My Name Is River (8 page)

Mrs. Whippoorwill tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I'm sure I can find some of each, Billy. What do you need it for?”

“We want to scatter pieces of it around our ecotone so the birds can make nests with it.”

“That's a great idea,” she says. “I have some blue and yellow yarn left from knitting Forrest's baby blanket and also scraps of green material from the curtains I made. That should make some colorful nests. And how about these vegetable peelings?” she says. “Do you think the birds would eat them?”

Billy shakes his head. “They'd only draw predators, and probably the kind that would eat birds.”

I look at Billy. “You mean predators, like rattlesnakes?”

Billy swings around to face me, and his eyes nearly pop out of his head. He mouths the words, “What are you doing?” Then he answers out loud so his mom can hear, “Well, sure, vegetable peelings could attract snakes, so we better not take any. But the yarn and material would be great.”

Billy seems pretty excited about the nest material, but I'm not sure the birds will use it. Then I imagine Billy as a bluebird and think about how he'd build his nest. He'd definitely use the blue yarn. He'd have to make sure his nest perfectly matched his brilliant, blue feathers.

Then Billy moves closer to his mom, leans on the sink, and looks at her with puppy-dog eyes. “And is it okay if we make hummingbird nectar and suet cakes too?”

Mrs. Whippoorwill smiles. “Sure, Billy. Just make me a list. There's paper and a pencil near the phone.”

Billy hands them to me and tells me what to write (I'll bet his mom can't read chicken scratch either). He says, “We'll need sugar, suet, oatmeal, yellow cornmeal, flour, and crunchy peanut butter.” Then he puts the list by his mom's purse.

We head back to the birding place. As Billy pulls the wagon, one of the rusty wheels cries out
screek, screek, screek
. Billy laughs. “That sounds like a bird that's having a real rotten day. Like maybe he was fighting with his brothers and sisters, and they pushed him out of the nest.”

Now he's got me laughing. “Or maybe he sounds like that because he stuffed too many worms in his mouth.”

“Or maybe that's what a bird sounds like when they're learning to talk. ‘Mama! Dada!' ”

“Whatever,” I say and kick a stone off the trail.

“Sorry, River. I didn't mean to make you think about your parents.”

“That's okay. It's not your fault. I think about them all the time, anyways.”

When we reach our ecotone, we throw pieces of blue and yellow yarn and scraps of green material all over the place, tossing
them into the wind like confetti. Some land on the branches of shrubs and trees, some near the edge of the woods, and some fall on the ground near the bird feeders and birdbath. Who knows? Maybe every bird in Birdsong will come and build a beautiful nest. I hope they do because Billy would really like that (and I think I would too).

Since we're ready for water, I get the rope and tie it to the bucket. I use a bowline knot that Gramp taught me. I remember him guiding my hands over the rope, saying, “The rabbit hops out of the hole, goes around the tree, and back down the hole.” It still works like magic.

“Time to try it out,” I tell Billy, “but I'm going first” (I'm not trying to be bossy—I just think it's too dangerous for Billy, and it's scary enough standing at the edge of the river with two good arms, so it could be twice as scary with only one).

I stand at the edge, dig my toes into the ground, and throw the bucket as hard and as far out into the river as I can. Then I watch it drop. It lands close to where I wanted and sinks deep into the water. I pull it up, one hand over the other, all along the length of the rope. When it reaches the top, I bend down, steadying myself with one hand, and grab the bucket with my other. But since it bumped against the cliff on the way up, it's barely half full. “Maybe we should get the water from your house,” I say. “This is trickier than I thought.”

Billy shakes his head. “The river's a natural resource. It's not chlorinated like tap water. The birds and flowers will thrive if they have it,” he says. “We need the river water.”

“Well, the bucket idea isn't working that great. Besides, don't you think it's dangerous?”

“Not if we're careful.”

“Okay,” I tell him, “but I get the water, and you do the watering.”

Billy glares at me. “You're afraid I can't do it, aren't you?”

“No,” I say feeling a little guilty for lying. “It's just that—”

“I know,” he says, “it's just that I only have one arm that works, right?” He reaches for the bucket. “Give it here, River.” I want to tie a rope to his belt loop in case he falls, but mostly I want to tell him not to do it.

He tucks the free end of the rope under his right foot and shifts his weight to secure it. Then he grabs the bucket in his left hand and throws it. But the wind has picked up and blows against us, so the bucket bangs against the cliff and gets caught on a root. He yanks it free and tries again. This time it goes a little farther and lands at the base of the cliff where the boulders are. Billy looks at me. “I'm not giving up,” he says. “I can do this.” He throws it again, and after reaching the water, it sinks fast. He pulls the rope and draws it closer. After each pull, he secures the rope under his foot. He does it over and over until it reaches the top. Then he kneels on his left knee, grabs the bucket, and brings it up over the edge. “See?”

I look inside. It's more than half full. “Wow, you did it.”

He carries the bucket to the birdbath and sprinkling cans and fills them. Then when we're watering our seeds, Pastor Henry comes back to check our progress. “You chose an excellent idea for your project,” he says. “I think it's wonderful to make something for our community, and I'm sure Mrs. Kingfisher would have been pleased.”

All of a sudden, Pastor Henry looks at the rope and bucket. “Is that how you're getting water?”

Billy nods. I don't say a word.

“The riverbank is too steep, Billy. I'd rather you use the wagon to transport water from the house. Understand?”

Billy looks like he's about to say something, probably about the river being a natural resource, but an older couple strolls over to us before he says a word.

“Hello, Pastor Henry and Billy,” the older man says, and his wife smiles like she'd said it too. He reaches out and shakes my hand. “I'm Mr. Bunting, and this is my lovely wife.”

“My name is River. I'm Billy's new friend.”

Billy tells them every detail about our project.

“What splendid news,” says Mr. Bunting. “A perfect way to honor the Kingfishers.”

Mrs. Bunting nods her head. “Perfect indeed. You know, I have plenty of pink and purple Carolina phlox in my garden that's already blooming. I'll dig up a patch to share. You'll be happy to know the hummingbirds and butterflies absolutely adore it.” Then Mr. and Mrs. Bunting say the same thing, “See you at church tomorrow.” With that they head down the river path, holding hands.

Pastor Henry turns to look at me. “Speaking of church, would you like to join us tomorrow morning? Service starts at eleven o'clock, but everyone comes a bit early to visit.”

I'm not exactly sure what to say. “Ummm… Gram and I don't go to church, but she used to. We do chores on Sundays. And she just spent a lot of money on gas moving here, so she doesn't plan on driving for a while.”

Pastor Henry keeps looking at me (he probably thinks I'm making up excuses, but I'm not). “I understand,” he says, “but we keep our service short because we believe in spending time with family on Sundays too. And we'd be happy to give you and your grandmother a ride. We could pick you up just before ten thirty.” Pastor Henry puts his strong hand on my shoulder and says, “I'd be happy if you'd pass the invitation on to your grandmother.”

I tell him I will (even though there's no chance we'll be going).

10

Gram Accepts

G
ram's bag of tools seems heavier as I carry it back home. And the walk feels longer too. When I finally get there, it's supper time, and Gram's pulling a steamy tuna-noodle casserole out of the oven. She's wearing her old apron with purple violets all over it, so even though it's not our kitchen back in Punxsutawney, it almost feels like it is.

“My goodness, Sugar Pie, you've been at that river the whole livelong day. Must be some project you're working on.” Gram sets the casserole on the table with a clunk. “I thought I'd be eating alone. Now, wash those hands and sit down to have a bite with your old gram.” Then she plops a giant scoop of tuna noodle right in the middle of my plate (maybe Mrs. Whippoorwill is a little like Gram, after all).

I tell Gram all about our birding place, about the Kingfishers, Billy's seed packages, our ecotone, the suet cakes and hummingbird nectar, the gazillion little Whippoorwills, Pastor Henry's workshop, Mrs. Martin and her licking dog, Mrs. Bunting's Carolina phlox, and about Robert—the kid with long, greasy hair who tried to intimidate Billy.

“Well, that's all wonderful, Sugar Pie, but I don't like the sounds of that Robert. I gotta think a kid who tries picking on a nice boy like Billy doesn't have both oars in the water.” Gram puts a heaping spoonful in her mouth and swallows. “Well, I can hardly wait
to see that birding place. How about we walk there after chores tomorrow?”

“It's about a quarter mile, Gram, so it's too far with your leg. We'd better drive.”

“We're walking, Sugar Pie.” Then she gives me a wink. “My physical therapist says walking will make it stronger.”

I swallow my tuna noodle in one big gulp and almost drop my milk. “What? You went already?”

“I wasn't gonna start 'til we were all settled in, but this morning I heard the wind. It told me to take a drive through town, and wouldn't you know—I end up seeing a sign that said, ‘Birdsong Physical Therapy Welcomes You.' So I parked Tilly on the side of the road and went right in. Come to find out, someone had just cancelled an appointment, so I grabbed it faster than a dog will lick a dish. And let me tell you, that therapist knows what he's talking about. He's no nincompoop, that's for sure. He showed me all sorts of exercises that'll make my leg strong. So tomorrow, Sugar Pie, we're walking to that birding place.”