Birds of Summer Read online

  “An article?” Summer asked. “Does Mr. Pardell write?”

  “Yes indeed. He’s had several articles and short stories published, and, of course, there’s the novel. Or I guess there is. Whenever he’s faced with an unpleasant chore, or an uninspiring guest, he retires to his study to work on it; but as far as I know, no one’s ever seen it.”

  They both laughed. “I’ve heard some stuff he wrote,” Summer said. “Sometimes when he’s reading assignments, he’ll read a really funny one—you know, full of puns and all sorts of crazy mistakes. The first time he did it, everybody was trying to guess who wrote it, but after that we always knew right away when it was one of his.”

  “That’s Alan for you,” Meg said. “Instead of working on his great epic, he spends his time writing bad examples for his classes.”

  When the cider was finished, Summer collected Sparrow, who was sitting patiently on the front steps talking to a big orange cat, and started home—listening to Sparrow’s chatter with half her brain while the other half figured out what her weekly and monthly income was going to be, and how much of it she’d be able to put away in the bank.

  So—in just one week she’d been offered a new job in Alvarro Bay, a weird kind of foster child/upstairs maid position in Connecticut, not to mention another offer from Nicky—the usual one, in which she was given the opportunity to trade her virginity for a chance to go steady. So far that was the only one she had definitely declined. All in all there had been enough material to fill a sizable journal.

  It wasn’t until Sparrow lost interest in the game of hide-and-seek and went into the trailer and Cerbe flopped down in the sun to sleep, that Summer took the pen out from behind her ear and began to write. It went quickly, and when she finished and read it over, she thought it was pretty good—Boswell, mostly, with a few touches of Pepys. It was too bad, really, that she couldn’t turn it in, but of course she wasn’t about to. She couldn’t let Pardell read it, or anyone else, for that matter. Suddenly she scratched out the title, A TRUE ACCOUNT OF THE EVENTS IN THE LIFE OF SUMMER MCINTYRE, JUNE 2 TO 9, and in its place wrote, “Dear Grant,”. She pulled the key over her head before she went inside.

  The last day of school came and went with the usual celebrations, and the next morning Summer got up extra early in time to catch the first bus. Sparrow was still sound asleep. She didn’t move when Summer got out of bed, but when Summer tucked the blankets back around her, she sighed deeply and muttered something about Marina. Summer bent close.

  Sparrow’s face twitched, her head moved from side to side, and once again her lips formed her friend’s name. Dreaming again. Just the night before she’d wakened Summer to tell her that Marina had looked in the window again and called her. Summer had had to get up and go with her to look all around the yard before she’d believe it hadn’t really happened. Poor kid. Losing Marina was probably only the beginning of a lot of things that would haunt her sleep. Summer waited, watching and listening and noticing the way Sparrow’s thick coppery eyelashes fringed her eyelids. She looked shiny and silky soft and new as an unopened Christmas package. When her breathing had become deep and steady again, Summer gathered up her clothing and tiptoed into the living room to dress.

  There was no sound from the other bedroom either, but Oriole was there, all right. Summer had heard her come home—around two o’clock in the morning. There was nothing much in the refrigerator except the berries and tomatoes for Nan. It didn’t matter much. She’d eat at the Olivers, and there was enough granola for Sparrow’s breakfast. What Oriole would eat when she finally got up would be her problem. At least there was plenty of kibble for Cerbe.

  She mixed the kibble with water and put it outside near the steps. Cerbe wasn’t around and she didn’t want to call him for fear of waking Sparrow. He wouldn’t be gone long—not at mealtime. There was nothing more to do but load her backpack and start off down the trail through the early morning mist.

  It was a strange morning—the thin wispy fog drifting in ghostly veils among the trees, with here and there a slanting ray of sunlight piercing the shadows like a spotlight from another world. As she started down the path toward the Fishers’ road, Summer could feel a knot of tension like a clenched fist at the back of her neck, but as she walked through the awakening forest the knot began to unravel. She sighed deeply, breathing out worry and anger and breathing in misty shadows and spicy sun-touched warmth. She increased her pace, striding free and easy toward the road and the bus and Crown Ridge—and the summer that was just beginning. At the end of the path a heap of gray brown fur lay beside the road.

  Summer heard a voice that must have been her own say, “Cerbe?” even before the shock wave hit, and then, “Oh no. Cerbe. No.” She knelt beside him, and for a brief, desperate moment she told herself that he might be only stunned or injured, but then her hand, slowly and against her will, reached out—and told her it wasn’t true. Under the shaggy coat, Cerbe’s body was cold and stiff. His jaws gaped open, and beneath his muzzle there was a small pool of dried blood.

  Clenching her teeth against a horrible sound that throbbed at the back of her throat, she held herself motionless, her mind blank and empty except for a deep, wordless ache. But when the numbness began to recede, what took its place was anger, and a question—and then more questions. How did it happen? Who had been driving fast on the narrow dirt road—late at night, because Cerbe had been in the trailer until just before she went to bed. And what had he been doing on the road? He never went far from the trailer after dark. And he’d always been so smart about cars. Why hadn’t he heard the car and gotten out of the way?

  It was then, without knowing what she was looking for, that she began to search. A few feet from where Cerbe was lying she found a spot of blood, and farther down the path, another one. As she moved on—back down the path toward the trailer—the spots were closer together, and then, in the midst of the first clearing, she found where it had happened. Beside the path a larger pool of blood had been partially covered with leaves and pine needles, as if someone had hastily scraped at the ground in a clumsy attempt to hide the evidence—the evidence that Cerbe had died here, at least fifty yards from the road, and then been carried to where it might seem that he had been struck by a car.

  The cold hard rage helped in a way, shutting out the grief and pity. Shutting out not only the memory of Cerbe warm and lively and loving, but also any feeling of revulsion for the stiff bloody thing beside the road. With cold efficiency Summer went back and examined the body and confirmed her suspicions beyond the shadow of a doubt. Then she returned to the trailer for a shovel and wheelbarrow.

  She dug the grave because of Sparrow. If it hadn’t been for Sparrow she would have dumped what was left of Cerbe in front of the door—or on the kitchen floor or on Oriole’s bed. That’s where she should put it—right on Oriole’s bed. Oriole ought not to mind. She ought to be willing to give up her bed for Cerbe since it was her fault he was dead. It wasn’t as if it was the only bed she had. Beds were one thing there’d never been any shortage of where Oriole was concerned. Plunging the shovel violently into the soft earth, stomping on it, lifting and throwing the loosened soil, she worked hard and fast—holding on to the anger that was keeping her mind sharp and clear. There was a lot of thinking to be done and plans to be made.

  When the grave was finished, she tilted the wheelbarrow, and it was only then—as the big bear-shaped head, the head that had held so much love and joy and loyalty, slid over the edge and hung down above the hole—that she almost lost her hold. But she fought back, crushing down the grief and pity and reaching out for the insulating fury. And when it returned, she carefully covered the grave with earth and then with pine needles and returned the shovel and wheelbarrow to the shed. Then she went in and woke up Sparrow.

  “Come on, get up,” she said as Sparrow sat up, tousled and groggy. “How would you like to go to work with me today?”

  7

  “HOW COME YOU LET me come today? Huh? Huh,
Summer? How come you let me come with you this time? You always said they wouldn’t like it if you brought me.” Skipping to keep up with the fast pace Summer had set, and also out of excitement, Sparrow seemed to be on the verge of becoming airborne. Talk about natural highs. Sparrow could conjure one up out of nothing and for no reason.

  “Good question,” Summer said. “Can’t think why I’d be so stupid. Maybe I ought to send you back.”

  Sparrow stopped in midskip and stared in consternation, until Summer’s, “Come on. I was just kidding,” set her bouncing again.

  Where the trail narrowed in the first grove, Summer slowed down and let Sparrow take the lead. Elbows and knees flying, braids bobbing, she romped on ahead as full of mindless joy as one of the Crown Ridge colts frolicking across the pasture. Still skipping, she crossed the clearing, passing the bloody spot beside the trail without a glance. Summer let her go. There were things that needed to be said, instructions that had to be given, but they could wait until they’d reached the road and passed the place where she’d found Cerbe. There’d be time enough when that was behind them to make sure that Sparrow understood what would be required of her. Out on the Fishers’ road at last, she called Sparrow back to walk beside her.

  “Are you listening?” she asked. “I have some very important things to tell you. If you don’t listen, you’re going to make a lot of terrible mistakes and the Olivers will probably send you right home.”

  Sparrow’s eyes widened and she nodded solemnly. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Well, first of all, don’t touch anything unless I tell you to; and when I tell you what you can do, do it as hard as you can and over and over again until I tell you to stop.”

  “Okay. What am I going to do? What are you going to tell me to do?”

  Summer grabbed Sparrow’s arm, pulled her to a stop and surveyed her critically. One side of her collar was tucked in and a loose strand of hair fell across her forehead. Summer put things right while she answered the question. “Well, I think I’ll let you sweep the patio first. Do you think you could do a good job on the patio?”

  Sparrow was positive that she could.

  The sun was high when they reached Crown Ridge, and the trainer’s van was in the driveway. That meant Nan was probably in the stable or ring. She always watched when the trainer worked with the colts. After putting Sparrow to work in the back patio, Summer went first to the stable. Nan wasn’t there but Victor, the man who kept the stalls clean and groomed the horses, was working in Scimitar’s stall.

  “You looking for Mrs. Oliver?” he said. “She’s down to the circle with the trainer.”

  When she reached the riding arena, Summer found Nan leaning on the fence watching the trainer work with Falcon, the beautiful gray three year old who was just learning to be a saddle horse.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Summer began, but Nan interrupted.

  “Look. Josh is going to ride Falcon—for the first time.” The trainer was shaking the saddle, pulling hard on the stirrup. The horse, a light dapple gray with a silvery mane and tail, looked back as if in surprise. But when the trainer slipped his foot into the stirrup and suddenly rose into the saddle, nothing much happened. The trainer spoke softly to Falcon, nudging him gently with his heels. After a moment the colt moved forward a few steps, stopped, and moved forward again. It wasn’t until the trainer had dismounted that Nan turned to Summer.

  “Now, what is it, dear?” she said.

  “I said, I was sorry I was late. Something happened and—well, I have to take care of my little sister today, so I had to get her ready and bring her with me. I hope it’s okay. I’d have asked first but—you know, no phone and everything. And I couldn’t go off and leave her alone.”

  “Well, I suppose it will be all right.” Nan sounded doubtful. “But I hope she won’t need too much supervision. You’ll have to work very fast to finish as it is.”

  As they started back to the house, Summer explained about how much help Sparrow was going to be, and how she had already started sweeping the patio, and what a hard worker she was for a seven-year-old. But then in the stable, there she was, still clutching the broom as she hung over the gate of Greybird’s stall—after she’d promised on her word of honor not to quit sweeping until Summer came back and told her she could. To make matters worse, she didn’t even put out her hand and say hello, the way Summer had told her to do when she was introduced. Instead she just went on hanging over the rail babbling about the horse. Summer wanted to jerk her down to the ground and shake her, until she looked at Nan and realized what was happening. When Summer went in and started the scrubbing, Nan and Sparrow were both hanging over the rail. Nan was talking about manes and fetlocks and bays and sorrels, and Sparrow was listening with her eyes like saucers—if saucers were ever bright blue and fringed with coppery lashes.

  Sometime later, while she was doing the bathrooms, she went back into the kitchen for a can of cleanser to find Sparrow at the table in the breakfast room, and Nan taking things out of the refrigerator. There were already berries and cream and scones and a big glass of milk on the table.

  “Summer,” Nan said. “You’d better sit right down here with your little sister and have a bite to eat. If you’re as hungry as she is, you must be—”

  “No thank you,” Summer interrupted in a tone of voice that made both Nan and Sparrow look at her in surprise. “I’m not hungry right now,” she added quickly with a smile that was definitely window dressing. Behind it an angry resentment tightened her jaws and burned across her cheeks.

  Back in the bathroom, on her knees beside the tub, she told herself she was an idiot. What had she been so angry about? Wasn’t what seemed to be happening exactly what she’d planned? Or was it? Actually she hadn’t planned anything for sure. What she had done, in bringing Sparrow with her to the Olivers, was more like opening a door. She’d made no decision about whether or not she was going any farther, or whether Sparrow—the resentment flooded back—or whether Sparrow, the little boot-licker, was going any farther.

  Spraying Windex on the mirror a little later, she caught sight of her frowning face … and grinned.

  Wow! What a witch! I almost scared myself. I don’t really know what was eating me. To accuse Sparrow of cozying up to Nan was obviously your basic pot and kettle situation. Only worse. Because in this case the kettle—Sparrow, that is—couldn’t be any more clean and shiny. She may have her problems, but being sneaky about anything is definitely not one of them. With Sparrow what you see is one hundred and one percent what you get—nothing more and nothing less. So if she’s hooked Nan already, she did it just by being her own dumb-little-friendly-puppy self.

  She went on composing the letter in her head while she finished the basins and toilet and by the time she moved on to the master bedroom she was, if not in a good mood, at least able to be a little more objective. As she dusted the night stand, she examined the picture of Deborah carefully, evaluating the similarities—the thick braids, although obviously of the wrong color, and something about the upper half of the face. Nothing too noticeable, really. What would happen, would happen, she decided. It was much too early to worry one way or the other. Besides, since Richard B. wasn’t at home, the largest hurdle was going to have to wait for another day.

  The other part of the resentment, the part concerning Nan, was not so simple, or so simply dispensed with. It flared up several times, in fact, as the day went on and Nan continued to treat Sparrow like some kind of honored guest, instead of an assistant housekeeper. Every time Summer selected a chore that Sparrow could handle, like dusting the woodwork in the living room, Nan showed up to worry about such a little girl working so hard and to take Sparrow away with her—to look at the newest colt or to be shown the pictures in a huge photograph album in Richard’s study. After working for the Olivers for almost two years, Summer had never been asked to look at the album.

  Once, while Sparrow was out following the peacocks, in hopes of a fallen feathe
r, Nan tried to pump Summer. “I don’t believe you finished telling me about what happened this morning,” she said, and when Summer looked pointedly blank, “The reason you were late and had to bring Sparrow with you? You started to tell me about it?”

  “Oh that,” Summer said. “There wasn’t anything more to tell. My mother just found out at the last minute that she had to go someplace.”

  “Someplace?” Nan said.

  “Yes. To see about a job—in Fort Bragg.” The answer had popped easily into her mind—and came out so smoothly and convincingly she almost believed it herself. She didn’t like lies and liars, but when it was necessary she did it competently—unlike Oriole. The idea amused her for a moment, until she remembered the lies Oriole was undoubtedly going to tell about Cerbe. Her dark mood returned then and stayed with her for the rest of the day. And when Nan invited Sparrow to come again next weekend, it did nothing at all to lift her spirits.

  On the way home while Sparrow burbled with excitement about Crown Ridge—she’d loved it all: the animals, the house and Nan, apparently in that order—Summer thought some more about lies and liars. Before the day was over, there would be more of both. And because of Sparrow, she was going to have to be one of the liars. At first she’d considered the truth, and even planned exactly how it was to be told. She’d wait until they were home; and then, in front of Oriole, she would tell Sparrow exactly what had happened to Cerbe. There was a part of her that fiercely wanted to tell that truth in that particular way.