Each Little Bird That Sings

by Deborah Wiles

  “He’ll be all right now,” said Doc MacRee.

  Daddy looked at me. “What happened, Comfort?”

  How could I tell them what I had done? I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. Merry started crying from her place in Daddy’s arms.

  Doc MacRee spoke in kindly doctor tones. “These children have been traumatized, Bunch. They can barely tell us what happened yet. They need warm baths and clean beds and someone to stay with them through the night—many nights, maybe.”

  I wiped at my eyes. Mama kissed Daddy on his bearded cheek. “You and Plas came to the rescue, Bunch.” She kissed Tidings, too, who was standing at the foot of my bed looking at me with tears in his eyes. “You, too, Tidings,” Mama said, making him look her in the eye. “Would you help us turn off the lights, sweetheart? I believe everyone has finally gone home.”

  Daddy carried me upstairs, and Aunt Goldie came right behind him with Peach. The big old house got quiet, but my mind would not stop shouting. I was bigger than Peach, stronger. If I had grabbed Dismay myself—if I had just hung on—Dismay would be here right now. I could have figured out how to save us. Maybe we’d have floated away together, but we’d be together . . . somewhere. Maybe we’d be upstairs right now, in my closet, me wrapped in a blanket and drinking cocoa, Dismay sitting across from me with his big dog mouth panting, so glad to be alive.

  So glad to be alive.

  Chapter 23

  Mama put me in a warm tub of water in her big bathroom and gently washed me all over. She told me story after story of dogs that came home; even her old dog, Rex, had come home missing half an ear and three toenails. My heart calmed as I listened to her.

  “They always come home,” Mama said as she shampooed my hair for the fourth time. The bathroom was steamy and felt wonderful. “Dogs have a nose for home. You won’t know where to look for him in the dark, Comfort, but he’ll know how to stay safe. He’ll be back in the morning; you wait and see.”

  I wanted to believe her. I willed her words to be true.

  It took three full bathtubs and a whole bar of soap to get me clean. At first the water stung my scrapes, especially behind my knee, but then it felt good. There was so much mud and so many twigs in my hair, Mama said, “Oh, if Aunt Florentine could only see this!” That made us both laugh. I thought of Aunt Florentine lying downstairs in the refrigerated room. I longed to tell her all about this day. I could have told her everything so easily, and she would have known what to do. I’d have told her all about it—and then I’d have written it up in my Short notebooks. What history that would be.

  When I finally got out of the tub for good, it was black. Mama put Band-Aids on all my scrapes. She clipped my fingernails smooth where they had broken every which way while I was grabbing at bushes and trees and Listening Rock. She never asked me once about Declaration—she didn’t even mention Declaration—and I sent her my best Thank you thoughts. She tried to get me to eat some supper, but I wasn’t hungry.

  Aunt Goldie was doing the same things for Peach in another big bathroom, and we never heard a peep from him.

  Mama turned on my soft-light lamp and put me in my bed. I was wearing my hey-diddle-diddle pajamas; I was sipping cocoa with extra marshmallows; and I was listening to the night sounds that were beginning all around me when Peach appeared in the doorway with Aunt Goldie. His hair was perfectly combed once again, and his pajamas had creases down the front because Aunt Goldie always ironed them.

  Peach and I looked at each other and all our Band-Aids. We had survived something terrible—an unexpected, surprise flood that we had found ourselves in the middle of together. What do you say after that?

  Peach lifted a hand as if to wave at me, then dropped it to his side. I lifted a hand back.

  “I’m going to bed now, Comfort, even though it is very early,” said Peach. He didn’t come into my room and I didn’t invite him in.

  “Me, too.”

  “Good night, Comfort.”

  “Good night.” It felt like so very little to say, but there were no more words. That was all we had.

  Aunt Goldie kissed me gently on my forehead and said, “You are a hero, Comfort.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “No, I’m not.”

  Aunt Goldie sat at the end of my bed. “Yes, you are,” she said. “Peach told me what you did, and I am going to make you a hero’s breakfast—a hero’s breakfast for both of you!” Her eyes were calm and steady and smiling at me.

  I nodded.

  Mama slept with me in my bed. Merry slipped in, too. Mama hummed “Little Black Cat,” my favorite lullaby, over and over, and I finally fell asleep. Then I dreamed. Declaration taunted Peach: “Where they throw dirt over dead people and leave them therefor the worms!” She turned to sneer at me: “It’s stupid!” Peach screamed: “Not up there!” Water was everywhere, swirling, freezing, black, and there was Dismay, paddling for me, paddling for his life, depending on me, asking me to help him.

  I woke up with my heart pounding hard in my chest. I saw Dismay’s sad eyes looking into mine, and I couldn’t stay where I was. I climbed my sore body out of bed without disturbing Mama or Merry, and I tiptoed downstairs with a flashlight. Tidings was sleeping in a sleeping bag by the front doors.

  “Oh, thank you, Tidings!” I whispered.

  I opened one of the big front doors and stared out into the night. The sky was clear. A canopy of stars twinkled above Snowberger’s. A brilliant moon hung high in the sky, a moon that could light my dog’s way home. I shined the flashlight into the darkness, and I whispered for Dismay. I whistled. I took two steps onto the front porch, two steps toward the porch stairs. Maybe I could go as far as the front parking lot and he would be there!

  “Comfort,” said a voice I knew. I whirled around. Daddy was sitting in a rocker, all by himself in the dark. I smelled his etherlike smell. I heard the tiredness in his voice.

  “Have you seen him, Daddy? Have you seen Dismay?”

  “No, honey. I haven’t seen him. What are you doing up?”

  “I had bad dreams. I can’t sleep. I want to go look for Dismay now, Daddy. I brought my flashlight.”

  “It’ll be morning soon,” said Daddy. “Why don’t you wait right here with me until we can see? Then we’ll go together.”

  Daddy opened his arms to me and I climbed into his lap like I was a baby again. He rocked and I didn’t cry anymore. I breathed in and out with Daddy’s breath, in the dark, waiting for my dog to come home. I felt the ache of every muscle in my body, and as I closed my eyes, I felt the swirl of the sea around me. I fell asleep hearing the swoosh of the wind through the trees, the pounding of the rain all around me, and my own voice: “Let him go!” And I saw, in every tiny motion, my fingers uncurl Peach’s fingers. I saw myself re-lease Dismay to the black water.

  * * *

  * * *

  Special Edition, September 6

  THE AURORA COUNTY NEWS

  SIZZLES FROM SNAPFINGER

  By Phoebe “Scoop” Tolbert

  Not since Noah built the Ark have citizens of Aurora County seen such water! Galoshes and clear plastic rain bonnets have been bestsellers at Miss Mattie’s mercantile in Halleluia all month. We have received—already, in the first six days of September—five inches of rain! (Normal rainfall for September is 2.67 inches. Normal temperature is 74 degrees. Normal dinner is pot roast and potatoes, but I digress.)

  * * *

  Storms brought disaster yesterday when the saturated ground in Aurora County began to resemble a lake in low-lying places. At the Pound o’ Rest Trailer Heaven in Full Moon, plastic pink flamingos were seen floating off toward Pascagoula. In Snapfinger the oak grove became a troubled tributary of the Pearl River! Upon being interviewed for this story, Old Johnny Mercer said, “Noah, schmoa! This grove flooded when I was a boy of eight—I remember it well!”

  * * *

  Well, Old Johnny must have been born in Biblical Times, as no one else remembers such water in Snapfinger before. But the BIG
news is about Comfort Snowberger and her cousin Peach Shuggars, who were CAUGHT in the great water—stranded!—with Dismay Snowberger, Funeral Dog Extraordinaire, whose shaggy, comforting presence is familiar to all residents of Aurora County who have attended funerals at Snowberger’s (which is everyone).

  * * *

  These intrepid youngsters were rescued late yesterday afternoon by Bunch Snowberger and Plas Johnson (yes, Our Esteemed Publisher). The two children are shaken but recovering, on the heels of Florentine Snowberger’s abridged funeral service (interment to be rescheduled). Dismay remains missing. Sob! A search party is being organized. Stay tuned to this column for a complete write-up as events develop.

  Chapter 24

  Aunt Goldie’s idea of a hero’s breakfast was hot fudge sundaes. She served them on Snowberger’s wide front porch at 5:00 A.M. We all showed up, even Peach, who was sneezing every few seconds. He wore a square Band-Aid on his left cheek. His nose was runny and he kept a Snowberger’s handkerchief in his front pocket. “I have caught a cold,” he told me.

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. I didn’t feel so well, myself.

  Merry patted on him and said “Bess you!” a lot.

  Daddy went upstairs to get ready for our search, and Tidings ate two whole sundaes while Daddy was gone.

  I had awakened to Daddy’s snoring, just as light was coming into the sky and the stars were winking out. I slipped out of Daddy’s arms and checked all of Dismay’s usual sleeping places, just to make sure he hadn’t found his way home somehow and gone to sleep not wanting to disturb us. I tripped over Tidings as I came in the front doors, and he barely budged. Tidings would make a terrible soldier on watch. I didn’t see how he would ever be a general.

  It wasn’t right that Dismay wasn’t in the house saying good morning to everybody and begging for a biscuit hot from the oven. Nothing felt right, but I was determined to fix that. I’d had a little sleep and felt on fire to make a plan that would fix everything. In my closet I pulled on my lime green shorts and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and my Band-Aids made a patchwork pattern on my legs and arms. I tried to put on my Snowberger’s baseball cap, but I had a knot on the side of my head that was the size of a walnut and tender to the touch, so I left my cap on its peg. Part of me wanted to stay in my closet all day with my notebooks, pencils, and Aunt Florentine’s pillows; it felt safe there and comfortable. . . . I ached everywhere, even behind my eyes. I scrunched my toes into my black flip-flops, and I willed this day to serve me, to have a grand purpose—to bring my dog home.

  Downstairs at our hero’s breakfast, I didn’t think I could eat anything, but ice cream felt good going down my throat, and so I ate and ate. “It’s good,” I told Aunt Goldie as she sprinkled walnuts on top of my whipped cream. I smiled a real smile at her.

  Peach didn’t eat. “Too stuffy,” he said.

  Aunt Goldie wanted the whole story. “Eat and tell your story,” she said. “You need some strength before you go out looking for Dismay. It’s not full light yet!”

  My stomach began to feel queasy around all that hot fudge as I got ready to tell the story. I could practically hear Tidings: “You let him go? A soldier does not abandon his charge!” But I had to tell the truth about it—Uncle Edisto always said, “The truth shines like a searchlight in the midst of the fog.”

  My head was one big foggy swamp. My heart fluttered like a fan. I shuddered and tried taking in a deep breath. Mama and Merry sat on the porch swing, and Mama creaked it back and forth. Daddy came back downstairs, buttoning a clean shirt.

  “Start from the beginning,” said Aunt Goldie. “What happened first?”

  “I’ll start,” said Peach, and he began. “I was scared, so I ran down Purgatory Hill and into the oak grove.”

  My head throbbed and my throat felt thick with chocolate sauce and exhaustion. I was suddenly fretful. “Wait! Tell them why you were scared, Peach!”

  My mind raced, but Peach took his time answering. He had a cogitating look on his face. “I get scared of what I don’t know,” he said slowly. “And I didn’t know death. So it scared me.” Peach blew his nose. “But now I know it. Now I’m not so scared.”

  Aunt Goldie dropped her ice-cream spoon onto the porch planks.

  I stared at Peach as if he were from outer space.

  A Carolina wren called from the magnolia trees, and full light came into the day.

  “This body is just a shell of who I am,” Peach said in a still, small voice. “Death can’t touch what’s inside.” He looked at Aunt Goldie. “Aunt Florentine isn’t here. She’s somewhere else. Uncle Edisto isn’t in the Snapfinger Cemetery. He’s somewhere else. And it’s a good place.”

  Nobody moved.

  Peach was wearing his perfectly pleated pants and a white button-down shirt. Every hair was in place. He was exactly the same Peach as always, too shiny and bony and scrawny-necked, but he wasn’t the same Peach at all.

  “I would like to go look for Dismay,” he said. He looked at all of us anxiously. “I let him go and he swirled away.” Then Peach cried.

  Aunt Goldie popped from her seat and hugged him. Daddy rubbed his face with his hands, and Mama said, “It’s not your fault, Peach.”

  “Certainly not,” said Aunt Goldie.

  I knew that, too. It was my turn to tell them the truth. “It’s Declaration’s fault!” I spurted. “It’s all her fault! Tell them, Peach!”

  Everyone looked at me. Peach shook his head.

  “Tell what, Comfort?” asked Mama.

  My face felt hot—even my eyes were hot. “Declaration!” I said. “She . . . she . . .” My stomach lurched. My head felt like it would split open. The sun spilled up and over the pines near the Snapfinger Cemetery, and the porch was suddenly flooded with sunlight. It dazzled my eyes and made me dizzy. “She—” The ice cream I’d eaten was making its way up from my stomach and into my throat. Suddenly, Daddy was next to me, helping me hold my head over the porch railing. Up came my hero’s breakfast, all over the azaleas.

  “She’s burning up, Joy,” said Daddy.

  “Let’s get her to bed,” said Mama.

  “Dismay,” I said, but the world was a blur. I was sick, very sick. The day hadn’t served me. No one knew the truth but me. And my dog was still missing.

  September 7

  Private Snowberger:

  I am issuing a regiment-wide report on The Search as of 6:00 a.m. today, Monday. Today’s search in the oak grove came up with the following items:

  1 garbage can

  3 tires

  a snakeskin

  part of Homer Hindman’s fence

  The search team consisted of the Snowberger Squadron, the Coffee Club at Matthew’s Cafeteria, and Boy Scout Troop 685, along with various friends and neighbors. No trace of Dismay Snowberger was found. It was a challenging engagement—wet, hot, buggy, and fraught with fear for what might lie under each bush or beside each rock. We persevered. Every soldier can be proud of the work we did today.

  Our medic recommends complete bed rest for you. Private. The Snowberger Squadron is doing everything possible to find Dismay. We will continue to do our best daily with the available troops.

  Respectfully submitted,

  General Tidings Snowberger

  September 7

  Dear Comfort,

  I am writing you this note to say I’m sorry for many things. I am sorry that Dismay is missing. I am sorry that you were trapped in the oak grove in the water with Peach. I am sorry that I lost my temper on the road—I don’t know what came over me. I am sorry that you are so sick. And mostly I am sorry that I hurt your feelings.

  Grandmother Lucy arrived from Mobile yesterday. She says that a lady always takes responsibility for her behavior. (She also says that real ladies do not bowl.)

  She said I should write you a letter. I don’t know how to talk to you right now, and I want you to forgive me. I feel like I’m four years old again—isn’t that strange?

&n
bsp; Grandmother Lucy says that I am a lot like my mother. She says that’s a good thing. I hope so.

  I hope you will speak to me when you see me again. I am sorry—so, so sorry. Please forgive me. Say we are friends.

  Still your friend forever,

  Declaration

  September 1

  Written at 5:45pm

  From my sickbed

  (thanks to you)

  Declaration:

  No.

  Your friend for NEVER,

  Comfort

  Chapter 25

  My room was dark and quiet. I had a cup with a straw in it by my bed. Mama gave me medicine that tasted like burned brussels sprouts. I slept for three days.

  While I got better, and while my family searched for Dismay, the sun beamed all day every day. The earth dried up. You would never have known that we’d had floodwater in the countryside of Snapfinger, Mississippi.

  Mail piled up on the table next to my bed. Every day Tidings would come to my room and either leave me a note or—if I was awake enough to listen—tell me about the search. Mama made him go to school, but still he searched on the way there and back. On Tuesday he said, “I even sneaked out in the pickup truck this afternoon, so I could drive to Raleigh and look.”

  “Did you see anything at all, any sign?” I whispered, so impressed that Tidings would risk so much for Dismay.

  He shook his head. I cried. I cried a lot when I was awake. I acted Peach-like, boohooing down the front of my pajamas, and I didn’t have much decorum. The least little remembrance made me cry. The smallest scrap of no news made me cry. People sent sympathy cards, so the mail made me cry. Then my head would hurt again. Then I would sleep some more.