Each Little Bird That Sings

by Deborah Wiles

  “I know,” Mama said. “He’s a mess.”

  I nodded.

  “And you saved him. You chose him over your dog, who you adore.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know what you did?” Mama asked.

  I looked at her through my tears and tried to pay attention.

  “You served,” said Mama quietly. “You did what needed to be done. That’s what it means, Comfort. You did the right thing even when, somewhere deep inside you, you didn’t want to. Because you knew, somewhere even deeper, that it was the right thing to do. And . . . by doing the right thing, you saved yourself as well. If you had grabbed on to Dismay, you would have been washed into the floodwater with him! You would be gone now, too!” Mama’s face looked stricken. “I don’t think I could have survived that.” She squared her shoulders. “And who would have helped Peach? You have good instincts, Comfort Snowberger.” Then Mama smiled a real smile at me. “I am so proud to know you.”

  I shuddered, sniffed, and wiped at my nose. Mama dabbed at my face with a Snowberger’s handkerchief. “Uncle Edisto always said, ‘It takes courage to look life in the eye and say yes to—’ What did he call it?”

  “‘The messy glory,’” I said.

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I need to do something! I need to do something for Dismay.”

  Mama kissed the top of my head. My hair stuck out all over the place, but Mama didn’t try to smooth it down.

  “You and Peach will figure out what to do,” said Mama. “You might ask Tidings as well. He misses Dismay, too. He hasn’t mowed the grass all week. He just sits on the mower and thinks.”

  I sniffed a great sniff, and Mama said, “Do you want to tell me what happened between you and Declaration?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “She brought the collar to the house last night,” said Mama.

  “She did?”

  Mama nodded. “Since you won’t see her, she gave it to Tidings.”

  “She did?” I wiped at my eyes.

  “Why did Tidings put Dismay’s collar here, on Aunt Florentine’s flowers?” I sniffed another long sniff.

  “He said that recovering soldiers should not be disturbed by evidence they aren’t ready to assimilate.” Mama smiled, but I didn’t. “He was upset, too. So he came to the cemetery. Probably he thought it was best to leave the collar with Aunt Florentine until you were better. Dismay is in good company here, don’t you think?”

  I looked around me at the community of dead people that Uncle Allagash, Uncle Edisto, and then Daddy had buried for so many years. The headstones formed a family. I loved their solid, sturdy feel. I pictured Tidings leaving Dismay’s collar in such a soothing place, a place where Dismay might have chosen to come, if he’d been able. I sent a Thank you! thought to Tidings, who was a good brother. I would tell him so.

  * * *

  * * *

  Special to

  THE AURORA COUNTY NEWS

  THE LIFE AND TIMES OF DISMAY SNOWBERGER

  A Life Notice by Comfort Snowberger: Explorer, Recipe Tester, and Life Reporter

  Dismay Snowberger, Funeral Dog Extraordinaire, has departed Our Fair Town for a new home, after giving hope and love to hundreds of folks all over Aurora County during all the years he kept vigil at family funerals.

  Here are the facts: Dismay came to Snowberger’s seven years ago on this reporter’s third birthday. Right in the middle of the ice cream and cake, there was a scratching and a barking at the downstairs kitchen door. When Tidings Snowberger (aged 7 at the time) opened the door, a shaggy black bundle ran inside with his eyes bright and his tail wagging, as if to say (this is an opinion), I’m hoooome! It was Dismay. He danced inside, with his eyes bright and shiny and his tail wagging, so happy to see us.

  Edisto Snowberger, wise in All Things Mysterious, said, “He’s a gift to us! Let’s keep him. He will comfort us in our dismay.”

  “Our Dismay,” said Florentine Snowberger, wise in All Things Lavender. “Come here, Dismay.” She tied a piece of string around Dismay’s neck and wove some long stems of lavender around and through it.

  Dismay Snowberger was dirty and hungry. Tidings Snowberger, wise in All Things Edible and Organizable, gave Dismay a piece of Phoebe Tolbert’s Lane cake, which he enjoyed thoroughly. Comfort Snowberger, wise in Putting Two and Two Together, said, “Dismay is my birthday present!” And Joy Snowberger, wise in All Things Family, sighed and said, “Yes, I believe he is.”

  Bunch Snowberger, wise in Most Things Funereal, said, “We cannot have a dog at funerals and we’ve nowhere to put him this afternoon.”

  But Dismay Snowberger, wise in All Ways of the Heart, made himself useful. Dismay Snowberger knew how to serve. He knew what to do at a funeral—attend to the living, honor the dead. And that is what he did, always silent, always reverent, always present. He was a noble dog.

  Life will not be the same with Dismay Snowberger gone to a new home. This reporter likes to think of him trotting to the back door of another funeral home (this is a hope, not an opinion) and going to work again, doing what he does best: loving everyone and everything.

  There will be a Life Service for Dismay Snowberger at noon on Saturday, Sept. 12, at Snowberger’s (of course). Bring a covered dish (and the recipe) and your memories. Although I did not mention Life Services in my article “Top Ten Tips for First-rate Funeral Behavior,” the same rules apply. Please, everyone (you know who you are), behave.

  Friday morning,

  September 11

  Dear Comfort,

  I read Dismay’s Life Notice in the paper. Daddy is bringing you copies this morning, so I am sending this note over with him before I go off to school. You finally made the paper. I am sorry that it happened with such sad news.

  Daddy says the whole county will likely show up for Dismay’s Life Service.

  I wish you would talk to me when I call. I want to come to Dismay’s Life Service. Grandmother Lucy says that decorum dictates I stay home unless you tell me it is all right to come. Please say that it is all right with you that I come.

  Grandmother Lucy also said that dogs don’t have memorial services. I told her that this one does.

  Your sad friend,

  Declaration

  September 11

  Written from my closet,

  where I do my best thinking

  Declaration,

  Do not come.

  Comfort

  Chapter 27

  Aunt Goldie and Peach helped me in the kitchen on Friday. Peach dusted the cake pans and looked like a walking bag of flour. Aunt Goldie hummed. Mama worked on flowers, and Daddy helped Tidings mow grass and wash the windows of the Serenity Suite. Snowberger’s was spick-and-span, shining in the warm September sun like a beacon in the Snapfinger countryside, calling one, calling all to gather together.

  On Saturday I got up before dawn, sat in my closet, and wrote some remarks to give at Dismay’s Life Service. I wrote ten pages. Then I stood on my cabbage-roses carpet in my new funeral dress, in my bare feet, surrounded by my things. I missed spending time with my maps, my magazines, my notebooks, my recipes, my world. I missed my dog sitting in the closet with me, dripping his drippy mouth onto my toes. I licked my lips and slipped my feet into my new Sunday school shoes. I rubbed them with a cold biscuit until they squeaked and I could see my reflection in them. I brushed my hair until it shined. I tucked my remarks into the pocket of my new dress along with a freshly folded Snowberger’s handkerchief.

  “Time to go,” I said as I gazed at myself in the mirror. I inhaled deeply and smelled Aunt Florentine’s pillows, which had given me so much comfort. I walked across the hallway to Great-great-aunt Florentine’s room.

  Peach sat at the window seat, staring at the arriving crowd. He looked at me, then back at the crowd. The front parking lot was full to bursting. Folks were parking on the grass, and Tidings was beside himself, running to their car windows, flailing his arms and trying to direct
them to the back lot. I giggled at the sight. Peach didn’t. His face had a tragic look to it, that old man look.

  So I talked to him. “Did you know that Mr. Lawrence Hobgood brought dog biscuits as his covered dish?” Mrs. Elling had brought her chicken-and-potato-chip casserole again, and Kittie Margolis had brought her famous sweet potato—pineapple-grits soufflé in the shape of a dog’s head.

  “Your mama has buckets of sunflowers downstairs,” said Peach in a shaky voice. “They were Dismay’s favorite.” They were.

  “Are you all right?”

  Peach shook his head back and forth, back and forth. “I can’t go down there,” he whispered. He kept his gaze on the arriving cars below us.

  “Why not?” Then I added quickly, “You don’t have to go.”

  “I want to go,” Peach said. “But I can’t.” He dripped tears onto Great-great-aunt Florentine’s binoculars. “Mama says it is my choice. I’ll stay here in Aunt Florentine’s room. She always made me feel better.” Peach licked his lips. “I just feel so bad.”

  My heart cramped. “Wait here.” I went back to my closet, scooped up one of Great-great-aunt Florentine’s lavender pillows, and took it back across the hall before I could think about it too much. “Here,” I said to Peach, holding the pillow in front of me. “Remember this?”

  “Oh!” said Peach, his face smiling and his eyes shining with tears. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling back.

  “Did Aunt Florentine will her pillows to you?”

  “Sort of,” I said. “But I feel sure she would have wanted you to have one. So . . . here.” I handed Peach the pillow and he clutched it to his chest. “‘Do this in remembrance of me.’ That’s what Aunt Florentine would say.”

  “Yes.” Peach buried his face in the lavender pillow and said, in a muffled voice, “I’m so sorry, Comfort. This is all my fault.”

  My heart couldn’t stand it another minute. Uncle Edisto’s searchlight of truth was shining on me. “It wasn’t your fault, Peach.” And while Peach kept his face in the pillow, I told him, “You didn’t let Dismay go. I did. I uncurled your fingers and I told you to let him go.”

  Peach lifted his face. “You did?”

  I nodded. “You didn’t even hear me. You were almost underwater yourself. You would never have let Dismay go.”

  “Are you sure?” Peach whispered. “You’re not making it up?”

  “I wouldn’t make this up. I told you to let him go. I did it.” I felt tears rising in the back of my throat. I willed them to wait, but they wouldn’t. They spilled all over me, and I cried, right in front of Peach. I sat on the cedar chest at the end of Aunt Florentine’s bed and tried to stop crying, but my tears kept coming, salty and fat and full of feeling.

  When I glanced at Peach, the ancient lines and wrinkles on his face had smoothed out. Tears slipped down his pale cheeks.

  I stood and turned to go. “I’ll meet you downstairs if you decide to come.”

  “Comfort?”

  “What?”

  Peach put his pillow on the end of Aunt Florentine’s bed, took a deep breath, and said, “I will be there with bells on.”

  from:

  Fantastic (and Fun) Funeral Food for Family and Friends

  By Comfort and Florentine Snowberger

  * * *

  Mrs. Elling’s Chicken and Potato Chip Casserole

  Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

  Here are the ingredients (more or less): Cooked chicken (just cut up leftover chicken from a previous meal)

  Leftover rice, enough to fill your cereal bowl (two cups if you’re Tidings)

  One can of condensed cream-of-chicken (or cream-of-mushroom, or any other cream of your choice) soup

  One enormous spoonful of mayonnaise (not a dollop; a glob)

  Chopped-up onions and celery—you be the judge of how much (You can leave onions and celery out of this recipe, but we’re not responsible for taste or lack of compliments)

  At least one can of mandarin oranges, drained well

  Salt and pepper to taste

  A hunk of your favorite cheese, grated (don’t skimp here)

  A whole bag of Mrs. B’s Southern Style Potato Chips, crushed (poke a hole in it with a fork and bang on the bag with a rolling pin before you open it)

  Directions:

  In a big (we do mean big) bowl, combine all these ingredients except the cheese and potato chips. Spread this mixture into a 9x13 baking pan (or use a molded cake pan for decorative effect on special occasions). On top of the mixture, sprinkle your grated cheese. On top of the cheese put your crushed potato chips—don’t be stingy with the potato chips. Bake this comforting casserole in the preheated oven for about 20 minutes, or until the potato chips are lightly browned.

  Feeds multitudes and brings on sincere compliments.

  Chapter 28

  I took the back stairs by myself. A torrent of people greeted me as I neared the Serenity Suite. They said they were so glad to see me. They told me how brave I had been. They complimented me on Dismay’s Life Notice, and I told them to tell Mr. Johnson.

  “I’m honored to be of service,” Mr. Johnson said to me when I thanked him. He patted on me like I was Dismay. Declaration hadn’t come. Good. I didn’t mention it to Mr. Johnson, and he didn’t say anything to me about it, either.

  Mama’s flowers were poked into every corner and onto every surface—bachelor’s buttons, snapdragons, asters, Shasta daisies, and huge buckets of sunflowers. I almost couldn’t look at them.

  Peach came down the grand front staircase with Aunt Goldie, keeping his gaze intently on the front doors, as if he might hear Dismay barking outside any moment. He was carrying Aunt Florentine’s pillow with him. People made a pathway for Peach, and he actually smiled as he made his way to the Serenity Suite.

  Tidings marshaled people to their seats. “We’ve run out of Snowberger’s handkerchiefs!” he murmured to me as I passed him.

  “Kleenex,” I whispered.

  “We’re out of that, too. The troops are fortifying themselves!”

  “We can’t think of everything.”

  Mama came in with a basket of freshly ironed and folded handkerchiefs and put them on the table by the door. “Bless Lurleen’s heart,” she said, smiling at me. “She knew we’d need extras today.”

  Daddy was right behind Mama, carrying Merry, who was singing, to the tune of “Jingle Bells”: “Handkerchief, sniff-sniff-sniff. Blow-blow-blow away!”

  “Can you tell she’s been ironing with Lurleen?” Daddy asked. He patted my shoulder. “How you doing, honey?”

  “I’m fine.” My stomach was full of bumblebees.

  Preacher Powell took his place at the front of the Serenity Suite, where, instead of a casket, Tidings and I had put Dismay’s bed on the rolling platform along with several pictures of Dismay that Peach had taken with the camera Great-uncle Edisto had willed to him. Dismay’s lavender collar stayed upstairs in my room. I didn’t want to share it with anybody.

  Mrs. Powell started playing “For the Beauty of the Earth,” and folks spontaneously began to sing:

  “For the beauty of the earth

  For the glory of the skies,

  For the love which from our birth

  Over and around us lies!”

  That’s when my heart swelled up so fast, it closed my throat and I could hardly breathe. I sat down with a thunk.

  “You all right, Comfort?” asked Tidings.

  I nodded. My face felt hot.

  “Fumfort!” said Merry. She was standing at my knees. She hugged them fiercely with her short arms and began showering them with little kisses.

  Mama scooped up Merry and sat next to me. She kissed my head. Peach was on the other side of Mama. He sat calmly, without his face in Aunt Goldie’s armpit. Aunt Goldie wore all green, “a remembrance color,” she’d said.

  Preacher Powell began again, like he’d begun 248 times before.

  “Dearly beloved! We are her
e to celebrate life!”

  “Amen!” said Homer Hindman.

  “Amen!” said Peach.

  Preacher Powell stopped cold. Necks craned and people shuffled in their chairs.

  “Peach?” asked Preacher Powell.

  “Peach!” Aunt Goldie beamed.

  “Peace!” Merry clapped her hands together.

  Peach grinned and sat up straighter. I clasped my hands together. My heart was pounding hard in my chest—Dismay, Dismay, Dismay!

  “Let us celebrate the gift that Dismay Snowberger is”—Preacher Powell looked to me for emphasis—“to his family, his community, and the world.”

  My pulse thrummed in my ears.

  Tidings nudged me with his elbow. “Your turn.”

  I shook my head and stared into my lap.

  Preacher Powell kept going. “Ahh . . . As I understand the order of this . . . er . . . most unusual event— a Life Service!—the family has asked that we all share stories about Dismay Snowberger, funeral dog extraordinaire, and then join them for a meal outside under the pecan trees, where Dismay was fond of sleeping. I hope you brought your lawn chairs!” Preacher Powell chuckled and a few folks murmured back. He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Okay. Who would like to go first with their remembrance?”

  Remembrance. The word sounded so final. It was brilliantly sunny outside, but at that moment I felt like I was somewhere else—I heard rain falling all around me. Rain and the roaring wind in the trees, the sound of Peach screaming and Dismay paddling and me yelling Let him go! and the sight of Dismay tumbling and swirling away from me. Where did he come to rest? Oh, what had happened to my dog? I covered my face with my hands.