The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

“Trust me,” I tell Ellie. “If a loup-garou were out there, Gator would have found it by now.” This makes Gator laugh again, exposing a missing molar.

  Beneath the stuffed bobcat rests a set of clear plastic drawers, two rows of six, each sealed tightly and heated with insulated bulbs. Muted patterns of grays, browns, greens, and yellows press against the faded plastic fronts.

  “What are those?” Ellie asks, curiosity getting the best of her again.

  “Snakes,” Gator says. “I breed ’em. Got about six different kinds. Go on, open ’em up. They won’t bite.”

  I give Jay a wary glance and he steps in. “Venomous?”

  Gator snickers, as if we’re the biggest fools he’s ever seen. “Boas. Ball pythons. King snakes. You tell me.” Then he teases that we can’t possibly be from LP if we don’t know the answer. “They’re safe. Same ones I’ve brought to school a hundred times. You remember how to handle them?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ellie beams.

  “Have at it.” With this he moves into the kitchen, inviting us for lunch.

  Ellie wants a better view of the reptiles, opening one drawer at a time before pulling a yellow serpent from the bin. The snake is about as long as her arm, and she wraps it around her wrist before lifting it high for observation.

  “Good choice,” Gator tells her from the stove. “She’s a banana. Ball python. Sweet little thing.”

  I try not to squirm as the snake slithers against Ellie’s elbow. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile since the field trip. Once I’m certain she’s safe, I leave her to enjoy the harmless serpents and join the men in Gator’s kitchen, still fully in sight of Ellie. The room is small but tidy. In fact, there isn’t a single speck of dust to be seen anywhere. In contrast to the cluttered yard, Gator keeps a spotless house, clean and organized, which helps me feel a little better about all his feral pets.

  Gator serves us heaping helpings of the fried catfish, hush puppies, and corn maque choux he’s been keeping warm on the stove. The rich aroma tempts Ellie to leave the snakes and join us in the kitchen.

  “Wash your hands,” I tell her, setting the table for four. Jay offers a quick blessing, and we begin. As we gather, our minds are miles away in New Orleans, where we sat on Gator’s bus counting kids and discovering that Sarah was no longer with us.

  “Gator, you’re an incredible cook,” I tell him. “Best catfish I ever had. Where’d you catch it?”

  “Right there in that pond,” he says, nudging his head toward the window.

  “I see you’ve still got the bus out there.” Jay eases into the conversation we’ve been avoiding.

  Gator lifts his eyes and gives Jay a haggard look.

  “You know they need it back, Gator,” Jay persists.

  “They want it? They can come get it. I ain’t never gettin’ behind that wheel again. Not as long as I live.” Gator takes a swig of sweet tea.

  Jay tilts his head, nudging me to take the lead.

  “I don’t blame you, Gator,” I say. “I’ve been a wreck all week. I don’t want to look at that bus, much less go inside it. But we have to get it back to the school. So what should we do?”

  He stares at his food for a while before answering. “Some folks are acting like I’m the one who took her. How could I have done anything? I was with the bus the whole time.” Gator looks at Jay, pleading his case. “I swear, I didn’t do it.” Then he looks at me and at Ellie, repeating, “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

  Do I believe him? He lives on the fringe of society. He looks for opportunities to be around children, driving the school bus, visiting the classrooms. He’s a bit of a loner, preferring to associate with his own relatives back here on family land. In a way, he’s exactly the kind of person who could do something like kidnap a child.

  It suddenly dawns on me that we should look around Gator’s place. Sarah could be right here and we’d never know it.

  “We know you didn’t do anything wrong, Gator.” Jay sounds sure.

  Calm down, Amanda. I talk myself back to sanity. You’ve known Gator all your life. He’s never given you any reason to doubt him. And neither has Jay.

  “I always bring the same number of kids home as I bring out. Leave no child behind.” Gator’s hands are shaking. “They questioned me. It don’t look too good that I got a record.”

  I try to reassure him. “They have to look at every angle. It’s their job.” I steady his hand. “They’ve questioned me many times. People probably suspect me too.”

  “They do?” Ellie questions, surprised to think of me in this light.

  “I’m sure they do, Ellie. I was the last one with her.”

  Her eyes grow wide and she says, “No, Mom. I was.”

  This reality hits hard, and the three of us stumble over one another’s words, trying to convince Ellie that no one blames her for Sarah’s disappearance. But I’ve said the wrong thing, and there’s no changing Ellie’s mind. The fault, she now believes, is hers.

  After lunch we move back outside, where Gator tinkers with his four-wheeler and ignores Jay’s requests to drive the bus back to Livingston.

  “I told you, I won’t touch it. I’ll die before I ever drive that bus again.” Gator runs his hand across a frayed wire beneath the gas tank of his ATV.

  Jay leans against his truck, petting Boudreaux. “Well, I was hoping we could follow you to drop off the bus and then maybe swing by my office. Let you go out with the river patrol. Get away for a while. Somewhere the media won’t find you.”

  This elicits no response. So Jay continues. “Or maybe I could drive the bus back for you.”

  “Gator?” I intervene. “That’s a good idea. Ellie and I can follow in Jay’s truck. We’ll get it back for you, and you won’t have to look at it every day. That’ll help, don’t you think? Out of sight, out of mind?”

  Gator wanders off toward the woods, and I follow. “Gator?”

  He keeps walking, and I match his pace. Ellie keeps up. “I know you love your job. Driving that bus. You don’t have to quit it, you know?”

  No reply.

  “How can we help you, Gator? What can we do to make this easier for you?”

  He finally comes to a stop in an open glade. The noon sun streams into a dome of light, gleaming through the evergreen canopy that circles us. When he turns to face me, his eyes are red and watery. He inhales.

  “Just get it out of here,” Gator says. “Take it. I’m done.” He spins again and heads deeper into the woods.

  “Gator?” I chase after him, Ellie at my heels. “We know you didn’t have anything to do with it. In time everyone else will too.”

  Again, no reply.

  “People will beat you down as low as you will let them.”

  Finally he slows down, then turns. “That’s the thing, Mrs. ’Manda. Everybody ain’t nice like you.”

  I pull Ellie against me, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “This is hard for all of us, Gator. We’re being tested, and some people will be cruel.”

  He nods.

  “But we have to remember the real one suffering here is Sarah. She’s the victim. The rest of us are on the edge, trying not to let the horror pull us under. We can’t let that happen. Because if we give up, then who’s left to fight for the truth? Who’s left to fight for Sarah?”

  He wipes his eye and gives me a look that could melt my bones.

  “It’s up to us,” I tell him.

  He lets this sink in. Then he gives a quick nod before turning to Ellie. “It’s up to us.”

  Part 2

  For the Lord is the Spirit, and wherever the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.

  —2 CORINTHIANS 3:17

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, November 25, 2004

  Thanksgiving Day

  “GOOD MORNING, SUNSHINE.” AS ELLIE ENTERS THE LIVING ROOM, I drop a kiss on the crown of her head.

  She carries her favorite quilt to the sofa and lies back down without responding.

  “H
ow should we spend our Thanksgiving? It’s not too cold. Want to go to Jay’s camp? Get away from it all?” I don’t say what we’re both thinking. How is Sarah spending her Thanksgiving?

  Ellie pulls the blanket over her head. “I’m tired.”

  No matter how many counselors try to help her, she hasn’t been the same since Sarah went missing nearly a month ago.

  “How about we take a little walk then. Get some fresh air? Just me and you.” I sit at the end of the couch, and she puts her feet in my lap. Outside, the sound of a hammer pounds in pulses. “Your father’s already working on the shed. We could help him.”

  From beneath the cover she mumbles, “I’m going back to sleep.”

  I sit for a while, letting her socked feet rest against me, wanting more than anything to take my daughter’s pain from her. At twelve years old, she should be laughing and having fun with her friends. Or at least excited about being out of school for the Thanksgiving holiday. Something.

  I pick up the remote and flip on the TV. The voice of an NBC announcer breaks the silence. “. . . live from New York City with our telecast of the 78th Annual Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.” Katie Couric and Matt Lauer wish the world a happy Thanksgiving from Herald Square. Performers stand around them wearing patriotic outfits, waving red, white, and blue. Then the screen switches to a drum line, where jolly Al Roker is reporting from uptown.

  In our previous lives, before what we now call The Day, I’d already be in the kitchen, basting a turkey and preheating the oven. The counter would be filled with ingredients for stuffing and pies, casseroles and cookies. Mom would still be alive, walking in with deviled eggs and green bean casserole, the kind using cream of mushroom soup and dried onions. She’d joke about her gourmet cooking skills, and we’d all give her grief for it. With love.

  Carl would likely be in the attic, hauling down the Christmas decorations, and Ellie would be watching the parade on TV, making her Gratitude List. She would read it aloud later in the evening, when we’d join Beth and Preacher at the church reception hall. After counting our blessings, we’d open the doors to anyone who had nowhere to go for the holiday feast. Every year the seats would fill. But not today.

  This year new volunteers are hosting the dinner while Beth and Preacher search soup kitchens, hoping to find Sarah.

  I should be helping them, but instead I’m here with my own daughter. Still in my nightgown, I stare at the screen. Someone cuts the oversized red ribbon, announcing the parade route officially open. Brass bands begin to march across the set, and giant helium balloons are carried down 77th Street by a team of paraders handling the strings.

  “Look, Ellie. The balloons.” She has always enjoyed seeing the floating characters, but this year the magic is gone. She’s sound asleep as the massive toy soldiers float by, tethered against the blue. More than two million people line the New York City sidewalks, eager to enjoy an unusually warm November day. Normally the classic American tradition excites me too, bringing out a sense of patriotic pride. But not anymore. The tubas and trumpets, the costumes and revelry—they all bring me back to New Orleans and to The Day.

  Mom’s voice echoes from years of gentle guidance: Find the good, Amanda. Learn the lessons you are given. Embrace the pain.

  But this is different, Mom. I can’t find any good from this pain.

  As soon as I think it, the guilt surges through me. I know I should listen to my mother’s advice as she returns to me in memory. Plus, it is Thanksgiving and I refuse to drown in despair, so I turn off the television and sweep away my grief, grabbing a notepad from the end table. I uncap a pen, scribbling to draw ink to the tip, and force myself to list all the blessings in my life. Not what was good in my life before The Day. Not what I hope will be good in my life after we find Sarah. I focus instead on what is good right now. Today. Just as I have taught my clients to do as they navigate their own sorrows.

  I stare at the notepad, my scribbles a jumble of scratches. No matter how hard I try, I only see emptiness. Blank space. Loss. But as Ellie stirs, I manage to write my first gratitude.

  1. Ellie (my whole world)

  From there, the items come one at a time, dragging slowly across the page.

  2. Carl (fifteen years of marriage, more good than bad)

  3. Friends (Beth, Preacher, Raelynn, Jay, plus Viv, the perfect business partner)

  4. Our health (and insurance coverage for Ellie’s therapy)

  5. Our home (and our land where we plan to build)

  6. Our church (and the support they have offered since The Day)

  7. Our community (and the support they have offered since The Day)

  8. Our jobs (especially the flexibility that allows me to be a wife and mom)

  9. Finances that meet our basic needs (food, shelter, health care, communication)

  10. Faith (fragile as it is now)

  As I read back through my list, I am able to exhale for the first time in a month. Despite the gaping holes where Sarah and Mom once belonged, I still have much to be grateful for. Many people would trade places with me if they could. Right now. Today.

  I lift my eyes. Thanks, Mom.

  With Ellie back asleep, I ease my way from the sofa and out to the porch where I call across the yard for Carl. He comes around the corner, and I smile. “Happy Thanksgiving. You plan to take a day of rest?”

  My husband doesn’t bother answering. We both know he never stops working. But he does give me a quick peck, his lips salty from sweat.

  “We weren’t going to celebrate this year, but maybe it’ll do us good to have Thanksgiving dinner. Keep tradition for Ellie’s sake. Just something small. What do you think?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll run to the store before they close. We’ll keep it simple. Just the three of us.”

  “Okay.” It’s clear he’s not listening. He’s probably calculating dimensions in his head, counting the number of two-by-fours he’ll need to finish the shed.

  “How about we just go with a chicken? Sweet potato casserole. Maybe asparagus, pecan pie. Any requests?”

  “That works for me.”

  “Carl?” I wait for him to connect. “I love you.”

  He gives me a second kiss and says, “Love you too.”

  Hello Sparrow,

  Can you hear me? I hear you singing. And tapping my window. Are you trying to tell me something? Stay with me, please. I’m listening.

  Love,

  Sarah

  Hello Sparrow,

  The Lady gave me notebooks and a pen. She said I have to “keep them hid real good.” Then she pinched my mouth and warned me not to tell The Man.

  That’s what I call them. The Lady and The Man. The Man is mean. I don’t know why he is doing this to me.

  Keep singing, please. I’m listening.

  Love,

  Sarah

  Hello Sparrow,

  I know my letters are stupid. I shouldn’t write to a bird, but you’re the only one here I can talk to.

  Can you find Mom and Pop? Tell them I want to come home. And I’m sorry.

  Thank you, Sparrow.

  Sarah

  (The Man calls me Holly. My real name is Sarah.)

  Hello Sparrow,

  Today is Thanksgiving. I’ve been here almost a month. It feels longer. Sometimes I can’t remember things. So I’m going to write about my real life. The one I’ll go back to someday.

  In my real life, I make a Gratitude List. So does Ellie. That’s what our moms call it.

  Things I Am Thankful For:

  1. My sparrow (that’s you)

  2. My notebooks

  3. My pen

  4. Turkey and mashed potatoes (even though they were cold)

  5. The Man didn’t come see me today

  6. The Lady is nice sometimes

  7. I don’t have to stay in the box anymore

  8. I am still alive

  9. God is with me (I think) I know

  Saturday, December 18, 2004 />
  As we pull into the first truck stop, I gather our supplies. I carry a tote bag filled with fliers and magnets, staplers and pushpins, tape and markers. It’s been a month and a half since Sarah went missing, and this has become our standard action pack. We’ve gotten this process down to a precise method, and we attack it as if it’s a job—the most important task of our lives: finding Sarah.

  Preacher, with his giant heart, walks the darkened section of the back lot, knocking on doors of tractor-trailers, holding out hope that one of these men will have his daughter. A couple truckers have wired Christmas wreaths to the front grills of their cabs, and this particular gas station has carols playing over the speakers. A happy voice croons, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” I squeeze my hand into a fist around the bag’s handles, trying to reduce my rage. It’s as if the Fates are taunting us, laughing at our pain.

  Any other year we’d be at Beth and Preacher’s house, enjoying their famous Christmas decorations alongside hundreds of locals. But this year their holiday lights are boxed away, their yard remains dark. Their living room is without a tree, and no stockings hang from their mantel. Our church youth group is celebrating the holidays without their annual bonfire, and families will have to drive to Baton Rouge to visit Santa.

  Tonight, as Preacher talks to truckers, Beth and I make our way beneath the light of the Exxon sign, seeking out the station attendant to explain our search. Most of these people know us by now. Even the new hires tend to cooperate. Who would tell someone they can’t hang up fliers about a missing child? But regardless of how polite and sympathetic the employees are, they never have the information we need. No one has claimed to know Sarah. No one has brought her home.

  “The news coverage is dying down, Amanda. People are forgetting all about her.” Beth tapes another flier to a window while I hand one to a couple passing by.

  I don’t know what to say. Beth is right. Two months have passed and most people have moved on with their lives, especially now that Christmas has everyone so busy. The media buzz is gone, and the school superintendent suspended the weekend caravans to New Orleans, explaining, “Following the advice of legal consultants and with the discontinuation of organized searches by law enforcement, we can no longer provide transportation at the expense of the district. We are still committed, as individuals, to finding Sarah, and we will continue to support the Broussard family in every possible way.” Soon after the school’s announcement, the churches canceled their caravans too.