Night Bird Calling

by Cathy Gohlke

  “I never saw the ring until Mama told me to dig it from the lining of her robe. She must have kept it near her always.” Like I did, in my purse.

  “I’m glad. I’m glad if it gave her comfort. I’m only sorry now that she didn’t sell it to get away from him.”

  “Father bullied her—all my life he bullied us both. I thought marriage would be a way to escape him, but it didn’t work like that.”

  “I’m so sorry that it didn’t.” Aunt Hyacinth slipped the ring on her finger. The combination of small diamonds and cut rubies sparkled in the morning sun. I wondered if she could see it at all. “You could have sold this and run far away. I love this ring, but it was gone for me. I would never have known.”

  “It wasn’t mine, and Mama made me promise to return it to you . . . when I could.”

  “She knew you would—that you’d come—that you’d need to come.” Aunt Hyacinth smiled. “That was her way to protect you, to give you an opportunity—a possibility, even though she couldn’t allow herself that gift.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me. I’d sometimes blamed Mama for not loving me enough—wished she would have taken me away, taken us both away from the horror we lived. But I knew, too, that she’d done her best to stand between Father and me when he grew angry. She’d been helpless to prevent my marriage—helpless in so many ways. Yet she’d given me Aunt Hyacinth’s ring to return, and her address, thereby opening a window for sanctuary. Oh, Mama! You loved me even more than I knew.

  “We must think of a new name for you before your father or husband telephone or send someone looking for you. I haven’t told anyone that I was expecting my grandniece or why—only that I was expecting a relative. I didn’t know how things might play out, if you’d really come or how soon.”

  “A girl named Celia Percy was at the platform when I arrived and showed me the way here.”

  “Oh, dear. Did you tell her who you were? Your relation to me?”

  I tried to remember. I’d been so weary and so relieved to have a guide through the dark. “No, I was conscious not to give my name. I didn’t know if you’d let me stay and I didn’t want to leave a trail for Gerald or Father to follow. I don’t think I said that I’m your niece—or you’re my aunt—but she said you were expecting me or someone.”

  “It’s good you didn’t give your name. Celia’s a dear, but whatever you said will likely be all over town by now.”

  The lump in my stomach settled into a deadweight.

  “Well, it can’t be helped. Did you say where you were from? That you’re married?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “All right, then, we’re going to begin as if Celia heard nothing or as if she got it wrong. Your name is Grace—that’s true, your middle name—and you are, after all, a Belvidere by blood. We’ll let it be thought you’re a distant cousin come to live with me as a companion in my old age. That’s plausible and will do for now. We’ll let them assume that you’re a maiden cousin looking for a place.”

  I nodded, feeling the sting and reality of part of that and the relief that perhaps if I could earn my keep, I really could stay without becoming a burden. “I can be that companion to you, Aunt Hyacinth. I can keep house and cook.”

  “We’ll work it out. It just might be a new beginning for both of us—though we must be careful not to exclude Gladys Percy, Celia’s mother. She’s been helping me with groceries and food, even a little cleaning and cooking now and again. I’ve needed the help, and she’s needed the work.”

  “Celia said her father’s in jail for running moonshine.”

  “Yes—he’s not been much account, but it’s not fair to judge. There’s no legitimate work in No Creek—not since this ugly Depression began. The few businesses that were here closed early on, except for the general store. So many folks have moved down into the cities, hoping for factory or mill work. Times are lifting, or so I’m told, but there’s still nothing here. Men are desperate for employment of any kind—anything that will put meat on the table and shoes on their children’s feet. Moonshine is the only income too many have, though few would admit to making or running it.” Aunt Hyacinth shifted in her chair. “No, I want to employ Gladys and her children as much as I can. Thanks to Papa’s Belvidere legacy and my savings over the years, that’s still possible. Gladys is raising those children—remarkable children, really—on her own in a bleak little cabin half a mile away. But I know there are other things that need doing around here that she doesn’t tell me—probably doesn’t want to hurt my feelings or take advantage. Now that you’re here, we’ll think on that.”

  Chapter Five

  CELIA THOUGHT IT GREAT GOOD FORTUNE that the roguishly handsome Reverend Willard happened along with Miz Hyacinth’s mail from the post office just as she and Chester stepped through the front gate to deliver a dinner basket. Roguish was a new word for Celia and she figured that, what with his shining brown eyes, the dimple in his chin, and all that thick wavy hair, it fit Reverend Willard to a T, despite him being the preacher. If he wasn’t so old—probably nearly thirty—she might have turned sweet on him herself.

  Her mother had told her to slip in the back door and set the basket on the kitchen table, call out to Miz Hyacinth that it was there, and leave without pestering, but the reverend’s presence all but guaranteed a front door entrance and a sit-down welcome.

  Celia’d spent most of the night staring into the open beams of the ceiling in the cabin room she shared with Chester and their mother—ruminating over the mysterious stranger. Ruminating was another new word for Celia, one she’d recently added to her Eagle tablet of Amazing New Words and had written between the lines of the newsprint wallpaper above her bunk. She’d been glad to think on it.

  Where had the woman come from, and how was she Miz Hyacinth’s long-lost kin that nobody’d ever heard of? It was something how she knew about The Railway Children and the sophisticated way she hadn’t blinked an eye at Celia’s portrayal of Roberta. Celia’d imagined all sorts of tragic romances and interesting background stories for the woman in tweed—the woman with no name, at least not any she’d given.

  “You’re guessing, Celia,” Chester had said when she’d told him that. “You’re just makin’ stuff up in that ole head of yours and it’s likely to get us both in trouble.”

  “You didn’t see her, Chester,” Celia had scolded. “You have no idea what a perfect mystery woman she is. Where’d she come from in the dead of night? Why didn’t she have a trunk or a case of any kind? Why didn’t she give her name when I gave mine? How is it that she’s turned out like a New York fashion plate?”

  “I wouldn’t give you my name. I wouldn’t give you the time of day if you didn’t beat it out of me. And you just read about that ‘fashion plate’ business in Pearl Mae’s Hollywood magazine. I saw it on the counter in the store, so stop throwin’ around big words.”

  Celia gave up after that. There was no sense wasting her breath. You couldn’t convince eight-year-old brothers of anything. They thought they knew it all.

  But today all that would change. Today, because the Reverend Jesse Willard was there, Miz Hyacinth was bound to introduce her guest in the grandeur of her parlor, and the mystery of the woman in tweed would be solved. The promise of a solved mystery thrilled Celia—Nancy Drew at heart—but there was something to be said for not knowing, for imagining and investigating and drawing her own conclusions. After all, this was the first mystery the town had encountered since the day the German Jewish Dr. Vishnevsky had set his foreign feet on No Creek soil.

  “Celia and Chester, good morning!” Reverend Willard always sounded like he was surprised and glad to see them, though he saw them near every day.

  “Morning, Reverend.”

  “Looks like you have something good to eat there.”

  “Mama sent fried chicken and corn bread and a mess o’ greens for Miz Hyacinth and her guest. Did you know she has a guest arrived in the dead of night last night? Did you know I met her at the train
and helped her find Garden’s Gate?”

  “So Ida Mae told me when I picked up mail this morning. I’m glad you were the welcoming committee. You surely did us all proud.”

  Celia couldn’t help but lift her chin at that and cast a meaningful glance Chester’s way.

  “Shall we knock and go in together?”

  “Sure, Reverend. That’ll be swell.”

  Reverend Willard smiled as if he knew some secret joke, but knocked just the same, turned the knob, and called out, “Miz Hyacinth? Are you home for company? It’s Reverend Willard and the Percy children, come bearing gifts.”

  Of course she was home. Miz Hyacinth never left her house, what with her blindness and all. It was just the reverend’s polite way of letting her know he was coming in so’s she’d know who it was and wouldn’t bother herself about answering the door.

  “Come in! Come in! It’s a party!” Miz Hyacinth called from the front parlor, clapping. “I want you to meet Grace!”

  Grace? Grace isn’t a flower name. Grace doesn’t sound like bells or rain dancing or anything in particular. The weight of disappointment that settled onto Celia’s shoulders was not helped by Chester’s plucky grin.

  But Reverend Willard doffed his hat and picked up a smile that Celia had rarely seen—a light-dancing-in-the-eyes kind of smile that brought out the dimples lining his cheeks. “Good morning. I’m pleased to meet you, Grace. I’m Jesse—Jesse Willard. Welcome to No Creek!” He said it with more enthusiasm than the enthusiastic preacher was known for, and that made Celia take notice.

  But the woman in tweed—still in tweed—barely smiled. Miss Grace looked about as relaxed as a cat strung out on a clothesline. “How do you do, Reverend Willard? A—Hyacinth—has told me about you and the Percy children. Celia and I met last night.”

  Reverend Willard smiled from ear to ear and couldn’t seem to stop. Celia wondered if he was as mesmerized by Miss Grace’s Blue Ridge eyes and peaches and cream skin as she was. “I hope it was a good telling. We’re a pretty tame lot around here but always glad to welcome newcomers.”

  “Grace has come to help me, Reverend. She’s going to live here at Garden’s Gate as my companion.”

  “Why, that’s wonderful! Our community is twice blessed.”

  “I note the family resemblance,” Celia said, her head cocked to one side, the basket still on her arm. “Got the same eyes as you, Miz Hyacinth.”

  “My Grace is a Belvidere through and through.” Miz Hyacinth looked directly toward Celia’s voice, her sightless blue eyes dulled, but a firm set to her mouth.

  “Close family, then.” Celia nodded, that part of the mystery solved.

  “I’m so very glad for you, Miz Hyacinth! There’s nothing like family, and I for one feel a lot better knowing someone’s staying here in the house with you.”

  Celia knew Reverend Willard meant it. He’d spoken often to her mama over his concern for Miz Hyacinth living alone in her big ole house.

  Miss Grace smiled, still nervous, Celia noted.

  “As do I, Reverend Willard. As do I,” Miz Hyacinth affirmed. “Now, all of you, won’t you sit down and take tea? Grace, would you mind putting the kettle on? The reverend and I share a pot of tea whenever he comes to call—one of my greatest pleasures.”

  “Of course.” With that, Grace Belvidere disappeared into the kitchen with the speed of a servant, Celia hot on her heels.

  “Mama sent me up with this basket for your supper, Miss Grace. Miz Hyacinth’s partial to Mama’s fried chicken and corn bread. She said the greens’ll act as a spring tonic, and there’s some peppermint leaves in a napkin from Granny Chree for tea, ought to settle Miz Hyacinth’s tummy.”

  “That’s so kind of your mother! And who is Granny Chree?”

  “Granny’s an old midwife and herbwoman. You’ll get to know her, in time, but not easy. She don’t take to strangers. Comes and goes in the half-light. Goes way back with Miz Hyacinth—from the time she was a young’un. They trade herbs and tonics and such.”

  “This is so generous of your mother and Granny Chree. Please thank them for us, won’t you?” And then she hesitated. “I believe Hyacinth will want to send your mother something for her trouble and expense. I’m just not sure . . .”

  “Mama says it’s a glad-you’re-here-and-welcome gift. The chicken was one of Miz Hyacinth’s half strays anyway. . . . Will you be cooking for Miz Hyacinth now? Doing her laundry and such?”

  Miss Grace hesitated. “I don’t know, truly. We haven’t talked through our arrangements yet. Has your mother been doing those things for her?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She has.” Celia knew it wasn’t her place to say and her mother would likely twist her ear if she knew, but it was too important to the welfare of the Percy family not to speak up. “I believe she’d like as not to continue.”

  “I feel certain A—certain Hyacinth would like that as well, and I know I surely would. There’s a great deal I need to learn.”

  “Don’t you know how to cook?”

  The woman smiled. “I know how to cook some things, but I’m sure your mother is more accomplished in that arena.”

  Arena. Celia simply thrilled to the sound of new words. “Are you a teacher, like Miz Hyacinth?”

  “No, no, I’m not so accomplished as that, either. But I do love to read. I sensed last night that you do, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am. More than anything. Least I did before the school closed its library—collecting all the books before the school year ends and all. Well, I like reading at least as much as private investigating.”

  “Private investigating?”

  “You know, detective work. I listen to Dick Tracy on the radio whenever I come by here or if I can get Ida Mae to tune in down to the store. I’m getting very good at deductions.”

  “I see.”

  “For instance, Miz Hyacinth made it clear from the set of her mouth that I’m not to ask too many questions about you, like, are you married and where’d you come from and why’d you come in the dead of night and exactly how are you kin to Miz Hyacinth and why don’t you have a flower name?”

  Miss Grace nearly dropped the teapot lid. “Well, there’s not much mystery about me, but I believe Hyacinth is encouraging good manners. Asking too many personal questions isn’t polite.”

  “Hmm. Reckon that could be. Mama says I’m not much accomplished in that arena.”

  Miss Grace smiled as she set the pot and cups and saucers on a tray, but Celia noticed that her fingers trembled and that a finger on her left hand bore the slightest indentation from a ring gone missing. It was one more thing to note in her investigation.

  •••

  The Reverend Jesse Willard prized the hours spent in Miz Hyacinth’s company, and today he’d brought a gift he knew she’d treasure. It was all he could do to sit patiently through the tea that the lovely Grace served—a woman he was certain would be even more lovely if only she’d smile and relieve the furrow between her brows.

  By the time Celia and Chester drank their tea and ate half the pumpkin bread Ida Mae had sent with him to welcome Miz Hyacinth’s guest, the fidgets had taken hold of his fingers. He was that eager to share the letter he carried in his pocket. “Ida Mae sent me up with mail for you.”

  Miz Hyacinth brightened. “A letter? From over the pond?”

  “From over the pond, indeed!” he crowed. “Miz Biddy.”

  “Biddy Chambers, my old friend in England,” Miz Hyacinth explained to Grace. “We met the year I went with your mama—she was fifteen then and just blossoming—and a cousin to New York City—October 1908, the beginning of a beautiful tour to see the fall colors and traipse the steps of New England’s literary greats. Oh, how your mama loved New England! Biddy was working as a stenographer in the city. I met her in a café over tea and we girls hit it off right away.

  “Of course, she was already in love with her Oswald and headed back to England the next month, but we became fast friends. I’d hoped your mama and I coul
d join her in England after Papa died. But by then, everything in Biddy’s life and mine had changed.” Hyacinth’s voice trailed off a bit, but Jesse determined to keep the mood light and the memories happy this day.

  “Grace, do you know Chambers’s writing?” Jesse hoped the letters of Biddy and the writings of Oswald would be a love they’d all share.

  “No, I’m sorry; I don’t.” But she didn’t sound sorry, just distant.

  “We must rectify that, my dear,” Miz Hyacinth insisted. “You’ll love his book and Biddy through it just as we do.”

  “That was so long ago—1908. How is it you know them, Reverend Willard?”

  Hyacinth laughed—the recovered sound of bells lovely as ever, Jesse thought. “You’d best explain, Reverend. While I can’t see you now, I don’t believe you’ve aged quite so much as that these past two years.”

  “I met Oswald Chambers through his writings, while in seminary. A professor guided me to them through previously published papers and the devotional that Mrs. Chambers compiled after her husband’s death.”

  “My Utmost for His Highest—writings that came to the world because of Biddy’s indefatigable shorthand, I might add,” Hyacinth inserted proudly, on behalf of her friend. “If not for her faithful recordings and transcription, they would never have seen the light of day.”

  “The world—all of us—would be poorer without them,” Jesse affirmed. “Which brings me to Biddy’s letter and today’s reading. She has quite a bit of war news in this one, I’m afraid. Are you ready, my friend? Which first?”

  Hyacinth settled back into her chair. “The reading; then I’ll savor whatever Biddy writes for the rest of the day.”

  Jesse pulled a well-worn book from Hyacinth’s nearest bookcase and thumbed to the bookmark. “We don’t follow the days, just keep reading each time I’m able to come visit. Today’s reading is from May 6.

  “‘Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free.’ Galatians 5:1.