Once Upon a Time a Sparrow

by Mary Avery Kabrich

“You’re holding something under your coat with your arm.” Rob always notices things.

  “Oh, that. Well, it makes my stomach feel better.” Which is not a lie, but Rob keeps looking at me, waiting to hear more. “It’s a book I borrowed from my teacher.”

  “Cool. I didn’t know you even liked books.”

  “I do. I mostly like listening to stories, but I’m going to get better at reading.”

  “That’s good. I love reading.” As soon as he says this, I notice he walks faster. I do too.

  And I call out, “I will too once I start reading something I really like.”

  Finally. Safe in my bedroom, my dream catcher glistening in the late-afternoon sun, sticky honey-coated threads dangling over my bed. I slide on my knees to the floor between bed and window for oak tree and fairy sighting. Then I invite The Fairy Angel’s Gift to slip out from my coat into my room. Yram’s picture on the cover is more beautiful than I had remembered. Marvelous. I study each of the gold title letters, left to right. I grab my writing pad and, letter by letter, with only one quick look, write each of the four words with perfect spelling. The, which I already know how to spell, F-a-i-r-y A-n-g-e-l-’s G-i-f-t.

  “Maddie?” It’s Danny. I feel my heart jump. I prepare to toss the book under my bed. “Are you in there?”

  “Yes. I’m busy. I’ll be out in a minute.” It’s dusty and dirty under my bed, no better than where Mrs. Zinc left the book. I need a safe place that’s worthy. I stand up and look around. Of course. Under my pillow. This makes me smile. I no longer believe in the tooth fairy, but still this seems the perfect safe place for a fairy to rest.

  “The Three Stooges is a rerun that I’ve seen lots, so I was wondering if you want to help me catch a really big frog to show Uncle Joe?”

  “No. I don’t feel very good.”

  Once I’m sure he won’t come barging in, I pull the book out from under my pillow and begin to look at all the words, page after page. Mrs. Zinc was right; there are no pictures, but maybe she’s wrong about it being too hard for me to read.

  “Guess what happened today?” Danny says after swallowing a mouthful of macaroni and cheese, one of my favorite dinners. I can tell from his twisted smile that he’s about to tattle on someone.

  “What?” Jack asks.

  “Billy got in big trouble. He got caught stealing from the teacher.”

  “So what?” Jack says, and then asks, “What’d he do?” Everyone at the dinner table is too busy eating to say anything. Usually, Father cuts the tattletaling off.

  “He stole Mrs. Andersen’s special stickers. He must have snuck in during lunch recess, because after we got back and Mrs. Andersen went to get her stickers, there were none left. Sally sits next to Billy and yelled out that he had a bunch of stickers in his desk.”

  “So what happened?” asks Jack.

  “Billy was scolded, and he had to stay after school. I bet Mrs. Andersen called his parents. He’s probably going to miss recess tomorrow too.”

  My ears perk up to a squeal that isn’t a bird or cat, and then I hear a roar like a lawn mower. Moments later, the kitchen door swings open and in walks Uncle Joe.

  “Hi, y’all.”

  “Hi, Joe. We just sat down. There’s plenty of food here,” Mother says.

  “It smells delicious. I’ll be there as soon as I do a quick wash-up.”

  “Yay. He can sit next to me,” Danny says.

  “No, next to me,” Jack whines.

  “I’ll tell ya what. I’ll sit between the two of you bozos.”

  “Well,” Jack says, once Uncle Joe has settled in next to him with a huge plate of food, “last week Debbie was caught stealing. She took my teacher’s favorite book.” I almost choke on the macaroni. I’m sure Jack is just trying to outdo Danny. I look up, expecting Father to change the subject, but he seems to not be paying attention.

  “How do you know it was her favorite book?” I ask.

  “Because that’s what she said when it was missing.”

  “Maybe she was just borrowing it or forgot to ask,” I say.

  “No, she stole it. She also snuck in during recess. It showed up when we all had to clean out our desks before we could go to the library.”

  “But you don’t know. Maybe she meant to borrow it so she could try and read it.”

  “She should have asked,” Jack says.

  “What’s her punishment?” Danny asks with as much excitement as when he told on Billy.

  “She has to stay in for recess a whole week.”

  “Well.” Father’s deep voice makes me shiver. “I’m glad we’ve raised you kids to know the difference between right and wrong. Stealing is a sin, and staying in from recess does not necessarily set things straight with our Lord.”

  My stomach somersaults. The macaroni and cheese doesn’t taste as good as I had remembered. I start to take another bite, but I’m afraid I might throw up if I do. I look over at Mom.

  “Maddie, are you feeling okay? You’ve hardly touched your dinner,” Mom says.

  “I’m not hungry. My stomach hurts.”

  “Well, you need to eat to stay healthy,” Father says. I pick up my fork and stab at a piece of macaroni.

  “I hate to say it, but I sure got into plenty of trouble myself during my school career,” Uncle Joe says, shooting a glance at Father before continuing. “But never once did I steal anything.” He then starts to chuckle.

  “What’s so funny?” Rob asks.

  “I was just remembering the look on Mrs. Groutchem’s face the day I glued the reading book shut. I used to call her Mrs. Grouch behind her back because she had one heck of a temper. She didn’t keep kids in for recess; she used her ruler on their knuckles and sent kids to Mr. . . . George, what was his name, the PE teacher?”

  “Clark.”

  “That’s right, and he’d have you do push-ups or sit-ups or something. Those were the good old bad days. Of course, your father never had to see Mr. Clark other than at PE time.” Uncle Joe shoots a smile at Father, who doesn’t smile back. “The teachers were always complaining that I wasn’t like the other Meyers boy.” Uncle Joe gives a little laugh.

  I wonder what this means.

  “Why’d you glue the book shut?” Rob asks.

  “I reckoned I’d had enough of it. Every day, we’d gather in a big circle and take turns reading the most boring stories. I hated it. Usually, I got into a little trouble just before reading time and was sent to the corner, where I made up my own story, which was always much more interesting. For some foolish reason, on that particular day, I took it a little too far.”

  If I didn’t have a stomachache, I would have shared that I too make up better stories than the ones read during reading group.

  “What’d you do?” Jack asks. Uncle Joe looks over at Father, before answering. I do too. Father just continues to eat dinner and ignore us.

  “While the reading circle was being formed, and Mrs. Grouchy—”

  Jack and Danny burst out laughing. Uncle Joe pauses, eats several heaping forkfuls of macaroni, and then continues.

  “—was all busy running the show, I slipped over to her desk and grabbed the Elmer’s Glue and started gluing pages together. Everyone was so busy moving their chairs around, no one saw me. No one except Ethel McMillan.” Uncle Joe looks over at Father who doesn’t say a thing. “Do you remember her, George? I heard that she ended up the homecoming queen. She was a prissy queen all right.”

  Father nods but stays his serious self.

  Rob, Jack, and Danny are all giggling, and even Mom has a smile on her face. It’s funny, and I start to giggle, but my stomach keeps me from laughing.

  “I slipped on over to the circle and took my place. Usually, I was causing some sort of commotion about then and being sent to the corner. That day, I just sat with a smile on my face.” He again has to stop. Danny and Jack are laughing so loud that food bits spurt from their mouths.

  “Mrs. Grouchy-face put the reading book on her lap
and waited for everyone to be nice and quiet before boring us to death with that idiotic story. Once satisfied—and it was hard to not laugh and give myself away—she tried to open the book to the right chapter. The harder she tried, the pages started to tear, and then everyone was laughing. I don’t remember what she said—it’s her face I can still see to this day. She looked as though a herd of squirrels had taken over her class.”

  Suddenly, I too am laughing with Danny, Jack, and Rob. I see Mrs. Zinc’s tight face as she tries to open Spot the Dog that I have secretly glued together. It starts to tear apart.

  “Hey, you guys, do you want to hear what happened next?” Uncle Joe waits for the laughing to stop. Father still doesn’t find any of this funny, and, if Uncle Joe wasn’t here, I’m sure he’d be telling us to settle down and eat our dinner.

  “Please tell us, Uncle Joe,” Danny whines. Uncle Joe is quiet for a long moment—and then he continues.

  “When the book started to tear, Mrs. Grouchy became so mad, her grouchy face turned into the face of an ogre ready to attack! That’s when I couldn’t stop myself from bursting out laughing. I wasn’t alone. Everyone was laughing until Miss Prissy Ethel spilled the beans.”

  “Oh no, what happened, Uncle Joe?” Jack asks, wide-eyed.

  Uncle Joe’s eyes shift over to Father, but he doesn’t look back. He keeps on eating small bites of food. I continue to giggle at the thought of gluing Spot the Dog together and what Mrs. Zinc’s face might look like. Except I know I couldn’t get away with it the way Uncle Joe could. He’s much smarter and funnier. I try to imagine what he’d looked like at my age: light-colored hair and freckles. Like Bobby, he’d be the one getting away with things.

  “I don’t remember,” Uncle Joe says. “I’m sure I saw Mr. Clark more than I wanted to. I also imagine there was a phone call home. Your grandparents were used to phone calls from school.”

  “Didn’t make it any easier,” Father says in a voice that startles us all. It’s as if he’d been somewhere else and now is talking to someone other than Uncle Joe. “I hope I never receive a call about any of you kids.”

  It’s no longer funny. I look at the pile of macaroni and cheese on my plate. I can’t eat another bite, even if it is my favorite meal. My brothers also stop laughing, but I can see their hidden smiles. Uncle Joe doesn’t say another thing.

  ~CHAPTER 26~

  2005

  MATT’S OFFICE DOOR is cracked open; he sits at his desk flipping through a spiral notepad. I slip in, and he swivels around on his computer chair to face me. My stomach knots with the possibility that Wilma has already shared her version of our conflict.

  “How was the break?” he asks, motioning me to the wooden chair next to his briefcase.

  “Too short.”

  “It’s a good start for someone who never takes lunch, and leaves after the custodian.”

  “True. The problem is the lack of productivity. I still have a stack of files two feet high sitting next to my computer.” I sigh and glance around his office. If I were twenty years younger, the blue velvety-covered beanbag in the corner would have been my seat of choice. “So what’s up?” I snag a squeeze ball from the basket propping up a feelings chart, displaying cartoon faces that range from bliss to ballistic.

  “For starters,” he says, “Karla is doing better with Josiah.” Matt breaks out in a grin, and I’m pulled along.

  “How’s that possible?”

  “I met with her, and it turns out she too was bored in school.” I stare in disbelief. Matt doesn’t flinch. “What you said to her was painful; even so, she was willing to consider it.”

  “Really?”

  He nods.

  “I was so rude and out of line.”

  “For sure not the Dr. Mary I know.”

  My upper stomach stings, and I train my eyes to his bookshelf: Mr. Worry . . . When I Feel Angry . . . Unique Monique.

  “But, as it turns out, she’s extremely rigid.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say mockingly, but my lightheartedness has left me.

  “I suspect what she was really asking for in that meeting was permission to let this kid be different.”

  “She sure went about it in an odd way.”

  Matt waves his index finger. “Now, now.” His voice lowers as he continues. “We talked for about an hour after school. She finally understood that it’s okay to let him have a different track. In fact, she realized it was what she would have wanted for herself.”

  The broken look on her face as I marched out of the SIT meeting flashes before me. It seems a lifetime ago, but it was just last week. A sadness presses in. I can’t tell if it’s for her or for myself and the part of me that has slipped away.

  “Matt, you’re amazing to have forged that kind of trust.” I glance out his office window and across the narrow hall. I take a couple breaths before turning back to him.

  “I also want to tell you the latest with Kaylee.”

  My stomach tightens.

  “Here’s the deal. You know how Reese is.”

  I nod. Walter Reese, our principal, understands best practices: no holding kids back a grade unless parents are one hundred percent on board.

  “Well, the third-grade teachers have a pretty strong conviction.”

  Based on a strong bias and lack of imagination, I think.

  “Your response was, uh, rather upsetting.” The way Matt’s blue eyes settle into me reminds me of my father. It’s hard to hold his gaze.

  “So what’s their plan?” I ask.

  “They want to meet with you again.”

  Hell no!

  But Matt has his eyes fixed on me, Dr. Mary, the psychologist.

  “Interesting,” I say. “I mean . . . they already know what I think.”

  Matt raises his eyebrows. He’s right. They know how I feel—I wasn’t able to articulate how I think. “They’d like me to be there too,” he says.

  “But you don’t agree with them. Do you?”

  “Hey, we’ve always been on the same page about this. Nothing has changed. Including our commitment to listening and being open-minded.”

  “Sure.” I pull my shoulders back. “So, when?”

  “The SIT schedule is too full. It’ll need to be after school. Next Wednesday works for us.” He gives me a questioning look.

  Great. I’ll tell the third-grade team I can’t come because I have a therapy appointment. Which . . . would not surprise them.

  “Won’t work,” I say, kneading the squeeze ball a good three seconds before tossing it back into its home.

  “We need to take care of this. You can let me lead.”

  “No,” I say. He shrinks back. “I mean, just, that afternoon won’t work. I can be free Thursday or Friday after school.” I take a tight breath. “Is that all? I really need to get back to my office.”

  I’m halfway down the hall before I realize that my teeth are grinding. I turn the corner toward the cafeteria and see the short, stocky body of Grace Adams almost skipping past the classroom doors. Seeing her lightens my mood immediately. God, I used to work so hard at walking instead of racing. This is such a girl after my own heart.

  She must be on her way to Penny’s class. She’s wearing worn-out jeans, which would have been my style if it had been allowed, a loose tee shirt, and tennis shoes. It’s hard to believe she’s ending third grade—still dyslexic but in the highly capable program.

  I call out to her, “Congratulations!”

  She startles, turns to me, and a grin spreads across her face.

  “I heard from Ms. Stanton that you won the poetry slam contest.”

  She beams and nods her head.

  “I used to write poetry when I was your age, but I never won a contest. That’s really special.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t write it. I just memorized what I made up in my head and said it out loud. I didn’t even need to read it.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “Why don’t I get to visit you in
your office anymore?”

  “Well, I need to see lots and lots of kids, and sometimes I get so busy I don’t have time to visit.”

  “Oh,” she says, in a tone or two lower. My heart sinks. She gives me a half smile that fails to hide her disappointment, turns, and continues frolicking forward. A part of me wants to dash alongside her and suggest a game of tetherball. I wish I had the time to simply visit. Especially with Grace. But how can I set the work aside to merely visit when I can barely do the job I’m paid for?

  It’s eleven o’clock, and as usual, I struggle with letting go of this evening’s therapy session. I’ve had a glass of pinot grigio, followed by warm milk, and still the air in my bedroom is alert, bright, edgy.

  Accepting defeat, I make my way down the hall to my study. It’s a space too small to hold a bed but perfect for bookcases and my beloved computer, dubbed Vespers, the keeper of my journal. Document “writing.9” is first on the queue. Pushing Control-plus End brings me to page 560. Next month, I’ll start “writing.10.” I try not to let my journal files get too long, but for now, I allow an uncensored release of memories pried loose from this evening’s session.

  Chase. My blowup with Wilma. And Uncle Joe.

  Irene had asked me to describe Uncle Joe, and I’d said, “If I had to pin a face card to Uncle Joe and his big brother, my father, then Joe would be the joker, and Father would be none other than the king—the king of clubs.”

  The conversation about outsiderness circled back to the alienation I feel as a school psychologist. Maybe becoming a school psych was a mistake. In the beginning, all I wanted was the answer to a relatively simple question: Why is it so extraordinarily hard for some children to learn to read? This query led me through a multitude of research journals, conferences, and seminars that captured five years of my life. And still, for me, there was no satisfactory answer.

  In the presence of Irene, I couldn’t bring myself to say why it took nine years to get up the courage to apply to graduate school. That I may have a PhD behind my name, but it feels like a hoax. That I pulled it off even though I can’t spell or write worth a damn. I just manage to hide it well—thank God for computers.