The Sparrow Found A House (Sparrow Stories #1)

by Jason McIntire

  Chapter 21

  Buying The Farm

  At the beginning of November, the family drove out to see their new home for the first time. The passengers in the van buzzed with excitement for a few miles, but gradually fell to thoughtful silence as the enormity of what they were doing set in. They, a gaggle of lifelong city dwellers – except for Mrs. Scroggins, who had stayed home with Ben today – were suddenly selling their comfortable home to become quasi-agrarians, living in an old and remote farmhouse that most of them had never even seen. Jessie, in particular, was feeling great apprehension, and the steel-gray overcast weather did nothing to lift her spirits. Bravely volunteering for this move was one thing; actually carrying it through, and living with the results, would be another entirely.

  They turned from the highway onto a narrow county road that needed some serious attention from the highway department. The potholes they avoided were big enough to swallow a motorcycle. One of the ones they hit sent a drink cup from the dashboard into orbit. Upon re-entry, it managed to spray all the passengers efficiently with Dr. Pepper. Jessie laughed as she helped clean up the mess, but kept a nervous eye on the passing scenery. The landscape was hillocky, lined with leafless trees, sad cows, and rusty creep feeders in the fields. There were almost no houses visible, only an occasional mailbox marking the start of a long gravel driveway.

  After Pothole Avenue (as they immediately nicknamed the county route) the rough dirt road leading to their house was almost a relief – though Jessie had to wonder what it would look like in a heavy rain. Then she realized that the house itself was just ahead.

  Stepping quietly from the van, the family huddled in a little group while the Sergeant unlocked the house. The woods all around were quiet to the creepy point, enlivened only by the occasional complaining crow or faraway dog bark. The house was just as gray and quiet as the woods. By the time they actually got in the front door, Jessie was half-expecting to find an inch of dust on a splintery floor, ghastly Victorian furniture under white sheets, and the sound of rats and bats scurrying away as the Sergeant lit an oil lamp.

  She was pleasantly surprised. The house was quite clean, for a place that had been unoccupied so long. The carpet and furnishings were old, but only as old as the seventies with its harvest orange and overdone woodgrain. Even the shaggy fringes and textured yellow surfaces were at least clean. Making this place a beautiful home would be a challenge, said the Sergeant. A fun challenge, added Mom. Jessie wasn’t so sure about the fun part.

  The house was larger than what they were used to, with an open floor plan and vaulted ceilings in the main area. Apparently this large living space had been the primary concern when Mr. Scroggins built the house. The rest of the rooms were quite small, particularly the extra bedrooms upstairs. One of them hadn’t originally been a bedroom at all, but a low-ceilinged storage area nestled under the roof. They could only hope that Katie wouldn’t undergo a sudden growth spurt and get too tall for her new room.

  The more the family walked around the house and discussed where different things and people would go, the more they talked each other into the idea that it could really work. There was a big fireplace in the living room, so the Sergeant was cajoled into building a fire while Mom set out the picnic they’d brought. The living room quickly became so warm that they moved in there. Perched on the orange furniture or the red tile floor, they ate turkey salad sandwiches and watched the fire flicker.

  “Now that you’ve seen it,” the Sergeant said, “this is the time to say something if you feel differently about moving here.”

  “I have to confess some misgivings,” Jessie offered after a silent moment or two. “But at the same time, this house just feels right. Like we’re supposed to be here. Is that God?”

  “I think so,” Mom said. “I feel the same way.”

  “Me too,” agreed the Sergeant softly.

  “I always wondered,” Jessie mused, “what it feels like when God leads you.”

  “I’m glad He led you,” Moe exclaimed with a sigh of relief, “because I think I’d die if we backed out now!”

  “You guys can explore a little this afternoon if you want,” said the Sergeant, “but we need to leave for the city by two o’clock. Chris, if you like, you can drive on the way back.”

  Chris lit up like a light bulb. He had been getting driving lessons from the Sergeant for several weeks now, and was already handling the car like a veteran driver. The Sergeant said that he would be ready for his license exam once he mastered parallel parking. Today would be the first time his siblings saw him drive, and Chris couldn’t help thinking how impressed they would be.

  On the way out that afternoon, with the keys dangling importantly from his finger, Chris paused by the hall mirror and admired himself. No more fat, weak “Tubby.” He was now at his medically optimal body weight, muscle ratio increasing daily as he worked out with the Sergeant. He was tanned; he was confident; his mop of aimless curls had been replaced with a macho crew cut. Yes indeed, Chris told himself, he was getting to be quite a hunk. Even Heather Beauchamp might turn her prim chin if she saw him now. What an advertisement he was for the Christian way! How proud his parents must be of him!

  Mulling these thoughts, Chris got in the driver’s seat. “Everybody buckled up?” he called out, in a daring imitation of his stepfather (after all, passenger safety was the driver’s responsibility).

  “Watch the woodpile, son!” The Sergeant’s urgent warning pulled Chris down from the heights of self-pleasure, as he quickly stomped the brake pedal to avoid backing into the obstacle. Was that a giggle from the back seat? Two seconds into this trip, and he was already feeling deflated. Well, he would just have to make up for that little near-mistake. Down the gravel road they sped, and sped was the word, as Chris drove so fast that they swayed around the first curve and the drinks almost spilled again. He slowed down quickly to preempt another correction from the Sergeant. He’d get his chance to drive fast soon enough, once they got out on the highway.

  At the stop sign where the dirt road met the county route, Chris found himself waiting for an old, slow farm truck to chug past. The truck was running a right turn signal, he noted, indicating that it would be turning into the same road they were exiting. Concluding that he could safely go ahead and turn left, Chris took his foot off the brake and began to roll out into the lane of traffic. Too late Chris heard the Sergeant’s voice yell “No!” Too late he jabbed for the brake, as his mother gave a little shriek.

  Out of curiosity, Chris had always harbored a secret wish to witness a real traffic accident, or to at least hear what one sounded like. He imagined that there must be some great crashing or booming or something really impressive. Today he found out. As the farm truck plowed ponderously into the Honda’s fender, the sound was a loud, flat WHAM. It was not impressive at all. It was the sound of incompetence, presumption, failure. It was the sound of disgrace, and of silence after both vehicles came to an awkward stop.

  Chris had not even a moment to contemplate what had just happened, because the other driver immediately sallied forth from his truck, making some sounds of his own. A wiry and hairy man in redneck coveralls, he cut loose with the most outrageous stream of profanity any of them had ever heard. The Sergeant quickly took charge, jumping from his car to interpose, and closing the door behind him. His first priority was to lead the man out of earshot, and then to calm him down.

  Chris couldn’t lift his eyes from the steering wheel. Katie was in the back crying. Mom was praying under her breath. How could he be responsible for such a disaster? What if someone had gotten hurt? He began to shake all over, then to feel very sick. Muttering something vague, Chris slipped out of the car and headed for a nearby clump of trees. By the time he returned, the other driver had quit swearing, but still looked like he wanted to kill somebody.

  “Chris,” prompted the Sergeant seriously, “this is Mr. Dimes, whose truck you hit. He’s going to be our new neighbor.”

  Chris real
ized he was expected to say or do something. “I’m sorry about your truck, Mr. Dimes,” he offered lamely. “I thought you were going to turn right, because of your turn signal.”

  Dimes was almost shaking with rage. “My signal was running because I just turned right, you little....”

  Out came the blue flamethrower again, and the Sergeant quickly sent Chris back to the car. “I’ll get the necessary information for the insurance,” he told him.

  It seemed to take a long time for the Sergeant to finish with Mr. Dimes, who finally got back into his truck. The rickety vehicle seemed to limp away on the sheer power of its owner’s rage. The Sergeant gave his own car a thorough walkaround inspection, then backed it up away from traffic, stopped, and turned off the engine. “Chris,” he asked in a voice that was calm but sad, “what did I teach you about turn signals?”

  Chris remembered now. “That you can’t trust a turn signal,” he responded miserably, “until you actually see the front wheels turn in that direction.”

  “Then why,” continued the Sergeant, “did you trust that turn signal?”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight,” Chris admitted. Then, after a short pause, he added, “I guess pride goes before destruction. I’m sorry, gang. I was so busy trying to impress you all with how good a driver I am, I could have gotten you killed.”

  “You’re right,” agreed the Sergeant. “That’s exactly what happened, and I’m glad you see it so you won’t repeat it.

  “Now,” he continued, “if you’ve calmed down enough, we need to change seats. You’re still driving home.”

  Chris looked up in total shock. “After I just wrecked the car?”

  “It’s called ‘getting back up on the horse,’” said the Sergeant. “Besides, I just paid a front fender for your education. If you learned your lesson, it was more than worth it. Now let’s roll out of here. We’ve got a long drive.”

  There never was a safer or more careful driver than Chris Rivera on the way home that day. When they finally arrived at the house in Reliance, he looked at himself in the mirror without the slightest hint of admiration. The next week, Chris got his driver’s license on the first try.