle Walter wrapped his arm around Carly. “I think it’s about time Ivy knew what really happened.”

  Ivy turned and faced the uncle whose heart always blew a cold breeze toward his family. “Uncle Tommy, did you have an affair with my mother?”

  Uncle Tommy glanced at his holier-than-thou wife. Hattie’s eyes glowed like a scared cat at the end of a dark alley with no way out. He looked at his son, but Russell stared back, his hands by his side, for once perfectly still.

  Then everyone turned to Uncle Walter. After twenty-six years, Uncle Walter finally found his voice. With Grandma gone, no one could keep the lid on the buried family secrets. Uncle Walter faced his brother. “It’s time. If you don’t tell her, I will.”

  Uncle Tommy’s face contorted. He paused, his eyes wide and darting around like a wild bird trapped in a cage.

  “Okay. Okay.” Uncle Tommy glanced at Ivy and then looked down at the floor. “Well, it started when her father tried to force her to go back to Stilton and it ended when she got pregnant and I refused to leave Hattie.”

  He turned to Hattie. “You never give me credit for that.”