Sparrow Road

by Sheila O'Connor

“Another time. Today you’ll have to stay here by yourself.”

  “Alone? At Sparrow Road? Mama, there’s nothing here for miles except for hills!”

  “The artists,” Mama said, although we hadn’t seen them. “Surely one of them would be near if some emergency occurred.” Sparrow Road had cast some kind of crazy spell on Mama. At home Mama worried when I walked six blocks to the library. Mama always acted like I’d be snatched off of some street. Grandpa Mac did, too. Now she was going to leave me in the country by myself?

  “I want to go with you. There’s room for me in Viktor’s truck.”

  “No.” Mama stood, then offered me a hand. “I’m afraid today I’ll need to go with Viktor.”

  By the time we finally made it to the main house, I was too mad at Mama to listen to Viktor’s dull descriptions. Instead I kept my eyes out for an artist, someone who’d be nearby at least while Mama was in town.

  “Well, it certainly is spotless,” Mama said the minute we stepped inside the house. I could tell she was relieved.

  It was almost spooky clean, like a house where no one lived. The dark woodwork was all polished, floors and ceiling beams and benches. Crystal chandeliers sparkled in the sun. It smelled like Holy Trinity, our church back in Milwaukee—hot candle wax and lemon polish, a trace of sweet perfume. A wide, grand wooden staircase curved up from the front room.

  Viktor cleared his throat. “The artists keep it tidy.” He raised his lanky arm and pointed down a hallway. “Our poet, Lillian Hobbs, has the room off of the library.”

  “A poet?” Mama said, surprised. “How nice. Raine writes.”

  “I wrote,” I said. “In fourth grade.” Back when my teacher, Sister Cyril, told me to put my imagination to good use. But I didn’t want Mama to tell my past to Viktor. Not a word.

  “Our other summer artists—Josie, Eleanor, Diego—all reside upstairs. And each one has a shed where they create. Although Lillian and Eleanor often work here in their rooms.” He’d already pointed out the little sheds as we’d walked across the meadow. Two in the tall grass. Two tucked back in the woods. “Of course the artists’ sheds, their rooms, all those spaces are totally off-limits. Always. Like the silence until supper; that rule must be honored. The artists came for quiet. They must be left alone.”

  Viktor made it sound like every rule was for me, like there was no place for a kid at Sparrow Road.

  “We understand,” Mama said. I could tell she wanted to get Viktor off the rules.

  “And here”—Viktor led us to a gleaming tiled kitchen where copper pots hung from silver hooks—“is where you shall prepare the evening meals. As you wished.”

  “You wished to make the meals?” I asked Mama, but Mama just ignored me.

  “Every day but Sunday,” Viktor said. “On Sundays you are free.”

  The smell of peanut butter and warm toast lingered in the kitchen. Maple syrup that reminded me of home. Earlier, an artist must have eaten breakfast. I wondered where they were this morning, what they looked like, if one of them would be here when Mama went to town. Close enough to help if something happened?

  And which one left that basket at our door?

  4

  Mama ordered me to lock the door and stay put in our cottage, but the minute I heard Viktor’s rusted truck rumble from the driveway, I headed toward the main house to wait out on the porch. Even if the artists were all strangers, I felt safer near my neighbors, the way we lived at home.

  I perched on the weathered porch swing, gave it one good push until it swayed. I couldn’t believe Mama went off to town with Viktor. My first letter home, I’d write it all to Grandpa Mac; I’d tell him how she left me my first day. How she took me to a place where I couldn’t speak.

  “Oh my.” A wobbly, weak-bird voice floated through the window. “Another child left here all alone.” The front door opened, then slapped closed. A tiny, frail woman shuffled toward the swing. “I’m Lillian Hobbs, dear girl.”

  Lillian? The poet Viktor mentioned on the tour?

  “I’m Raine,” I said. “Raine O’Rourke.”

  Lillian reached down and brushed her hand over my shoulder. “Dear child, did you come here for a home?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m just waiting for my mother.”

  “I’m sure,” Lillian said. “All our children are.” She shook her head. “I hope you’re not too scared.”

  “No,” I lied, “not really.” Twelve was too old to admit to being scared, even if all the empty in the country scared me some.

  “Well, good for you. You’re brave.” Lillian was old. Not old like Grandpa Mac or Viktor, but a fragile, feeble old I hoped I’d never be. “May I join you on the porch swing?” she asked. “Perhaps a friend would help.”

  Even though Mama warned me not to interrupt the artists, Lillian was the one who interrupted me. I hadn’t done a thing but sit outside. “Sure.” I held the porch swing steady. “Be careful sitting down.”

  When she finally settled safely on the swing her little legs dangled in midair. She was child-small, with snowy hair that fell softly to her shoulders and skin so thin I could almost see her bones. She smelled like powder and sweet soap.

  “Sad?” She made a little frown.

  “No.” I was mad and sad, homesick and suspicious, with a mix of other feelings in between. “Mostly I’m just waiting.”

  “Of course.” She smoothed her flowered dress against her lap. “The other children? Do you know where they’ve gone?”

  “Children? I think I’m the only child here.”

  “Oh no, dear.” Lillian patted at my leg. “You’ll see them soon enough. Perhaps they’re down at Sorrow Lake. Sometimes at night the children sleep there in this heat.”

  “No,” I said. “There were no children there.”

  She gave me a sweet smile. “You won’t be alone here. You’ll have a happy home at Sparrow Road. Everyone is scared in the beginning.”

  “The beginning?” Lillian made it sound like I’d come to live forever. “I’m just here until September,” I said. Mama promised Grandpa Mac.

  “We all like to think so.” Her pebbled eyes were milky. “We may not be your family, but we’ll try our best to be.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I already have a family.” I had Grandpa Mac and Mama, but right now both of them were gone.

  “Yes,” she said, “everybody does.” She pulled a pack of faded kid’s cards from her pocket. “Old Maid?” she asked. “It seems to be the one game the new ones always know. Especially a girl your age.”

  A girl my age knew more games than Old Maid; I hadn’t played Old Maid since I was little. “Sure.” I shrugged. Any game was better than sitting in our cottage all alone.

  Lillian reached back into her pocket, fished out a linty lemon drop, and handed it to me. “Sugar,” she cooed. “It helps to heal the heart.”

  The two of us played Old Maid on the splintered picnic table with the tinkle of pink shell chimes clinking in the breeze. In between hands Lillian sent me inside the silent house for warm apple juice and crackers. A kind of kindergarten snack that reminded me of days when I was small.

  When we got tired of Old Maid, Lillian told stories. She told me she didn’t write poems until after she was sixty, and that this summer she’d come here from a horrible high-rise for seniors in St. Paul. A room so far above the earth she wasn’t sure most days if she was already in heaven. She told me she had taught piano to 237 students, and that Viktor Berglund was a prodigy, a child who studied music with the masters in Vienna. A composer. She said Viktor brought her here this summer to put more poems on paper.

  “They’re all right here.” She tapped her wrinkled finger on her heart. “I carry them inside me. I don’t need to write them down.” Then she leaned forward and lowered her weak voice to a whisper. “Please don’t tell that to Viktor.” She looked back at the house to make sure no one was watching.

  “Tell what?” I said. I wasn’t ever going to speak to Viktor Berglund.<
br />
  “I didn’t come home to write poems. I came home to help the children.”

  “Home?” I asked. Was Sparrow Road her home? Hadn’t Lillian just said that she came here from St. Paul? “The children?” I looked out toward the woods, the gravel driveway, the endless hills of green. If there were kids at Sparrow Road, I sure hadn’t seen them.

  “Yes.” She put another lemon drop into my hand. “At Sparrow Road, the children must come first.”

  5

  “Ah yes, those missing children!” A man’s deep voice boomed out through the doorway. “It looks like one has finally arrived!” He was barefoot, in a tropical pink shirt and lime shorts that hung loose to his knees. He didn’t look like an artist; he looked like he was headed for a beach. His smile was wide, his teeth so white they dazzled in the sun. His happy brown eyes gleamed. His wide belly and big shoulders made me think of Grandpa Mac.

  “Well, good morning, lovely Lilly.” He planted a loud kiss on Lillian’s old cheek. Then he reached out and shook my hand. His skin was warm and soft, his handshake kind, exactly like his face. “Diego Garcia.” He smiled at me. “I apologize for the appearance. Late night working in my shed.”

  So he really was an artist?

  “I’m Raine,” I said. “Raine O’Rourke. My mom’s the summer—” I didn’t want to say maid. Or housekeeper or cook. I didn’t want Mama to be their servant. Or for me to be the daughter of the maid.

  “Her mother’s gone,” Lillian whispered grimly. She made it sound like Mama left for good.

  “She just went to town for groceries,” I said quickly. Lillian patted at my leg like she thought I was confused.

  “Groceries?” Diego asked. Then another lively smile covered his wide face. “Oh, I get it now! Your mother’s our new chef! The one Viktor said was coming.” He drummed his hand against his belly.

  Chef? Mama wasn’t a chef exactly, but at least it sounded better than the maid.

  “We’ve been starving since Estelle left us in mid-June. She moved to Fargo and Viktor couldn’t replace her until now. The four of us have made do on our own.”

  “Not starving,” Lillian corrected. “No one starves at Sparrow Road.”

  “Right.” Diego laughed. “Not if you count Josie’s odd concoctions. Her horrible carrot stew. Or my dry meatloaf. Or the applesauce you love.”

  “Everyone has duties,” Lillian said. “I teach piano and help the children with their spelling.” She looked at me. “We shall start your lessons soon.”

  I was a straight-A speller, but I didn’t tell her that.

  “You can start my lessons, Lilly.” Diego winked at me like we were on the same side of a secret. “I still can’t spell Albuquerque and I lived there as a kid.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t spell it either. “That’s like Milwaukee, where I’m from,” I said. “Lots of people can’t spell that.”

  “Milwaukee?” Diego looked surprised. “You sure came a long way.” The way he said it brought the homesick straight back to my heart.

  “Ten hours on a train,” I said.

  “All that distance just to work for Viktor?”

  “I guess,” I said. “Mama took the job.”

  “That so?” Diego sipped his coffee. “Your dad here with you, too?” I knew what he was asking, the same thing everybody asked when it was only Mama and me.

  “No dad,” I finally said. I tried to say it straight, confident, the way Mama always did. No dad. Two simple words. No other explanation, no matter who asked Mama. Even me. No dad, like that should be enough.

  “No?” Diego frowned. “Not ever?”

  I shook my head. My ears burned at the tips. I hated questions I couldn’t answer. And even more I hated how often I was asked.

  “I’m sure you miss him, dear,” Lillian said. I was missing something but I couldn’t say what it was. Or who it was exactly. A kind of puzzle piece I couldn’t picture.

  “Well, enough of that,” Diego said. I could see that he was sorry he had asked. Lots of people were: teachers, parents, doctors. “How about we get started with my spelling? Dumb. D-U-M-M,” Diego joked. “I should be able to spell that.”

  For a while we sat there in the sunlight, Diego with his coffee, Lillian quizzing us on easy words to spell. On some, like reindeer, I did better than Diego, and every time I did Diego laughed.

  “I should go,” I finally said. Happy as I was, I didn’t want Viktor to come back and catch me with the artists; I didn’t want to be the kid in everybody’s way. “I know you need your privacy.”

  “Privacy?” Diego said. “It’s Sunday! We have privacy all week. It’s your company we need. Plus, you still need a tour of the house.”

  “Viktor gave us one this morning.”

  “Viktor’s tour,” Diego scoffed. “My tour is top secret. The Sparrow Road you’ll never see with Viktor. Come on, let’s do it while he’s gone.”

  “I shall wait here for the others,” Lillian said. “If there’s an empty bed, please put her in the blue room.”

  “Will do.” Diego winked at me again. “Don’t you worry, Lilly. We’ll get it all worked out.”

  6

  Diego led me through the back door of the house. “This,” he said, “is what we call the Secret Passage.” He opened up a door to a steep, dark, narrow staircase. “The servants’ entrance from the old days. It’s what Josie and I take to get up to our rooms.”

  When we reached the second floor, I followed Diego down a hallway dim with daytime shadow, where every door was closed. From somewhere in the darkness I could hear the drone of clicks. Click, click, click.

  “That’s Eleanor.” Diego rolled his eyes. “She’s another writer here this summer. But nothing like sweet Lillian. All she does is type. Day and night. The good news is she rarely leaves her room. Except for dinner, you’ll hardly have to see her. Just don’t let her catch you roaming through the house.”

  “I won’t,” I said. I wasn’t going to come up here alone.

  “Here”—he tapped against a door—“is where I sleep. Most of these upstairs rooms have gone to ruin. They all need work. A house this old, it’s tough to keep it up. Viktor had some painters here, but they quit the day we came. Viktor doesn’t want the restoration to interrupt the artists.” He motioned down another hallway. “That’s where Josie sleeps. If she sleeps.” Diego laughed. “Mostly, she’s in search of some adventure. Wait until you meet her, your life won’t be the same.”

  “Does she paint eggs?” I asked. So far, I hadn’t solved that mystery. And I couldn’t imagine Diego embroidering those napkins. Eleanor didn’t sound kind enough to leave a basket at our door.

  “Eggs?” Diego raised his eyebrows.

  “You know, like colored eggs for Easter?”

  Diego laughed again. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I trailed him down another shadowed hallway until he stopped, reached up to a ledge, and slid down a silver key. “This little jewel,” he said, grinning, “Josie just discovered! I don’t know how she found it, but she did.”

  He slid the key into the lock and led me up another staircase. At the top was an abandoned attic room, the air so thick I could feel it in my throat. Gauzy cobwebs hung over the windows. Dust clumps littered the old floor. There were rows of metal beds, some bare down to the springs. Someone had taped kids’ drawings on the walls.

  The attic had the haunted feel of lives left off in the middle. “Who lived here?” I asked. “The servants?”

  Diego plucked a tarnished penny off the floor and handed it to me. “Orphans,” he said.

  “Orphans?” Were those the children Lillian imagined? The ones who played Old Maid? The ones who slept down at the lake? “In this attic?”

  Everywhere were scraps kids left behind—broken crayons, silver jacks, glass marbles. Small forgotten things that reminded me of toys I used to buy from the bubble-gum machine at Grandpa’s store. Parachutes and rings and fake tattoos.

  “Yep,” Diego said. “Back when
Viktor’s great-grandsomething owned this huge estate he leased it to a charity. Folks who made a home for kids. Sparrow Road Children’s Home. Josie found the nameplate in some box out in the barn.”

  I counted off the empty beds. Ten, twenty, thirty. “Thirty orphans?”

  “Probably more,” Diego said. “No question this old house had the space.”

  “But where did they all go?”

  “Grew up.” Diego wiped the sweat off of his forehead. It felt like we were roasting in an oven. “Like everybody else.”

  “When did they all leave?”

  “That’s Josie’s latest mystery.” Diego laughed. “She’s always looking for a story. And I’m pretty sure she’s going to find one here.”

  The whole room was a mystery—the empty beds, the drawings, the dusty trinkets some kids must have loved. I felt like if I waited long enough voices would float out of the walls. “Can’t she just ask Viktor?”

  “Viktor?” Diego scoffed again. “He won’t talk about this place. Not any of the history. Too many old ghosts here.”

  “Ghosts?” Suddenly I pictured wisps of orphans swooping through the dark, slipping through our cottage walls while Mama and I slept.

  “Not real ghosts,” Diego said. “Old ghosts is a phrase. You know, like the secrets people keep. I get the feeling the orphanage is history the Iceberg would rather not remember.”

  “The Iceberg?”

  “Oh, that’s our name for Viktor. The Iceberg. Josie made it up. It’s fitting, don’t you think? Impenetrable. Cold.”

  “Yes,” I said. The Iceberg was the perfect name for Viktor.

  “Speaking of—” Diego squeezed my shoulder. “Let’s finish off this tour before the Iceberg ends our fun.”

  7

  The last stop on Diego’s tour was the tower. “It looks cool from the outside,” Diego said. “But it’s ten times better standing at the top.” He pointed to an iron ladder bolted to the wall. “With all their money, the Berglunds should’ve built a staircase. But you’ll see it’s worth the trip.”