Silhouette of a Sparrow

by Molly Beth Griffin

  With no idea how to befriend such a companion as Hannah Harrington (and little desire to try), I walked in silence beside her and kept a bit of distance between us. She cast her eyes down. Mine took in the sights as Mrs. Harrington led the walking tour.

  “This is the entrance to the amusement park,” she said, her voice betraying an edge of malice as she gestured to the arched gates. The park swelled with joyous shouting and threatened to burst out of its fence. Later, I thought. Later I tore my gaze away and hurried along in the fat woman’s wake.

  Mrs. Harrington lumbered down a path that led us past the park and around the western shore of the bay.

  “The docks are here,” she said, “but the grand old steamers don’t run anymore thanks to this silly new obsession with speedboats. A few of the smaller steamers, the streetcar boats, still make tours of the lake. We do enjoy a ride on the Minnehaha now and then, don’t we, Hannah?” The pile of ribbons nodded her answer. “Perhaps we’ll take you on it, Garnet.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” I said, imagining myself in the midst of an expanse of water—a fresh lake breeze against my face and the swell of the waves rocking me.

  A strip of grass and trees ran along the western shore in front of us. “What’s up there?” I asked.

  “They call this park the Commons, after the Boston Commons. It’s all public land. I’d like to build a little summerhouse in that cove up there, but the city won’t sell. Pity. We’re buying in Florida instead. That’s the new promised land, you know, and it’s very reasonable to buy at the moment. There’s wonderful money to be made in real estate, even when you buy on credit.”

  I narrowed my eyes critically, but then I felt Hannah’s gaze on me and worked to change my expression to a neutral one until she looked away. Mother had often cautioned me against ever spending money I didn’t have. I snuck a look at Hannah and wondered if she was dressed that way because her family was rich, or just because they wanted to look rich.

  “In any case, there are public beaches up there and lots of pretty little inlets,” Mrs. Harrington continued. “Nice clean, clear water—not like those dirty city lakes—perfectly safe for swimming if you’re inclined that way and if you’ve brought a proper bathing costume. You don’t want to seem indiscrete. So many of the young people these days . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. Clean, clear water. I could hardly wait to feel it cool against my skin.

  “Off to our left here is the town proper,” she continued, gesturing widely with her fan. “Lovely little shops up there—all the necessities. It’s very quaint, makes a pleasant stroll. Ah, we’re nearly there.” She nodded toward a gleaming white building up ahead, set back from the park on a bit of a hill and across a narrow street, overlooking the lake.

  “Oh, it’s perfect,” I said. A grand double-wide staircase led up to a veranda that stretched the length of the building. Two more stories rested above the first, with windows looking east, over the Commons and the bay.

  At last we reached the front steps. They rose gently, not steeply like in a normal house, and it was easy to climb them with grace. A bellboy bowed to Mrs. Harrington and opened the main doors at the top. The lobby was large and richly carpeted, with a huge polished wooden counter for a front desk. An ornate radio stood in the corner with pretty little sofas and cushioned chairs clustered around it, their flowered upholstery clean and bright. Electric lamps nested on shiny end tables next to glossy copies of Ladies’ Home Journal and the daily paper.

  Mrs. Harrington led the way to our suite on the second floor. We had a modern bathroom, a small sitting room, and three bedrooms. Mrs. Harrington had already settled into the large bedroom with the bay window in the very center of the building, and Hannah’s little room nestled next to hers. Mrs. Harrington showed me to the tiny room in the northeast corner that looked out over the roof of the veranda toward the lake. It wasn’t much but it was all mine, and I could tell after just half an hour with the Harringtons that the privacy it afforded would be a relief. The maid had already unpacked my things into the dresser drawers and the closet, and the empty luggage sat on the top shelf of the cupboard like it had always lived there.

  “Meals are served in the dining room three times a day,” Mrs. Harrington said as I pulled back the heavy drapes, opened the window wide, and looked out at the lake. “The dining room is on the south side of the first floor, off of the lobby. Hannah and I will be down on the veranda when you’re ready to join us. We’ll leave you now so you can settle in.”

  I stood there awhile at the east window. Maybe I’ll be able to see cranes fishing along the shoreline from here, I thought. Then I pulled away to investigate the second window on the north wall of the building. It looked out on a huge silver maple tree. And that must be a heaven for songbirds. I’ll never, never close these drapes.

  “You have no modesty,” I said aloud to myself in my mother’s voice.

  “I need to wake up to blue sky in the mornings,” I replied in my own as I fastened the sashes firmly. “And you, Mother, are not here to chide me.”

  As my own words sunk in, I felt a great weight lifted from me. Without the confines of Mother’s anxious hovering and Father’s persistent gloominess pressing in on me, I felt light. I filled my lungs with fresh, country air and thought that there might in fact be some real health benefits to “taking the lake air” after all, even for me.

  I left the window and searched for my sewing kit. The maid had tucked it into the top drawer of the dresser, next to my stockings. I fished out a pin and took the chickadee silhouette out of my pocket. I tacked the little bird carefully over my narrow bed—the beginning of a new flock. I resolved to look for a grouse in the underbrush by the lake as soon as I could get out for a walk, so I could cut its image in honor of Mrs. Harrington.

  Then I changed into fresh stockings and made my way down to the veranda, ready for the Harringtons, ready for lunch, and ready for my glorious summer to begin.

  Blue Jay

  (Cyanocitta cristata)

  “Will it ever let up?” I whined to no one in particular, tossing my needlework aside in a huff. Hannah went on crocheting a doily beside me as though my complaining embarrassed her.

  “May I borrow your scissors?” Hannah asked. I handed over the plain ones from my sewing kit. She snipped the final bit of cotton on her perfect lacy round before passing them back. Her mother smiled proudly at the finished product and aimed a pointed glance in my direction. Hannah’s work was always lovely—she finished projects quickly and seemed to enjoy every stitch. Her mother’s glance said You could learn something from my daughter, and I couldn’t deny that it was true. But I was tired of needlework, and Hannah’s patience with it and her natural talent for it only made me irritable.

  It had been raining for days. The perfect summer morning of my arrival showed me just enough of the beautiful lake town to build my excitement for walks amid exotic country wildlife, thrilling boat rides, swims in cool, clear water, and possibly even forbidden excursions to the amusement park and the dance hall. But dense clouds moved in just after lunch that day and a dreary rain began that was not to let up for a week. Between meals and naps, I spent those long days sitting on the hotel’s veranda with the Harringtons reading magazines, quilting, cross-stitching, sipping iced tea, listening to the radio, chatting about nothing, and watching sheets of rain fall from the gray sky to the gray lake below. Hot, heavy air lay in a damp blanket over us all, and the stagnant humidity only made boredom more stifling and sleep more restless.

  Mrs. Harrington rapped her cane on the floor and snapped her fan shut in a motion that meant Waiter, bring me more tea. I reluctantly picked up my discarded embroidery hoop. Think of pink thread and even stitches. Think of Teddy, I instructed myself, not sky-blue jays and ruby-red cardinals.

  What was he doing right now? Helping in his father’s office, probably. Or maybe running an errand for his mother—he’d take any excuse to drive the family car. Maybe he was making plans for a trip to t
he movies tonight with friends. With Alice—oh, how I suddenly missed Alice—and her beau, Adam.

  Teddy and I had been going out together for almost a year. On Friday nights we’d go for burgers with Alice and Adam, and then to the pictures or the bowling alley or a baseball game. He opened doors for me and bought me milkshakes and let me wear his jacket when it got cold. I was allowed to ride in Teddy’s car if all four of us went, and it was more fun together anyway. I liked the feel of his arm around my shoulders—his pitching arm, strong and steady, squeezing me tight. Sometimes, when Alice slipped off with Adam for a while, I let Teddy kiss me. It wasn’t magic, not like they say, but his lips were warm and it felt nice.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had snipped the pink thread and switched to blue. In no time the brown branches and pink crabapple blossoms in the corner of the handkerchief in my lap played host to a perched blue jay. My tiny reproduction of this large, sturdy songbird was unskilled at best, but he carried the sky on his wings and the color cheered me up in spite of myself.

  The waiter cleared his throat; I looked up in surprise. He handed me a letter—a letter! A small neat envelope covered in curly writing that I’d know anywhere: Alice’s. It was as if thinking of her had conjured the letter out of thin air. I thanked the waiter sincerely, thrilled to have a distraction, and tore into the envelope.

  Dear Garnet,

  Is it marvelous there at the lake or horrid with all this rain? I am thanking heaven that I finally found a job for the summer or I’d be bored senseless without you here. I’m just working in the ladies’ department at Dayton’s, but it’s good fun. The other girls are a hoot and I get to try on all the new fashions. I even got my hair bobbed so I’d fit in. I love it short, especially in this heat. Anyhow, Mother’s all for the job, but Grandma just mutters about “shop girls in this family?” all the time. I know once I’m married I’ll leave the money earning to Adam, but it’s too good to pass up while I’m still single, you know? Ooo, Adam. He’s been taking me driving a lot in his dad’s new car. I keep putting the brakes on, if you know what I mean. I have a year of school left! But he’s so gorgeous, it’s hard to resist. We’ve gone to the pictures with Teddy a few times. He misses you a lot. But no one misses you like I do! Write soon.

  Love, Alice

  P.S. Have you been to the amusement park yet?

  I read the letter three times and then stowed it securely in my pocket. But even without the paper in my hands, my mind kept turning the idea over and over: a job. That was it, the answer. With a job I could get out on my own, I could escape the Harringtons, I could do something. Maybe this inert existence was enough for Hannah, but I was going crazy. I needed real employment.

  “From a friend?” Mrs. Harrington asked.

  “Yes, a girlfriend at home.”

  She went back to her magazine and didn’t ask more about it.

  After another moment of stifling stillness, I’d had enough. I couldn’t wait another minute. If I needed a job, I first needed permission to look for one, and that was where I had to start. I gathered my things, brushed bits of sky blue thread off my lap, and stood up.

  “I’m going to my room,” I said, “to write to Mother.”

  Double-Crested Cormorant

  (Phalacrocorax auritus)

  I went to sleep that night pleased with the letter I’d written. I reminded Mother that she herself had worked as a secretary during the war, and told her that Alice’s mother had allowed Alice to get a job in a department store. I trusted that she’d ask Aunt Rachel for advice, and that advice would certainly be in my favor. So many young, unmarried women were working outside the home now that it seemed pretty old fashioned to resist the trend. I placed my faith in the belief that no modern woman could deny her daughter this opportunity, and though my mother was conservative, she was not so Victorian as the Harringtons. She prided herself on being fashionable—reading Freud and following scandals in the paper and hemming her skirts to just the right length. She would say yes. She had to. I put the letter into the hands of the bellboy, who would post it in the morning, and went to bed hopeful.

  Three hours later I woke to an awful racket. The sound of steady rain that I’d gotten so used to sleeping with had changed to a clamor. Uneven cracks and thumps and thuds sounded outside my partly open window, and occasional muffled clunks came right into my room. I stumbled out of bed and over to the window. My toes burned with a shocking cold and I looked down.

  Button-sized balls of ice lay on the carpet like sparrow eggs.

  Hail.

  I looked out. The dark sky had torn open completely and ice chunks thundered down to earth. They bounced off the roof of the veranda outside my window in syncopated rhythms. They littered the grass below. With faint sloshing they pelted the lake, and though I couldn’t see it in the dark, an image of the bay popped into my head as an enormous glass of tea with ice bobbing from shore to shore.

  The sound was deafening, but it was a relief to my ears after days of monotonous rain. I laughed and picked up an ice ball from the carpet. The cold burned my skin. I dropped the hailstone into my mouth and let it melt there, cool and clean and almost sweet.

  Thunder crashed and a blinding flash of lightening followed just a moment later. The wind picked up to a fierce gale, and outside my north-facing window the maple tree swayed in the gusts. My joy turned to fear in a heartbeat. I slammed both windows shut and backed away from them, in case the hailstones blew into the glass.

  Muffled sounds of alarm came through my door. The Harringtons were awake.

  “Come, dear,” said a voice at my door after a forceful knock. “We have to go down to the lobby now.”

  I threw a long dressing gown over my nightgown and slid my bare feet into shoes. I opened my door to find Mrs. Harrington and Hannah waiting for me, fully dressed but only half awake. “Come, it’s dangerous up here,” Mrs. Harrington said, ushering us out the door and down the stairs to the lobby like a mother hen.

  The other guests, in varying degrees of undress, gathered in a hodgepodge around the front desk. The bellboy, fully awake and still neatly clothed in his clean uniform, was just addressing the group as we joined it. An air of panic circulated among the crowd, but the bellboy was calm. Professional. In charge. Stately and dignified as a cormorant, that large, dark water bird I’d seen on sandbars by the Mississippi.

  “I’m going to lead you down the kitchen stairs and into the basement,” he was saying. “It’ll be safer there if the wind blows a tree over, or if this storm whips up a tornado. We’ve got some lanterns and candles to take in case the electric goes out. Grab one and follow me. Please be careful with the fire—these old buildings can catch so easily.”

  He set off for the kitchen and the group followed, picking up lit lanterns and candles from the desk on the way. Mrs. Harrington didn’t budge.

  “I’m not accustomed to taking orders from a colored boy,” she whispered to us, “and I’m certainly not spending the night in some dirty basement with servants. Who does he think I am? We’re staying right here, thank you!”

  Hannah and I looked at each other, alarmed.

  Just then a rumble of thunder sounded that shook the foundation of the hotel. A window shattered somewhere upstairs. The lights flickered and the room blinked into darkness. The last of the lantern light disappeared into the kitchen.

  All three of us bolted after the group.

  The basement was hushed and dim and musty smelling. People sat on the dusty floor, huddled around the glow of lanterns and candelabras. Children curled into their mothers’ laps and went back to sleep. I joined a circle of people around an old gas lamp. Somewhere a man with a deep and gentle voice sang a few verses of a hymn.

  If, on a quiet sea, toward Heaven we calmly sail,

  With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,

  We’ll own the favoring gale,

  With grateful hearts, O God, to Thee,

  We’ll own the favoring gale.

  But should th
e surges rise, and rest delay to come,

  Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,

  Which drives us nearer home,

  Blest be the tempest, kind the storm,

  Which drives us nearer home.

  Teach us, in every state, to make Thy will our own;

  And when the joys of sense depart,

  To live by faith alone,

  And when the joys of sense depart,

  To live by faith alone.

  His voice eased the fear out of me and I dozed, leaning against a cobweb-covered wall. Mrs. Harrington and Hannah stood for a long time, not wishing to soil their clothes, but after an hour they gave up and sat. I was dimly aware of Hannah’s hip touching mine—we were crowded together down there and the proximity was oddly comforting. Mrs. Harrington’s quiet complaints drifted into my sleep and mixed with the words of the hymn that floated in my mind: Blest be the tempest, kind the storm, which drives us nearer home.

  It was nearly dawn when the stately cormorant woke us with the news that the storm had ended and we could return to our rooms. Sleepily, we picked our way through the graying darkness, avoiding the glass and hailstones that littered the carpet. He, the bellboy who had watched over us all night, found us extra blankets in case a chill came into our rooms through broken windows, in case our blankets were wet with rain.

  I don’t remember walking into my room, or undressing, or getting into bed. Sleep took me before I found my pillow.