Silhouette of a Sparrow

by Molly Beth Griffin

  I looked around while I waited for Miss Maple to come out of the back room. I took off my own hat and put on a green bell-shaped one, and then turned to look at myself in a mounted mirror. I laughed at the young woman staring back at me, the hat making my attempt to look modern and fashionable and grown-up even more obvious. Too many mirrors today, I decided.

  Miss Maple came up behind me, and before I could take the hat off she reached up and tilted it at a jaunty angle. “Perfect,” she said. “It’s a cloche hat, like the flappers wear. Like Clara Bow in the pictures.” I looked nothing like the glamorous Clara Bow and we both knew it, not even with that beautiful hat on.

  “No?” she said. “Not your style?”

  “I’ve got too much hair.” I took it off and put it back on its stand, thinking of Alice and her new bob.

  “How about this one?” She reached for a wide-brimmed peach-colored hat with a beautiful white feather tucked into the band. She settled it on top of my hair.

  “Is this ... real?” I asked, reaching up to stroke the beautiful feather.

  “Oh, yes, an egret feather, only the best,” she said.

  “Snowy egret,” I murmured, my brow crinkling involuntarily Egretta thula. Poached, I thought, recalling the Junior Audubon Society articles I read after Father set me up as a member. That’s illegal now, doesn’t she know that? Killing all those gorgeous birds just to dress ladies’ hats? It’s not only illegal, it’s appalling.

  “What’s wrong, Garnet?” Miss Maple asked, seeing my troubled expression in the oval-shaped mirror.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. “It’s just a little old-fashioned for me, I think.” Embarrassed, I returned the hat to the rack and moved away from the mirror, sick of looking at myself. I couldn’t argue with my new boss about the crimes of the feather industry my first day on the job. Talk about starting off on the wrong foot. I grabbed my own hat and turned to face the confused Miss Maple.

  “Where should I put this?”

  “Oh, yours can go behind the counter. Then I’ll show you around.”

  After that one awkward moment, my first day went smoothly. I learned about all the kinds of hats—how to wear them, who would wear them, where and when they should be worn—as well as how to take orders and wrap parcels and make change.

  I’ll like this job, I thought as I let myself out at noon and headed back toward the hotel. I tried to put the feathers out of my head—it would not do to oppose Miss Maple’s business decisions. And who was I to worry about things like that anyway? I was no naturalist. I was no activist. I was just a girl with her first job walking alone on a beautiful summer’s day, headed to the library for some decent reading material.

  And I was going to be late for lunch if I didn’t hurry.

  Scarlet Tanager

  (Piranga olivacea)

  My first thought when she came through the door to the hat shop was scarlet tanager. It must have been the bright red lips that perched on her pale face. She had shiny black hair, bobbed, and dark eyes, and she wore a sundress cut above the knee and no stockings. Those lips! I’d seen just a few scarlet tanagers in my life—the first when I was ten and spending the summer with Grandmother on the farm in Iowa—and I’d always regarded that brilliant flash of red wings as a good omen.

  The chimes jingled as the door closed behind her.

  It was only my third day of work, and all the customers up till then had been older women like Mrs. Harrington, women looking for sunhats to replace ones blown away on boating trips and things like that. But this customer was different. Young. Beautiful. I watched her from behind the counter as she browsed the racks, and completely forgot about the receipts I’d been sorting.

  “Do you have anything new?” she called from the same shelf of stylish hats I’d been so taken with on my first day. “I need something no one in this town has seen before.”

  “I don’t know . . .” I said, scanning the shop with my eyes. I had no idea what was new. The whole section she was perusing was new to me. Miss Maple would know how to help this customer, but she had gone to the bank and I was alone in the shop.

  The fashionable young woman sauntered up to the counter, one eyebrow cocked. “Hey, I don’t know you,” she said, looking at me steadily, “do I?”

  She moved with grace, spoke with confidence.

  “No,” I answered. I looked down at the counter for a moment, feeling awkward under her self-assured gaze. “I’m Garnet Richardson. I’m just here for the summer.”

  I made myself look up and reach over the counter, and she slipped a slender, black-lace-gloved hand into mine. Up close I realized she was even younger than I thought. Older than me, but not by much. Eighteen, maybe.

  “Isabella Strand,” she replied. “I work at the dance hall. Have you been yet?”

  “Oh, no, not yet. What do you do there?”

  “Well, I dance,” she laughed, and it reminded me of a birdsong. I couldn’t remember which. It tickled my memory but I couldn’t bring it to mind. Probably something exotic, I thought. “I dance with the big bands in the evenings,” she said.

  I blushed. It should have been obvious.

  “So,” she went on, “what do you think?”

  “About . . . ?”

  “A hat! Do you have anything new?”

  “Oh, wait, yes. I think I’ve got just the thing.” I rushed into the back room, stopping for a moment with my back to the door and trying to think where “just the thing” was. It had come in that morning with the new delivery and I had wondered who on earth would buy it. It was a red cloche with a sassy slouch to it and black ribbons sewn down one side. It was perfect. It was made for her. There—on the worktable where it had been unpacked and tagged with the morning’s shipment. I frisked a little dust off the felt and scooped it up.

  “Ta-da!” I said, pushing open the door and presenting the hat with a flourish over the counter.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Stunning! Help me put it on.” I moved around the counter to stand behind her and helped her pull it down over her slick black hair and settle it just so. She really did look like Clara Bow. The perfect flapper. Half the girls at school tried to look like this but none of them pulled it off like Isabella Strand.

  “I love it!” she squealed, clapping her hands like a child at a birthday party, laughing that birdsong laugh I couldn’t place. She spun around to plant a kiss on my cheek.

  My skin warmed under her lips.

  I scurried behind the counter to ring her up for the purchase.

  “Will you come to my show? Tonight?” she asked after the money had changed hands.

  “I don’t know, I mean, I’m not really allowed.”

  “Your mother doesn’t approve.”

  “No, though that’s probably true as well. See, I’m staying with my . . . aunt, sort of. At the Galpin House. She definitely doesn’t approve. I haven’t even been to the park yet. I was hoping to sneak off soon.”

  “You haven’t been? Well you must go immediately. It’s opening again today, you know, and I’d take you myself this afternoon but I’m afraid I’ll be in rehearsals for the new act. Booked solid. So you’ll have to go by yourself.”

  I nodded. Today.

  “And promise me you’ll slip out some evening soon and catch my show?”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll try,” I said. I wasn’t sure how to accomplish it, but maybe it was possible. I wanted to see her again.

  “Well, I will see you soon then, Garnet Richardson,” she said with a wink, and then she was gone. Out the door with nothing but a jingle.

  Within the hour I’d convinced myself that I’d imagined her. How could she be real? But whether the scarlet tanager existed or not, my convictions were stronger than ever. At noon, when I pinned my hat on and said good-bye to Miss Maple and pushed open the door, I set off with confident steps for the amusement park.

  An hour, that’s all it’ll take, I thought. No one will miss me for an hour.

  Ring-Billed Gull

/>   (Larus delawarensis)

  On Fridays the park didn’t open until the afternoon, and that Friday, with the reopening, things were running just a little behind schedule. When I got there, after hurrying from work so as not to lose my nerve or waste too much time, the gates were still closed. The Ferris wheel towered over me, still but for the gentle rocking of the suspended seats in the breeze. The roller coaster track snaked overhead, empty of cars, and a huge spiderlike contraption lurked a little ways off, awaiting its first riders. The painted horses on the carousel stood frozen in midstride, waiting for permission to leap into life.

  The park was nearly empty as I stood at the gate looking in, but the workers hurried around getting the rides ready for an afternoon rush. The crowd waiting with me was not large; the word that the park would be reopening today must not have been out yet. That was good news, since it meant the Harringtons would be less likely to know where I was when I didn’t show up for lunch.

  Behind the gates, the food carts were just yawning open their windows, and the sticky-sweet smells of cotton candy and caramel corn filled the air. I waited with the few other park-goers who milled around, watching for the gates to open and the rides to spring into action. I sat down on the grass beside the fence to wait, with only fleeting concern for the state of my dress.

  A ring-billed gull perched on the fence post, eyeing the popcorn stand, and I snip-snipped his plump form out of paper to pass the time. He was no tanager, but he’d do for the moment.

  Tanager. Isabella had been flitting in and out of my head in bright flashes of red all morning. By the time I’d arrived at the park I’d decided two things: she was real and I would see her again. The gull’s image would be a gift for her. I imagined what she’d say when I gave it to her . . .

  Is it really from your first trip to the park? It’s amazing—you’re amazing. Are you sure I can keep it? Then she’d squeeze my hand in hers and peck me on the cheek again. I wouldn’t embarrass myself this time. I’d just say, Of course you can keep it; I did it for you

  The gull, the real one, took flight with a sudden flap of his wings and startled me back to reality The park’s gates were creaking open, inviting the visitors inside. It was time.

  I rose, catching sight of a tiny grass stain on the skirt of my dress—would the Harringtons notice? Oh, I needed to be more careful. And I needed to be quick too. I pressed in with the little crowd that had gathered while I sat daydreaming on the lawn. Inside, the cart tenders and the ride operators called invitations to the first customers of the day.

  “Catch a ride on the Mountain Railway!”

  “Pack a picnic for the boat ride. Picnic food here!”

  “Caterpillar, Caterpillar—hop on the Caterpillar!”

  One by one, the rides lurched into motion. Everything slowly started turning, spinning, crawling with a few riders on board. Then it all picked up speed and the whole world was a-blur with twisting and rushing. Joyful cries rang out through the hot afternoon air.

  My heart sped as the park came to life and I found myself running from ride to ride, giddy with the electricity in the air and the building heat. My blood whizzed through my veins like the speeding roller coaster and my eyes ricocheted from one attraction to the next, reckless as bumper cars.

  Finally, in my crazed wandering, I stumbled upon a huge wooden tube that seemed to be rotating in place. No one was inside but the big hollow barrel spun anyway, a frightening challenge to every passerby.

  “Come inside,” the woman at the controls called.

  “I . . . I didn’t bring any money,” I said, realizing my lack of foresight with both regret and relief. The woman paused, then shrugged.

  “First ride’s free,” she said, and she gestured inside.

  I swallowed hard and stepped up to the spinning barrel. I climbed the two steps and, with a deep breath to steady myself, set one foot inside. It lurched under me, but I forced myself to clamber all the way in.

  The world shifted beneath me as I scrambled down the length of the tunnel. Inside the tube there was no up and no down, only dizziness and confusion. I stumbled and fell and the ground beneath my now-rumpled dress did not pause to catch me. It turned under me, and for a frantic moment I thought it would haul me all the way up its wall and toss me around until the operator had to drag me out, broken and dreadfully embarrassed.

  Somehow I managed to regain my feet, though, and scurry unsteadily down the tunnel. Focusing on the still patch of grass at the other end, I tried to trust my feet to carry me. Without looking down, I tripped and tramped my way down the length of the twisting tube.

  At last, I found myself back in the open air. I tumbled down the steps and fell to my knees on the grass. After a moment my jagged breath stilled, and I looked around me. The sky was up, the earth was down, and through all the spinning and rushing of the rides, the deep blue water of the lake stretched out with serene reassurance.

  But somewhere beyond the lake was the city, and my house, and Mother and Father and Aunt Rachel and Sarah, and a part of myself that I’d left back home, safely tucked away at the window seat and in the hope chest.

  Hope.

  I hauled myself to my feet and dusted off the front of my dress. Then I let out a long sigh, wondering if I’d been hoping for the right things.

  American White Pelican

  (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos)

  “And where on earth have you been, might I ask?”

  I was praying that the Harringtons would still be in the dining room at their lunch when I got back, but I was not so lucky. Mrs. Harrington presided over the veranda from a wicker settee while her skinny daughter sat in a chair nearby with her ankles crossed and an embroidery hoop in her lap. Mrs. Harrington held her fan in one hand and an enormous glass of iced tea in the other. The glass was sweating and so was she.

  I’d been away longer than I’d planned to be. I’d been missed.

  “We expected you hours ago,” she said, collapsing her fan and pointing it at me accusingly.

  “Surely it’s not that late,” I said, flustered. “A big order came in and Miss Maple asked me to stay on a bit to help unpack it. I’m sure it won’t become a regular thing.”

  This lying won’t become a regular thing either, I told myself.

  Hannah stared at the grass stain on my skirt and I quickly tried to cover it with my hand. She returned to her needlework with a thoughtful look on her face.

  “Well, you must be starving. Go on upstairs and change out of that rumpled dress and I’ll have the kitchen send something up. Join us when you’re finished.”

  She waved me off and I obeyed her commands.

  Half an hour and half a sandwich later I brought paper and a fresh pencil down to the veranda. “I thought I’d write a letter to my godmother and then look at my new library book,” I explained.

  At the word godmother Mrs. Harrington winced, her disapproval of Aunt Rachel totally transparent on her face. But she quickly wiped the reaction away.

  “Of course, dear. What a splendid idea. We won’t distract you. I’ll have the waiter bring you some tea. Isn’t this heat dreadful? . . .”

  On my way past, Hannah’s sharp eyes caught mine and made me pause. “Did you know the park’s reopened?” she said. She gestured to her mother’s maid, who stood silently behind her. “Charlotte told me so. I wanted us to go today but Mother says it’s too late now.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow, dear, tomorrow,” Mrs. Harrington said, clearly undisturbed by having to put the event off another day. “I’m sure Garnet can manage to come home before the hottest part of the day tomorrow. Am I right, Garnet?”

  “Yes, of course. I’d love to go.”

  “I heard a nasty rumor,” Mrs. Harrington continued, and I stiffened at the words, “that they’ve got plans to sink the Minnehaha this month. Nobody cares about the beautiful old steamers anymore. I for one would like to take a last ride before they send it down.”

  I nodded in sympathy and relief and went
to settle myself at the table.

  I could feel Hannah’s eyes boring into my back. Could she tell that I’d been lying about where I’d been? Had Charlotte seen something? What did Hannah know? I ignored her and pretended nothing was amiss as I picked up my pencil and thanked the waiter for the tea.

  I looked out across the street to the grassy shoreline and the lake beyond and tried to gather my thoughts about the last two weeks. Finally, I could get them all out; I’d always been able to tell Aunt Rachel everything. I put the pencil to the page and easily filled it with neat script, telling her about the grand hotel, my new job, going to the amusement park on my own . . . I even told her about meeting Isabella, despite the fact that I didn’t know exactly what to say. I promised her I’d go see her at the dance hall even though I know I don’t belong there and it would be so risky to go. Something about this girl makes me want to promise things I’ll wait a little while, at least. Hannah was suspicious today and I can’t risk another liejust yet.

  I finished up the long letter and folded it four times before tucking it safely into the deep pocket of my dress. Then I took out the bird book from the library and flipped to the scarlet tanager, memorizing the solitary bird’s migration patterns, plumage variations, nesting habits, diet, and life cycle. I did the same for the ring-billed gull afterward, laughing at how plain and ordinary it seemed in contrast to the beautiful tanager. Like me standing next to Isabella in the hat shop. I wondered when I’d be able to give her the image I’d cut out for her. How long would I have to wait before I’d be able to sneak out to the dance hall to see her?

  My chance came much sooner than I’d expected.

  I excused myself from the Harringtons’ trip to the amusement park the next day with a genuine headache. While they picnicked at the pavilion and toured the lake in the Minnehaha, I lay in bed with the drapes tightly shut, accepting ice packs and little round pills from Charlotte every couple of hours. I joined them for dinner when they returned, feeling a little weak but mostly better, and listened to Hannah chatter about what a lovely time they’d had.