Each Little Bird That Sings

by Deborah Wiles

Declaration continued. “Daddy picked us up for the party. We stopped by so Daddy could drop off the paper . . .”

  “What time is the party?” I interrupted. “Maybe Daddy can run me over to the bowling alley if you want to go on ahead before I get dressed.”

  Kristen and Tiffany had entwined their arms. They studied the asphalt at their feet.

  “It’s at ten o’clock,” said Declaration, “but, Comfort . . .”

  That meant I could stay away from Peach all morning! “Of course, I’ll have to ask Mama if I can go.”

  Tiffany put her hand over her mouth and stifled a giggle. Declaration looked at me, wide-eyed, and I stared back at her in a helpless way.

  “Comfort!” said Declaration from between clenched teeth. She gave her head a tiny tight shake.

  Tiffany spoke next. “Don’t you have an obituary to write, or something?”

  My heart began a wild beat in my chest; no one at school knew about my Life Notices but Declaration. My heart was thumping so hard, I could barely breathe. I didn’t know how to turn around or how to leave. I stared at the air in front of me.

  Declaration was suddenly at my elbow. She stood with her back to Tiffany and Kristen. “You can’t go to a party on a family funeral day, Comfort.” She used one finger to touch my arm. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  I blinked. Everything moved in slow motion. “Yes,” I said. “I mean . . . no . . . That’s right . . .”

  In that moment a tinny, puny, scrawny voice called to me from the direction of the funeral home. “Commmfort!”

  Time came back to me. Peach was running in my direction, waving his skinny arms in the air, his head bobbing on his thin-as-a-noodle neck as he ran. His whole body careened first right, then left; he was like a bony little bird flapping out of control.

  “What is that?” said Kristen.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Tiffany.

  Declaration put her hands on her hips. Peach stopped in front of her and swallowed. He tried to talk, but he was out of breath from that crazy running, so he just stood there, making great gulping sounds with fishlike lips, trying to get his breath back.

  “What is he . . . slow?” asked Kristen.

  “No,” I said.

  Tiffany giggled and said, “He sure is neat.”

  Now, Peach didn’t act orderly, but he was the most orderly-looking person you would ever want to meet. Every single day he looked like he had just walked out of Sunday school: Every thin yellow hair on his pinhead was perfectly cut and licked to a gloss. He wore a white button-down shirt and long brown pants, with shiny brown shoes. He was scrubbed so clean, his pale skin seemed to glow.

  “I’m sorry, Comfort!” said Peach in his sandpaper screech. “I’m sorry to surprise you so bad! Mama says you are grieving, too!”

  “Get away, little boy!” said Kristen, waving her hand like she was shooing a fly.

  “Leave him alone!” I said, surprising myself.

  Declaration, who was looking past Peach, said, “Here comes Dismay!” Like a shot she was back in the car. “Get in!”

  Kristen and Tiffany screamed at the sight of Dismay racing for the car, his mouth open and his tongue flopping everywhere.

  Behind Dismay was Mr. Johnson, smiling and making for the car with a brisk step. “Dismay!” he called.

  Dismay turned in midgallop and ran back to Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson stopped to rub Dismay all over. It made him smile even wider. “You are a feel-good dog!” he said. To me he said, “We’ll see you at one, Comfort. I’m coming early to help your daddy.”

  “Yessir,” I said.

  “Yessir!” said Peach.

  Mr. Johnson gave Peach a pat on his slicked-up hair and climbed into his car. I turned on my bare heel and stalked back to the house.

  Peach was right behind me, flapping in his gooney-bird way and out of breath.

  “Comfort!” he called. “Mama says you need a hug!”

  I walked faster. I heard the big tires of Mr. Johnson’s car roll over the pebbled entrance to the driveway and turn onto the road, away from us, toward town. I ran for the back door of the funeral home.

  “Commmforrrt!” Peach implored. “I’ve come to see you!”

  I opened the back door and faced my zigzagging cousin.

  “Get lost!” I shouted. I slammed the door in his face.

  I scaled the back stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 14

  I stayed in my closet until the noon whistle began to blow at the Snapfinger Volunteer Fire Department. Of course, Peach had wailed to high heaven when I’d slammed the back door. The sound of his boohooing followed me up the stairs and all the way to my closet.

  No one called for me; no one came looking for me; and I hadn’t done one thing but lie on my cabbage-roses carpet and breathe in and out for almost three hours, clutching one of Great-great-aunt Florentine’s pillows. Maybe I even fell asleep once or twice.

  The closet was a good place for listening, almost as good as Listening Rock. I could hear life going on at Snowberger’s while I stayed in my closet. Tidings trimmed the hedge out front. He sang “From the Halls of Montezuma” while he worked. He was a terrible singer. I heard the creaking of the tin roof heating under the sun. The telephone rang a hundred times downstairs, and I heard my mother’s voice talking to folks all over the countryside. I smelled good smells coming from the upstairs kitchen.

  On funeral days Mama and Daddy were always so busy. “But you’ve got to eat!” Great-great-aunt Florentine would say. “Otherwise you’ll expire!” Great-uncle Edisto always cooked his famous corn bread and good black snap beans and corn on the cob, if it was summer. Great-great-aunt Florentine fried chicken in the deep cast-iron skillet and made sweet iced tea.

  “Sweet tea is an art not easily mastered by the faint of heart,” she’d say.

  “I feel the same about corn bread!” Great-uncle Edisto would reply.

  On a funeral day we ate dinner as the noon whistle blew. We’d sit down together and hold hands around the table, and Daddy would say (for example), “Let us be thankful for the life that was Elaine Hindman,” and we’d all squeeze hands. Then he’d say, “Let us be thankful for one another.” We’d squeeze hands again. Then we’d eat. Then we’d go to Elaine Hindman’s funeral, all of us. I got off school for more funerals than I could shake a stick at, but I always made up my work.

  The noon whistle finished its one-minute blowing. You never realized how long one minute could be until you heard that whistle go on and on. It was long enough to wash your hands and get to the table on time. I skipped hand washing, and instead I pulled on my lime green shorts and my Snowberger’s baseball shirt. I scrunched my toes into my flip-flops.

  There was no missing dinner on a funeral day—it just wasn’t done. I’d have to see Peach, not to mention Mama, who, I knew, must be so disappointed in me for yelling at Peach twice in one morning. I wondered if I could suddenly get deathly sick, if I concentrated. No. I wasn’t good at sickness. I was good at death, though. Possibly I could sink right into the floor of my closet—a disappearing death. No. I would have to show up and take my chances.

  Aunt Goldie stood at the eight-burner stove in stockinged feet and wearing terry-cloth slippers, with a bibbed apron over her funeral dress. She was using a rubber spatula to scoop mashed potatoes out of a pot that Tidings held upside down over a bowl. Her hair was piled on top of her head and twisted like a cone of butterscotch custard at the Dairy Dip.

  Mama was settling Merry in her high chair, and Merry spotted me first. “Fumfort!” she squeaked. She clapped her small hands.

  Heads turned. Peach wouldn’t look at me. I wouldn’t look at Mama.

  Aunt Goldie gave the spatula to Tidings, wiped her hands on a dish towel, smiled at me, and said, “Come here and let me kiss you, puddin’.” Her bracelets clinked as she opened her arms wide and gathered me to her. “How did I miss seeing you last night?” She gave me a wet perfumed kiss. “We need all the extra kisses w
e can get today,” she said. “Sit-sit-sit!”

  Daddy, already sit-sit-sitting at the table, pulled out my chair and I slumped into it, relieved that Aunt Goldie didn’t want to throttle me. Or maybe she did. Dismay was under the table. I slipped off my flip-flops and slid a bare foot over his black coat. He licked me on the leg.

  Tidings put the potatoes on the table, arched an eyebrow at me, and sat between Peach and Mama on the other side of the table. Mama busied herself with Merry. When she and Aunt Goldie were seated, Daddy put out a hand to me on his left and to Aunt Goldie on his right. Merry was already squeezing two of my fingers tight in her tiny fist. I closed my eyes like I always did.

  “Let us give thanks for the life that was . . .” Daddy’s voice choked. “Florentine Snowberger.”

  I squeezed Daddy’s hand extrahard. He squeezed mine back. Peach sniffed twice and cried a short hiccupping cry. Dismay thumped his tail from under the table. The grandfather clock ticked time away in the upstairs hallway.

  Daddy took a breath. “Let us all give thanks for one another,” he said.

  I squeezed. Daddy didn’t let go, so we all kept holding hands. Soon I opened one eye. Aunt Goldie’s blue eye was looking back across the centerpiece of zinnias. I opened both eyes and looked at Daddy. A long tear snaked down his cheek.

  Aunt Goldie said, “And let us love one another.” Daddy still held hands. Aunt Goldie said, “And let us eat this magnificent dinner that Goldie Shuggars has made! Glory, hallelujah! I declare, she has knocked herself out!”

  “Out!” said Merry. “Eat!”

  “Yes,” said Daddy, letting go of my hand and opening his eyes. “Eat.” He kissed Aunt Goldie’s fingers and let them go. “Thank you, sister. It looks . . . delicious.” I had never seen Daddy cry, not even when Great-uncle Edisto died. It made me want to cry for Daddy’s sadness, for my sadness . . . for the sadness of everything. I couldn’t stand it.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted. I kept my gaze on the centerpiece of zinnias.

  “Sorry,” said Merry. She kissed my arm.

  Mama stopped helping Merry’s plate with butter beans. Tidings stopped sinking his teeth into a chicken leg. The air felt charged with the expectation of what might come next. Once I had started, I couldn’t stop. Sadness leaked out all over the place.

  “I’m . . . I’m having . . . a hard day,” I said. My tears dripped onto Great-great-aunt Florentine’s white lace tablecloth. I wondered what Peach thought, watching me cry, but I couldn’t help it. I felt Peach-like, but I had decorum. I didn’t puddle into a heap and wail.

  Daddy put one hand on the back of my neck and handed me his napkin with the other. I blew my nose. Aunt Goldie got up and poured me a glass of sweet tea from Aunt Florentine’s etched-glass pitcher. I drank it all down at once.

  “You need to eat something, dear heart,” said Aunt Goldie. “Tidings, butter this girl a biscuit.” She poured me more tea and said, “When Peach doesn’t eat, his blood sugar plummets and we have to pick him up off the floor and put him to bed for hours—I’m surprised you’re still upright, Comfort!”

  I nodded. Tidings passed me a biscuit and, because Aunt Goldie would stare at me until I did, I took a bite. Then I looked at Mama, who gave her head the tiniest nod of approval. It was all I needed. I swallowed and said to Peach, “I’ve got a . . . bottle cap collection. I can show it to you after dinner, if you want.”

  Great-uncle Edisto had willed me his bottle cap collection and Peach knew it. “The world’s most amazing and thoughtfully collected collection of bottle caps in the South!” Uncle Edisto had said. I was proud of it and took good care of it.

  Peach looked at Aunt Goldie. He had been studying her every word, every move. She threw her hands to her throat and said, “Oh, you don’t mean to tell me!” which made Tidings laugh. “A bottle cap collection!” she said. “As I live and breathe!”

  Peach brightened. “Am I invited to your room to see it?”

  I could feel my face flush red, and I stared at the biscuit in my hand. “Yes.”

  “Glory, hallelujah!” said Peach. “I’m coming to see you, Comfort!” He had a toothy grin on his face and an expectant look. I gave him a halfway smile back.

  “Eat!” said Merry, banging her spoon on her plate.

  “Yes,” said Mama. “Eat, Comfort. Everything will be all right. We’ll all help each other today.” She blew Daddy a kiss.

  The sun slipped behind a curtain of clouds, and it began to rain.

  A recipe from:

  Fantastic (and Fun) Funeral Food for Family and Friends

  By Comfort and Florentine Snowberger

  * * *

  How to Make Sweet Iced Tea

  For heaven’s sake, don’t use instant tea, whatever you do.

  Make real tea. Sweet tea. It’s the Southern Way.

  Here’s how:

  Put two cups of water into a stainless-steel pot. Cover.

  Bring water to a good, roiling boil.

  When the water is boiling, remove the pot from the heat and add to it four regular sized tea bags. Use Red Rose or Luzianne tea. Accept no substitutes.

  Let the tea bags steep in the hot water for ten minutes. Not eight. Not twelve. Ten.

  Get out your grandmother’s beautiful etched-glass pitcher and fill it half full with water. Add one cup of sugar to this water (yes, you must measure) and stir the sugar into the water with a wooden spoon until the water looks clear again, like magic. (If your name is Comfort Snowberger, you will stir until you think your arm will fall off.)

  By this time, the hot tea in the pot has finished steeping. Remove the tea bags and pour this tea from the pot into the pitcher.

  Stir again. Pour this tea over glasses that have been filled to the brim with ice. Add a mint leaf from your garden to each glass. Pass a plate of lemon slices. Sip in a ladylike or gentlemanly way. Never guzzle sweet tea.

  Chapter 15

  Rain thrummed the tin roof while we talked and ate and shared our afternoon plans, preparing ourselves for Great-great-aunt Florentine’s funeral. Some of Mama’s friends would come early to help; Merry would take a nap; Tidings would show Mr. Johnson how to shake out raincoats and where to hang them.

  “It’ll be a soggy encampment at the graveside,” said Tidings. “I’ll garrison some extra umbrellas.”

  “You do that, son,” said Daddy. “I’ll depend on you.”

  Peach picked at the food on his plate. Every so often Aunt Goldie would pat on him while she talked.

  When the last bite of dinner had been eaten, Dismay trotted downstairs to begin his duties, and everybody went back to work. Peach cleared the table. Aunt Goldie washed dishes. I dried. We worked in silence, except for Aunt Goldie humming “When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.”

  Peach meticulously put away the pickles, the butter, the biscuits. He did one thing at a time, slowly, deliberately, completely. Later he would want to linger over every bottle cap. He’d organize them in alphabetical order: Dr Pepper, Mr. Fizz, Orange Crush, Pep Up, Southern Swirl, Vernors. Or he’d organize by colors or dents—he would have a system. It was his way.

  As the last dish was stacked, as I resigned myself to spending the next hour in my room with Peach, Aunt Goldie said, “Sit!”

  Peach and I glanced at each other and obeyed. Aunt Goldie brought to the table a loaf of prune bread still warm from the oven. It was her specialty—more like cake than bread, moist and rich and sweet. Peach smiled when he saw it. Aunt Goldie sliced three thick slices onto glass plates, poured three glasses of cold milk, then sat down with a long sigh and a smile back at Peach as she shook out her napkin into her lap. Peach forked a huge bite of bread into his mouth and made Mmmm! noises as he chewed. I stifled the urge to say, Stop! You sound ridiculous! And you have no manners! The rain drummed on the roof and the air was filled with dampness.

  “This will be my favorite part of the day, Comfort,” said Aunt Goldie, sitting back in her chair. “I want you to tell me everything that happened when
you found Aunt Florentine dead in the garden. I want to hear it from your lips—don’t leave out a detail!”

  Peach choked.

  Aunt Goldie’s bracelets clinked as she calmly slapped Peach on the back.

  I’d had a piece of prune bread headed for my mouth when Aunt Goldie spoke. I put my fork down and scratched at my cheek. “Are you sure?” Peach looked so milky white, I thought he might evaporate.

  “Absolutely.” Aunt Goldie nodded her ice-cream-cone hair.

  So I told her everything, from finding Aunt Florentine’s head resting on the mound of marigolds, to the bees buzzing around her and Tidings running for the hearse. Aunt Goldie interrupted every other sentence with “I declare!” or “Bless my stars!” and a few “Glory, hallelujahs!”

  Peach put his elbows on the table and pressed his fingers against his closed eyelids until the tips of his fingers turned white.

  “And how did you feel, Comfort?” asked Aunt Goldie.

  Peach groaned.

  “I felt fine.”

  “You see, Peach?” said Aunt Goldie. “She felt fine!”

  Peach shuddered.

  “Well, not just fine,” I said. “I was kind of . . . sad, too.”

  “Well, of course you were!” said Aunt Goldie. “Edisto always said that death is a sadness to us all, but there isn’t a death that doesn’t serve us in some way, particularly when we become so old we are ready to rest. Maybe that’s why seeing Aunt Florentine lying peacefully in the garden didn’t make you scream or faint or run away, Comfort . . .”

  I thought about that. “She was ready for dying. She said so all the time.”

  Peach slid his fingers around to the sides of his face and opened his eyes.

  “It’s true,” I said.

  It was. Aunt Florentine had ordered her headstone the year she turned ninety. It was sitting in the cemetery already, just waiting for the death date to be engraved on it after she died. Every evening Aunt Florentine would kiss each one of us “good night and good-bye!” and trundle off to bed saying, “I’m bound for Glory Land!” But she’d still be here in the morning. She’d shuffle into the upstairs kitchen with the eight-burner stove and the double oven, and she’d come over to kiss me first.