Not a Sparrow Falls

by Linda Nichols

  Cuthbert’s eyebrow raised a millimeter.

  Alasdair tensed.

  “Perhaps, as in my case, the Lord’s work has led you away from the Lord,” the professor speculated, his voice soft.

  Alasdair relaxed and felt a momentary relief. This was on the target but not dead center. The probe had landed just short of the abscess. Still, there was truth here, unpleasant truth. He felt bitter amusement at the irony. He hadn’t even had the momentary pleasure of sin, the oblivion of an alcoholic binge, the surge of euphoria from a drug-induced high, the sensual release of illicit sex, the wanton satiation of greed. His had been a cold, gray sin, but it had led him to the exact same spot of desolation. The most insidious of the enemy’s tactics had been unleashed on him. Success. And success that was unassailable. Success in the work of the Lord.

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that now.” It was too late for a career change. Much too late for many things.

  Cuthbert lifted a brow and took another small sip of his tea. “I disagree,” he said.

  Alasdair frowned and waited for him to explain.

  “You could stop doing it.”

  Alasdair frowned at the ridiculousness of the suggestion. “How would I make a living? What would I do?”

  “Or more to the point, who would you be?”

  Alasdair felt a strike of irritation and didn’t bother to hide it. “I can’t see the point of abandoning the good along with the bad. Even if I have misaligned my priorities”—a point that remained to be established, he added to himself—“I hardly think resignation is the cure for the ill.”

  Cuthbert didn’t answer. He didn’t react at all. Taking a cigar from his pocket, he unwrapped it, then put it in his mouth and gave an imaginary puff or two, a habit that had always seemed ridiculous to Alasdair and now irritated him almost beyond endurance. “You don’t need to be salaried to do the work of the Lord,” Cuthbert said around the mouthful of tobacco.

  “Paul was a tentmaker. You could shine shoes and do the work of the Lord. He doesn’t need your speaking engagements and radio programs. The work of the Lord is nurturing souls. For that you don’t need a commission to preach.”

  “You’re suggesting I should walk away from everything I’ve worked so hard to attain, given up so much to achieve.”

  Cuthbert shrugged. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m simply pointing out alternatives. One always has a choice.”

  Alasdair shook his head slightly. His emotions roiled, though they hadn’t yet settled between anger and despair.

  Cuthbert spoke again, this time taking out the cigar. “I imagine it would be like picking a loose thread on a sweater,” he observed dispassionately. “Admitting you’d made a mistake.”

  Alasdair frowned. What in the world are you babbling about? he wanted to shout.

  Cuthbert turned the oddly penetrating eyes on him once again. “What I mean is, where would it end?”

  Alasdair set down his mug. He wanted nothing more than to leave. He didn’t though, and after a moment the professor gracefully picked up the conversation like a lost thread, wound it around to books and articles, their old familiar ground. Finally Alasdair felt he could depart graciously. “I suppose I should go,” he said when the conversation paused.

  “You haven’t eaten your sandwich.”

  Alasdair looked at the untouched plate. He’d lost his appetite. He stood up, and the professor followed him to the door and out onto the stoop; then the two of them paused, awkward at this last good-bye. It was snowing, and when Alasdair looked across the darkened street, he could see a small circle of light around the streetlamp. The flakes came from nowhere, floated across it, soft and yet relentless, then disappeared into its glowing penumbra, that region where light met dark and neither reigned.

  “Alasdair—”

  He turned. The top of the professor’s head shone in the light from the streetlamp.

  “Forgive me if I spoke out of turn. Please don’t hold an old man’s bluntness against him.”

  “I never would,” Alasdair promised him, and after one last handclasp, he stepped out into the cold night and walked over snow-carpeted sidewalks to the train. He would not hold his words against him. But neither would he forget that one last question. “Where would it end?” It would end in the churchyard, in the corner in the back, at a small square of earth marked Anna Williams MacPherson. That particular journey, were he to take it, would undoubtedly end there.

  Twenty-One

  “How in the world did you do that?” Lorna asked as she stood by the front door, preparing to leave for her night job. Bridie smiled. Lorna sounded as amazed as if Cam and Bonnie had learned to fly instead of just peepee in the toilet and sleep through the night.

  “Well, the potty training was helped along with M&M’s,” Bridie answered. “Besides, they were ready. And as far as their sleeping goes, I Ferberized them.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dr. Ferber. He’s a pediatrician who wrote a book. I checked it out of the library. Basically, you love them up all day and then ignore them when they cry at night.”

  Lorna smiled. “Well, they look more cared for than they have in ages,” she said, and her pretty brown eyes filled with tears. “Cameron’s saying words. Even Samantha seems happier. You are a treasure, Bridie.”

  Bridie felt a flush of pleasure.

  “Just look at all this,” Lorna went on, gesturing around her at the house. “Everything looks wonderful. I just can’t get over it.”

  Bridie nodded. She was pleased herself. Somehow painting and scrubbing and fixing things up had rearranged her insides as well. Taking care of a home and children had brought back memories of being mother to her brother and sisters. She’d often seen their faces in her mind’s eye this past week as she painted and cuddled and cooked. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain, and she wouldn’t wish it gone.

  Samantha thumped down the stairs just then and twirled around. “Ta-dumm,” she sang, holding out her arms.

  “Oh, it looks beautiful!” Bridie exclaimed.

  “Samantha, is this the dress you’ve been working on?” Lorna’s voice was filled with amazement.

  Samantha nodded with pride.

  “Why, it’s lovely.”

  “The collar’s a little crooked,” Samantha apologized.

  “Where?” Bridie protested.

  “I’m not sure I got the hem exactly even.”

  Bridie shook her head. “It looks good to me. Besides, it’ll never be noticed on a galloping horse. That’s what my grandmother used to say.”

  Lorna stood, eyes tearing again, looking back and forth at the two of them as if they’d just graduated or gotten married. Bridie hoped all the emotion didn’t spook Samantha. She needn’t have worried. Samantha was preening in front of the mirror on the coatrack. “It is pretty, isn’t it?” she asked.

  Bridie looked past the puckered side seams and the off-center collar. “It’s beautiful. And you did it yourself. You should be proud.”

  Samantha turned and looked at her, met her eyes for just a minute. “Thanks,” she said shortly. She darted for the stairs before Bridie could answer.

  “My pleasure,” she said softly to Samantha’s retreating back.

  ****

  Samantha carefully hung her dress on the padded hanger Bridie had scrounged from the attic. It was pretty. She held it up again. She wanted to look at it, not put it in the closet. She looked around for someplace to hang it and settled for the back of the closet door. Her Misfits poster was covered up, but oh well. She put on her pajamas, then turned down her bed and got under the covers. They were soft, not scratchy, and they smelled like roses instead of Clorox since Bridie had been doing the laundry.

  After a minute she went and got the box and pulled it close to her bed. Maybe she would do it tonight.

  She stared at it. Her heart started beating hard and her mouth got dry.

  All she had to do was reach down and pick up a journal. Just pick
it up and start to read.

  Samantha wanted to know her mother. She really did. She had pulled that box by her bed every night. She looked at the scrapbooks inside. She’d picked up each one and checked the dates in the front and put them in order. Every night she took the first one out and held it on her lap. She just couldn’t manage to get any farther than that. She sighed and stared at the box. Dad would be back tomorrow. Then Bridie wouldn’t be here at night anymore. She liked having Bridie here at night. The house felt full when she was here. It annoyed her that she liked it.

  She picked a book from the middle of the box. She flipped it open.

  I keep watching Samantha play with her blocks. She patiently builds a house, bit by bit, then when she is finished, she knocks it down. She stares at the mess for a moment, then begins building again. I think I know how it would feel to be a tiny person in that house of blocks. To build your world, piece by laborious piece, only to have a mysterious hand reach down from time to time and sweep it to bits.

  Samantha closed the book hard. She threw it back into the box, then sat and stared at it, blinking. She heard feet on the steps. Her door was open, and if she didn’t want company, she should close it. Bridie came closer, then poked her head into the room.

  “Hey. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  She almost said obviously not, but decided not to. “Not yet.” She glanced toward the box by the side of the bed. Bridie looked where she was looking. Her face didn’t change at all.

  “Can I come in?” she asked, all casual-like.

  Samantha shrugged. Her heart started thumping again. “I guess so.”

  Bridie strolled over to the dress again. “This sure is pretty,” she said, smiling. “We’ll have to look for some nice earrings to go with it.”

  “There’s a bead shop on Duke Street,” Samantha said. “We could make some.”

  “What a good idea!” Bridie gave her a huge smile like she’d just invented peanut butter or something.

  “It’s no big deal,” Samantha said, feeling grouchy and then mad at herself because she hadn’t really meant to act that way.

  “Well, good night,” Bridie said. She walked toward the door and put her hand on the doorknob. Samantha felt like she had once when she’d been messing around in the car and had played with the gearshift, and it had started rolling.

  “Light on or off?” Bridie asked.

  “What?” Her voice came out funny, all strangled sounding.

  Bridie paused and her face got serious. “What’s wrong?” she asked, taking a step closer to the bed.

  ****

  There was no answer. Samantha just blinked again, and her face froze into that hard look that could shatter with the wrong word.

  Ah. This Samantha was back again. Not the tough girl who stole wine and skipped school. This was the child from the church, the little girl with the sagging shoulders who’d penned the note.

  Samantha pointed her glazed eyes toward the floor again. Bridie followed her gaze. She felt a stirring of some odd emotion—dread or fear—when she saw Anna’s journals there.

  She sat down on the bed, thinking. Why should she be afraid of what was in those books? It wasn’t as if the contents were going to affect her in any way. And she had nothing to do with this family or this child, either, part of her brain reminded her. Cut and run, it advised flatly. Bridie rubbed her forehead. Her mind was a piece of window glass, and thoughts pelted and rolled off, none staying put long enough to examine.

  Samantha’s trauma increased. She buried her head into the pillow.

  Bridie reached out and rubbed the shuddering back, wishing someone else were here, someone who knew how to help. Who wanted to help.

  God, please send someone to help me, Samantha had prayed.

  Well. Here she was. Not exactly what Samantha had prayed for, but apparently she was the answer.

  “I can’t read them,” Samantha was saying into the pillow.

  Bridie felt a surge of a very familiar emotion. She hated watching things unravel and not being able to help.

  But you can help. You just won’t.

  Well, fine. Now she was hearing voices. She thought back to what she’d read about the long-term effects of drug abuse.

  You know who I am.

  Oh. Better yet. She wasn’t having flashbacks; she was hearing the voice of God. That was quite an improvement.

  Read the books, the voice suggested quietly.

  Bridie shook her head.

  Read them.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered.

  Samantha raised a startled face.

  “Oh no, I wasn’t talking to you,” Bridie soothed, rubbing her arm.

  Samantha stared at her. Well, at least she’d stopped crying.

  Bridie decided to throw all her chips onto the table. “Are you afraid to read them?”

  Head back into the pillow. More sobs, and suddenly Bridie couldn’t tighten her heart any longer. Her own eyes flooded, and it seemed she could almost see the sparrow plummeting toward the hard ground.

  “Come here,” she invited, and Samantha turned and buried her face in Bridie’s shoulder and hair. Bridie wrapped herself around the bony little body, kissing the curly head. “Shh. Hush, now. It’s all right.”

  When the sobs tapered off, Bridie plunged in, landing right in that spot where the angels tiptoed.

  “Listen,” she said, brushing the hair back from Samantha’s wet face. “I think you need to know what’s in those books, but I can guess how hard it is for you to read them.”

  Samantha looked at her wide-eyed, waiting.

  “Would you like for me to read them with you?”

  The tension drained from Samantha’s pinched little face. She nodded. The water level in her eyes rose again but didn’t overflow this time.

  So. She had caught this sparrow before she hit ground. A close save, but a save all the same. The thought flew by that the reverend wouldn’t exactly be happy to know the hired help was perusing his personal history. She had no right to pry into Alasdair and Anna MacPherson’s private lives. None whatsoever. Everyone would have a hissy fit if they knew.

  She smiled, the humor unavoidable. If they knew the truth about her, reading Anna’s journals would definitely be small potatoes.

  You came to help the child, her invisible friend reminded her.

  “That’s right, I did,” Bridie said, and suddenly the decision didn’t seem so hard to make. She wasn’t here to make friends with the father or the aunt. She wasn’t here to play house or mama to the babies, though those things had all been fun. She had come here to help the child, and this was how the child was asking to be helped. Besides, the worst that could happen would be she’d get caught, booted out, and then she could leave with a clear conscience.

  She could almost hear her mama, though, horrified, rebuking her for nosing around in other people’s private things. She hadn’t even let Bridie explore Grandma’s trinket drawer without asking permission.

  Well, she had done quite a few things Mama wouldn’t approve of. And on that thin comfort, she took the first journal from the box and climbed onto the bed.

  “You can sit up here,” Samantha invited in a rare show of warmth.

  Bridie scooted up beside her. Both of them leaned back against the pillows, and Bridie positioned the book on their laps.

  It was big and fancy, with a brown leather cover. Anna had written a word on the front with metallic gold paint. Ephemera.

  “What’s that mean?” Samantha traced the letters.

  “Let’s just see.” Bridie opened the book and pointed to the word, written again in beautiful script. “Ephemera,” she read, “The transient documents of everyday life.”

  “What’s transient?”

  “Here today, gone tomorrow,” she said softly.

  Samantha was silent.

  “This is the journal of Anna Ruth Williams,” Bridie read, and beneath the inscription was Anna’s picture. She was beautifu
l. The photo looked as if it had been snapped at a party. She was standing in a doorway, leaning against the wall. Her hands were behind her back, and she was smiling as if she had a secret. Her hair was long, curling loosely around her shoulders. She wore pearl teardrop earrings and a black dress.

  The next page had two pieces of heavy rag-rich paper attached meticulously to the scrapbook page. There were no glue bumps or Scotch tape. Again Anna had written in calligraphic script.

  I should be studying, but instead I am reading my favorite book, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Again.

  “What do you like about it that you read it over and over?” Father asked me once. I said I didn’t know, but now that I’ve thought about it, I think I like the way the White Witch’s power begins to crumble once the king is back in the land. I feel that way now. It’s as if spring is here, even though it’s October. Father says I’m giddy at being let loose at the university and I should keep my mind on my studies. I’m sure he’s right, but I believe I am happier than I have ever been. It feels so good to be away from home. I feel guilty as I say this. He is so kind to me and worries so, but sometimes I fear I’ll suffocate. Here I can breathe. I go to my classes, return to my room. My roommate is seldom here, and I savor being alone. I brew myself a cup of strong tea and just sit on the desk and gaze out the window at the leaves turning all shades of rust and russet and brown and gold. It’s raining today, and the wind tears them off and splats them onto the ground in wet clumps. It’s warm and delicious inside. The steam pipes clang and tap. I take another sip of tea and turn the page of my book.

  Bridie turned the page. There was a class schedule from the University of Edinburgh attached. Anna had been no slouch academically. Creative Writing, Ancient History, Physical Science, and Introduction to Classical Literature.

  “Go on,” Samantha urged.

  “Hold your horses.” Bridie shifted her eyes toward the photographs of Anna with her friends that were arranged artistically on the next page. Anna and two other girls were sitting at a table in a restaurant, mouths full, obviously enjoying their food. The menu was taped beside it—Brody’s Pub—with a circle around what Anna had ordered.

  The next picture was of Anna and a pleasant-looking young man. Not Alasdair MacPherson. Anna was wearing a silly-looking hat, and the man was carrying a huge bag. Bridie read the caption.