At least when Sierra had fallen in love with Spanish, she’d overcome her shyness to practice the language with a couple of neighbors and watched Spanish television shows. But with no one to speak Romanian with, her new words only drove her to endless Internet surfing alone in her room.
April didn’t feel right about letting Sierra spend time alone with Luca Prodan though. As much as she liked him, she didn’t truly know him. And how many likeable neighbors and uncles ended up on the news after some girl went missing? Even Nick didn’t think the relationship was a good idea.
She swallowed a couple of Advil to stave off a creeping headache and pulled on her sweats. Curling up on the sofa, she glanced at Sierra’s closed door. Would another visit to the elderly man resolve anything?
It couldn’t hurt.
On her next day off, April made up her mind. She drove over the bayou, marveling once again at the sudden change from gray to green, and parked in his driveway. He stood on the porch, washing his front windows. It looked like too strenuous a task. He strained to reach the top of the window, ran down the window with his sponge, and then wrung it out over a bucket, flexing his hand afterward, only to begin again.
April rested her head on the palm of her hand. Washing windows at his age? Impressive, to say the least. He had also recently planted pansies for the cooler weather, and his shutters appeared to have a fresh coat of black paint. He got around for one so frail.
She waved as she got out of the car.
He gave her a formal nod. He had seen her, but as was his way, he took his time to acknowledge her presence. There was something she liked about that. Everyone was always in such a rush. It was nice to see someone who wasn’t.
She met him on the porch. “Do you have plans? I was hoping you’d go to lunch with me.”
He gave her an unblinking stare as he wrung out his sponge over a bucket. “I have made a soup and fresh rolls. There is enough for two.”
April wanted to see this man out in public. Who was he? She wanted to get a feel for him, and the best way was to see him among people.
“I still remember those pastries you gave me last time I was here. You’re an excellent cook.” She flashed him a bright smile to encourage him. “But I have a coupon for Blue Ziti’s. It would be fun.”
He gave her a bemused glance. “Another time perhaps.”
He started back into the house.
She reached for his arm. “Please. It’s my treat.”
He turned back to her. “Why does a beautiful young woman want to spend her day with an irritable old man, I must ask myself.”
She let her hand drop and studied the pansies, then looked up at him seriously. “Would you believe me if I said the well-being of my family rests upon it?”
He stood still, inspecting her, and finally nodded. “Yes, I think I might.”
It took him several minutes to get himself into the passenger seat and to buckle his seat belt. All the way to the restaurant, he kept touching the window and looking up and down the street.
Once sitting at the booth in the restaurant, April studied Mr. Prodan as she flipped through the menu. In the restaurant’s muted light, he seemed more like the confident man she remembered. The restaurant was full, as always, but his eyes stayed on their table.
He ordered the baked fish and only ate a few bites. April ordered her favorite—baked ziti with mushrooms and an unseemly amount of melted cheese. She cleaned her plate.
As they ate, they talked about Sierra. He explained that he’d read her poems and shared books with her.
“Your daughter has a sharp mind,” he said. “But she needs permission to use it.”
If only he knew. A sharp mind didn’t come close to describing Sierra’s brilliance.
They talked about the book he was reading, written by an obscure Israeli author she’d never heard of. He asked her what she was reading.
“You wouldn’t find it interesting.”
He took a sip of water. “I enjoy all things in print. You must tell me.”
She wound a bit of left-behind melted cheese around her fork, embarrassed. “It’s a romance. Medieval.”
“Ah. And where would the world be without romance? What keeps the lovers apart?”
She should have picked up the Pulitzer she’d been meaning to read. But she’d wanted something light, and light it was.
“Well,”—she rolled her eyes—“there’s a duke’s daughter. But she’s in danger, so she’s hiding in an abbey. A wounded knight is under her care. He thinks she’s a nun, though, and being the honorable man he is, wouldn’t dream of interfering with her vows.”
“And yet,” Mr. Prodan broke in, “he cannot help but lose his heart to her. What of the woman? Does she return his love?”
“The knight has a seal in his belongings, which seems to implicate him in her father’s murder. She hopes desperately he’s innocent, because she’s never met another man like him.” She flushed. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“No, no.” He straightened his fork and knife next to his plate. “There is nothing silly about true love. It is good to escape from the harsher realities.”
An escape from harsh realities indeed. Knights and duchesses and true love that healed all wrongs. Oh, if only.
They moved on to talk about the weather and his garden. Mr. Prodan chatted, drawing her into the conversation. He was kind, intelligent, articulate. An old-fashioned gentleman. He could hurt no one. She could see no reason not to allow Sierra to visit with him. If the two spent their time in a public place like this restaurant, say, or the library, what was the possible harm?
While she paid the bill at the register, Mr. Prodan inspected a sales display of soup standing in a pyramid. She signed the bill and turned around to see him turn a jar of tomato soup.
“I wonder what ingredients they have used,” Mr. Prodan said.
Two policemen carrying takeout bags went by—beefy men with hard faces. But one stopped to steady the pyramid of jars, and his words were polite. “Careful, sir. They’re about to fall.”
“Yes, yes.” Mr. Prodan raised his voice, as if the man might be losing his hearing. He stared at the policeman wild-eyed, his hand still touching the soup jar. The officers shot him puzzled glances and went out the door. April laid the pen on the register. Luca mouthed something—quick, silent words. Not to her. He seemed to be speaking to himself.
He let go of the soup, and the entire pyramid went toppling to the floor with a crash. Glass and soup littered the space around him.
The cashier turned to someone behind her. “Get a mop out here, okay?”
April rushed to him. “Mr. Prodan …”
He stood in the middle of the puddle, looking impossibly boyish and helpless. “Take me home. Please.”
Poor man. She walked carefully through the broken glass. “What were they thinking, putting glass bottles in such a fragile display, right?” She forced a laugh.
He pronounced his words slowly as if she, too, were deaf. “Take. Me. Home. That is what I said, Mrs. Wright. I did not wish to come here with you. And I now wish very much to go home.”
She let the stinging words roll away and reached a hand to help him step over the mess. He refused her hand and did not meet her eyes.
“Careful with your shirt. There’s glass.”
April pulled aside the cashier, offering to pay for the ruined soup, but she waived her off with a bright smile. “No harm done. You go on and take care of him.”
Mr. Prodan refused to bother with the shards of glass lodged in his shirt. He refused to speak all the way home and sat without moving.
At his house, she intended to help him to his door, but he stopped her with a freezing glare. “I do not wish for your help, Mrs. Wright.”
He walked stiffly to the door. She sat in the driveway, taking out her cell phone and then puttin
g it back into her purse. She couldn’t just leave him, not like this. Nick would still be in school, but he’d be out soon.
She swung home to look up Nick’s address. Today was one of the few days she could be at home to greet Sierra after school, but she couldn’t let Mr. Prodan suffer alone at home, and she couldn’t talk about him to Nick with Sierra by her side.
He lived in a clean, manicured part of town. As she drove into his complex, she found slate-blue townhouses perched around a curved drive. Slender pine trees shaded the complex.
She sat on his steps. The half-hour wait was no hardship in a place like this. And it gave her time to organize her thoughts. How could she convey to him what had happened to his father in the restaurant?
He didn’t see her when he pulled up or as he strolled up the sidewalk, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Then he looked up and his face broke into a smile.
“Hey, Nick.” The soft, blue sky overhead and the smell of pines and wood smoke made her wish she had something better to say. “I spent some time with your dad today.”
His smile faded.
“Why don’t you come inside?”
He unlocked the front door and led her into a modern, well-furnished home. The opposite of his father’s house, she’d say. Modern couches and plush carpets made her think of a model home. A fireplace with ceramic tiles and built-in bookshelves re-enforced the image.
But happily, he had stacks of essays on the coffee table, an open book on the sofa, and a soda can on the mantel. While he opened the blinds, she stepped into the open kitchen. Despite the art deco flour jar and all the modern appliances, it was a good bet he didn’t cook much in here. His kitchen made her feel like an intruder, as if she might leave a smudge. She pulled a hand towel to make it a tad crooked. There, that was better.
She went back into the living room and sank onto the sofa.
He sat on a leather ottoman, facing her. “What happened?” Somehow he seemed to know she wouldn’t be there without a story to tell.
She pulled her arms around her knees. “There were two policemen.”
Nick closed his eyes. This wasn’t new territory for him then.
“Your dad kind of lost it. I took him out to lunch, and he accidentally toppled a soup display. He got very upset, hardly said a word to me after.”
“He’ll be fine.” Nick looked down. “He doesn’t get out much. For good reason.”
April melted against the suede cushion. “You’ll look in on him then?”
He nodded. “You wanted to know why I buy his groceries? That’s why.” Nick took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He pushed on the ottoman with his hands like he would get up, but he didn’t. He stayed there near her, their knees almost touching. “He gives me mostly grief for my trouble, but he’s my father. Someone’s got to look out for him.”
“You’re a good son then, Nick.” How could Luca Prodan intentionally irritate his son or give him grief? It didn’t fit with the intelligent, well-spoken man she had spent time with. Falling apart, sure. But being outright mean?
Nick’s eyes right then made her think of choppy, cold waters. She felt an unaccountable desire to take his hands in hers, to tell him she understood the pain of loving someone who couldn’t give you the kind of love you needed back.
Instead she picked up a black-and-white photo in a gilded frame off the corner table. A dark-headed couple with a little boy smiled in front of an outdoor café. Luca Prodan was so young and fit in the picture it gave her chills. His pride for his beautiful wife and their son shone out of the picture. Nick, a boisterous toddler, stood on a chair between them.
He stood and walked behind her to look at the picture. Something bothered her as she looked at the idyllic family. It was the young Luca Prodan.
“When was this taken?” She lowered her voice.
“1974.”
That was it. The man in the picture looked young, possibly in his early twenties, possibly even in his late teens. She would have guessed Mr. Prodan to be about eighty. “My math isn’t what it should be, but it doesn’t add up.”
“What?”
“His age. He looks so young here.”
“Ah. My father is fifty-nine. He’ll be sixty next month.”
She shook her head, trying to make sense of the twenty-year gap. There was no way the man she had lunch with today was fifty-nine. The white hair, the stooped shoulders, the graveled voice—they belonged to a much older man. She opened her mouth, trying to find the right question. “Fifty-nine?”
Nick’s jaw visibly tightened. “Wait here.”
Nick ran up the stairs. She could hear him open a drawer before running back down.
When Nick came into the room with another photo in his hand, she stood and stepped in close to look. This was of Mr. Prodan, too, but he was old, older than he had been when she’d left him this afternoon. His white hair was badly cropped, his cheeks sunken, some teeth missing from his attempted smile. His eyes were huge in proportion to his narrow face.
He looked like a ninety-five-year-old man, but there was more to it—the way his clothes hung slack on his frame, as if no one could find clothes small enough for someone so emaciated. He could have been a survivor from a Nazi concentration camp.
“He was twenty-nine in this picture,” Nick said.
She swung her head up to look at Nick. It took her a few minutes to find any words at all. “What … what happened to him?”
“My father spent five years in a communist prison. This was taken just days after he was freed.” Nick looked out the window. “He won’t speak of why he went to prison or what happened to him there. Not even what he did in the years after he got out, before he joined us in the States. This picture—and his inability to cope in public—are the only clues he’s offered about his missing years.”
“Oh, Nick,” April breathed. Luca had spent five years in a gulag? What had they done to him there? Starved him, clearly. Tortured him? It explained his reaction to the men in uniform today. Luca Prodan needed a friend.
But could Sierra be that friend? Men who had suffered trauma deserved mercy, but they weren’t always safe. She remembered a Vietnam vet in their previous neighborhood who almost killed his wife one night. For a few minutes, he’d believed she was the Vietcong. At the very least, Luca Prodan was prone to meltdowns. She couldn’t put Sierra in that position.
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey, Brown Eyes.”
Sierra stopped in the middle of the hall and waited for Carlos to catch up. It took him only two long strides.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
“Nothing special.”
“Yeah? Me, too.”
Sierra didn’t know what to say to that, so she started walking again. It didn’t seem to bother Carlos. He smiled and walked beside her as if she’d given him the answer he wanted.
On Saturday morning, she saw Carlos through her bedroom window. He was kneeling in the apartment courtyard with Ricky, laying stones for a new path. So that was the man who’d taken him in after his year on the streets. Ricky owned their apartment complex.
She knew she should get breakfast, but she stayed at the window. Even as he hefted stones into place, Carlos had a sly smile, like he knew a private joke.
He moved about his work with slowness, but he wasn’t lazy. He made her think of an animal in the wild, taking its time but poised to leap. That was it—he had a lion’s grace. She told herself again that she ought to go have breakfast, but she still didn’t leave.
In the early hours, it must have been cold, but later Carlos pulled off his sweater, working in only a T-shirt. Then, without warning, he looked up at her window. Sierra dodged behind the curtain quickly, but she saw him laughing. He knew she was watching him. He’d known the whole time. And somehow Sierra wasn’t sure she minded.
Th
anksgiving passed by with the necessary dinner at Aunt Hillary’s. In the first week of December a cold front blew in from Canada. The skies turned thick and gray, and storefronts turned on their lights in the middle of the day. At school, the hallways seemed more packed than ever with everyone in their winter coats. There was talk of sleet on the forecast.
Sierra zipped up her jacket. How would Mr. Prodan handle the cold? Would he be used to it after living in Romania for so many years? But he looked so frail.
After school, Sierra knocked on Mr. Foster’s classroom door.
He met her halfway.
“I wanted to make sure your dad’s okay.”
He didn’t answer right away. “My father’s in the hospital. I checked him in yesterday.”
She had known somehow he couldn’t withstand the weather. “What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s just pneumonia.”
“Just pneumonia?”
He leaned back against his desk. “No, not just pneumonia. He’s asthmatic and has low immunity to … well, just about everything. It complicates things. He’s getting special treatment at the medical center though. He’ll pull through.”
She stood hovering in the doorway, putting her hand against the frame to steady herself. She looked at Mr. Foster, willing him to offer something. “I need to see him.”
He opened his hands. “I’m sure he’d love to see you. Why don’t you ask your mother to bring you by?”
Sierra swiveled away and began walking home. It was drizzling and cold, and her coat and jeans were wet by the time she got there. She didn’t stop to change. She pulled off her coat and looked up METRO to get the bus schedule to the medical center. She grimaced when she saw it. It would take almost two hours and three buses to get there.
As she paced, she saw Carlos working in the courtyard. He wore a sweater and a ski cap but kept at his work, chucking blocks of broken concrete into a wheelbarrow. Sierra curled and uncurled her fingers. Two hours by bus or half an hour by car.
The Language of Sparrows Page 9
