The Hummingbird House

by Donna Ball

  “Ah,” said Artie, nodding thoughtfully. “And that’s really how you ended up all alone on the side of the highway without a penny to your name.”

  Josh blew out a long breath. He felt weary to the bone, aching in his spirit, but somehow lighter, too. Relieved. “Yeah,” he said. “More or less.”

  “You know,” Artie said after a moment, “I heard somebody say one time that refusing to forgive is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Makes a lot of sense to me.”

  Josh looked at him across the fire, the strange little man with his crooked face made even stranger by the colors and shadows that played across it. He said softly, “The only trouble is that I’m not sure who should be forgiving who.”

  He stood up, tossing the dregs of his coffee toward the fire. “I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “The quality of mercy is not strained,” Artie said.

  Josh said, “Don’t tell me—you were friends with Will Shakespeare too.”

  Artie chuckled. “Nah, the man was a lunatic. Owed money to everybody in town, too, who wants a friend like that? But he did have a good idea or two, despite himself. The quality of mercy. I like that one.”

  Josh, shaking his head, couldn’t stop a small smile. “Good night, Artie.”

  ~*~

  The librarian, a small, quick woman with short pale hair and red-framed glasses that were easily half the size of her face, was named Amelia Brendt, and she seemed a bit overwhelmed by the two dapper gentlemen who presented themselves before her bright and early the following morning, ready for duty. They had checked and double-checked on the dress code, and were assured that street wear would be perfectly appropriate for their first day of community service at the public library. Orange jumpsuits were not, apparently, standard issue, so they opted for sports coats, khakis, and loafers or, in Paul’s case, driving moccasins worn without socks because he refused to completely abandon his sense of personal style for the sake of the provinces. Now that the stress of the trial was over, however, he was able to be much more relaxed about his attire and decided against neckwear.

  Amelia Brendt peered up at them over the top of her glasses from behind the check out desk, looking puzzled. “Really, gentlemen,” she said, “you didn’t have to bring me your resumes.”

  “We thought it might be helpful,” Paul explained, “for you to know our backgrounds so that you could place us more efficiently.” What he had really wanted her to know, of course, was that they were respectable citizens and business owners, not common criminals, lest there be any misunderstanding at all in that respect. To make certain, he had included at the top of both resumes a detailed report on the infraction that had resulted in their becoming victims of the justice system which had, in turn, led to their appearance now before her, in search of a way to be of service.

  “We take our civic duty very seriously,” Derrick added. “As you’ll see there …” he indicated the papers in her hand, “I was an art history major, so perhaps I might be most useful at the research desk. That way when any calls come in regarding art, I’ll be available to field them.”

  “Um, we actually don’t have a research desk, per se,” she replied, glancing around the fourteen-hundred-square-foot facility in bewilderment, “and I really can’t recall the last time anyone asked a question about art.” At his looked of horrified dismay, she assured him quickly, “We have several art teachers in the community. Usually people with a question would simply ask one of them.”

  Derrick looked both cautiously relieved and disappointed. “Oh. Well, I suppose that’s all right then.” He added helpfully, “Our friend Lindsay is an art teacher. Perhaps you know her. Lindsay Wright.”

  She drew breath for a reply but at that moment a woman came up with a stack of books and she excused herself to attend to them. Paul took out his BlackBerry and discreetly checked his messages while she was gone. “Still nothing from Lester Carson,” he murmured, frowning. “I’ve been calling him for two days. I know he got the invitation, I talked to his secretary.”

  “I thought she said he was in Beijing.”

  “She did, but he was due back Monday. I told her to enjoy the basket of blueberries that the invitation was packed in and I sent him a bottle of ’97 Montrachet yesterday.”

  “I knew sending perishables was a bad idea,” Derrick worried. “We should have just sent everyone wine.”

  “That would have spoiled the theme, wouldn’t it? The point is, I can’t call him again, he’ll think I’m stalking him. But how can we not have the travel editor from the Times? If he doesn’t come, what’s the point?”

  The librarian returned and Paul quickly pocketed his phone, smiling at her. Before she could resume their conversation, he spoke up. “I’m sure you noticed that my background is in journalism. Perhaps you’ve read my column?”

  She smiled politely but clearly had no idea what he was talking about. He tried not to be offended—after all, what could one expect in the country?—and redoubled his efforts to make her feel comfortable. “Many’s the fine hour I’ve spent in the library, naturally. The original Carnegie Library—that’s in New York—”

  “I’m familiar with it,” she assured him with a lift of her eyebrow.

  “Yes, of course,” he said quickly, moving on. “It was practically my second home when I was at Columbia.” He felt compelled to explain, “Columbia is a—”

  “University, yes, I know,” she said, and sighed. “Gentlemen, to be perfectly honest, generally our community service workers are teenagers who’ve been caught shoplifting or driving without a license. This isn’t a program that was designed for—shall we say?—the utilization of specialized skills. I don’t think …”

  At that moment, a door marked “Auditorium” opened on a cacophony of tiny voices and closed again. A rather harried-looking woman in a messy bun and a print dress that appeared to be stained with greasy handprints hurried over. “Excuse me, Miss Brendt, I don’t mean to interrupt, but have you heard anything at all from our volunteers? We have twenty-seven children today and with only SueAnn and myself I just don’t see how we can manage show-and-tell and refreshments. We’re barely keeping order as it is. Is there anyone you can call?”

  She started to reply, then smiled slowly. “No need,” she said, and turned to Paul and Derrick. “Your volunteers are here.”

  At first it seemed manageable. The Children’s Librarian, whose name was Cynthia, explained as she hurried them toward the Auditorium, “We’re in the middle of our Summer Reading Program. Today the children were asked to bring something that reminds them of a character from their favorite story, which means things are a bit more hectic than usual.”

  “I really don’t know much about children,” Paul warned her. “I don’t even have any nieces or nephews.”

  “I’m excellent at arts and crafts, though,” Derrick put in.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good to know. But you really won’t be interacting with the children today. If you could just serve the punch and cookies, it would be a huge help.”

  Paul smiled. “I have been serving punch and cookies since I was twelve,” he assured her. “It will be my pleasure.”

  “And of course,” she added, swinging open the door, “help wrangle the animals.”

  At first they thought she was referring to the children, and given the chaos into which they stepped, it was an easy mistake. A posse of noisy boys and girls was gathered in something vaguely resembling a circle around a young woman with a picture book. Her name tag read Miss Sarah, and she looked barely older than her charges. Though her voice was all but drowned out by the bouncing children who shot their hands up in the air and called, “Miss Sarah! Miss Sarah!” “Miss Sarah, Jeffery is sitting on me!” and “Miss Sarah, is it my turn yet?” she gamely soldiered on, a frozen smile on her face as she held up the book to show the pictures. Every time she turned the picture book toward her audience, of course, more children leapt to their feet to see, and they hardly ever
resumed sitting again. But the real zoo was not gathered around the beleaguered storyteller; it was lined up against the opposite wall, and it was, in fact, a real zoo. A liver-spotted beagle barked from its wire cage, a kitten yowled, a frog flung itself repeatedly against a clear plastic box, and a rooster crowed. There were other odd-looking objects against the wall as well—a glittered feather boa, a ladder made out of tin foil, a kite shaped like a shark.

  “I’m starting to think my early childhood education was sub-par,” Paul murmured, staring at the collection.

  “The Owl and the Pussycat,” Derrick said with a note of triumph in his voice.

  “What?”

  “The kitten. They were supposed to bring something that reminds them of a character from a story. The kitten is from The Owl and the Pussycat. Am I right, Cynthia?”

  Cynthia glanced over her shoulder at him, distracted. “Yes, I suppose so. Now, we’ve set up this long table for the refreshments. You’ll find the tablecloth and paper plates in that cabinet over there, and the cookies are in the overhead cabinet. I’ll bring the punch from the break room. Just fill the paper cups and line them up … oh, the paper cups are—”

  “Really, my dear, we can manage,” Paul assured her. “You just run get the punch, we’ll take care of everything else.”

  She did not look convinced. “We’ll serve refreshments right after show-and-tell,” she said. “That should give you plenty of time, but we do have almost thirty children today, so …”

  Derrick found the plastic tablecloth and shook it out with a snap. “Never fear, fair lady, we are on the job.”

  Paul’s phone buzzed as she hurried away, still looking uneasy, and he glanced at the ID. His expression changed dramatically, and he quickly answered, “This is Paul. Thank you so much for returning my call.”

  Derrick moved close and before he could ask, Paul mouthed “Bobby Flay!” Derrick gripped his arm and held his breath.

  “Yes, that’s right, the fifteenth,” Paul said. “Naturally, we’ll be responsible for all accommodations and all amenities … yes, of course. Farm-to-table, absolutely … I completely understand, no problem at all. Totally artisanal, yes, that’s absolutely our trademark ... We’re expecting quite a few well-known names from the entertainment and political arenas, and the party will last the weekend. It really will be quite special. Yes, that would be wonderful … I certainly do … Thank you, I look forward to it.”

  He disconnected and turned to Derrick, who breathed, “You did not just get Bobby Flay to cater our grand opening.”

  Paul held up a cautionary finger but his eyes were brilliant with excitement. “Almost. It’s very nearly a sure thing. That was his assistant. She’s going to call me back.”

  “You,” declared Derrick, “are a genius! How did you do it? Who did you call? You are a master networker! You should give lessons.”

  Paul agreed modestly, “I really am, aren’t I? But it wasn’t really that difficult. I was the first non-food critic to write about him when he first opened his restaurant, and he called to thank me personally. Then I met him again at Madeleine’s party—you remember, you spent the entire next week pouting because you were on that buying trip and missed the party. ”

  “I did not pout,” Derrick said.

  “Anyway, we chatted for a while, and he said the next time I wanted to come to the restaurant to call him personally and he’d make sure I had a table …”

  Derrick pressed his hand against his chest. “You never told me that!”

  Paul tapped his forehead. “Genius, remember? I was saving the favor.”

  “Okay,” Derrick said, his mind racing, “this totally ups the stakes. You do not bring in Bobby Flay for anything less than the best.” He whipped out his phone and started scrolling through his contact list.

  “The invitations have already gone out,” Paul reminded him. “Sixteen pints of handpicked artisanal blueberries packed in locally crafted artisanal baskets cunningly wrapped in butcher block paper with the date and time printed in gold and a handwritten invitation tucked inside. We were up all night. It’s done.”

  “I’m talking about the entertainment,” Derrick replied, not looking up. “These people will expect something more than our clever wit and charming good looks.”

  “I told you, the chamber orchestra—”

  “I had something a bit more current in mind.” He drew in a breath and looked up, alight with a new idea. “You know who we should get?”

  “Celine Dion.”

  “I wish. No, that girl—oh, what’s her name?—who won American Idol a few seasons back. Cute, blonde …”

  “They’re all cute and blonde.”

  “I read somewhere she’s even from this part of the country. She’s huge on the charts. Everyone loves her.”

  “Carrie Underwood?”

  He looked up from his Internet search, eyes bright with delight. “No, but that’s a fabulous idea! Who could be more artisanal? Do you know her agent?”

  “I don’t know everyone,” Paul was forced to admit, a little uncomfortably. “Besides, I’m not sure Carrie Underwood is quite the right fit.”

  He started tapping keys again. “Who’s that other one? Actress, singer …”

  “Miley Cyrus?”

  Again his face lit up. “I love it! Perfect! Do you know anyone who can call her dad?”

  Paul returned a dry look. “I’m not even sure I know anyone who knows who her dad is. Besides, do you think Miley Cyrus is quite right for our brand?”

  “Patty McClain!” exclaimed Derrick, ignoring him. “That’s who I’m thinking of. You know her, she’s on the radio every minute. And yes …” He tapped more keys. “I’m right! She’s from Charlottesville—that’s barely a minute from here!” He lifted his eyebrows as he read the screen. “Seven million records. Definitely. Definitely, that’s who we have to have.” He started swiping the screen. “Surely we know someone who knows someone who knows her agent.”

  Cynthia came through the door just then lugging two gallon jugs of a liquid the color of antifreeze, casting a puzzled glance toward the table which had not been set and the cookies which were still in the cabinet. Derrick tucked away his phone and hurried to help her, while Paul began to unpack paper plates and cups with all possible efficiency. While they poured twenty-seven cups of the chartreuse-colored liquid and artfully arranged two chocolate-chip cookies and a folded napkin on each paper plate, show-and-tell began.

  The beagle, inspired by My Little Puppy and not, as Derrick had insisted, Snoopy from Charlie Brown, was brought out first and stood barking and lunging to the end of his leash while the little boy who was inspired by him shouted, “Sit! Sit!” and the other children shrieked with excitement and laughter. Miss Cynthia lost no time in thanking little Todd for his contribution and escorted the beagle back to its cage. As Paul explained to Derrick that Snoopy was, in fact, a comic strip character and not a character in a book and therefore ineligible for this event, a little girl stepped to the front of the room with the frog in the plastic box.

  “Now isn’t that nice?” Paul said approvingly. “No gender stereotypes. Good for her.” He applauded enthusiastically with the rest of the group.

  “The Frog Went a’Courtin’ ,” said Derrick.

  “That’s a poem, not a book.”

  “This is my pet, Toady,” said the little girl to a clatter of “oohs,” “ahhs,” and quite a few “eewws” from the girls. Paul and Derrick chuckled. When prompted by Miss Sarah, the child added, “He’s from my favorite story, The Frog Went a’Courtin’”.

  Paul missed Derrick’s smirk because just then his phone rang. He turned his back to the room to answer but Derrick got close to his face, whispering, “Is it—”

  Paul nodded and said into the phone, “Paul Slater.” Then “Yes, of course I’ll hold.” He pressed the phone to his chest and told Derrick, “Holding for Bobby.”

  “Oh my God, you’re holding for Bobby Flay.” Derrick began to fan himself and
Paul turned away again, covering one ear against a sudden burst of excitement from the show-and-tell circle.

  There was a click and Paul straightened his shoulders and smiled broadly, just as though the person on the other end of the line could see him. It was only the secretary. “I’m so sorry, it will be just a few more minutes. Do you mind holding?”

  Her last word was all but drowned out by a squeal and Paul covered his ear again.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes, just fine. Not a problem. I can hold.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Children, children, please take your seats! Make a circle, make a circle!”

  Paul glanced over his shoulder and saw a level of chaos he could have previously only imagined. Children were streaming everywhere, overturning chairs, crawling under tables and scrambling over them, screaming and laughing at the top of their lungs. Derrick was trying to herd a couple of them back toward the story circle, shooing them like geese, while Miss Cynthia stood in the center of the room and clapped her hands sharply, looking completely at a loss for what else she might do to restore order.

  The little girl who had had the frog charged toward him, crying, “Toady! Toady!” and Paul realized what all the excitement was about approximately half a second before the frog bounded through the air from a nearby table and landed in the punch bowl. Green punch erupted across the table, spraying Paul’s face and jacket and shoes. Squeals of excitement and laughter broke out as more children rushed the table and Derrick rather desperately tried to ward them off. The little girl dived for the frog in the punch bowl and Paul ducked as the slimy creature, now even greener than before, squirted through her fingers and into the air.

  It was at that moment that a voice said in his ear, “Paul, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Paul, straightening, heard Derrick cry, “Be careful!”

  And the little girl screamed, “Toady!” just as Paul stepped back and felt a sickening, squishy crunch under his foot.