The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  Artie looked at him for a moment, nodding thoughtfully, his sun-squinted eyes unreadable. Then he said, “We’d better get on the road before this baby dies again.” He slapped the fender affectionately and turned toward the driver’s door. He stopped and looked back before climbing inside, though, his expression curious. “Are you coming?”

  Josh was too astonished to move. “Wait. Are you kidding me? You’re offering me a ride?”

  “Kansas City, wasn’t it?” He smiled his funny little smile and winked. “On my way. And considering the shape this bucket of bolts is in, it sure wouldn’t hurt to have a good mechanic onboard. ”

  Josh didn’t hesitate another minute. He scrambled around to the passenger door and pulled himself inside.

  “You know something?” Artie said, grinning. “You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble—not to mention shoe leather, from the looks of it—if you hadn’t been so quick to leave me behind back there at the campground. Kansas City was on my way back then too, but you seemed in such an all-fired hurry to get going there didn’t seem much point in mentioning it.”

  Josh said, “I didn’t really learn that trick with the Coke in prison,” he said. “I learned it from some muscle movie I saw on TV.” He made sure Artie was looking at him for the next part. “But I was in jail,” he said. “Fourteen months. Possession.”

  Artie waited for another moment, but Josh didn’t know what else to say. He had no idea what was going on in the other man’s mind, if anything. He was ready for Artie to tell him to get out, and in fact his hand had started to reach for the door handle when Artie put the wagon into gear and turned his attention to the road. The man was as much of an enigma as ever.

  Josh sank back into the battered seat and fastened his seat belt. His feet, now that he had taken the weight off of them, throbbed. Then he looked at Artie and thought of something else to say. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know, about the money.”

  “I know you are, son.” Artie checked the oncoming traffic in the side mirror before coaxing the behemoth off the shoulder and back onto the road again. “All’s well that ends well, my mother used to say.”

  Josh almost smiled. “My mother used to say that too.”

  “She must have been a good woman, your mom.”

  Josh looked at him sharply. “How would you know? You don’t know anything about her.”

  “I know she raised a pretty good boy,” Artie replied mildly.

  So many angry, defensive, and confusing retorts bubbled to Josh’s lips that he almost choked on them. Thankfully, he was unable to utter any of them, and it was a long time before he could say anything at all. In the end, all he could manage was, “You don’t know anything about me either.”

  “I know enough.”

  Josh gave a derisive grunt. “Yeah, most people figure knowing a guy’s an ex-con is enough.”

  “Actually, that’s interesting, but it’s not what I meant. I learn most of what I need to know about a person from what they don’t tell me.”

  Josh looked at him cautiously.

  “For example,” Artie went on easily, “I know you’re the kind of fellow who always tries to do the right thing. You didn’t have to tell me that. I just know.”

  “Yeah, well,” Josh muttered, and turned his gaze back to stare out the windshield. “Not everybody always agrees on what the right thing is.”

  “Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you know what it is.”

  Josh said in a low, almost inaudible voice, “That sounds like something my mother would say.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit.”

  Artie was quiet after that, letting the miles roll by in an off-key symphony of bumps and squeaks and whines as the Winnebago clattered down the highway, and it was a long time before Josh felt like talking again. When he did speak, it was merely a gruff, “What are you doing on the road in the middle of the day, anyway? I thought you only liked to drive at night.”

  “Oh, I gave that up. Turns out you miss too many little miracles, driving at night. Why, I might even have missed you.”

  Miracle. Josh had never thought of himself as a miracle before, or anything close. But what else would you call something like this? Miracle might not be entirely accurate, but it was close enough. He said, because the moment seemed to call for it, “Well, I don’t know much about miracles, but I appreciate the ride.”

  “Oh, I’ve stumbled on all kinds of miracles since I started looking for them. Found a perfectly good socket wrench on the side of the road. Got off the highway to get something to eat, and you’ll never guess where I ended up. A place called Art’s Crossing. Art, just like my name! Best hamburger I ever ate, too. Yesterday, I happened upon an ice cream factory where they were having an open house. Guided tours and free samples at the end. Now, that’s what I call a miracle. Met a bunch of nice people, and just about ate my fill of chocolate chip, and everybody I saw was smiling. Of course, you don’t meet too many people who aren’t smiling when they’re eating ice cream, you ever notice that? The point is, I never would have found any of those things driving at night.” He glanced at Josh. “You like chocolate chip, Josh?”

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “Yeah, I like it fine.”

  “Well, what do you know about that? Just so happens I stashed a box of chocolate chip ice cream bars from the tour in that freezer back there. Why don’t you help yourself?”

  Help yourself. Josh stared at him. “Dude,” he said, “you’ve really got to stop saying that.” And Artie laughed.

  Josh found the box of ice cream bars in the tiny freezer compartment on top of a pound of hamburger meat and a box of frozen corn. He took out a bar, his mouth watering, and, on second thought, helped himself to another. When he edged back into the passenger seat, he unwrapped one of the bars and passed it across the console to Artie. Artie smiled his thanks, and Josh unwrapped his own bar. “My mother loved to dance,” he said, without looking at him. “Sometimes she would put on a Sinatra CD and just dance around the house. Sometimes I would dance with her. I was just a little kid, but she made me feel ten feet tall.”

  Artie smiled. “That’s a nice memory.”

  Josh nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’ve got a few of them.”

  “I like talking about good memories. It’s almost like living them again.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He sank back in the seat, and took a bite of his ice cream. Before he knew it, he was telling Artie about the ice cream stand in Central Park he remembered as a kid, and how his folks always pretended they were going to say no when he begged to stop, but in the end he always got the cone. And after a time, he discovered Artie was right about something else: it was hard not to smile when you were eating ice cream.

  SIX

  No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.

  Oscar Wilde

  The county courthouse was one of those quaint small-town structures Paul and Derrick had admired about Blue Valley, Virginia, when they first moved there. It was built of peach colored orchard stone, nestled against a background of rolling blue mountains, and boasted a big oak tree in front that shaded stone benches and flower-lined paths. The only thing missing was the perennial couple of old men in straw hats playing checkers. It even had a clock tower with a clock that chimed the hour every forty-five minutes, and had been doing so for so long that no one in town even cared what time it was anymore. It was, in short, the epitome of the kind of good old-fashioned Americana that Hollywood in the 1940s had made everyone believe in. And it was, on this day, a symbol of doom for the small mountain community’s two newest residents.

  Paul wore Armani, Derrick wore Gucci, and they both wore Hermes ties. Derrick had opted for a subtle tone-on-tone stripe that complemented the pale blue of his shirt, but Paul wore a flashy pink silk tied in an elaborate trinity knot against his deep lavender shirt, declaring as he left the house that if he was to be hauled off to the penitentiary at the end of the day, he would a
t least do so in style.

  They were directed to Courtroom C, a small chamber adjacent to the main courtroom with wood veneer paneling, folding metal chairs, and no windows. The surroundings were hardly an appropriate setting for the gravity of the situation they faced, and a single shared glance confirmed their disappointment. There were only a dozen or so people present, all of them milling about and chatting amiably, and three of them looked familiar.

  Bridget smiled and waved at them as she made her way over. She was wearing her pink suit as Paul had requested because, he said, he wanted to look out over the audience as his fate was sealed and see nothing but the kind of beauty that would sustain him during the long dark months ahead. She kissed first Paul, and then Derrick. “My, don’t you both look nice!”

  Paul pressed her fingers to his lips somberly. “It was good of you to come.”

  Lindsay, less formal in a white denim jacket over a green print sundress, squeezed Paul’s arm. “You know we wouldn’t let you go through this alone.”

  Paul was momentarily drawn out of his gloom as he glanced at Lindsay’s sandaled feet. “Pumps, darling! That outfit practically weeps for pumps!”

  “He’s been like this all day,” Derrick confided, bending to kiss Lindsay’s cheek. “He always resorts to fashion when he’s upset, while I …” he patted his stomach regretfully, “resort to food. I had six muffins this morning. They were small,” he added quickly as he saw the reprimand start to form in Bridget’s eyes.

  “Courage, Camille.” Cici came up behind them and placed a hand on each man’s shoulder. “Things are usually pretty straightforward in a small town like this, and it will all be over before you know it. Why, if we were back in the city you’d still be waiting for your court date this time next year. Isn’t that Harrington up front?”

  Paul looked as though he wanted to make some comment on her outfit—khaki pants and a sleeveless white blouse which, if she had not had such ridiculously toned arms would have been a travesty on a woman her age, and not even a scarf or a necklace for flare—but Derrick pulled him away.

  Harrington Windale, of Windale, Levinson, Parker and Smythe, sat on one of the folding chairs at the front of the room, using his briefcase as a lap desk while he tapped out something on his iPad. He glanced up when Paul and Derrick reached him.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” he said. He finished whatever he was typing and closed the screen. “This shouldn’t take very long.”

  Derrick shook his hand fervently. “Thank you so much for coming. Will there be much testimony, do you think? Will you want us to take the stand?”

  “I’ve prepared a statement,” Paul assured him, reaching into his coat pocket. “Perhaps you’d like to take a look at it before the case is called.”

  Harrington looked mildly perplexed. “Really, gentlemen, it’s not that complex.”

  Derrick looked anxiously at the two oak tables at the front of the room. They looked a lot like school room surplus. “Which one is the defense table? Shouldn’t we take our places?”

  Harrington said, “It’s actually just a matter of having the paperwork approved. Didn’t my assistant explain that to you?”

  “We didn’t hear anything after the words ‘court appearance,’” Derrick admitted unhappily.

  “But I stand ready to take over our defense,” Paul assured him, “if you find yourself unprepared. And we have three excellent character witnesses …” He turned and waved broadly to Cici, Lindsay, and Bridget, who hesitated, then started forward. “Pillars of the community, solid as stone. I can get more if you like. There’s Purline, and Harmony …”

  “Maybe not Harmony,” Derrick put in apologetically.

  “Maybe not,” admitted Paul. “But the postman and the UPS driver are practically fixtures around Hummingbird House, and I’m sure they would stand up for us, not to mention …”

  Derrick interrupted gently, “You’re babbling.”

  Paul looked for a moment as though he might take offense, and then sighed, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “I know.”

  “But if ever a man had a right to babble,” Derrick assured him quickly.

  “Why don’t you both just have a seat,” suggested Harrington, “and I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  Paul said, “Well, if you’re certain …” And he started to sit beside the attorney.

  “Back there,” said Harrington, “in the audience.”

  Paul started to object, but Derrick touched his arm meaningfully. “We’re paying him a fortune,” Derrick whispered as he guided Paul away. “Let him do his job.”

  They met the three ladies in the aisle and had just filled in the short row of metal chairs when a uniformed bailiff came into the room from a side door and announced, “Court is in session.”

  He was followed by a bald man in a judge’s robe, and Paul and Derrick shot to their feet. Since they were the only ones who did so, however, they quickly sat down again.

  The judge took a seat behind the largest oak table and gestured to Harrington. Harrington gathered his briefcase and went forward.

  “That could be good,” Cici whispered to Paul.

  “It could be bad,” he replied worriedly.

  “They look friendly,” Bridget whispered.

  “Harrington is very well known in legal circles,” Derrick replied confidently.

  “They certainly are finding a lot to talk about,” Lindsay observed.

  “That could be good,” Paul said, watching.

  “It could be bad,” Derrick said.

  “I should go see if I can help.” Paul started to rise, but Cici caught his arm from one side and Derrick from the other, pulling him back into his seat.

  Paul pulled his arms away in mild indignation, brushing the creases from his coat. He looked as though he might overrule them both, but at that point Harrington gathered up his papers and his briefcase, said something pleasant to the judge, and came toward them, smiling.

  “Well then, as I promised, all taken care of,” he told them. “And I’ve still got plenty of time to get in a golf game. There’s a course about an hour from here I’ve been dying to play.”

  Cici grinned broadly and punched Paul playfully on the arm. “See, I told you!”

  Lindsay exclaimed, “Congratulations!” and Bridget beamed, adding, “But who could be mean to two guys as nice as you?”

  Paul stared at Harrington in disbelief, and Derrick looked as though he might drop to the floor and kiss his feet at any moment. “Do you mean,” Paul managed on an exhaled breath, “we’re not going to jail?”

  “Of course not.” Harrington clapped him on the shoulder as they left the courtroom.

  “And the fine?” Derrick added cautiously.

  “No fine. I told you it was just a matter of paperwork. Your license will be issued as soon as you complete twenty hours of community service. All you have to do is take these forms down to the county clerk’s office …”

  But Derrick was already gushing his gratitude, pumping Harrington’s hand enthusiastically, and Paul blotted his brow with a folded pink pocket square, bracing one hand against the wall for support. It was Cici who, with a shrug, took the papers the attorney extended and glanced at them.

  “Twenty hours,” she said. “Is that each, or together?”

  “A piece,” Harrington replied, managing to extract his hand from Derrick’s effusive grip. “Being listed as individual owners, the charges were naturally filed individually.”

  Derrick looked at Cici. “Twenty hours?”

  And Paul straightened slowly, reaching for the papers. “Of what?”

  “Community service,” Cici replied, with only a slight note of exasperation. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “It’s all fairly self-explanatory,” Harrington said. “You just have to have your supervisor sign off on the number of hours you complete, and then follow the instructions for filing the papers. Your liquor license will be issued within two to three weeks after that, but the s
hut-down order will be lifted within twenty-four hours, so you can open your business again. ”

  “Oh, look,” said Lindsay, taking the papers from Cici. “They even give you a list of acceptable places to serve your time.”

  Paul snatched the papers from her, studying them in growing dismay, and Derrick exclaimed, “Community service! We don’t have time for community service! We have a grand opening to plan.”

  “It won’t be much of a grand opening unless you’re actually, well, open,” Lindsay pointed out.

  Derrick explained anxiously, “It’s not that we wouldn’t like to serve the community. We’ve always been very community-minded people. But the timing couldn’t be more inconvenient.”

  Harrington lifted an eyebrow. “I suggest you find a moment to make it convenient, gentlemen. Because if you don’t do so in the next seven days …” he turned over a page from the stack in Paul’s hand and tapped a paragraph, “you’re going to jail.”

  He smiled, nodded to Cici, Lindsay, and Bridget, and said, “Good to see you again, ladies. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” he glanced at his watch, “I have a golf game.” He added to Derrick and Paul, “Call my office if you have any questions.” And he headed toward the exit at a brisk pace, followed by the stunned blank gazes of his two clients.

  “Can we stop payment on his check?” Paul wanted to know as soon as the door closed behind him.

  “Oh, come on, guys, it’s not that bad,” Lindsay said.

  “Twenty hours is one week of a part-time job at Starbucks,” Cici added.

  Paul straightened his cuffs. “Since I passed over my opportunity to be a barista in the seventies,” he replied grumpily, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a second chance,” Derrick said. “There has to be a community organization in town that serves coffee.”

  “Oh, look, there are all kinds of interesting things you can do.” Bridget took a paper from Paul’s stack and read out loud. “Highway Department …”

  Derrick looked horrified. “Stand out in the middle of the road all day holding up a Slow sign for construction crews? I don’t think so. With my complexion I’d be nothing but a walking sunburn in two hours.”