Sway

by Amber McRee Turner

  “Syd Nordenhauer! You scared the wits out of me!”

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said. “I heard The Roast as soon as you guys hit the driveway.”

  I was relieved he didn’t say a word about my big zeeyut, probably because he had a humongous red bump on his own forehead that made mine look like a speck.

  “So?” he said. “Was it as wackadoo as you thought?”

  “More than you could ever imagine,” I said. “But it was the best kind of wackadoo.”

  I heard the screen door open as Aunt Jo greeted Dad and called for Uncle Clay to wheel himself out. All the things I wanted to tell Syd swirled around my brain.

  “Well then, spill it,” said Syd. “I want to hear details.”

  He leaned in to give me little push on the shoulder. When he did, I caught a glimpse of something behind him across the way, something that made me so mad I couldn’t hold back. There was Mom’s cloud piñata still dangling, all weather-beaten and frail, expectedly so. But it also had a big ugly gaping hole in the top of it, like somebody’s cousin had hit it with a stick.

  “Good grief, Syd!” I said. “You just had to go and bust it, didn’t you?”

  Syd’s eyes got wide. “Huh? What’d I do?”

  “The piñata. You smacked it open. I know you did, and you did it as soon as I left. Look at that hole!”

  Syd looked back over his shoulder. “Shut up dot com! I did not!”

  I gave him a nasty look.

  “No really,” he insisted. “Come here.”

  Syd pulled me by the arm to the spot right under the cloud and ran to grab a step stool from their porch.

  “I didn’t bust that hole, I swear it.” He placed the stool under the piñata. “Somebody else did.”

  All scattered around his feet and mine were what looked like tufts of cotton strewn about.

  “Now climb up there and have a look,” he said.

  When I climbed the two steps and took a peek inside the hole, it was lots more of the same. Cotton balls, Q-tips, gauze pads. Rescue supplies. So that’s what Uncle Clay had filled it with for Mom’s party.

  But the discovery didn’t end there, for in the middle of all that stuff, I saw and heard a rustling around that inspired me to poke my face closer for a better look. When I did, I was delighted to find that in a fluffed-up wad of cotton, there sat three little birds. Three baby birds, just barely feathered, bobbing their heads in near-perfect rhythm with the racing of my heart.

  I backed my head away from the hole, to find Syd doing an impatient foot shuffle. Aunt Jo, Uncle Clay, and Dad gave us three hearty waves from the porch.

  “There’s birds living in here,” I said.

  “Duhyees,” said Syd. “That’s what I wanted you to see.”

  “You mean they busted the hole?”

  “The mama bird did,” he said.

  I turned back for another peek. It was amazing how content the little family looked in their custom arrangement of dingy, matted fluff.

  “Don’t linger all day up there,” warned Syd. “The mama bird comes around every once in a while. And you sure don’t want to have your head in that cloud when she does. That’s how I got this poke on the forehead.”

  Despite the warning, I stood there watching the tiny birds, marveling at their comfort until my cousin chopped me hard in the back of the left knee.

  “Enough already,” he said. “I want to see inside The Roast while it’s still light out.”

  “Okay,” I said, rolling the concealed seed burr around in my fist. “But there’s something I want to do first.”

  “What?” he said.

  “It’s kind of a private thing,” I said, worried that Syd would make fun of my plan.

  “Oh, come on,” said Syd.

  “All right,” I said. “You can watch. That is, if you promise not to laugh.”

  “Omise-pray,” said Syd.

  Just a few steps over into our yard, I knelt down where the old dead Castanea dentata tree used to be, noticing that someone had kindly propped the little wire fence back up. Syd squatted close to me as I opened my hand to take a good look at the prickly seed casing inside it. The burr looked like a fuzzy baby alien resting on my palm. Soon as he saw it, Syd started to make his Twilight Zone noise, but then stopped short and changed it into a throat-clearing.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Seeds,” I said, prying open the prickly burr to reveal the shiny brown chestnuts inside. “They’re Castanea dentata seeds. I’m going to grow the tallest and reachingest Castanea dentata tree in the state of Alabama. Maybe in the whole country.”

  I paused a moment for Syd to slip in some kind of joke, but instead, real quiet, he just said, “Awes.”

  Then, together, Syd and I scratched out a shallow hole. The ground felt cool and crumbly between my fingers, and as we dug, I noticed a few loose, frail rootlets from the old Castanea dentata tree mixed into the dirt. It made me wonder if the ragged root pieces might somehow actually help the new tree to grow even bigger. While Syd waited, I pinched up the plumpest of the chestnuts and carefully dropped it at the very center of the hole. As I covered the seed with the dug-out dirt, I first made a wish for its safety and strength, and then said a prayer that the wish would come true.

  Sappy Castanea Dentata, I thought.

  Thankfully, no part of my ritual inspired Syd to do the usual cuckoo-clock doors with his hands. Instead, he just sat there patient and still until my business was done.

  “Hey,” said Syd, “maybe after this we can wash our hands with some, oh, I don’t know, magic soap?”

  “How do you know about the soaps?” I asked. “Did Uncle Clay tell you?”

  “Yeah, he told me,” said Syd. “Which is more than I can say for you, holding out on me for like fifteen minutes now.” He looked me square in the eyes and said, “All I know is, you need to let me into that RV now. I want to see that stuff.”

  Syd so had the look of a believer, it made me wonder what exactly Uncle Clay had told him.

  “Sorry, we’re a little low on inventory right now,” I said. “But Dad and I plan to fix that.”

  “Fair enough,” said Syd. “But shoot straight with me, cousin to cousin. Do the soaps really work?”

  “Better than you could even imagine,” I said.

  “Well, you better get me one soon,” said Syd, leaning in close to inspect my planting.

  “Hold up,” he added, scooping some extra dirt from outside the tiny fenced area. “Part of the seed is still showing there.”

  Syd patted an extra layer of dirt gently onto the mound. “You sure don’t want a critter to come dig it all up.”

  “Thank you,” I said, partly for the advice, but mainly for his being such a good permanent.

  “Hey, and thanks for the going-away present too,” I said. “It came in real handy.”

  I pulled the can it! box from my pocket to find the one thing I’d left in there—the worn label from our old Castanea dentata tree. I picked out the little paper and pressed it word-side-up into the dirt, right next to the seed mound.

  “You plan on that tag staying there forever?” asked Syd.

  “Historical marker,” I corrected him. “And only until the tree gets huge enough to have a plaque under it. Like someday when my great-grandkids come to see it.”

  I was imagining mine and Syd’s descendants washing with soaps carved with our own initials, when Aunt Jo called us over to the porch for some welcome-home snacks. Maybe a nice big bowl of Funyuns, I hoped, as Syd and I rose to our feet and dusted the loose dirt from our knees.

  “So just how high do we expect this thing to grow?” Dad said from behind me and Syd, startling the both of us. He’d walked up so quietly, and now just stood there staring at the clear expanse of the Alabama sky, the pride in his face brightening him like no green-and-yellow suit could ever do.

  “That high,” I said, pointing sharp and straight into the forever blue above. Soon as I did, I noticed a fat robin f
lying across the yard in our direction, so low it seemed that if I kept my finger in the air, she might scrape her belly on it.

  “That’s her!” yelled Syd, covering his face with his hands. “That’s the mama! Take cover!”

  Dad scooted up close behind and clasped both arms around me tight. Tight like he was telling the world, This one belongs to me, and don’t you even think about messing with her. Syd bent down to avoid a beak to the noggin, but it didn’t even cross my mind to do the same. Instead, I stood firm against my dad as that bird soared right on past, rising and falling on a breeze all the way back to her babies’ cloudy, cushy home.

  “Come on, Cass,” Dad said. “You’ve got some seriously muddy planter’s hands, there. Let’s go wash up for the party.”

  With the coast clear of birds, Syd took off for his porch, and I turned to follow Dad to our back door. As we climbed the steps, I reached into my pocket to make sure my last little sliver was still there. I squeezed it tight in my palm, and as soon as I locked my fingers around the soap, something happened that caught me by surprise. For the first time ever, I felt it. A zingle. And not just any zingle, but the kind that comes from the inside out. The kind that starts at your heart and travels through you with every beat. Like the warm, unmistakable feeling of it being well with your soul.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, I thank God for His mercy and for the numerous times He has rescued me from storms. Every name mentioned here represents some sparkly goodness He’s seen fit to swirl into my life.

  Thank you to Bryan and Lainey, my joy, my inspiration, and my partners in marching forth. To Verv, who taught me there’s nothing you can’t can. To Foof, for music, and for showing me how to run against the wind. To Julia, Fred, and Jamie for fortitude and Teaduncles. And to Aunt Becky, Tobes, Aunt Jo, and Dee Dee, for your unfailing sweetness to both little Amber and big Amber throughout the years.

  Thank you to Abby Ranger, whose editing guidance hasn’t a lick of wrength. And to Joanna Stampfel-Volpe, awes agent, for her unwavering belief in this story.

  Thank you to Cary Holladay, Summer Dawn Laurie, Liz Schonhorst, Caroline Abbey, and Amy Tipton for opening doors. To Hassen, Gibby, and Edmond, for my first ever review. And, of course, to Mr. Lightfoot for the melancholy.

  Day by day, I find myself sloshing over with gratitude for fellow Christians, family, and friends who carried me through my fight with cancer, enabling me to feel the zingle of a lifelong dream come true.

  You people are what Sway is all about. You are the glitters that have stuck.