Sparrow Road (13 page)

It wasn’t until our cookout finally ended and Gray James was gone to Comfort, and I was on the swing outside our cottage sitting with the stars, that Josie came to tell me she’d been saving news all week. News she didn’t want to tell me while my mind was on Gray James.

“I finally found her, Raine!” Josie clapped her happy hands together. “Nettie Johnson. That preacher’s wife over in Spring Valley. The one the man at the Rhubarb Social mentioned. The one who used to be an orphan. Oh, Raine! I finally tracked her down!”

“Whoa!” I said. “That’s great.” I was glad to think of something besides Gray. All these days of waiting long and wondering had finally worn me out. And I had such a jumbled mix of feelings, I didn’t know which feeling to feel first.

“Well, the best part is”—Josie stamped her feet—“Nettie Johnson’s coming to Comfort for a chat with you and me! On Friday! A chat and a piece of Blue Moon pie.”

“A chat with us?” I couldn’t believe Josie had finally found an orphan, someone who really lived at Sparrow Road. I’d been shy with Gray but I’d ask Nettie Johnson every question. What was it like to live at Sparrow Road? Did she know Lillian? Was Lillian an orphan or a teacher? Did she bake gingerbread at Christmas? Did the children really sleep down at the lake? Did all of them find families? Had Viktor Berglund been an orphan too?

 

When Friday came, Mama walked me to my bike and made me pinkie swear if I saw Gray in Comfort I wouldn’t go off with him alone.

“Molly, Molly,” Diego laughed. “Raine’s safe with me and Josie.”

“Safe and sound!” Josie hitched her patchwork dress up to her knees. She always rode like that—dress up, bare legs, big black buckle boots.

“I thought Gray was up to me,” I said.

“More or less,” Mama sighed. “But you’re
my
daughter, Raine. I want to know you’re with Josie and Diego.”

“Don’t worry,” I told Mama. For one day, I didn’t want the cloud of Mama’s fears hanging over me. I wanted peach pie and whatever orphan stories Nettie Johnson had to tell. “I won’t go off with Gray.”

When we’d finally biked away from Sparrow Road, Diego slowed to pedal right beside me; Josie had already bolted far ahead. “It’s a mother bear thing, Raine,” Diego panted. Behind him, his Hawaiian shirt flapped back like a bright kite in the breeze. His jet black hair shined blue in the sun. “Your mama’s got her claws out for her cub. Mother instinct.”

“But Mama said he wasn’t dangerous.”

“He’s not,” Diego wheezed. “But people make mistakes. I’ve made my share along the way.” I couldn’t picture Diego making a mistake. “Gray let your mama down and that’s a hurt that hasn’t healed. She just wants to keep your heart safe.”

“But Mama needs to let me go,” I said. “Things will be okay.”

“Probably so,” Diego said. “But protection? That’s pure mother instinct. Parent instinct. I had it for my boys. And Gray, he’s got father instincts of his own.” A storm of sweat rained down Diego’s face. “He wants the chance to be your dad.”

Your dad.
No one had ever called Gray James my dad. It sounded foreign and too big to ever fit me. I was glad no one else was there to hear Diego say it. I needed time to wear those words alone.

Nettie Johnson and her husband were at the Blue Moon when we got there and her preacher husband, Reverend Johnson, looked liked anybody else. No black suit or special collar like Father Finnegan would wear. And Nettie didn’t look like an orphan. She was gray-haired, short and chubby, with bright pink fingernails, pink lipstick, and a pink sweat suit to match.

“That’s quite a head of hair,” Reverend Johnson said to Josie. “Reminds me of a rainbow.” He slid out of the booth. “I’m off to do my errands, then. I’m not much for sitting with the ladies.” Diego wasn’t either. He’d given up peach pie to hunt down junk in town. “Be back in a spell,” Reverend Johnson said to Nettie.

Our spell with Nettie lasted a long time; it lasted until Marge finally hung the CLOSED sign in the window. She’d already washed our cups and plates, refilled the sugar packet stacks. Nettie told us she was taken to Sparrow Road at two or three, after her mama died from flu. Her father was a soldier in the army, but he never came for her. “I stayed at Sparrow Road until I was fifteen. I wasn’t quite adopted,” Nettie said. “But there was a farm family in Spring Valley, they took me in to help with their nine kids.”

“What about Lillian Hobbs?” I said.

“Lillian Hobbs?” Nettie looked confused.

“She might have been an orphan or a teacher,” I said.

Nettie poured another pack of sugar in her coffee. “Hobbs? You mean Miss Hobbs the teacher? Is that the person that you mean?” Nettie Johnson looked surprised. “Very small? Little more than bones? Don’t tell me she’s alive?”

“She is,” Josie said. “Alive and well. At Sparrow Road this summer. So you have to come to see her. In fact we’re hosting the Arts Extravaganza on August eighteenth. You and the reverend, we want you both to come. Other orphans too if we can find them. Are you in touch with any?” I couldn’t believe Viktor had said yes, but Josie swore to me he did.

“No.” Nettie frowned. “Not really. I’ve left that past behind.”

“Did you know Lyman Chase?” Josie asked. “He has a drawing in the attic. Sparrow Road in winter.” My heart sank. I hoped Nettie would say no. I wanted Lyman to live in my imagination, just the way I pictured. What if Nettie said that he was mean? Or ugly? Or a boy she always hated? Lyman was safer in my heart.

Nettie shook her head. “Oh no, there were hundreds of us, honey. The orphanage was open for many, many years.”

I was relieved she didn’t know Lyman. “But what about Viktor Berglund?” I asked.

“Do you mean the Berglunds who gave Sparrow Road to charity? The ones who made it possible for us to have a home?”

“Yes,” I said. “Did you ever know a boy named Viktor? He might have been an orphan.”

“Viktor?” Josie stared at me wide-eyed. “You really think that, Raine?”

“Could be,” I said. “I’m just going on a hunch.”

“Berglund? No Berglund was an orphan!” Nettie pressed her hand against her neck. “They were extremely wealthy people who lived off in New York.”

“Well, did they ever come at Christmas?” I asked. “The Berglunds? For gingerbread?”

Nettie stared out the café window. Main Street was empty now. “Rich people dropped off presents. Lemon drops. A pomegranate.” The pomegranate seemed to make her gloomy. “Sometimes people came to sing. I should go,” she said. “The reverend must be waiting.”

“You’ll come to the party,” Josie said. I could tell she didn’t want our conversation to end sadly. “August eighteenth. Great food, great art.” Josie picked the charge slip off our table. “We want all the orphans to come home.”

Lillian’s eyes were closed, her small hands folded in her lap. We were on the front porch reading
Souvenirs
, a book of Lillian’s poetry Viktor dropped off at our cottage. Of all the poems I’d read to Lillian, I liked hers best of all.

“You are a question I will carry,”
I read again. I didn’t always understand them, but I could tell her poems were wistful, like Lyman’s drawing or Gray’s forlorn songs. Lots of getting left or leaving. A kind of constant homesick in the heart.

“Did your father come yet, dear?” Lillian opened one pink eye. Today Gray was coming for a visit straight from church. He’d asked me in a letter and I sent him back my yes.

“What did this mean?” I asked. “
You are a question I will carry
? Who was the question?”

Lillian closed her eye again like she was drifting back toward sleep.

“In your poem?” I asked. “The question you’ll carry into Februaries? The long winter question?”

“Hmm,” Lillian murmured, half asleep. “Viktor.”

I looked down at the page.
For V
. was written underneath the title. “Viktor? Viktor was a question that you carried?” I gave her arm a little shake. Lillian struggled to bat her eyes awake.

“Did your father come yet, dear?”

“Viktor was a question that you carried?” I asked again.

Lillian straightened up a bit and patted at her hair. “I don’t know if I should sit here in this heat.”

Parts of Lillian’s story were still a mystery to me. Once she was an orphan eating her mother’s sausage, and later, as Nettie Johnson said, a teacher. Was she a teacher when she took the children to sleep down at the lake? And what did Viktor have to do with it, besides the fact that the Berglunds gave Sparrow Road to charity?

When Gray’s old van pulled into the driveway, I rubbed my thumb along the silver hope charm Gray gave me for a gift. It was a tiny flame with
hope
written in the center and
Raine
engraved across the back. Ever since the barbecue, it hung around my neck on a fragile silver chain. And hope was what I had.

When Gray climbed down from his van, my heart beat harder than it had the night we met.
My dad
. I kept those secret words inside myself. I knew it was too soon to even say them.

“It’s him,” I said to Lillian. I was glad I had her company. Today, Gray was dressed for Sunday service at Good Shepherd. He wore a crisp white dress shirt and jeans. A thin black tie.

Gray rested his boot against the bottom step. He pushed his bangs back from his face, rubbed his hand under his nose. A week had passed since we first met, and I could tell he was just as nervous to see me again too. Timid grown-ups were always a surprise. I imagined most folks grew up to be as confident as Grandpa Mac and Mama. “Your mama packed a picnic?”

“Uh-huh.” It wasn’t any easier to talk, or stand, or think the second time I saw him.

“That’s sweet.” He dropped his hands into his pockets. “Good book?”

“It’s Lillian’s,” I said. “Her poetry. She wrote it.”

“That so?” He smiled at Lillian. “I’d like to give that book a read.” Maybe Gray could tell me what it meant to carry a question so far into the future. He seemed to understand lost things.

“We can take it on the picnic.” I wished Josie had agreed to join us on the picnic. If she were here she’d do all the talking, but Josie said I’d do just fine by myself.

“May I help you?” Eleanor opened up the screen door and glared at Gray. In her stern black skirt and blouse Eleanor looked like the boss of Sparrow Road. “This is private property.”

“Sure.” Gray kept one boot on the step, but I could see his shoulders shrink. “I’m here to visit Raine.”

“Raine?” Eleanor looked at me. Then she glanced across the yard toward Viktor’s office. “Where’s your mother, Raine?”

“She’s at our cottage.”

She narrowed her beady eyes at Gray. “And how do you know Raine?” Eleanor jutted out her pointy chin.

Gray looked at me. “Well, I just do,” he said. “I just know Raine.”

“She’s waiting for her father,” Lillian said to Eleanor. “He has the means to feed her.”

“Oh, stop with all that nonsense,” Eleanor snapped at Lillian. “Raine, go get your mother now. And ask her to bring Viktor.”

“No need for this,” Gray said. “You’re scaring Raine.” Then he gave Eleanor a smile. “Heck, you’re scaring me.”

“Get your mother,” Eleanor repeated. I jumped off the porch and ran. I didn’t want Eleanor to do anything to Gray. I didn’t want her to make Gray leave. There was the picnic, and Lillian’s book of poetry I wanted Gray to read, and the most important mystery I hoped to solve today, the one Mama said Gray would have to tell me. Where did he disappear to all these years?