The Aviary (3 page)

Mrs. Glendoveer looked over her spectacles. “And that, I suspect, would be a consolation to
you
as well.”

Clara blushed. “Oh, I don’t mean to complain.”

“It’s all right. We all get lonely.” Mrs. Glendoveer slipped the photograph back in the book and locked it again. “When you first came here with your mama, you quite reminded me of Elliot. Snappy black eyes, taking everything in. It’s fitting that you know about him.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Clara said, taking the book to put away.

“Clara,” Mrs. Glendoveer said, “I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me if you’d report any other things you might hear from the birds. In fact, if you could go and speak to them, it might bring them out some more.”

Clara told Mrs. Glendoveer that she would pass on anything she heard, but doubted she could bring herself to talk to the birds. “You mustn’t strain your voice any more,” she said. “Today, I can read the rest of my Sir Walter Scott while you rest.”

Books were the one way Clara could wander, so she was more than happy to spend her morning with the Black Knight and legendary outlaws of the forest. But on her way downstairs, she couldn’t help but kneel again at the window seat. All the house’s front windows had been shuttered long ago to discourage stone-throwing children. Thanks to the storm, the view was now wide open, and Lockhaven lay before her in the crystal-clear morning light like a page from a picture book. The tiny Pincushion Islands dotting
the bay were green and refreshed by the rain. All the rooftops and carriages appeared doll-size and fit for her to rearrange in any way she’d like.

As her mother and Ruby hacked at the fallen oak below, Clara pressed her nose against the glass and dreamed.

“If I went to school, I would never simply walk down the sidewalk. I would run and skip and never get out of breath. I’d be happy and healthy and in a hurry to take my seat in the classroom’s first row. Because I am smart. But certainly not conceited. Everyone would like me, I’d make sure of it.”

Clara became so immersed in her “made-up” life that she almost began to believe she was the smart, strong, kind girl beloved by classmates who ran here and there boldly and with complete freedom. Then the clock tower struck eight o’clock and broke the spell.

Schoolchildren began to flock down the street. They came waving branches from fallen trees, stomping on the clumps of wet newspaper that had been scattered on the sidewalk by the wind. One little girl picked up an umbrella that had blown inside out and twirled it over her shoulder. Clara marveled at them, celebrating the ruin as they might a carnival.

She put her hand up against the glass and watched a ring of steam form around it, then studied her handprint. “I’m like a ghost in a tower,” Clara murmured. “I might as well be invisible.”

Just then a girl walking alone, with a red cap and
ringlets, stopped on the street and turned to look at the house. Clara thought she must be close to her own age but didn’t remember ever seeing her before. “Look at me!” Clara whispered.

The girl held back, distracted by something—the sound of the oak being chopped?—before lifting her eyes to the turret window where Clara knelt.

The girl froze. For some reason, Clara half expected her to scream. But instead, an amazed smile broke out on her face. She raised her arm and waved.

Clara put her hand to the glass again, this time with a yearning in her heart that was almost like pain.

“Hullo!” shouted the girl, waving madly this time.

Before Clara could smile back, she saw her mother striding to the center of the yard. Clara ducked and slid from her perch to the wooden floor, where she wrapped her arms around her knees.

There was a noise in the foyer, a slamming of the door. Her mother was marching up through the house. Clara grabbed her book, ran to Mrs. Glendoveer’s room, and slipped into a chair, but she couldn’t take in the words. All she could see before her eyes was the girl in the red cap, bouncing on her toes, waving, shouting “Hullo!”

By late in the day, Mrs. Glendoveer’s cough had turned into a persistent rattle. Clara was put to work brewing a drink from the boneset plant her mother grew on the windowsill. Making the remedy took time, because the herb had to be steeped in boiling water and then cooled or it would cause an upset stomach.

She fanned the pot and tested the broth with her finger, anxious to get a cup of the stuff quickly to Mrs. Glendoveer before the children came home from school at three o’clock. If only she could catch a second glimpse of the astonishing girl in the red cap before her mother fixed the shutters again. Would she look up? Would she wave?

Finally, it occurred to Clara to speed the cooling with a hunk of ice. She took the brass hammer from its peg on the wall and chipped at the great block in the icebox. Her
mother was not fond of anyone chipping at the ice, because the smaller it was, the faster it melted, and food would spoil. When a shoe-size hunk fell off the side, Clara winced, knowing she would certainly catch it from her mother later. Nonetheless, she used the entire piece, setting it in the sink with the pan on top of it until all had thoroughly chilled.

As swiftly as she could, Clara carried a mug of the remedy wrapped in a napkin down the hall and up the stairs. “Mrs. Glendoveer,” she said, giving the lady a gentle shake.

She barely stirred, and Clara tried again.

Slowly Mrs. Glendoveer opened her eyes. “Ah. Hello, dear,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Somewhere near, oh, three o’clock,” Clara said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Mrs. Glendoveer coughed and reached for her hankie. She pulled the sleeves of her nightgown up to her elbows, then felt her hair. “I must look a mess,” she said.

Clara wished that Mrs. Glendoveer would please hurry and take her medicine. And then she felt guilty for wanting to rush her. “Let’s get this down your sore throat where it can do some good, shall we?” she said.

“All right. But I would like to have my glasses first. Can you find them?”

Clara grabbed at the spectacles on the nightstand and unfolded them.

“If you could polish them a bit, I’d be so grateful,” said the old woman.

“Of course,” said Clara with all the patience she could muster. As she rubbed the lenses vigorously, she began to wonder if the good Lord was trying to test her.

That’s when the town’s bell chimed the three o’clock hour. Clara felt she could almost cry. She knew that by the time she had Mrs. Glendoveer’s spectacles clean and wrapped over her ears, the coverlet pulled up and the pillows propped behind her, and the medicine cup emptied, the children would have passed. She let herself feel the full weight of her disappointment.

When Mrs. Glendoveer finished her cup, she took a tin of peppermints from her bed stand, popped one in her mouth, and offered one to Clara.

“It clears the bitterness,” she said.

If only it could
, Clara thought. She took the cup and glanced through the turret window on the way back down to the kitchen. Nobody was out there. She trod heavily down the stairs until an unexpected sight stopped her in the foyer. There, in the stained-glass sidelights by the front door, was someone’s shadow. Her heart caught in her throat as she watched the mail slot flip open and an envelope fall to the floor.

Clara rushed forward and grabbed it. There on the front, written in violet ink, were the words:

She slumped, assuming now that this letter was meant for Mrs. Glendoveer. But then again, there was no specific
addressee. She turned the letter over in her hand and noted that it was not sealed. Couldn’t she just peek at it and return it to the envelope at the first sign it was intended for someone else?

Trembling, she slid out the letter and unfolded it. The paper smelled of violets too. Tucking herself behind the parlor door, she read:

Clara clutched the note to her chest.
Pretty, mysterious girl with braids …
The depiction thrilled her. To be seen, to be described—it was as if the plain girl she always saw in the mirror might be magically transformed by the simple act of being observed by others. Pretty? Mysterious? What else might Clara be?

“It’s tea, Clara!” called Ruby.

Clara hastily stuck the envelope under her pinafore and hurried to the kitchen. Her mother stopped in her tracks and put down the shortbread she had just pulled from the oven.

“Are you feverish?” she asked, feeling Clara’s forehead.

“No,” Clara answered, holding very still.

“You’re a bit clammy,” her mother said. “But you’re red as a beet. Have you been running in the house? You know you mustn’t.”

Clara shook her head no. Her mother looked at her skeptically, so she turned away and joined Ruby at the table.

As soon as Clara was seated, she felt a jab below her ribs. When no one was looking, she reached to her waistband and adjusted the offending envelope. Even if she never heard from Daphne again, she would keep this note forever. It would be her only secret.

“I’m concerned about Mrs. Glendoveer’s cough,” said her mother. “If it doesn’t clear by morning, I’m thinking of calling in Dr. Post.”

Ruby’s eyes rounded. “Dear,” she said.

“I know, but we can’t skimp on her care because we’re short on funds. Maybe he’ll barter. He doesn’t have a wife. Perhaps he has mending?”

Clara roused. “But I gave Mrs. Glendoveer the boneset. It’s always worked before.”

Harriet looked to Ruby and then to her daughter. “It is never a small thing when an elderly person develops a rattle in the lungs. The downhill can be swift. Even among the young, pneumonia can be …” She lowered her head and fussed with her napkin, but Clara caught the expression her mother was trying to hide.

“You’ve seen it happen before, then,” Clara ventured.

“Yes,” her mother said.

“Before we came to live with Mrs. Glendoveer?”

Clara’s mother began to answer and halted. “No use going over that while we’re all here and well,” she said. “Drink your tea.”

Clara was used to being diverted from any talk of her mother’s past. Between her mother and Mrs. Glendoveer, Clara’s experience of family was so limited that it wasn’t until she began to read that it occurred to her that she too must have a father like the children in storybooks. But when she asked about him, her mother only said, “Everyone has a father, and you are no different. But since he isn’t here, we mustn’t dwell on what we don’t have.”

“But I’d like to know just the small things. What was his name? What were the things he liked? Anything little. You know, did he have a mustache?”

She softened for a moment. “I have my reasons, Clara. Please don’t think me cruel. I can’t say more.”

“All right,” Clara said. But it was hard to swallow these questions once she started.

Her mother turned to leave her but stopped at the doorway. Her eyes shone, and her smile was sad. “No. He had no mustache,” she said.

Clara stood stunned, because she had learned the answer to the question that she most wanted to know but hadn’t dared to ask. Her mother had loved her father
and missed him still. At that moment, his warm presence flickered between them. How sad it was for Clara to see her mother turn her back and let the moment fade.

Part of what made Daphne Aspinal so fascinating to Clara was her curiosity and her complete freedom to satisfy it. Imagine being like that, walking into a new town and shoving poetry through strangers’ mail slots! Would she be hurt if Clara wasn’t there at the window? She must have a wide-open heart to care enough to want to ease Clara’s burden. Maybe she was extremely sensitive. Clara went on conjecturing until the thought of not replying seemed unthinkably rude.