by Minick, Jim;
He took off his bowler when Ada greeted them at the door. He had a round face, black hair parted in the middle, and a trimmed mustache. The woman and daughter both wore feathered hats, and they both glanced at Ada as the man introduced them. The women’s hats distracted Ada. She had seen them in catalogs and knew they were expensive.
“Are you Ada Franklin, the healer?” the man asked after introducing himself as Walter Stottimeir.
“Yes, I am,” Ada answered. She was used to strangers coming to her door, but not wealthy ones. She tried to focus on the man’s face but found herself glancing at the hats, especially the daughter’s. She was probably twelve or thirteen, and her hat had pheasant feathers streaming out, rich tans accented by coffee-colored felt.
“We’ve driven over an hour to come see you,” Mr. Stottimeir said. “May we come in?”
Ada said, “Of course,” and opened the door.
They sat on the sofa while Ada made tea. The man rested his cap on his knee and told Ada that his daughter, Isabella, had epilepsy. “About a year ago, she started having seizures. They’d come maybe once a month. Then once a week. Now she has at least one fit a day.” He paused, bracing his hands on his thighs. “I’m a banker,” he continued. “We’ve taken our Izzie to some of the best doctors in the country, in Baltimore and Boston and Colorado. We’ve given her some of the most advanced treatments, and none of them have worked.”
The mother and daughter watched Ada set out the cups and saucers. They both sat upright, more poised than even Mrs. Whitmore, their previous preacher’s wife.
When Ada handed him a cup of tea, Mr. Stottimeir looked her in the eye and asked, “Do you think you can help us?”
Ada waited to answer. She took her cup and sat across from them.
“I don’t know,” she said and then sipped her tea. “I’ve never treated anyone with fits. I’ve heard of other healers stopping them, but never seen it myself. But the Lord is a powerful God. He can do anything if we just invite Him.” She set her cup on the table. “I need to go upstairs and look in my books. I want to see what they say.” The family waited in silence as she mounted the creaking steps.
Later, when Ada entered the room, she pulled two chairs from the kitchen table and asked Isabella to sit in one. The young woman hesitated, but her mother gently pressed her forward. Ada sat across from her.
“I looked in my books, and they told me two different cures,” Ada kept her eyes on the young woman’s face but directed her words across the room. “Then I turned to the Bible and found what I needed. In the Gospels, Jesus cured a man’s son who had fits, so it can be done.”
Ada softened her voice and talked to the girl. “I’m going to say this chant for you, Isabella. OK?”
Isabella nodded.
“We need to take that hat off.”
At these words, Mrs. Stottimeir hurried over to unpin the hat. She squeezed her daughter’s shoulder before she sat back down.
“I’m going to hold your head while I say it three times. You just close your eyes and don’t worry none.”
Ada waited for Isabella to close her eyes, and then she leaned forward, her knees touching the young woman’s. She placed her hands on Isabella’s cheeks and felt her rough callouses against the girl’s smooth skin. Her fingers found Isabella’s cheekbones before settling on her temples.
The chant was long, and as Ada repeated it, she felt the tingling in her hands intensify. They grew hotter and began to sweat, and she felt Isabella getting warmer, her whole body tensing. For the first time, Ada felt something different. In seven years of practice, she’d always had the sensation that she was a conduit, the Lord working through her, a one-way channel. But now, she also felt the other person’s emotions, even her thoughts.
Ada understood that this blaze of heat building in Isabella was what she felt just before she blacked out, before her body disappeared into someone else’s. She saw Isabella lying on the playground, her schoolmates standing around, some in awe, some laughing as her body jerked on the hard-packed dirt. One boy shouted, “A spastic snake.” Another threw a rock that hit her in the stomach. But Isabella didn’t feel it, and later, after her body grew rigid and quiet, after she woke to a headache and a fuzzy world, she wondered about the bruise.
Ada’s fingers throbbed as they pressed into Isabella’s temples. She started the chant the third time, and suddenly, both of them felt a fire inside, a deep burning, a quaking that rushed upward through their bodies in one long, violent shudder of release. All fear vanished. All thought disappeared. For a moment, there was only a pure whiteness. Then slowly the fire burned out, and they both felt nothing but cool blue.
Ada dropped her hands and sat back, watching Isabella open her eyes. She heard a voice, faraway, growing closer, and turned to see Isabella’s mother, asking, “Are you all right? Isabella, are you all right?” Her father was there, too, both of them touching her shoulders.
Isabella nodded and grabbed their hands. She looked up, smiling, and said, “Yes, Mama, I’m fine.” Then she hugged Ada and burst into tears.
In the restaurant lavatory, several women entered talking loudly. They quieted when they saw Ada, who looked at her half-eaten sandwich and didn’t remember eating any of it. She broke the rest into pieces and scattered them on the windowsill for the birds.
A small breeze blew through the window, and Ada wondered what had happened. How had she seen Isabella having a fit on the playground? How had she felt that fire? And now, how could she feel nothing at all?
That wasn’t the end of Isabella’s story. The family had thanked her as they left, and Isabella and Mrs. Stottimeir both hugged her. At the door, Mr. Stottimeir held her hand and offered to pay. Ada refused. “I can’t take money for God’s gift,” she explained. “But I would like to hear from you. Will you let me know how she does?”
The father nodded and turned to join his family and drive them away.
A month later, a box arrived in the mail. Ada opened it to find a hat just like Isabella’s, a rich coffee color with a glorious pheasant feather. She gasped with pleasure as she turned it in her hands and tried it on. Her mother smiled and said it fit perfectly.
In the accompanying letter, Mr. Stottimeir wrote that this hat was a small thank you for all Ada had done. “Isabella has had no seizures since we visited you, and this gives us great hope.” He ended his note: “Our life has truly become a miracle, thanks to you, Ada. Thank you so very much.”
In her bedroom, Ada admired her hat in the mirror. “It’s so soft. And it matches the new Easter dress you made me, Mama.” Her mother nodded in agreement.
Then her mother noticed one of the feathers jiggling loose. “That’s a surprise.” She held Ada’s head and tried to secure the quill into place. It worked free again, so when Ada tried, she noticed a piece of paper in the way. She pinched it with tweezers and pulled out a tightly rolled twenty-dollar bill.
“Mama, look.” Ada held up the bill, and her mother shook her head. They both knew she couldn’t keep it, that if she did, it would go against the Lord and Isabella’s fits might return. In her lap, Ada stretched the green bill between her fingers. For a moment, she thought about those new shoes, and then she placed the bill on her dresser, next to the hat.
That Sunday, Ada wore the hat to church and glowed in the compliments. She tried not to think about the scuffs on her best pair of dress shoes. When the offering plate came down her pew, she closed her eyes and quietly gave the twenty-dollar bill to God.
So was that why she couldn’t heal? Was her desire for things of this earth the reason God had left her? Doubtful. Something else, something deeper, was the cause. But what? And had He really left her? Doubtful on that one, too. He was here, but something in her had closed.
She crumpled the sandwich bag and gazed out the window one more time. The Esso boys hustled from car to car, and Ada picked out Aunt Amanda’s nephew. He had a certain goofy confidence, his strides carrying him across the pavement. And he kept looking t
oward the building, not at her, but around the corner, out of her view. What did he see, what drew his attention? Then she headed back to work.
14
Same Day
The raven rode in its box on the passenger seat as Will drove. He couldn’t reach Aunt Amanda, and Scoop finally agreed to let him off work for an hour.
“You’re a pretty thing,” Will said. Magnificent came to mind, the bird was so beautiful. He knew he should fear the raven, especially that stout beak, but he didn’t. For some reason, the bird felt like an old friend. He hummed to it, asked questions, but the bird stayed quiet. It stared at where its foot used to be, and Will whispered, “It’ll be all right. Just you wait. It’ll be all right, now.” The raven settled into the towel.
Will followed Woody’s directions through Hopewell, slowing as he passed the Franklin homestead. The sight of the charred walls made him suck in his breath. How could anyone run into that? Another car came up, so he drove on.
Just as Woody had described, the one-room schoolhouse sat beside the house yard. Will pulled in beside the mailbox with “Hoover” painted on it. A man wearing a straw hat mowed the yard. When he saw Will, he shut off the mower and wiped sweat from his forehead. The raven squawked at the noise and sudden stopping.
“Are you Mark Hoover?”
“I am.” He held out his hand, which felt hot and sweaty.
“I’m Will Burk. I work up at the station, and Woody Watson sent me to you.” He shaded his eyes. “He said you’re a healer. Think you might be able to help this bird?”
Mr. Hoover pulled his shirt from his chest, billowed it for some breeze. He moved closer to look in the Plymouth. “Can’t say that I ever powwowed over a bird this big. I healed a neighbor’s parakeet of a broken wing one time, but that’s been years ago.”
The raven leaned away, watching.
“What’s wrong with it?”
Will told about finding the raven hanging from a tree. “I had to cut off its foot to get it free. And that wing doesn’t seem to tuck in right, see?”
Mr. Hoover nodded. “Think you can hold him while I have a look?”
“Yes, sir, I’m willing to try.” Will opened the door and eyed the raven’s massive beak.
The raven stared at them and panted.
“Easy now.” Will crawled in. The bird tried to scramble away, but he covered it with a towel and pulled it close. The raven struggled and twisted its head for a moment, while Will cooed and lifted it into the sun.
They moved into the shade of the schoolhouse, Will pinning the massive head under his arm. Drops of blood stained his shirt.
Mr. Hoover lifted the raven’s stump of a leg. “Whoa there, birdy. Whoa there.” As he uncovered the leg, his hand brushed Will’s, and Will felt the heat. Mr. Hoover’s forehead creased in concentration, his eyes squinting. He held the scaly leg and leaned close, putting his mouth inches from the wound. For a minute or so, he whispered a long string of words that Will couldn’t understand. Then the bird relaxed in his grip. When he stood, Mr. Hoover said, “That should stop the blood and ease the pain.” He stroked the raven’s back. “You all right holding him?”
Will nodded, but wondered, Did he really heal the raven? What did he just whisper?
“I’ll be right back.” He climbed the schoolhouse steps and went inside to return with a roll of tape.
“Let’s have a look at that wing.” They shifted the bird’s body, opening the towel to reveal shiny feathers, the wing that hung too low. With its good foot, the raven scratched Will’s belly, but Mr. Hoover held it with both hands until it quieted. Again, Will felt the heat of those hands.
Carefully, Mr. Hoover lifted the feathers, holding the wing out. “Right there.” He pointed to the crimped bones. “Not too bad, ol’ birdy.” He folded the wing close to the raven’s side, placing it in its proper place. “Can you hold it there?” Will moved his hand. Then Mr. Hoover wrapped the tape around the bird’s body, tucking it under the good wing. “Have to make sure we don’t get this too tight.” He slipped his finger under the tape. “Got to hold that broken wing in place long enough for it to heal, but not too tight or the poor bird won’t be able to breathe.” He wrapped more and more tape, covering the black feathers. Then he gently held both wings and took the raven from Will. The towel fell away.
“Let’s see how you handle this, Mr. Raven.” He asked Will to fetch the cats’ dish of water from the back porch. Will returned to place it a few feet from the raven, who rested on the ground, belly to grass.
“You need to walk for us, ol’ birdy.” Mr. Hoover crouched beside it. Will knelt on the grass.
The raven’s panting eased. It watched a crow fly far to the west.
“We’ll get you back up in the air, just not yet,” Mr. Hoover said. He dipped his finger in the water and rubbed a few drops on its beak. “There’s more where that came from, but you have to get it.” He scooted back and waited.
The bird looked at Mr. Hoover, then at Will, its black eyes shining. It tried to hop onto its feet but fell sideways onto its bandaged wing. It rested there a moment in an awkward stance, its good wing spread out.
“You can do it,” Will coaxed.
The raven tried again, and this time it fell forward onto its beak.
“Can’t imagine losing a foot and the opposite arm on the same day,” Mr. Hoover said.
The bird settled onto its belly and panted. Mr. Hoover dipped his fingers in the water and dribbled some on the bird’s beak. Most slipped into the grass, but a few drops made it into its mouth.
“Have you noticed he’s stopped cowering?” Mr. Hoover asked. “Like he knows we’re not out to hurt him.” They both waited as the bird rested.
“He’s not like any bird I’ve ever known,” Will said in a low voice. “I’ve never been this close to a raven, but I’ve been around lots of other birds, and this fellow looks you in the eye.”
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Mr. Hoover asked, watching the raven.
The raven tried to move again. It pushed itself up to stand on its left foot, using the good wing as a prop.
“Attaboy,” Mr. Hoover said. “Now, get you a drink without drowning.”
The raven hopped toward the water, hopped again, and then settled on its belly and panted. Mr. Hoover moved the water closer, and the bird took a beak full and tilted its head back to drink. It dipped and drank, emptying the bowl.
“I think you’re going to make it.” Mr. Hoover returned with more water. He set the dish out of the raven’s reach, but the bird only looked at it before tucking its beak under the taped wing, the posture of sleep. Its eye stayed open, though, watching.
“I could probably fashion a pen for him here,” Mr. Hoover said.
“Thanks, but I think I can talk my aunt into letting me have part of her chicken pen, at least for a while. Or I might bring it to my apartment.”
They watched the raven and talked a while about the barn fire. Mr. Hoover told him that his wife, Rebecca, was over at the Franklin farm now, helping Kate in the kitchen. “My sister’s in a hard place like you, ol’ birdy.” He nodded to the raven. “Her hands all burned. But we’ll get you both fixed up soon enough.”
As they talked, Mr. Hoover eased toward the bird, so that soon, he was close enough to stroke its back. “We’re not going to hurt you now. Just you take it easy, and that wing will get better in no time.”
The bird relaxed under his touch, but it didn’t close its eyes.
In the same soft voice, Mr. Hoover said to Will, “I need you to do what I’m doing.”
Will eased closer, and soon he felt the tender ridges of each feather vein. “Think I can pick him up without the towel?” he asked.
“I do.”
Slowly, he gathered the bird into his arms. “You pecked me this morning, but I think you’re over that, aren’t you?”
The raven closed its eyes and fell asleep.
Cicero
Those dreams of flying—shit—they were
both wondrous and horrible. I’d glide and swoop and ride a thermal higher and higher, the mountain far below. Loot would be nearby, gronking in that windy joy. We’d slip along the currents, chasing each other, somersaulting in glee. And then I’d shift my wings. And then the pain. Oh, that pain would crack me awake.
Or sometimes in the dream, I’d fly into a pine tree, thinking I heard Loot making our special call. I’d slip in low to land beside my honeypie. But I’d find an empty tree, and Loot cawing farther and farther away. I’d fly on, following that voice, but there never was a Loot.
Then I’d wake to look down and see there was still no foot.
My god of all grottos, I don’t ever want to feel that hollow again. Ever.
15
Will worked the pumps but kept looking toward his car.
“I think the boy’s in love,” Woody said to Teacup.
“She’s a looker, too.” Teacup plugged a nozzle into a car.
Woody tilted back his head and let out a loud gronk. “That’s how ravens say ‘I love you.’”
“Give it a break.” Will tried not to smile. “You’ll scare all the ravens away with that kind of noise.”
“Guess I’ll have to practice.” Woody lifted the car hood. “Or just listen to you, Mr. Whippoorwill.”
Will looked up from the gas pump. Woody ignored him as he leaned over the engine. It was the first time he’d been given a nickname other than Will.
“That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it, Teacup?” Woody shouted across the island.
“What’s that?”
“Whippoorwill. I think we just found us a new name for ol’ Burk, here.”
Will said nothing. He tested the idea and liked the sound of it. “How’d Teacup get that name?”
“When he was ten, he fell out of an apple tree and broke his arm in two places,” Woody said. Teacup moved to the truck island, out of hearing. “When he was twelve, he fell out of the same tree and broke his other arm in the same places. His dad looked at him and said he was as fragile as a damn teacup, and so it stuck.”
