Each Little Bird That Sings

by Deborah Wiles

  Great-great-aunt Florentine had a quiet, family-only graveside service on Monday, with Preacher Powell saying prayers. I couldn’t go—and I cried about that, too—but Daddy told me all about it. Peach didn’t go, either. He had taken to bed with a bad cold the day I did, so he had missed out on looking for Dismay as well. He made LOST DOG posters in bed. Mama and Aunt Goldie showed them to me. I could see where Merry had helped him color. I could see where Peach’s nose had drip-drip-dripped onto the posters while he had worked.

  I hadn’t seen Peach for three days, although now and then I’d heard him. Sometimes he’d give off a shriek and wake me out of my sleep, but there was no wailing.

  Aunt Goldie visited me. “I called Tucker Elementary School and told them that Peach would be taking an extra week off while he recovered,” she said. “Do you know, I think I heard cheering in the background! There must have been a party going on.” I smiled at Aunt Goldie with my eyes closed. She said, “You’re going to need more than a week off, I’ll wager. You take it, Comfort. Sleep now.” I did.

  I hadn’t seen Dismay, either, of course. Each morning I would wake up and expect to feel his shaggy presence at the end of my bed, or his big tongue licking my face—Comfort! Get up! Come play!—his collar jangling as I scratched his back and he squirmed with pleasure.

  “You said they always come home,” I said to Mama each night when she tucked me in and kissed me.

  “They always come home,” she said, “one way or another. It’s not up to us to decide how that homecoming happens.”

  “What does that mean?” I felt shaky hearing those words.

  “It means that no one and nothing is ever gone from us, Comfort.”

  I didn’t get it. “Dismay is gone!” I cried into my pillow. “I need to look for him myself!”

  “As soon as you’ve got your strength back,” said Mama, “you can look.”

  On the fourth day after the flood—another Wednesday—my fever broke and I was well enough to come to the dinner table. Mama walked with me from my bedroom to the kitchen. She smelled like fresh gardenias. Every step I took felt new, like I was learning to walk all over again. So I took each step carefully. Being very sick takes everything out of a person.

  Good smells came from the kitchen, and I realized I was hungry finally. The hungry feeling made my steps stronger. The grandfather clock struck noon, and the whistle at the Snapfinger Volunteer Fire Department finished its blowing as I sat down at the table with my family.

  Aunt Goldie set an enormous glass of cold milk by my plate. “It’s Comfort Snowberger!” she said with mock surprise and real affection in her voice. She kissed me.

  “I know!” said Peach, smiling at me from his seat next to Aunt Goldie. He grinned like a possum and sneezed into his napkin.

  “Hey,” I said as Daddy pulled my chair out for me and I sat down.

  “Fumfort!” said Merry, clapping her hands.

  I smiled at her.

  Mama had brushed my hair and had put one of Aunt Florentine’s pretty hair combs in it. I liked how it looked. I wore new pajamas Aunt Goldie had bought me. They had suns all over them. I instinctively reached my foot out to caress Dismay under the table, but he wasn’t there. I swallowed hard and tried not to cry. Merry banged her spoon on her high chair and Tidings passed the peas.

  “Grace?” said Mama.

  “I’ll offer it,” said Aunt Goldie. We held hands while she said, “I would personally like to offer up thanks to every living body in Aurora County, Mississippi, for having the good sense not to die in the past four days.”

  “Amen,” said Daddy, who had an empty workroom downstairs.

  “We have had enough of death and near death in the Snowberger family!” said Aunt Goldie.

  “That’s affirmative,” said Tidings. “Over and out.”

  I looked at my family. I felt like I had been gone for a very long time. There was Mama, with her lipstick just right, smiling at Daddy, who was helping my plate with peas. There was Aunt Goldie, flapping out Peach’s napkin into his lap, and Peach taking it from her and saying, “I can do it myself.” Tidings was already finishing his first helping of meat loaf. My eyes filled with tears. I loved every person sitting at that table. My family. Every one of them. Even Peach. Peach, who would not let Dismay go. Peach, who would have sacrificed himself for my dog. Peach, who had been so brave—braver than I would ever be.

  He was blowing on his meat loaf to cool it. His lips flapped as he blew and his face turned a beet red.

  “You’re gonna blow it right off the fork, Peach,” I said.

  “Oh.” Peach put his fork on his plate. “I’ll just wait for it to get cooler.” He looked at me. “Thank you, Comfort.”

  “You’re welcome.” Peach stared at his meat loaf as if he were watching a special cooling process take place. I said to him, “I never showed you my bottle cap collection.”

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on me.

  “No, you didn’t,” Peach said, staring at me.

  “Would you like to see it after dinner?”

  “Yes, I would.” Peach took a bite of mashed potatoes instead of meat loaf, chewed thoughtfully, and then swallowed. “Am I invited to come to your room to see it?”

  “Yes,” I said. Just yes. Nothing else.

  Dinner was good, every bite of it I could eat. Chewing tired me out. I went back to my bedroom. Peach followed me and waited by the door.

  I got my bottle cap collection from my closet (I keep it in a big boot box, and it is heavy), climbed into bed, and slipped my feet under the cool covers. Peach clasped his hands together and watched me.

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Come in.”

  And he did.

  Mama was soon behind him. “You two all right?” she asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “I’ll check on you later, then,” she said. She closed the door behind her, and there we were, me and Peach, together and alone again in the middle of an afternoon. I waited for Dismay to trot down the hallway and find us, curious about what we were up to, but of course he didn’t. I took the top off my box and motioned to Peach, who came to my bed and looked at Uncle Edisto’s life in soda pop.

  “Glory, hallelujah!” he whispered.

  “I added the RC Colas,” I said.

  “Can I . . . ? Can I . . . ?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Peach tried to lift the big box to the floor, but it was so heavy, I was afraid he’d spill it.

  “Come up on the bed,” I said. “You can sit at the bottom.”

  He did.

  Moon-Glo, Bubble Up, Yoo-Hoo, Whistle, Lemmy Lemonade. The metal caps clinked against one another as Peach sifted them through his fingers. I wondered how he would sort them.

  “I miss Uncle Edisto,” said Peach.

  “So do I.”

  “He sure liked soda pop,” said Peach.

  “Aunt Florentine said it would rot his teeth,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Peach. “But it didn’t.” He looked at me. “I miss Aunt Florentine, too.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Will you still will me these bottle caps, Comfort?” asked Peach.

  “I said I would.” I wasn’t so sure anymore, now that we weren’t shivering on a wet rock together, alone and afraid.

  “I’m ready to take good care of them,” said Peach. He was teary.

  “I’m not dead yet!” I said. “Sometimes you are so irritating!”

  Tears spilled onto Peach’s cheeks. “Dismay is!” he said.

  My good dinner turned over in my stomach. “No, he isn’t!”

  Peach looked at me with shining eyes. “I’m sorry, Comfort! I let him go!”

  “It was Declaration’s fault,” I said quickly. “She scared you, Peach—she sent you down into the oak grove—can’t you see that?”

  Peach shook his head.

  “If we hadn’t been down in the grove, it wouldn’t have happened!”

  Peach couldn’t hear me. “Dismay
is . . . dead.” He shuddered.

  “I can’t hear this,” I told Peach sternly. “Dismay is missing, Peach. Missing. And it’s not your fault.”

  Peach pulled a Snowberger’s handkerchief out of his pocket. “Are you sure?” he asked. He mopped at his face.

  “I’m sure,” I said. “I’m completely sure. I know it.”

  Peach nodded his big head on his scrawny neck and blew his nose, a long honking blow.

  “Peach,” I said, “can we do this later? I’m real tired. I need to take a nap.”

  “Oh, sure, Comfort.” Peach slid off the bed and looked at me. “I hope you feel better. And . . .”

  I waved him away. “I am better, Peach. I just need a nap. A long nap.”

  Peach left the room, and I went to my closet, where I did my best thinking. I hugged Aunt Florentine’s pillows to my chest and drank in their lavender smell. Oh, how I longed for everything I had lost! My eyes filled with tears and my head hurt, but I was better. And no one knew Dismay as well as I did. No one knew how to look for him like I did. He would come to me. I would go find my dog.

  September 9

  Dear Comfort,

  You won’t answer the phone when I call, and you won’t come to the door when I come over.

  I have something for you, something important.

  I want to bring it over.

  Please tell me it is okay to come see you.

  Your friend who misses you,

  Declaration

  September 9

  Written from my

  almost deathbed,

  but I am recovering

  (no thanks to you)

  Not Dear Declaration,

  Don’t come near my house or me.

  Not your friend, not ever again,

  Comfort

  Chapter 26

  The oak grove was once again lush—green, buggy, and hot. Dinner had fortified me, but the bike ride to County Road 2435 tired me out. I considered the bumpy ride down Purgatory Hill and into the grove, where I would lean my bike against an old oak and go find my dog. Rest first, I told myself.

  The cemetery called me. It was right there, waiting for me to come lie on soft green grass under a dogwood tree, in the shade. I walked my bike up the little rise and over to Aunt Florentine’s grave. We’d rest awhile together. A granite bench had been placed near Uncle Edisto’s grave, but I wanted to get closer than a bench would take me.

  Great-great-aunt Florentine’s grave was mounded with fresh dirt and flower arrangements from the funeral. Great-uncle Edisto rested next to Aunt Florentine. His grave had green grass over it already. The two graves looked cozy, side by side. I sat between them on Uncle Edisto’s grass and read the headstones. How beautiful they were!

  I had visited Uncle Edisto many times in the six months since he had died. A hand was carved into his granite headstone. A finger pointed upward, toward the blue sky. The inscription under the hand read: God’s finger touched him and he slept. I loved that.

  “I’m willing your bottle cap collection to Peach,” I said out loud. Uncle Edisto didn’t reply, so I figured that meant the idea was all right. I felt better about it.

  Aunt Florentine’s headstone would have her death date added to it. Then it would be complete. It had a granite telephone engraved in it. The inscription read: Jesus called her home. It was perfect for Aunt Florentine. The only thing better would have been a pair of binoculars with, maybe, Jesus saw that she was ready. Because she was.

  Old Johnny Mercer would soon take all the wilting flowers away, but he would leave the lavender. Lavender sprayed from two big urns on either side of Aunt Florentine’s headstone. It was tied in bunches, in bouquets, in . . . in . . . I looked hard at the urn farthest from me. In it there was a lavender collar—a dog’s collar.

  I scrambled to my feet and was immediately on my knees in front of the urn. There, in the middle of purple blossoms, was my dog’s collar. Dismay! I snatched it and shot to my feet. “Dismay!” I hollered. “Dismay!” I looked all around me, turning and calling for my dog.

  Instead I saw Mama. She was walking across the “Bread of Heaven” section of the cemetery, toward me, wearing her apron with a thousand pockets.

  “Mama!” I shouted. “Look! It’s Dismay’s collar! It’s still full of lavender the way you fixed it the day of Aunt Florentine’s funeral! Look!”

  Mama reached for me and hugged me.

  I hugged her back, then quickly disentangled myself. I shook Dismay’s collar in front of Mama’s face. “He got away, Mama! He got out of the oak grove and out of the water! He came looking for us!”

  “Where did you find that?” Mama asked.

  “It was in the lavender!” I crowed. “Aunt Florentine was holding on to it for me to find! And now we just have to find Dismay—he’s got to be here somewhere!” I was out of breath.

  “Maybe he is, honey.” Mama smoothed my hair away from my face with her hand. “And maybe he isn’t.”

  “What?” My heartbeat pounded in my ears.

  “Comfort,” she said.

  “What is it?” My insides felt like they were going to burst. I clutched Dismay’s collar in both hands and held it close to my chest.

  Mama had tears in her eyes. “Sit,” she said. We sat on the granite bench, although I didn’t want to sit down and Mama knew it. She took a breath, touched her tongue to her top lip, then said, “I think there is always hope, Comfort, always hope. But I also believe Dismay is . . . gone.”

  “Gone where?” I glanced at Aunt Florentine’s grave.

  “Dead,” Mama said simply.

  The word suffocated me. “No,” I said simply, in return.

  “Yes,” said Mama. “I think so. You know that we Snowbergers don’t mess around about death . . . We try to see it for what it really is . . .”

  I tried to take a breath. My words came out tiny, in a small squeak. I held the collar toward Mama, to show her. “His collar . . .”

  “I’m sure Tidings put it there,” said Mama in an even voice.

  “Where did he find it?” I couldn’t bear to hear the answer. I pulled my shoulders up around my ears.

  “He didn’t find it,” said Mama. “Declaration did.”

  A tingling sensation zinged across my shoulders and up my neck. “Declaration?”

  “She found it. She was looking for Dismay with her daddy, and she found the collar near . . .” Mama’s voice faltered just a little, then she gathered it together again. “In a drainage ditch near Lake Tallyhoma.”

  “A ditch?” A ditch? What is a ditch? I couldn’t think!

  “Comfort, the ditch feeds into the lake.”

  No! “Please, Mama . . .”

  “Sweetheart . . .” Mama’s no-nonsense voice was so tender, it made me cry, but I would not let her touch me. I kept Dismay’s collar at my chest so Mama couldn’t put her arms around me.

  “Are you sure?” I whispered.

  “Completely sure,” answered Mama, looking deep into my eyes.

  I looked away. “I can’t think like that,” I said in that same tiny voice. I shook my head and looked at Dismay’s collar.

  “Yes, you can,” said Mama. She was inches away from me. “We’ve searched every bit of the grove, of Snapfinger, of the surrounding area—Dismay is gone, Comfort. You will look for him, too, because you’ll need to. That will be good. You’ll always look for Dismay, in some way. But that water was high and full of debris, full of danger, and Dismay was strong but not strong enough . . . He was swept away in that flood, Comfort. Away from us. Gone.”

  I thought of Dismay’s eyes looking at me, asking me for help. I saw Peach holding on and going under the water. I saw myself prying Peach’s fingers away from Dismay’s collar. My heart cracked open. I pulled Dismay’s collar close to my belly and held myself as I sobbed. “You said he’d come home! You said they always come home!”

  “And they do,” Mama said. “Those we love live in our hearts forever! We always have them”—she touched
my heart—“right here. Always.”

  “That’s not good enough!” I said. “That’s nothing!”

  “That . . . is everything,” said Mama.

  “No, it’s not!” I said. “Dismay can’t be gone; he can’t—if he’s gone, that means . . . that means I killed him!” Mama pulled me to her and I sobbed into her shoulder. “Mama, I killed him!”

  “Sshhhh,” said Mama, her hand on the back of my head. “You did no such thing.”

  “I did! You don’t know!”

  “Sshhhh. You didn’t kill your dog, Comfort.”

  I pushed myself away from her and wiped at my eyes. “I did, Mama. I let him go! I let him go—not Peach. Peach doesn’t remember. He almost drowned trying to hold on to Dismay—he would never have let him go! But I did. I told Peach to let go; I told him to!”

  Mama held my face in her hands. “Is that what’s eating at your heart?”

  I nodded my head and sobbed. “I pried his fingers off Dismay’s collar when we were in the water. I did it. I did it!”

  “Comfort, it’s a miracle you and Peach survived at all in that water—a miracle!”

  I put my hands over my face, Dismay’s collar pressing into my nose. I could still smell his scent in the collar.

  Mama pulled at my hands, but I wouldn’t let her have them, so she just held them, against my face. “Comfort—you saved your cousin’s life. You did the absolute best thing you could have done, honey. The right thing. What if Peach had drowned? What if you had drowned?”

  “Dismay drowned!” I said. Mama pulled me to her and I wailed. “And Peach is horrible, with his stupid fears and his stupid voice and his stupid ‘Comfort! I’ve come to see you!’ Oh, Mama! I don’t want Peach!”

  “I know!” she said, hugging me.

  There was a tiny silence and then . . . I started to laugh. What I had said was so true and so ridiculous at the same time. I laughed right through my tears. Mama did, too.

  “He ruins everything!” I said, crying again and sitting up to catch my breath.