tree far beyond it, I saw the same thing—some movement, flame-like, that disappeared. I don’t know what it was. But it made me understand that maybe all bushes and trees and birds are burning, all of them full of God’s voice.” She paused before adding, “If only we had eyes to see and ears to hear.”
“Didn’t Moses have to turn his eyes?” Ada asked.
“Yes, yes he did. When he first saw the bush, he couldn’t look directly at it.” Aunt Amanda found the passage and read, “‘Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.’ It’s as if he had to look out of the corner of his eye, too, the bush burned so bright. Like we can’t look directly at the sun or we’ll be blinded.”
Aunt Amanda closed the Bible and set it aside. “Oh, but I’m rambling. How are you, Ada? And how’s your family?”
“I think we’re all going to make it.” Ada shifted on her stool. She was grateful Aunt Amanda didn’t ask more. It was as if Aunt Amanda already knew—about the fire and her mother’s hands and now, this black space she was afraid to look at.
Aunt Amanda placed her hand on Ada’s, just for a moment, and that was enough.
“There’s Will.” Aunt Amanda pointed out the window. “I had hoped he might come out while you were here.” She looked at the gas pumps, fifty yards away. “He’s the tall, black-haired young man out there. He just started yesterday.”
Ada saw his back as he leaned against a pump, talking with two other men. A car pulled up, and Will took long, loping strides toward it.
“I helped raise that boy. He’s my nephew, you know. His mother died giving birth to him. And when that happened, something disappeared in Sam, his father, and never returned. So, little Will would wander over to my house just about every day. Sam died of cancer four years ago. We had to sell the farm to cover the bills . . .” Aunt Amanda looked at Ada. “To be honest, he feels more like a son than a nephew.”
“I bet he loves you.” Ada was not sure what to say.
“Most of the time, especially now that he’s on his own and I don’t have to discipline him.”
Another car pulled up, and Will began washing its windows. Even from this distance, Ada saw his huge grin.
Will noticed his aunt and waved. Aunt Amanda waved back. Then he pointed to the sky, cupped his hands, and gave a loud cronk cronk sound.
“What’s he doing?”
“Oh, that’s Will talking with the ravens. They must be up above us somewhere. On the drive in this morning, he told me he’d been watching a pair all day yesterday acting like they were feeding young. He wants to find the nest, and knowing him, he probably will.”
Will looked back at the window, and Ada could tell he just now saw her. He waved again, but this time the gesture was awkward and hesitant. He turned to help the other men.
For some reason, Ada suddenly recalled the sparrow from so long ago, the injured one she’d held until its eyes opened again and stared right into her. For a moment, Ada felt the quickness of its tiny heart in her palms, and looking out at Will, she felt her own heart flutter.
Cicero
Babies are the ugliest things, even if they’re your own. That skin all scrunched up nasty and wrinkly, the color off. When the pinfeathers come in, I swear they look like starlings, those fowl so foul they can’t be called birds. I loved our threesome, but my god of rat guts, some days I thought they were worse than ugly.
They shit worse than ugly, too. Loot and me would come back to find one of them hadn’t made it to the edge, so we’d have to shove it over the side. That whole rock face below turned white streaked, like some piece of your modern art. I studied it one day and wondered if maybe instead of words, I should’ve taken up painting shit—forget Keats and Dickinson, make a go of it as the avian equivalent to your Pollock or Picasso.
Anyway. I didn’t have time for art; those sweet little gutbags were always squawking for more food—more, more, more! Loot didn’t like going to the trash dump, but I didn’t mind. You just had to be careful. And the rewards! Sticky buns and hot dogs, eggs and cheese and oatmeal, lots of oatmeal.
One morning way back when I was one of those ugly nestlings, my mom returned with something brown and red, with a little yellow, too. My two sisters and me, we opened our beaks wide as we could and set to begging for whatever she had. And Mom chose me, little ol’ ugly Cicero. She thrust that food into my beak, and right then, I knew what heaven tasted like. It’s a piece of a burger meat with ketchup and mustard. I immediately wanted more.
8
Same Day
On his second day at work, Will parked his Plymouth at the back of the lot, up against the mountain.
Aunt Amanda checked her hair in the mirror. “Did you remember your lunch?”
“Of course.”
“Right on time for my shift.” She looked at her watch. “So, Mr. William, what are you going to do for two hours?”
“Oh, I might take a hike.” Will didn’t doubt that she knew. And she was probably the only one in the whole world who would’ve approved.
“Watch for snakes” was all she said as she walked toward the HoJo’s back door.
Will carried his lunch into the back room of the Esso garage.
“Surprised to see you here so early,” Dickson said, which made him jump. “Just in time to help me do inventory. How about it?” He had a clipboard in his hand and a pencil behind his ear.
Will had wanted to sneak in without seeing anyone. Just shove his lunch in his locker and head up the mountain. He should’ve known better. “I was hoping to hike up the mountain before my shift starts.” He opened his locker and found one of those little Bibles.
“Thought you might need that,” Dickson said from behind him. “Why don’t you take that with you? Lots of people climb mountains in that good book.”
The Bible had a leather cover just like the one on his bedside table, the one he hadn’t opened in years, the one that once belonged to his mother. “I already have one of these.” He held it out to Dickson.
“Have another.” Dickson turned to look up at all the fan belts hanging from the ceiling. “Can you tell me the number on that long one?”
Will slipped the Bible back in the locker and read the number. Then he headed out.
“See you in an hour or so,” Dickson yelled.
Will didn’t reply. Out in the lot, he wove between the big rigs, their engines idling, the drivers still asleep. At the incinerator, the air reeked of rotted eggs. Will held his breath and jogged past. Someone had dumped trash along the curb where he’d swept, which made him curse Dickson again. Will didn’t want to tear his uniform, so he squeezed through the hole in the chain link fence, slow and easy.
On the other side, he paused. Already he’d scuffed his new black leather shoes, the only part of his uniform he had to buy. Yesterday, those shoes had become little Dutch ovens, the sun burning the tops, the asphalt a bed of coals underneath. He expected the same for today.
Far across the wide valley the sun crested South Mountain. A shaft of light pierced the clouds, and the whole sky glowed, a rich wash of purples and pinks. In the night, the wind had shifted, and he was sure it would rain in a day or two.
Down on the plaza, two Esso men filled a tractor-trailer, and behind HoJo’s, two slender women slammed their car doors and hurried to the kitchen. He looked at his watch; it read 7:05. “Somebody’s late for work,” he said and wondered who. Then he turned to face the mountain.
The scrub growth stood thick at first, where the land was timbered to build the pike. Will scouted a path along