One Came Home

by Amy Timberlake

  Birds, birds, birds—a wing, an eye, a beak—they flew so fast I couldn’t pick out one bird. The sky was a feathered fabric weaving itself in and out, unraveling before my eyes. I felt dizzy. I could barely breathe.

  Out on the street, people dropped to the ground, arms thrown over their heads. If they screamed, I wouldn’t have known, because all I could hear was the sound of those beating wings. Horses reared up and yanked at their hitches. Dogs flattened their ears, put their heads down, and scooted under buggies and porches.

  Then Agatha brushed my elbow, startling me. She had changed into her oldest dress and covered it with her work apron. Oddly, she carried Ma’s tattered parasol.

  She winked at me, popped open the parasol, and stepped off the porch.

  I reached out to stop her because I thought she’d get hurt, but Agatha was already beyond my grasp. Wild pigeons are as big as crows. They fly fast and with much strength. They’ll knock you off your feet and cause all sorts of damage.

  Agatha, though, seemed to feel no fear. A current of pigeons flew low in the street before veering up over the roof of our store. Agatha ran toward this winged river, stopping short of collision by mere inches. Then she crouched down and edged underneath it.

  Bit by bit, Agatha lifted the parasol, forcing the rush of pigeons to adjust. Finally, she stood upright under a flood of birds that surged over and around, without stop, repeatedly and repeatedly, again and again, to infinity (it seemed). Agatha beamed at me and pointed.

  But even that triumph was not enough for Agatha, because then she spun. At first, she spun slowly, carefully. But soon she turned quicker, more swiftly still, until the fringe on the parasol shot out parallel to the ground. The pigeons pivoted, point-turning near Agatha’s right cheek—one after another after another. Locks of Agatha’s auburn hair came undone and lifted off her shoulders.

  Have you ever seen how iron filings circle a magnet? That was what this looked like. Except it wasn’t still and dead like iron; it was rushing, pulsing, and made of feathers, pumping hearts, and lungfuls of air. I could barely make out the pigeons, but I could see the center: my sister turning and laughing under that parasol. My fear slipped to the wayside, and I felt something like what I feel when I hear bells on horses, or streams running during the first spring thaw. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Agatha—sister, friend, guide to life, and the eighth wonder of my world.

  As if she heard my thoughts, Agatha stopped and pointed at me. “Come,” she mouthed. Her free hand gestured me closer. She nodded encouragingly.

  I wanted to. I did. I tried to pull my fingers from that railing, to instruct my feet to lift and step. But those images of bells and streams dissolved, and all I saw was a wind stirred by the evil winged creatures from Pandora’s box. I stayed.

  At the funeral, it was the memory of my refusal that made me cry. My arms pressed to my sides, the fabric of that borrowed black dress ripping under my armpits, the sound so loud I’m sure people heard it above the shoveling.

  When Grandfather Bolte put his large hand on my shoulder, I shoved him away and ran down the long hill from Mount Zion Cemetery.

  I ended up sitting in my oldest clothes down by the river, shooting gin bottles to pieces with the Springfield single-shot. Gin shacks had sprouted along the river with the influx of the pigeoners that followed wild pigeons. Now that the people had left, bottles littered the bank. I found those bottles convenient. Shooting settled me. I did not miss one bottle. I never do.

  Feathers flew up with each breaking bottle. Pigeon feathers that spring were like fallen leaves in the autumn—they were everywhere, in everything. But there’s a difference between feathers and leaves. Feathers claw their way back into the sky, whereas leaves, after flying once, are content to rest on the earth. Agatha? She was a feather. She pushed higher, farther always. I suspected my constitution was more leaf than feather. I hoped I was wrong about that, though, because I wanted to be like Agatha.

  Wherever she was. And I would find her.

  I lifted the rifle, took aim, and shot another bottle to smithereens.

  The blank side of a used store receipt lay beside me (weighted down with an old brick). I’d written “For Journey” at the top and underlined it. But my mind was elsewhere. Memories pressed in on me, so I had set the pencil down and picked up the Springfield rifle.

  The first thing I remembered was the fight in November. I heard Agatha’s raised voice, and then Grandfather Bolte’s coming from the proximity of his study. By this time I was in our bedroom, tucked in bed and, because of the cold, eagerly awaiting Agatha’s warm body beside me.

  Though I tried to hear, I couldn’t make out a word of the fight. Ma stepped into the hallway, knocked on the study door, and called their names. Hinges creaked. Ma and Agatha spoke. “Ask him,” I heard Agatha say. Next thing I knew, Agatha was in our room and closing the door behind her.

  She spoke rapidly. Agatha told me she’d asked for tuition money for the University of Wisconsin at Madison as her Christmas present. She explained how she had offered to spend her savings, which she said was enough for the first year’s tuition. But still, Grandfather Bolte had turned her down flat, saying the only thing she’d get at the university was a husband, and that could be found in Placid, Wisconsin, for free.

  She wouldn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, she lay down. I knew she wasn’t asleep—she was gripping her pillow like it was a log saving her from submersion.

  When I was sure she wouldn’t say more, I lay back upset. It was no surprise that Agatha wanted to study the natural sciences, but I’d never thought that meant more than reading books and rambling through the woods to observe and sketch. I’d never considered that she’d want to learn from a teacher, or to formalize it with an official piece of paper. It was a lot of effort, and for what? It would not lead to work. Grandfather Bolte was right.

  That she had enough money to go to university for one year was another thing altogether. Agatha was good at making money. She gave tours to ladies wanting to explore the river and its caves, and she sold seeds and seedlings in our store. But I had no idea she’d saved up so much money. Was it all in that tin box under the closet floorboard? I had never dared to look. The one time I happened to step on that particular board (and I swear that’s all I did), Agatha questioned me for an hour.

  No, I was not in favor of Agatha’s going to university, because it meant Agatha would leave Placid and me. Happily, Agatha did not speak of going again. I thought her craving for education was cured.

  * * *

  On Christmas Day, Grandfather Bolte gave me a present that made me yelp happily and hang on his neck. He told me I could take whatever ammunition I needed from the store as long as I showed him what I shot. Agatha wasn’t so lucky. Her present was a set of embroidery hoops, small to large. I do not know how she did it, but Agatha acted genuinely thankful.

  Then Ma gave Agatha the blue-green ball gown, and everything passed away in the presence of that lovely, lovely gown. The color in that silk was so subtle and shifting we carried the dress all around the house to see it in different light. “You can wear it at the New Year’s ball,” Ma said.

  Agatha did wear it to the Olmstead Hotel New Year’s ball. She made turn after turn around the ballroom in Billy McCabe’s arms while wearing that dress. Agatha’s auburn hair shimmered, and the crystal from the chandelier flecked Billy and Agatha in light. And that dress? The blue-green color caught your eye the way a hummingbird does: flicking in front of you, capturing your attention, then—suddenly—disappearing. As I watched Agatha spin around the ballroom, I heard my neighbors bet that by the end of January, Agatha Burkhardt would be engaged to marry Billy McCabe. I hated that idea. Marrying Billy was worse than attending the University of Wisconsin because Billy planned to homestead in Minnesota. Minnesota was so far away Agatha might never come home again.

  * * *

  Perhaps Billy asked her, I thought as I loaded ammunition into the Springfield. But if he did
, she must have said no. There were no engagements announced in January. I lined up the rifle, pulled the trigger, and nailed the brown bottle directly in the middle of the label. It disintegrated.

  I loaded another cartridge, took aim, and shot. I repeated the process again and again. Every once in a while, I imagined mourners gathering in our home, asking after me. I was glad to be far away, sitting by the river with a rifle nestled in my shoulder. One by one, I let the bright, crisp sound of shattering bottles clear my head.

  I shot the last bottle, set the gun down, and went to line more up.

  As I sat on my stump, I noticed my list. It said “For Journey” and nothing else. I picked up the pencil and wrote the one thing I knew I needed. Then I let the pencil drop and laid my hand on the rifle.

  While I fired at bottles, the last good conversation I’d had with Agatha came to mind. It was the middle of May. This was after I’d seen her kiss Billy and ten days before she left. In light of what happened later, the conversation seemed rife with portent, but I did not see it then.

  Agatha had been giving me the silent treatment for my big mouth, but that night:

  “Georgie?”

  Agatha’s voice. I pivoted to see.

  Agatha smiled. She patted the bed. I knew what that meant, even though she hadn’t done it since I was eight or so. I jumped into the center and arranged myself cross-legged. She climbed up and kneeled behind me. She undid my braids. Then she rested one hand on the crown of my head and used the other to drag a brush through my hair. Tingling ran through my body. I closed my eyes. It was going to be all right now. She’d forgiven me. I knew it.

  “There was once a wise old man who lived by himself in a forest lodge …,” Agatha began.

  In my mind, tree trunks lined up side by side and branches wove into a roof.

  “In the afternoons, the man liked to sit and think. He thought about everything—animals, trees, birds, insects, plants, and people. He thought about how things worked, and why things happened, and where each living creature belonged in this world. Because he spent so much time thinking, he became the wisest person in his village.…”

  “This is a story about you,” I crowed. Agatha never could tell a story that wasn’t somehow about herself, and Agatha could go on and on about the natural world.

  Agatha tugged harder on the brush. “It’s from the Seneca. Most of it, anyway.”

  I pretended I hadn’t said a thing and sat stock-still. The brush resumed its slow descent through my hair.

  “One afternoon, as this man sat thinking, a white pigeon flew into his lodge and landed on the man’s stool. Now, this was no ordinary pigeon. Instead, it was a messenger sent from another people, much greater than the wise old man and those in his village. The old man watched the pigeon, waiting. The white pigeon blinked at him with one eye, twitched, blinked at him with the other eye, and then spoke: ‘As a token of respect, the Council of Birds has decided to give a gift from my kind, the pigeons. Each spring, man will seek the wild pigeons. They will take some of the young and leave the adults. In summer, fall, and winter, man will leave the pigeons alone.’

  “The wise old man bowed and then rushed out of his lodge to tell the people. When he returned, the white pigeon was gone, except for one white feather that rested in the middle of the floor. The old man picked it up and studied it. As he did so, he saw another feather near a window ledge. He walked to that feather and picked it up, and saw a feather just outside. And so the wise old man walked from one feather to the next right out of his village. Feather by feather he picked out his path.”

  Agatha paused.

  I turned around and blurted what I’d been thinking: “When we own the store, you can leave anytime. You can do your studying. You’ll have to check with me to make sure I’ve got help, but after that you can leave. I won’t stop you.”

  My intention was to show her how bighearted, how magnanimous, I’d become. Yes, I’d told Mr. Olmstead, and perhaps I did feel bad about doing it, but it was for the best. She’d spoken to me and brushed my hair; I thought I was giving something back.

  Agatha pulled my hair into a braid—roughly.

  “Ouch!” I put my hand to the back of my head.

  “Nice of you to let me study. Maybe I wanted to get married to Mr. Olmstead.” She tied off the braid and let it fall against my back.

  “Then you shouldn’t have kissed Billy McCabe!” The words sprung from my lips.

  Agatha’s face reddened. “You should have talked to me first. Not gone straight to Mr. Olmstead.”

  “It was the right thing to do,” I said.

  She smacked the mattress once, hard. “Hair done. Time for bed.”

  “Agatha!” I said. But, as ordered, I got under the covers. Agatha joined me—wordlessly, of course.

  There was a long pause, then Agatha sighed and turned to face me. She grabbed my hand. “Listen to me, Georgie. I love you. No matter where I am, or what I’m doing, I always love you.”

  I blinked, confused. “I know. I love you too.”

  Agatha squeezed my hand and began to roll over. But before she turned away from me, I started in: “It won’t be so bad.… A living is as good an inheritance as anyone’s got. I’d make a fine partner.”

  Agatha groaned. “All you do is parrot Grandfather Bolte. I’m going to sleep.”

  “You’d be a full partner. I’m making you an offer. More than equitable too, given how much you like to wander off.”

  “You’re thirteen years old …,” said Agatha, moaning. She wrapped her head in her pillow.

  I leaned over her padded head and spoke to her nose. “I did the work of an eighteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old while you were busy with Mr. Olmstead.” The entire situation made me want to spit.

  “My sister, Georgie, worked so, so hard. Let’s go to sleep,” said Agatha. She grabbed at the covers and yanked them up under her chin.

  “I had to scrub that porch of pigeon droppings. And stock every other item. And help with the customers. Ma and Grandfather Bolte wore me out for you.”

  At this, Agatha huffed. “You liked it. You love that store. You are a store owner through and through. And I’ve never seen anyone take to numbers like you do,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with liking numbers? I’ve got a head for them. Which means maybe I shouldn’t be spending all day scrubbing defecation off pine boards! You should have seen my knees. Cracked up like the Sahairy Desert. It wasn’t fair,” I said.

  Agatha laughed. “What desert? Say it again.”

  “Sahairy Desert,” I said.

  “Sa-har-a,” she said.

  “It looks like ‘hairy’ in the books.”

  “Does not!” she said.

  “If you read it fast enough, it does! Anyway, you understood what I meant. You just made me say it so you could look well-read. That’s prideful,” I said. I couldn’t maintain anger, though. There was Agatha grinning at me. I fought a smile, lost, and grinned back.

  “They would have made you scrub lime no matter,” said Agatha.

  “Maybe. A deal? Spinsters? Together?” I held out a hand.

  “You never give up.”

  She did not take my hand. But all was well. “Glad you’re staying,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  “What did you say to Billy that day? He looked so pleased with himself. He whistled and whooped.…”

  “Georgie, shhh,” she said, and rolled over.

  “Please,” I said to her back.

  “Good. Night.”

  She would not tell me more. I rested my feet against Agatha’s calves. She didn’t resist the cold of my toes. And like that—my feet on her calves—I closed my eyes. I thought, From here on out, the situation can only get better.

  Of course, it did not get better.

  Ten days after telling the story of the white pigeon, my sister, Agatha, ran off. The date was Thursday, May 25. If the pigeons left with a great clapping sound, my sister slipped off with
no sound at all.

  * * *

  My family lived in ignorance for at least two days, mostly due to what we knew of Agatha’s character. On Thursday, we thought Agatha had gone on a walk after running that blacksmith’s errand she’d mentioned. On Friday morning, when Agatha hadn’t returned or slept in her bed, we thought she had spent the night in one of those caves on the Wisconsin River. Though it did not excuse the behavior (chastisement awaited), she’d done this sort of thing before, and Agatha had experienced the hardship of a broken attachment with Mr. Olmstead. Being outdoors was the only thing that made Agatha feel better.

  Saturday—the third day—worry set in. These worries centered on mishaps: losing her way (unlikely), twisting her ankle (possible), getting stuck in a cave (plausible). Grandfather Bolte and Sheriff McCabe set out to search Agatha’s haunts. They searched that day and the next (Sunday).

  It was on Monday that thoughts of the tin box under the closet floorboard began to beleaguer me. If Agatha found I’d touched it, I’d be in trouble. But it was the only way I’d know, and I didn’t think anybody else knew the location of Agatha’s savings. After a silent and solemn lunch with Ma, I opened Agatha’s closet and pried up the floorboard. As soon as I touched the tin, I knew. The tin rested too lightly in my hand.

  I went straight to Ma. “Her money was in this. She’s run away.” I held out the empty tin.

  Ma’s glance ricocheted off the bottom of the tin and landed on me. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

  Unexpectedly, I did. “Madison? The university? She was saving for tuition.”

  “Yes,” Ma said.

  Ma and I quickly searched the whole house to see what else was missing. Both Ma’s carpetbag and the blue-green dress were gone from the back closet. Then Ma sent me off to see the stationmaster. If Agatha had boarded a train to Madison, he would know. But the stationmaster claimed he had not seen my sister board any of the trains leaving town. Still, a lot of people were leaving town now that the pigeons had left, and Ma and I thought it possible that Agatha had escaped the stationmaster’s notice.